A Contingent Occasion
Narrative
1. Arboria
It had been the revised itineraries of the esquires of the Holy Lakes which had tipped the hand regarding the next move Ichirō would make as the latest drama in Shirekeep unfolded. As Commander of the Order of the Holy Lakes, the esquires assigned to the protection of Ichirō and his family were his to command as he saw fit, yet their movements, for purposes of administration, pay, and logistics, were routinely reported to the Hurmu Fyrð, whose Guards Corps furnished the aforementioned esquires. As such there was no preventing the office of the Secretary of State for Peace from having sight of the movement notices, and from there the matter was, within hours of first coming to the notice of a diligent secretary aspiring for advancement within the Coalition for Democratic Humanism, swiftly brought to the attention of the secretariat of the Council of Archons, and thence reported to the Hierophant, Felipe de Almagro, whose interest was duly piqued.
Marius Gallo, by then long accustomed to his comfortably furnished office within the headquarters of the Mirkdale Peninsula Development Authority, situated within a discrete compound situated upon the eponymous headland, had been startled out of a vaguely obscene reverie when the conspicuously red encrypted phone set he had been bestowed by his handlers began to trill incessantly. Hesitantly, seldom relishing being obliged to answer to those who were now in the position of acting as his benefactors, he picked up the receiver and tentatively uttered a greeting bereft of enthusiasm. On this occasion, however, after listening for a few brief moments, he was pleasantly surprised to find himself offering his fulsome consent to all that the voice down the other end of the line proposed. No sooner had he spoke in affirmation, than the caller had brusquely hung up. As was his habit after taking one of those calls, Marius found himself wandering across to the drinks cabinet situated in the corner of the room. However, on this occasion, as he ran his finger along a row of crystal decanters he realised that he was actually smiling.
2. Musica
The life of an "apostle" in the current era was a continuous blur of safe houses, dark side-alleys, moments of snatched conversation amongst circles of ever changing, necessarily fleeting, associates, and a regular vigil, awaiting the next chalked sigil on a wall that would indicate the direction to another dead-drop, such as the one which was guiding Naveed Rahmani now towards the edge of the Musica Naval Arsenal. The bins behind the gargantuan construction hall were always overflowing with refuse, collections occurring weeks late if at all. Naveed tried to mingle with the workers during shift change, working his way against the flow of exhausted shipbuilders of various professions he couldn't even begin to name in spite of having worked for years in the shadows to rile them up against the decadent nobility. In the guise of a scruffy, tired, and potentially lost, dockworker, he drifted over to a crumbling redbrick wall where the last chalk graffito pointed him towards a rusting metal container overfilled with empty paint pots and miscellaneous off-cuts of sheet metal. Come nightfall the bins would be swarmed with scavengers, no matter the efforts of the brutal and vindictive cudgellers retained by the port authorities to make up for the deficit in local law enforcement. His window of opportunity for collecting the package would be brief. Overhead a passing seagull called down its mockery of the scene carrying on below, and Naveed cursed it silently, just as he cursed everything on the days like this. Years and years, and it never ceased to feel like an indignity to be carrying on in this furtive manner. The time would come when all those who had denied and opposed his apostolic mission would be made to pay in full measure for all of these years. The harmonious society would come, but before the glorious day there would be a dreadful reckoning. For now, however, he was on his knees, rifling amongst paint pots, trying not to recoil in disgust as he realised, too late, that he had placed his hand into a discarded grease trap.
The code cylinder, its plastic wrapping caked in grease and oil so as to make it as unremarkable amongst the general filth, had been taped to the inside of the bin, beneath the top layer of assorted industrial detritus. After the briefest of furtive looks over his shoulder to reassure himself that he was not being observed, Naveed snatched up the small plastic coated cylinder and jammed it into his inside coat pocket, quietly cursing that he would need to get the inevitable grease stain somehow cleaned. The last laggards of the shift change were still filing out of construction hall and dawdling in small clumps of exhausted men heading towards the exit leading towards a dismal row of pubs, greasy cafes, and rundown denizen hostels that many of them would call home, and the bus station that would mark the next stage of the journey for those with a better life to go to. Without making it seem as though he were hurrying to depart the scene, Naveed caught up with one of aforementioned knots of men, and trailed in their wake, close enough as to seem in some way involved, but not so close as to attract the attention of those strangers whose thoughts were fixed upon the promise of scant consolation offered in a pint.
He had continued onto the bus station, both himself and the shipbuilders lost in the wave of sullen humanity trudging out of the dockyards. The bus he stepped onto, so ancient as to probably predate the Fracture, took him as far as La Fiesta, where row upon row of slum tenements did little to disguise the fact that, during the ancient days, this had been one of the most frequently burnt districts of the city. The constabulary seldom came out this far, and the Imperial Marshals never. It had become one of those forgotten and accursed places where the Humanist Vanguard had been able to establish a cadre and present itself as a bastion of order. It was perfect for Naveed's needs. A warren of rat nests into which he could disappear as and when he required.
His route back to his latest bolt hole had been by indirect and meandering stages. Turn, and turn, and turn again. Never go from point a to point b via the shortest route. At no point did he feel the burning tingle of eyes upon him, nor did he detect any surreptitious figure haunting his shadow. At no junction were any markers indicating a compromised location displayed. At length assuaged of doubts, he made the final turn towards the street which led towards the crumbling apartment above a pawnbrokers which he presently called home. It was an abode which he shared with cockroaches the size of mice and possessed of a temperament as foul as the soul-snatching demon fish of old legend.
As he entered his temporary abode and double bolted the door behind him, Naveed glanced about for any sign of obvious changes to how he had left the dust and mold suffused dump in the morning. Finding none, he made his way to the kitchen and fetched the disgusting package out of his coat pocket. Peeling away the disgusting grease-caked plastic wrapping to reveal the carbon cylinder covered in irregular indentations along his entire length, he rinsed down the cylinder and dried it with a piece of kitchen paper, taking especial care to ensure that each notch was clear of any grime, before setting it down upon the drying board. Going into the living room, he made his way across to the corner of the room and knelt down to fold back a faded piece of green carpet to expose the wooden flooring beneath. Having checked to ensure that the thin strand of black hair was where he had left it the night before, he lifted up a wooden panel and removed a palm sized reader with a small green screen, and a pair of copper prongs spaced sufficiently apart as to hold the cylinder he had just cleaned. Returning with the reader to the kitchen, he set the reader down on the dirty bar top beside the stove and went across to pick up the carbon cylinder which he brought back to the reader and placed down onto the copper prongs.
It was fiddly, having to retrieve the tuning key, a thin sliver of metal concealed within the heel of his left boot, and then slotting it into the side of the reader, causing the prongs to lower the cylinder onto the shallow turning grove in which it would be read - the onetime mission instruction appearing on the green screen as the cylinder completed its rotation upon the reader.
Later, as Naveed ground down the discarded hollow cylinder beneath his boot, he was left with one key question – where in all the hells was Engita?
3. Cabbagefall
Gerhard Schatz, gentleman of whose face was possessed of a pinched expression—mouth down, weary-eyed, wrinkles creased sharply on his forehead and along his cheeks, studied his surroundings with a casual disinterest. Dressed in the grey robes of a lowly cleric, as discretely as a lord of the Adelsraad might feel comfortable with when obliged to spend time in otherwise disagreeable surroundings. He was sat on a leather-backed chair in a wood panelled snug, supping from a pint of porter with his elbows resting on an ancient table so over-varnished as to be practically lacquered. The Suzerain Arms, situated off Corporation Street, from where the Monuments to the goddess Viviantia and the Benacian monstrosity erected for no purpose other than to offend the sensibilities of the Imperial Government were both visible, was an edifice of aged timbers, red bricks, and stucco plaster, dating back to the era before the Green Mortality, onto which an overly ornamental façade had been erected during the latter days of the Kaiserein Noor. It's location had made it a convenient place for these sorts of meetings, and the landlord, well compensated, had developed an indulgent attitude towards the intrusive examinations of his property that his best clients would sometimes insist upon. Such a sweep had occurred this morning, and the two eavesdropping devices prised out of the plasterwork had been about in line with expectations, as were the landlord's shrugs of nonchalant apology in response to each discovery. Someone on the man's payroll was culpable - and once the stout and haggard landlord figured out who it was, that individual would in short order find themselves face down in the Elwynn. The generous retainer would more than make up for that inconvenience, and for the patching of the newly exposed wall cavities.
That the pub, a former coaching inn that once upon a time handled the needs of armed convoys of travellers bound from the Imperial capital for Goldshire, would periodically be closed for fumigation, as it was on this day, did not raise too many eyebrows. Properties in Cabbagefall, especially those with a history of damp, could periodically expect to make an unfortunate discovery of the ancient blight in foetid and forgotten corners. For the sake of the pretence, Gerhard had been obliged to wear a fumigation mask upon entering the premises which was now on the table where he now rested his partially drained pint as he heard the frosted glass door of the snug slide open and a new figure, one dressed in a black uniform tunic, grey jodhpur trousers, and brown leather riding boots, stepped in to join him.
Gerhard nodded his head in acknowledgement as the new arrival, a youthful looking man with a duelling scar on his right cheek, removed his black fez to expose a closely cut mop of blond hair, parted at the front. The man, possessed of imperious blue eyes, glanced down at Gerhard for a moment, set his fez down upon the table and began to sit down on the bench opposite his interlocutor before pausing and inquiring, curtly, whether there was any objection to his sitting. Gerhard made an open palm gesture towards the bench in response before picking up his pint glass for another sip.
"You've heard the news?" The blond man began.
"Who hasn't?" Answered Gerhard, glancing the man up and down fleetingly in appraisal. "The fuss they are making, you would think that it had been our blessed Salome who had shuffled off this mortal coil."
"Quite." The other man answered. "I'm sure they have their reasons. Nonetheless, as you might expect, this complicates matters. Almost all the principals have changed their travel schedules. Not just for the week ahead but in some instances for months hereafter."
"I see." Answered Gerhard, levelly. "So our main subject won't be going where we expected?"
"Not for a little while." His interlocutor answered. "He appears to be giving this Jaaguzan business the full song and dance."
"The little bugger being the Duke of Brandenburg". Gerhard said with a smirk. "Quite inconvenient."
"To put it mildly." The blond officer retorted.
Gerhard paused for a moment and frowned before speaking again. "It wasn't us was it?"
The officer dressed in black shifted uncomfortably as he answered. "I am assured not, by those who have oversight of such things. Too much riding on the détente to upset things over there, even for the sake of an Osmanid regency. I think we can chalk this one up to their nawabs murdering each other off their own initiative."
"So where does that leave the target?" Gerhard enquired.
"We expect he will return to Huyenkula, once the prattling in the Landsraad has finished." The blond man answered with a slight tone of resignation.
"Via the Gates?" Gerhard mused.
"Maltenstein. That'll be the expectation at any rate."
"I suppose a gate accident would be too obvious?" Gerhard mused, in spite of knowing the answer.
"It would be a tad flagrant." His interlocutor agreed. "Considering how his father reconstituted as a pink mist. Neither our friends in Hurmu, nor the Honourable Company, would likely to be willing to see their prestige piece abused in that way ever again."
"So where does that leave us then?" Gerhard asked. "No chance of a Gate accident, and the target will be out of reach once he's back in the Lake District."
"We'd like you to continue working on the original plan." The blond man answered. "Control is of the opinion that the Engita visit, being motivated by sentimentality, is still likely to occur."
Gerhard nodded, as he considered the instruction. "It would have been a rushed job if we had gone ahead on the original schedule. Some assets would have had to have been burnt as a trade-off. With some more time, something deniable could be set up. We have someone scouting the site. Perhaps the extra time will permit for contacts to be established inside the target's household."
"I shall leave the matter in your capable hands." The blond man said, as he stood to leave. "Please do enjoy the rest of your drink."
Gerhard nodded in acknowledgement and made as though to pick up the glass once more. He waited until he heard the door of the snug once more slide shut before he murmured a single word into the glass before taking another sip of tar-black beer.
"Git."
4. Far Guttuli
The LVA had been approached and came up trumps with a suitable boy, an Octalune orphan whose father had been a man in their company. Parisa Shadmani, the apostle of Humanism for Far Guttuli, had been responsible for getting the lad from the County of the Evensong to the Viscounty of Lumenetra. Fortunately, her network of contacts, a legacy of the efforts made in 1723, and they had, with the efforts of various poachers, smugglers, and other ne'er-do-wells, been able to circumvent the patrols of the Imperial Constabulary and the checkpoints established by the Imperial Marshals in an effort to control and monitor the roads into Lumenetra, which remained a known stronghold of Humanism in the duchy. The assistance of a clerk with the local branch of the West Natopian Shipping Corporation had been required for furnishing a suitable cover identity for the youth. Parisa had discovered, upon making the acquaintance of the clerk in an ill-lit tavern on the quayside, that a certain deftness and dexterity of manipulation with her hands had been enough to prevail upon the gentleman to readily yield and pledge to offer up the required forms and stamps. It had required two further assignations to complete the requisite paperwork, and on the fourth the clerk was discovered slumped in a toilet cubicle by the barkeep at closing time.
The boy, a fair-haired youth who should hereafter be referred to as Wil Ryabin, now had a pitiable tale to tell. A burden to his drunken sot of an uncle, he had been sold into an apprenticeship with the Transegale Trading Company at the age of fourteen and transported to Arboria, where he had subsequently been forced to work on the North Sea Line between the Viscounty and Tirlar. After two years of indentured servitude as a cabin boy, during which time his letters of appeal to the ombudsman were routinely intercepted by his employer, for which he was no less routinely thrashed, he resolved to escape. On the occasion of the next visit of the ferry to the Viscounty, he duly absconded along with a sum of money stolen from the captain's cabin and successfully laid low in the harbour area until the hue and cry had died down. Needing to escape he had attempted to disguise himself as a servant, on the basis of which he had been hired to accompany a lady of independent means travelling to Musica, such was the guise that Parisa had now adopted, aboard a coasting trade boat. Upon arrival she would raise a great fuss about some stolen jewellery, at which point Wil would have again absconded, this time in the company of Naveed Rahmani who would be his handler thereafter for the remainder of the assignment.
OOC note
Time marches on, but enthusiasm is finite. This will be completed retrospectively, or not.
