[Closed] The Tools to Hand (Rhys)

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - In Chancery

The Ninth of Ophus, an Unknown Time past the 25th Hour

T

he Sergeant is perhaps too close to matters, too close to d’Arthe. It is so. The Sergeant is too close to see clearly. A matter to be accounted for. Nothing more. Nothing less. Hatred is its own kind of closeness. Hatred has ties as strong as affection. Perhaps stronger. Such hatred will color the Sergeant’s opinion of the man. Bias yes, but bias with evidence. The Bastian is corrupt, that much is true. The Bastian is not a man of the City. That much is apparent. That alone condemns him. The City is the man’s tool, nothing more. A means to power, to influence, and nothing more. There is no love, no sense of the City as a living, vital thing. That is the Bastian’s folly. He does not see the City for what it is, sees it only as a stage upon which to play his games of power and privilege.

Perhaps he is right to think so. Perhaps that may be used against him.

“What I do not know, what I cannot know yet, is if this business of your father-in-law’s is merely a means to a monetary end, or the means to something else. Lucrative, yes, but without knowing motives, we are obliged to remain in the dark.” The Sergeant seems ill at ease with these lines of thought. Ill at ease with such expenditures of thought. It is not for want of wit. The man has that, it is clear. No, it is for want of practice and of temperament. The Sergeant is a huntsman, not a spider, content to sit in its web and trap its prey by slow degrees of careful planning. When the time comes, the man will be an invaluable weapon. Driven, intelligent, tenacious. For the present, he burns too fast and too bright. A waste of heat and light.

“Occurrence reports,” he says at last. “It would look strange were I to request them for the times and dates in question. I have no proper remit to go on a stroll through the Seventen archives.” He has no remit to do even this much. What official powers he now has are fragile things, bits of scattered paper all bound together with vermillion tape. The committee is well enough a cover, but it can only last so long. Something more permanent must be arranged. He looks the Sergeant up and down, takes his measure once again. Give me something, it is the thought that fills his mind, give me something I can bring to the Perpetual Permanent Secretary, a pretext that can be used as leverage. There are powers that might come his way, powers he can put to useful ends. Special Council, Inspector General, half a dozen others. He nearly laughs at the notion. Too much public notoriety. He would be too much in the light. No, something less well understood is required, powers yes, but anonymous.

“The reports can be cross-referenced, dissected, matched up with news reports and official minutes. Something was allowed to slip us by while we were consumed in our rage and our grief at Dorhaven.” For some, they consume us still. “If I can but get my hands upon them, perhaps I might see what we were meant to neglect.” Again the jagged and predatory smile crosses his lips. It is here, among papers and potential papers, that his own weapons lie. How sweet it will be to make use of them at last.

“I have thoughts, Sergeant, but I am reasoning without data. That is a dangerous place to be.” More the shape of thoughts, ghosts and suppositions. The aggregation of raw power seems most likely, but the delay, the incomplete nature of it still confounds.

The Sergeant too is confounded. Good. A confounded policeman will tend toward overwork and long hours of unraveling. Well, any policeman worthy of the title. Most Seventen are unworthy thugs; useless, base things. All muscle and arcane might without any sense of decorum, civic virtue, or proportion. He knows too many of the lower races he would trust as watchmen and officers of the peace before any Seventen chosen at random.

Such a profession is suited to the lower races. It is hard work, dreary, physical, and dangerous. Let them take the role, it will give them dignity, it will give them purpose, utility, and perhaps restore a little dignity to the galdori in kind. They are a squandered resource, and for such neglect, they offer chaos and revolution.

The Sergeant, it seems, is of a similar mind.

“I agree with you entirely, Sergeant. This Resistance, these revolutionaries, are the symptoms of a failing system. A system allowed to run too long and without care or maintenance. A system run by its ends and not by its means. It is a fooling thing, but then the world is full of fools.” Bloody-minded and grasping fools. “Still, their existence is a useful pretext for further foolishness and folly. We made them, Sergeant, and now, it seems, they make us. It cannot be tolerated. It is unsound. The cycle must be broken.” If it is not, then it will end in blood and chaos. Fool. Blood and chaos are here already.

At the mention of his wife, of her associates, the Sergeant withdraws, protective and still a little aghast. “Your wife, Sergeant, she may be a key to the unraveling of at least part of this matter. She knows her father, and I trust she bears him no great love.” That is to be hoped. Still, the ties of blood are strong. They can be perverse. “She has knowledge, even if she does not know it. Her father’s movements, his friends and companions, his virtues and his vices.” Another cold smile. “Well, his vices at least. I cannot pretend to understand the matrimonial bond, but it is clear to me you are fond of your wife. That is proper. Use that, Sergeant, let her help you defend her better. And what she may reveal may defend us all.”

Somehow, some way, he must speak to the Sergeant’s wife. A social interrogation. It will require care. It will require knowing the Sergeant better. From the man, he can learn a little of the wife. Or so it is said.

“Further meetings will indeed be likely. And your preference for circumspection is admirable.” A meeting place, and one where there will be no suspicions, one he at least can trust. There is but one such establishment. “I may be found on almost any day at the Elephant Coffee House on Gadwine Street. Midday, and also in the afternoons and evenings. The proprietress is an old acquaintance of mine.” Were Sebele not human he might properly account her a friend. The gap of status prevents it. Still, he trusts her more than most, and not just on account of her excellent coffee. “Sebele is very discreet. Messages left in her care will find their way to me without issue. I trust you have no issue with using a human intermediary?”

[Rhys Valentin]

"What on Vita would the d'Arthes need money for, considering they were a very well-respected family back in Bastia, comfortable for generations with their breeding of chroven. And whatever the clocking hell else they did all through their history—honestly? Rhys never paid any attention; he'd only had eyes for Charity in his Brunnhold days and the one time—the one godsbedamned time—he bothered to care what her family thought of him?

Well, it was easy to see how that worked out.

Here he was.

Here they were.

Knee bouncing, the Sergeant wasn't unaware of how he was unable to contain all of his listless, needful energy. Usually, he was better. Usually, he didn't feel as comfortable and safe as he did in this moment, even under the studious glance of Mister Shrikeweed. Was the other man sizing him up? Had he judged him already? Did it matter? The not-galdor couldn't entirely tell, but what he did know is no matter what, they'd now shared common ground. They stood on the same stair in this arduous climb and they weren't against each other.

Rhys hoped to keep it that way.

"I can only imagine it is some other end, but then again, they could've been faking rich for a long time. It's easy to find the Captains of the Seventen's salaries should you want them, but with galdori, isn't that all relative wealth, anyway?" He smirked, shrugging, and finally placed his hands on his knees to be still, exhaling a grunt more than a sigh.

"Reports? Expired cases? Paperwork is easy currency for me. I'm certainly happy to bring what I can away from HQ and into your hands somehow. The archives—hmm. I occasionally have excuses to disappear in there for a few hours, so I'll get creative and see what I can do." Chewing on the inside of his cheek in thought, Rhys felt it in his lower back that he'd been sitting for too long in a chair that wasn't shaped like the saddle he'd begrudgingly grown used to.

He frowned about Dorhaven. Frowned a little more about the Resistance, shaking his head but not in disagreement. There were better ways, somewhere, he knew it. There had to be, considering all that he was—and, really, all that he wasn't. He was proof of many things, but all of it was damning and deadly. Swallowing thickly, he sputtered some kind of chuckle at the implication that Charity was a key of some kind. He didn't want her involved, it was true, but that was just his own selfishness. She'd made her decisions; they'd agreed to stand together even against her own family, even if it made his own chest ache a little more.

"Well, the bond I have with Charity is hopefully a better one than Damen ever had with his own wife, considering mine is convinced he murdered his own spouse. She's hardly in a place to defend me, just yet. That's not to say that we don't lean on each other—we just need to do more of it."

His shoulders, which had hardly let down their guard save for a few times this entire conversation, sagged visibly at such an admission. Blue eyes darted down to his hands, lips a thin line, before he looked back up again. Perhaps there'd been a fleeting thought of inviting Basil to dinner, led by the pretense of him hearing his petite Bastian wife play the piano, but he thought the better of that sort of thing, if only because living (er, hiding) in the Painted Ladies made a lot of socializing rather difficult when one wished to remain mostly a secret.

"Ah, I know of the general area of that coffee house. It isn't on my regular patrol route, but there are times I ride that way. I will make sure to pass things along as I can. Do I—"

Rhys smirked, thinking of his human family, a bit of warmth pooling at the base of his skull,

"—n-no, sir. During my time as an Inspector and even now, I don't have a problem with humanity—or wicks for that matter—" This whole sentence felt clumsy on his tongue. It stung. He kept talking, carefully, "—in terms of trust. You've vouched for them, and just like anyone else, I feel as though those sorts of relationships are something you earn. I'll take your word and extend my trust as well."

Shifting a little in his chair, he understood they'd most likely begun to reach the end of this current meeting, what with the plans being made for another,

"If you want to keep those files for now, you may. You can either return them the same way or I also have a few good friends near Grimesby. There is a silversmith on the other side of the canal, just on the precipice of the Dives, a wick couple by the surname Haros. They've been useful informants and I have a particular level of trust with them. If there is anything you, in turn, have to share with me, my patrol takes me by there three times a week."

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - In Chancery

The Ninth of Ophus, an Unknown Time past the 25th Hour

"Y

ou are nervous, Sergeant.” The signs are clear as day. The darting of the eyes, the bouncing of the knees. Like a schoolboy knowing the day has one last test for him, one last obstacle. There is fear there also, and doubt, and the frustration of important action. These later he knows well enough, they are his old companions now. “I recommend you take some exercise.” The ache is still there in his ribs from the boxing, from following his advice. “Strenuous enough to preclude all thought, to focus all your frustrations on some trivial end.” He gives the man a cold stare. “I follow my own advice of course. Boxing.” A smile. “You may think me facetious, but I assure you I am not. Few things are more focusing than trying to avoid a thrown fist.” Few things more painful than the cracked ribs he refuses to quite let heal.

“A bit of distraction is healthy for the mind. It can wander as it pleases and may come home with new notions.” He taps his fingers on the desk, the sound is resonant, his nails need trimming. When had he done that last? An age ago it seemed. “And, in good faith I will give you a notion of my own. A rich man may always crave more wealth, so it may be as simple as that. I do not think so.” There is more afoot than cupidity and base greed. There is a drug here stronger than any drawn from poppy sap. “Money is useful of course, but untraceable money is better. Were the Bastian to draw from his personal funds, the rents of his estates,” he nearly spits out the word, “it could be traced to him. Paperwork follows on like a shadow. An illegal business however, well, that generates all manner of funds, and they are much easier to use with discretion.” Official paperwork will do nothing here. Nothing, but the matter is still worth checking. A measure of the Sergeant’s skill in acquiring what is needful. “The salary rolls may be of use, if only to confirm that the Bastian is not so arrogant as to draw from his official salary for his private business. Bring what you can, and I will review the matter.”

Gods and ghosts but he needs Levesque for this. The Old Man had an eye for financials that bordered in the preternatural. A good job he passed that skill on to his granddaughter. Kate will have to do. Kate. She hovers around the edge of his thoughts of late. A useful ally in this, a tool that cannot be ignored. A tool that unsettles him. He cannot use her like the Sergeant, cannot risk her safety and good name. The consultations must be brief, private. It is no strange thing for a young lady to visit with an old family friend.

He nearly laughs at the mention of wealth. What wealth does he have? Two hundred sixty concords, four and seven per annum. Still, it is nothing like the thousands that the likes of the Bastian must take in per year. A decent enough sum perhaps, by the standards of those of his class, better still by the standards of the wicks and humans. Wicks and humans. It is a strange thing, a repeated thing, but the Sergeant’s words are strange. Again there is that separation, that distance, as though the Sergeant believes he is a member of some class that is all of its own. Well, perhaps he is. Perhaps they both are. Himself, he is a man of the city, a professional man from a long line of professionals. The Shrikeweeds and Gainsboroughs of the world do well enough. They cannot compare to the great magnates. That is well. That is sound.

“Bring your papers Sergeant. We will see what we can make of them.” He taps the stack of papers already upon the desk. “And we shall see about adding them to the pile.” There will be little enough that is direct in all those papers. Vague shapes, gaps where none should exist. Those gaps can be filled. He has done it before. He can do it again. The cost will be no trivial thing. Headaches and uncomfortable dreams, when dreaming is permitted. Little sleep and too much knowledge. It is a necessary price.

The Sergeant goes on, speaking of his wife. The affection is real enough if he is any judge. A foolish supposition. Affection he knows, but not of the kind that must exist be the Sergeant and his wife. Kin he knows, those dear as, but little else. At the mention of murder he pauses. Murder is rather different matter, and alltogether more comprehensible. “The murder of his wife? Was that the missing piece of your accusation? Did you wish to press that matter? A man with powerful friends might be insulated from much, but uxoricide is something altogether different.” Evidence of it, or even reasonable rumor, might unmake the Bastian, might drive him to making mistakes. A matter worth pursuing.

It seems the admission has removed some great weight from the Sergeant. The man seems to relax, as though it were his own guilt. We all, he thinks, take on guilt that is not of our own making. The guilt of wasted action, of things not done, of the evil of others. The Sergeant at least understands this. Guilt extends beyond the single actors. Guild spreads itself about, looking for any purchase it may claim. A commonality, and a curious one. Unsettling. Necessary.

“I think, Sergeant, you will find the Elephant most congenial. A comfortable place and not much given to pretense. The coffee is the best I have ever had and it has rather spoiled me.” He smiles at that, a genuine one. It lacks all predatory gleaming. “The proprietor does not stand for much in the way of ceremony, but much in the way of ritual. Mugrobi coffee requires precise methods, and in the Elephant they are observed with the devotion of religion. Beyond that, it is the best place I know to rest both mind and body.”

At the Sergeant’s nod to trusting the odd wick, and the name of the family in Grimesby he allows himself only the merest flutter of acknowledgment. Is not his own much trusted agent a wick of the Dives, a Ladies Man, as Bailey so often puts it? A trusted agent has all manner of uses, and Bailey and his people have a wide network of information. It will be easy enough to gather the necessary intelligence on these Haros people, their connections to the Sergeant, and any related matters.

“It grows late Sergeant, and I have files to review.” He taps them once again, three taps with his left index finger. “But I will keep your information in mind, and I may well pass messages to you through them. I find it comforting,” and here he gives another genuine smile, “that you possess the wisdom to use whatever tools are at hand.”

[Rhys Valentin]

"Just always full of too much clockin' energy, that's all." The tall blond smirked, immediately changing his posture to sit up a little straighter, to plant his feet a little more firmly on the floor in front of the other man, stopping the constant bounce of his knee in sudden chagrined self-awareness, "I've got a lot on my mind and usually don't spend this much time sitting still, sir. I don't think exercise is a problem for a Patrol Sergeant such as myself, not on the street and not at home, either—"

His grin was taunting but also a little wan, weary at the edges. He tried to imagine Mister Shrikeweed across from him, dressed down, hands wrapped, ready to punch some stranger in the godsbedamned face. He smiled, quite sure that beneath the well-tailored suit, the man hid a handful of sharp-toothed vipers not just a decent hook.

"—I think I need to cultivate a richer inner life instead of necessarily continue to channel my energies into purely physical forms." Rhys chuckled, snorted, and finally laughed. He knew—he clocking knew—that was definitely coarse humor better reserved for Headquarter's locker rooms, but in his typical rebelliousness, he was honest here nonetheless.

With that he settled a little, nodding at the other man's sharing of thoughts. In his somewhat swift climb toward his current rank, the Inspector-turned-Patrol Sergeant had learned a great deal about how to read people, about how people were motivated, and about how too often what looked complicated about people was often ridiculously simple. He pressed his lips together at the thought of so much destruction and suffering wrought by one man over wealth, over needing more in some monstrous fashion, but at the same time, he'd stared into the gaze of Damen d'Arthe and knew what creature lurked behind the pressed uniform and shined buttons.

He knew.

Rubbing his chin, feeling that hint of pale stubble that grew so damn quickly, he frowned a little, though it wasn't because he was dissatisfied with Mister Shrikeweed's thoughts so much as he was attempting to commit it all to memory for later.

"I've got a good friend in the Seventen's Administration Offices. I'm sure I can ply a favor for a more thorough collection of payroll information, though it may take an evening of playing co-pilot to his terrible, drunken escapades. A fair price, really." He shrugged, chewing his bottom lip before he nodded again. He could find plenty of papers—so many papers. Too many words written and typed onto pages only to be shoved in folders and boxes.

He couldn't remember the last time he enjoyed a good book.

Rhys blinked, aware of what'd slipped out somewhere in conversation, "It's my suspicion, mind you. Charity is quite convinced it was suicide, but, listen, the man is just—I would still call anyone desperate enough to take their own life to get away from someone like Damen murder. He's more chrove than galdor."

There was probably so much packed in there—so many dark family secrets that his wife could never carry should they ever come to light. Did it unburden him to share his most private suspicions on just how much of a starved, raving beast his delicate pianist's father was? No and also yes. But mostly no.

His stomach churned.

He'd stayed too long already, and now he'd said too much.

They probably both needed space now, just to process this all. It was a good end to this meeting, and the tall blond found the offer of meeting again where there was good coffee to be exceptionally amicable, really. He was probably fueled by too much terrible coffee, anyway, and the good stuff was a nice treat.

"I suppose we'll see where the end of this path leads, though I doubt it'll be safe along the way." He smiled back, that silver lining of endless confidence oozing from somewhere in the scarred cavity of his chest. Hope was something he always tried to cling to, no matter how hard.

"I appreciate your time, sir, but more than that, I'm grateful for the flicker of a candle in the dark held by someone else's hand."