The Lot of a Lichnik/1
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What is there to say of interest about me? This isn't the kind of job that attracts theatrical personalities.
My name is Harkavin. Field Inquisitor Kazimir M. Harkavin. Service number 684092. Operations Office, Novodolorsk Kennel. I was born in 702, married in 724, sired a daughter in the same year, attained lichdom in 736 and joined the Novodolorsk Reapers in 775. For all my years of pleading, my family would not follow me into undeath. They wouldn't even agree to the help of the Singers. I watched my wife grow old and die in 804, then my daughter in 831. And then I had nothing.
That's when the Lichniks came for me. The day after I buried my daughter. I remember the letter as if it were yesterday; an envelope of velvet black paper, the charcoal grey letters O.H.J.S. shimmering faintly from its face. The contents were simple enough:
Harkavin,
You have been selected for service as an Officer of Her Royal Jolliness' Lichnina. An unmarked car in black will be waiting outside your abode at the sixth hour of tomorrow morning. You are politely requested to hold the contents of this missive Sub Rosa and to co-operate in full.
Moriat Regina.
And that was it. On the worst day of my unlife. No expression of condolence, no acknowledgement of the crisis of faith in all lichdom that I suffered at that moment. But in hindsight I wonder if it was, in fact, the perfect answer. And if this was actually their way of saving me. I'll never know the real reason I was chosen. Decisions like that are taken way above my rank. Sometimes at the blue-hair level, rumour has it.
Many of my comrades in the Reapers were made of sterner, more competent stuff than I. My chief was in permanent fear that the Queen's Lichniks would come and headhunt the best of them, but they chose me instead. A middle-ranking officer in the middle of a bereavement whose job consisted mainly of causing bereavement to others - "Ma'am, it is my reluctant duty to inform you that the phylactery is destroyed. His soul is with Minarbor now." Dear Shrub, the times I had to come out with that line. But apparently that was impressive stuff to the Lichniks.
In the years since, I have seen and done things that would cast ugly shadows over the name of our Queen and her Shrubly state. Sometimes you have to slash and burn for the greater good of the Garden. The most egregious of these things I'll never breach the confidence of my sovereign by revealing. But certain other cases during my career have been sufficiently interesting to retell.
I'll always remember the case that resulted in my promotion from Royal Courier to Apprentice Field Inquisitor. It began as an errand. The Lichniks aren't just a police force as many think. There is a police element, of course; we enforce the laws that Her Jolliness hasn't quite gotten around to writing down yet. The Reapers take care of the rest. But when we're not enforcing the opaque will of the Royal Household on those who are often unaware of their infractions, it's our job to do Her Jolliness' miscellaneous bidding in those lands she rules directly. The lands of the Lichnina are special, after all; here one is expected to be especially jolly and especially harmonious with Her Jolliness' will, whether it be codified or not. Maintaining this enlightened regime requires a lot of donkey work; work which comes down to the Lichniks, as it did to our predecessors in Lichbrook. A proud and unique profession requiring astuteness, adaptability and unassailable ideological intelligence. We're the Queen's personal will, gift-wrapped in black uniforms. As such there's no scope for mistakes.
So you can imagine my great vexation when this particular assignment threw up a most unexpected development.
I'd been dispatched to the home of one Constance Mavet, a long drive away in the hill country of western Novodolor. Assisting me was Courier Shepilov, a fellow native of Novodolorsk of similar inexperience to myself. We'd been given the luxury of a staff car for the outing, a suitably macabre affair of black and chrome which was driven by a suitably silent zombot; I much prefer the silent ones. Transfixed by the car's dog-skull hood ornament skimming over the road ahead, I asked Shepilov in the back seat to review the briefing notes.
"One more time then," he said, flipping open a leather document pouch and shuffling through the papers. "To the domicile of Fidelius Mavet, twelve kilometres beyond the Octavian Stairway Quarry and identifiable by a sign bearing the name Resurgam. Currently resident is Mr. Mavet's wife Constance. She is to be informed of Mr. Mavet's destruction yesterday, in an accident involving the failure of a guard rail over a vat of industrial solvent on the premises of the Hall of Fruits Chemical Concern No. 138 at Benacia Hamlet. No physical remains extant, phylactery presumed dissipated."
"Poor Mr. Mavet," I said with a pout. "What was he doing there?"
"He worked for the Hall of Fruits itself. Third most senior official for industrial safety in Minarboria. It says he was at this chemical works for a safety inspection."
I stifled a chuckle. "Seriously?"
"Looks like this particular guard rail failed his test," said Shepilov, who failed to suppress his own giggle.
"What a way to go," I said. "Whoever runs that factory will be getting a visit from us too, no doubt."
"For sure," said Shepilov. "It says here that Mr. Mavet was 'much beloved to the court of Her Jolliness'. I guess that's why the Reapers didn't get this job. Somebody wants the personal touch."
"And also why they chose me," I grumbled. "I was hoping for a change of scenery when I came to the Kennel."
"It is a change for me," said Shepilov. "I used to be a traffic officer."
"Really?"
"Yes, I was replaced by a zombot."
"You hear that, mister?" I said, jabbing the zombot driver with my elbow. It gave a small corrective jerk of the steering wheel but was otherwise unresponsive. "State distance to destination."
One of the zombot's eyes swivelled downward to take a reading of the car's mileage. "Sixteen. Point. Four. Kilometres. Sir."
"Nearly there," I said, quietly pleased that anyone at all in this towering organisation was calling me 'Sir'.
Resurgam Cottage was a quaint little place, perched on some bluffs which offered an impressive view of the Novodolor wilderness. Having heard our car's approach, Mrs. Mavet opened her front door as soon as we entered the cottage's tidy little garden. The usual expression of alarm seized her face at the sight of Lichnik uniforms, which rarely accompany good news of any sort.
"Mrs. Constance Mavet?" I said as I reached the cover of her porch.
"Y...yes..." muttered Mrs. Mavet, who was as tidy and ordered as her cottage and obviously unaccustomed to the sharper garden hoes of Minarborian state.
"Courier Harkavin of the Novodolor Lichniki," I said, flashing my warrant card. "And is my assistant, Courier Shepilov. We come on a matter of some importance. May we come in?"
Far be it for me to preach about interior design, but the inside of this cottage was a veritable ocean of net curtains, doilies, tassled lampshades and other expressions of the aspiring but utterly dull middle ranks of the Minarborian bureaucratic caste. My disturbance of this sedate little world was rather amplified by the fact that I'd refused a shot of lich gravy from Mrs. Mavet's drink cabinet, as we're formally forbidden from accepting consumables on duty in case they're poisoned. Not that it was ever a danger here, but protocol is protocol.
Having been seated on a frilly armchair, I began the spiel I'd been rehearsing in my head during most of the journey from Novodolorsk.
"Mrs. Mavet, it is my grave duty to inform you of an accident that befell you husband during a visit to Chemical Concern No.138 at Benacia Hamlet yesterday..."
"Oh?" said Mrs. Mavet who, beyond the shock of our general presence, didn't seem unduly concerned. "Do tell."
"Your husband suffered a loss of footing near a large vessel of solvent and became immersed. Unfortunately nobody was able to save him before he was dissolved. I regret to inform you... that nothing remains from which your husband can be regenerated."
Right on cue, Mrs. Mavet fell into the empty and silent stare which I have seen a thousand times. People of all persuasions - whether Breather, Singer or Lich - react to grief in very different and very personal ways. After this short silence, Mrs. Mavet reacted with an explosion of hysterical laughter. Shepilov and I exchanged awkward glances. Laughter was known to happen, but it was rare.
Recovering her composure but retaining a beaming grin, Mrs. Mavet looked at us with equally smiling eyes. "Well what a silly mistake this is!" she said. "My husband couldn't possibly have melted away."
"I know it is exceedingly rare," interjected Shepilov, "for a lich to be lost beyond regeneration, ma'am. And it is a difficult thing to accept. Denial is a natural part of grief. But you must understand that nothing can be done for..."
Shepilov's words were abruptly halted by the sound of footsteps descending the cottage's little staircase and the appearance of a man in the doorway behind Mrs. Mavet. I recognised the face immediately from the file photo: Fidelius Mavet, the very man whose annihilation we were trying to explain to his wife at that very moment.
"Visitors, dear?" said Mr. Mavet with a smile. "What a pleasant surprise. Good morning gentlemen!"
"Fidelius Mavet?" I barked to my own surprise with sudden severity, rising to my feet.
Mr. Mavet dropped his jollity immediately, in favour of wide eyes and a little trembling. "Y... yes, at your service. But whatever is wrong? Are we in trouble?"
To this I had no answer; neither did Shepilov who looked back at me in panic, still seated in his armchair. Having remembered that our host was a favourite of the Royal court, I returned to my seat and coolly indicated for him to do the same.
"Sir... may I ask your whereabouts between the hours of noon and fifteen yesterday?" I said.
"Well... I was at work. Inspecting a chemical works in Benacia Hamlet. Number 138... they can vouch for my presence."
"They think you fell into one of the vats, dear," said Mrs. Mavet, who had resumed chuckling.
"Indeed sir," said Shepilov. "You are reported to have perished in an accident during said inspection. Are you able to account for this... discrepancy?"
"I cannot," said Mr. Mavet. "It's quite a fanciful idea, too. The likelihood of any accident in the place is minimal. I still have to finish my full report of course, But from what I saw on my visit the plant's safety standards are exemplary."
Shepilov flung me a look of complete incredulity. It was obvious that he expected me to come up with an answer, as did my two hosts who bore quizzical expressions of their own. I decided to explore another possibility.
"Sir, I must ask for your particulars of identification and your consent to a phylacteric frequency scan. For purely technical purposes, of course."
"But of course, Mister...?"
"Harkavin. Forgive me. You understand that as honourable as your word may be, the sooner we can establish that you are indeed Fidelius Mavet beyond all technical doubt, the sooner we can leave you to your lawful business."
"Oh but why rush, dear fellow?" chortled Mr. Mavet. "Your company is so delightful. We get so few visitors out here..."
"Most kind, sir, but I'm afraid we have a lot to do ourselves. If you'd be so kind as to provide your credentials to my assistant Courier Shepilov here, I must step outside to make a radio call."
"Copy that Raven Six, message received. Stand by."
I pulled my cap down tightly as a stiff wind from the Eastern plains hammered the hillside, strong enough that I had to hold the car door open. The microphone of the car's radio set hovered in front of me, held out by the zombot driver's telescopic arm. I shielded it against the wind with my hand as I awaited instructions.
"Raven Six... this is the Houndmaster," growled a voice across the static - my boss in Novodolorsk had found my information sufficiently intriguing that he'd come to the radio himself. Bracing myself for a chewing out across the airwaves, I gently squeezed the transmit button.
"Raven Six receiving sir."
"What is this I hear about your...safety inspector? That you have found him in one piece?"
"Affirmative sir, pending ID check. He appears legitimate."
"Madness... madness..." crackled the Houndmaster, whose actual name I never did find out. "Take nothing for granted, Harkavin. If his identification check fails in any regard at all, you will take him into custody. He could be anybody. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes sir. But if it really is him...?"
"Then you will take the road to Benacia Hamlet. If you are going to open a case for us, Harkavin, then you will be the one to close it. May the Shrub help you. I will be watching. Out."
My rolling eyes settled on Shepilov, who had just emerged from the cottage and was holstering his phylacteric gauge. He gave a thumbs-up, followed by a shrug. I shook my head, beckoned him over and opened the car's back door.
"Get in, Shepilov," I said. "We're going to Benacia Hamlet."
Benacia Hamlet - like certain cities of the old country, it was a little too large to strictly call a hamlet. That said, it was a shadow of its former self. As the great border city of Benaciastadt in ancient times, it had once been the focal point of a bitter war involving most of the Benacian powers - eventually coming under the rule of Ashkenatza and withering into ruins alongside that state. The past role of the city as the southern tip of "Greater Amokolia" had caused it to be rather heavily militarised under Minarborian rule, lest one of the former nation's perennially rabid regimes take a sudden revanchist bent. The vigour of the Church of Minarbor in displacing all trace of northern loyalties with the wholesome word of the Shrub-God in Sansabury was evident; these days a chapel stood nigh on every corner, and the streets crawled (sometimes literally) with Singer clerics performing all manner of charitable acts. Benacia Hamlet was a place where a little faith could buy you a very comfortable existence from the powers that be; the way of the Shrub being what it is, the carrot generally prevailed over the stick.
We reached Chemical Concern No.138 a little before noon, having driven all night across Novodolor. It was a sprawling sort of place with pipes of all diameters running in every conceivable direction, between similarly varied storage tanks and distillation columns. The drab greyness of its buildings had a pre-Shrubdom feel about them; perhaps they'd had been repurposed from some ancient Ashkenatzan use. That aside, the gleaming steel ducting everywhere suggested some serious investment from Sansabury in more recent times. Alas the courtyard in front of the administration building hadn't yet benefited from the Second State Arbor's generous attentions, and it was all I could do to stop myself flying out of the car window as it lurched and bounced across water-filled potholes.
Having learned from an initially unhelpful zombot receptionist that the plant director was out of the office, we set off on foot looking for a sentient presence. Like most other venues of heavy industry in Minarboria, this place was heavily automated. The scattered zombots we encountered were either mute, or else unable to give directions toward an employee that could provide us with decent conversation. At last, Shepilov spotted a breather in brown overalls working in the cavernous interior of a storage warehouse. This breather, on seeing us, took off running.
Running from a Lichnik is quite a stupid idea, especially if you're a breather. You're never going to compete with the hyper-elasticised tendons we're issued by the surgeon-adepts when we join up. Shepilov got to him first and slammed him against a wall, knocking the breath out of him. I applied the handcuffs and was about to administer a jolt from my electric prod, but on seeing it the breather ceased his struggles and adopted a pallid complexion almost worthy of a lich. It seemed at some point in his short life, he'd been on the receiving end of the prod before and wasn't in a hurry to repeat the experience. It's always nice when people cooperate.
We took him to a small annexe of the warehouse, a room full of empty packing crates that were caked with dust. The room was dimly lit from a single grimy window, the light bulb overhead having long since blown out. Apart from the occasional sneeze from the dust, our prisoner was silent as we sat him down on one of the crates. I removed the handcuffs.
"Time for some questions," I said. "Your name would be a good start, wouldn't it?"
"I want a lawyer," said the breather.
"Ah, so you haven't been in the country long then?" I said with a smile. "All the lawyers in Minarboria work for us. You're from the old country, I take it? There's a bit of an accent on you."
"Is that a crime?" he said, in the pompous falsetto growl common to natives of Shirekeep. "I came for the work. I've got all the papers."
"So you're straight?"
"Of course."
"Why run, then?"
The breather said nothing, but averted his eyes beneath a wrinkled forehead of receding hair.
"Do you know why we're here?" I continued.
"I don't know. Probably about the inspector."
"Correct," I said. "Did you see what happened to him?"
The breather fell silent again, avoiding my gaze. I drummed my fingers on the electric prod which hung from my belt.
"It was an accident!" blurted the breather.
"When did anyone say it wasn't?" said Shepilov, who came over and leaned into the breather's face. "Eh?"
"I was there," said the breather. "I saw him fall. I was the one to report it, too."
"In that case," I said, "You can take us to where it happened."
The plant's acid and solvent storage facility was as inhospitable as the name suggested. Every kind of metal fixture bore corrosion spots from the fumes that pervaded the place. I surveyed the facility through the eyepiece of a respirator which, as our pet breather explained, was required even for the unbreathing classes as no uncovered skin was safe. I'd experimented with his assertion by removing my leather glove for a moment, only to experience an unpleasant and immediate burning sensation on the skin of my hand.. If it hurt that much for a relatively nerveless lich, the effect on a breather must have been quite debilitating. And if anyone really had fallen into one of the vats, their demise would have been as painful as it was mercifully brief.
Clad in his own protective suit with one arm in Shepilov's solid grip, the breather led us to an elevated walkway above the vats. Up there our unprotected uniforms had begun to emit a hint of smokelike vapour as the fumes ate away at the finer fibres. Communication was impossible through the thick respirators, but the breather stopped where a section of railing was broken away and pointed at the deceptively calm lake of corrosive compound in the vat below. It was certainly feasible that the corrosive fumes would cause structural failure of the railings if they weren't replaced often enough, but this idea was rather compromised when I looked more closely at the points of breakage. Each of them bore parallel rows of striations - somebody had hacksawed the thing off. I pointed it out to Shepilov, who tossed his head in acknowledgement and dragged the breather back down the steps before the fumes ate our attire to nothing.
Back in the makeshift interrogation room, we finally revealed to the breather that the man he claimed to have seen accidentally dissolved was very much extant, that we had met him in person only yesterday, and that the breakage of the railing was quite obviously faked. Usually this kind of evidence is enough to elicit an immediate confession of whatever skullduggery has been perpetrated - not so in this case.
"It's impossible," said the breather. "Nothing remotely biological can survive getting dunked in that stuff. Nothing."
"It would be a lot easier for you," said Shepilov, leaning over him again, "If you dropped the act and told us why you staged this whole thing. We'll find out sooner or later. We always do."
The breather growled with frustration and dropped his head into his hands, before looking up again. "Don't you get it?" he said. "Only half of it was staged!"
Shepilov began to say something, but I raised my hand for the breather to continue.
"Someone fell into that vat, whether it was the inspector or not. I saw him dissolve with my own eyes. How am I supposed to pick out faces when everyone's in respirators? They all look the same."
"So you staged the accident to look even worse than it was?" I said.
"It... it wasn't an accident," said the breather.
I exchanged glances with Shepilov, then squatted to the breather's seated level. "Why didn't you tell us that in the beginning?" I said.
The breather remained silent, looking at the floor. A solitary tear worked its way down his pockmarked cheek.
"We're going to need a name," said Shepilov with an iron face.
"Randolph Miller."
"And where might we find this Mr. Miller?" I said.
The breather sighed, his face now shining with tears, and looked me in the eye.
"Sitting in front of you."
The detention compound of the Benacia Hamlet Reapers was a well-run affair, with none of the envious contempt of Lichniks evident in their Novodolorsk counterparts; perhaps due to their distance from the Lichgravial capital. Indeed they'd been quite accomodating in providing a cleaner interrogation venue for Mr. Miller, and they were very interested to hear the details of his case. One of the more ambitious officers had suggested the Reapers take it over entirely, but ultimately this was the Queen's business and I made sure they knew it; an attempt had been made on the bodily integrity of a friend of the Royal court. Even though the plot had failed through a spectacular case of mistaken identity, the intent had been there. The Reaper chief had been most understanding and generous with his help, sending his officers to make miscellaneous enquiries on my behalf. In return, I'd invited him to assist my interrogations of Mr. Miller.
There was still much, of course, that did not add up. The identity of the murdered man was becoming a little clearer; the director of the chemical plant, one Mr. Everclear, still hadn't returned to work and couldn't be found at home. Nobody had seen him since the incident. His personal protective attire was missing from the plant cloakroom, and to cap it all he was well known to make regular inspections of the plant by himself.
The problem was the lack of motive on Mr. Miller's part. He had no known grudge against the Hall of Fruits or any of the plant management. if he had succeeded in staging the death of the safety inspector as an industrial accident, the plant would likely have been shut down; hardly in Mr. Miller's intersts as an immigrant breather looking for honest work. If he'd done the deed, it wasn't for his own purposes. He was protecting someone. Someone whose name he'd refused to reveal, even under threat of 'prodding'. Someone who had a serious hold over him. Someone who wanted the Hall of Fruits Chemical Concern No. 138 shut down for good.
The Houndmaster in Novodolorsk refused my requests for assistance. As far as he was concerned I was still a mere Courier, even if I was doing an Inquisitor's job. My progress reports over the course of two days were met with a simple order: "you will pursue the case to its conclusion." So it was that my interrogation of Mr. Miller entered a third day.
"I'll tell you again Mr. Miller, I don't know what you're worrying about," I said as I handed him a morning coffee laced with truth serum which had produced no effect thus far - he seemed to have an immunity but I didn't want to risk upping his dosage toward the LD50. "You're likely to be confined for murder anyway," I continued, "based on your confession alone. We can put you in a protective colony. Re-education by the Church. Well guarded. Whoever put you up to this won't get to you in there."
"Would I ever be released?" said Mr. Miller.
"Of course," I said. "It's quite possible for a repentant criminal to be reformed within a breather lifespan."
Mr. Miller shook his head and stared into his coffee. The Reaper chief subtly smirked at my amateur interrogation skills. What good was the safety of a re-education colony if they let you out at the end?
"Think of your victim," said Shepilov. "Whatever you had against the safety inspector, you had nothing against the one you actually threw over the rail. Don't you owe it to him to come clean?"
"I don't want to think about that." muttered Mr. Miller.
"We found out who it was, by the way," said the Reaper chief.
"I don't want to know who it was!" yelled Mr. Miller, putting his fingers in his ears. "They were friends to me at that plant! All of them! Do you really think I want to know which one I threw to his doom? Let it stay a mystery, for the love of all that's holy!"
I couldn't help but crack a grin. We were getting some leverage. "We'll gladly keep you in blissful ignorance for the rest of your short life, Mr. Miller, if you tell us who made you do this," I said. "We know somebody did. You're not even denying it any more."
Mr. Miller slumped back in his seat and shot a defiant squint at me. "Do you know, Mister... Harkavin, was it?... that no punishment from you could possibly be worse than the one I'd get for telling you. Now, or in fifty years when I'm released." He threw up his hands. "Do what you want with me. Prod me with your electrodes every week. Tell me which of my friends I killed. I'll tell you nothing."
I glanced at Shepilov and the Reaper chief, who both nodded at me. "It was Mr. Everclear, the plant director," I said. "You destroyed him, Mr. Miller."
Mr. Miller suddenly leapt to his feet. "You're shitting me!" he yelped. Shepilov stepped over and pushed him back into his seat with an iron hand to the shoulder. "Prove it!" said Mr. Miller suddenly.
"Prove what?" I said.
"That he was the one I threw in. How can you know that?"
"Well you made that a little hard for us," said the Reaper chief. "Dissolving his body and all".
"But he hasn't turned up anywhere else," added Shepilov. "His wife is quite hysterical. His protective clothes are gone. What's to say he didn't miss the visit of the safety inspector and go wandering around the plant by himself? What's to say that you didn't mistake the suit-wearing man in the respirator for the inspector who had just left? Who else would have had business there, besides yourself and a few other grimy breathers and a thousand zombots? Who else would have been wearing a suit, Mr. Miller? Only the safety inspector! The inspector who at this moment is intact and well, writing a glowing report in tribute of your plant director who no longer exists beyond the level of single molecules!"
By now Shepilov had resumed his fond habit of getting so close into Mr. Miller's face that their noses almost touched. For his part, Mr. Miller didn't seem to notice. His eyes stared straight through us all into distant space. "Okay," he said calmly. Then he broke into a gentle smile, followed by a giggle and an incredulous shake of the head. Shepilov retreated.
"You don't seem too bereaved at his demise," I said, trying to probe Mr. Miller's apparently psychopathic change of tone. "You said he was a friend to you."
"He wasn't that sort of friend," said Mr. Miller. "He was the sort who takes more than they give, you know?" He flashed another smile of pure relief, and continued giggling.
"Of course..." I muttered as the penny finally dropped. "The sort who has you do their nefarious bidding and is never around to take the heat when it goes wrong?"
"Well he isn't around, is he? Not in a form you can interrogate," said Mr. Miller. "Single molecules, as you say," he said to Shepilov.
Silence reigned in the wake of the revelation, and it fell to me to break it.
"Well, gentlemen, I think we're done for today. Perhaps tomorrow, Mr. Miller, we can speak a little more about the late Mr. Everclear..."
Of course, had we actually thought to look into Mr. Everclear's property interests then his motives for shutting down his own plant would have been perfectly clear; but nobody likes to suspect a member of the lichly classes of heinous crimes if they can help it. State Phylacterism insists that liches are as incorruptible of spirit as they are of body, indeed a great part of my work involves the maintenance of this wholesome concept in the public eye. The reality, however, has been known to diverge from the ideal.
On further investigation, the Novodolor Lichgravial Land Registry revealed that the title to the Ashkenatzan ruins of Chemical Concern No. 138 was claimed during the original colonisation of the Kingdom by Mr. Everclear's father, who led the first Minarborian military unit to occupy the area. After his discharge he had restored the plant to function, died a breather's death and passed it down to Mr. Everclear the younger. Mr. Everclear had leased it in perpetuity to the Hall of Fruits, on condition that he be installed as plant director and that the land would revert to his private use if the plant had to shut down for any reason.
He did well in the job and was celebrated as a captain of industry; enough to attain lichdom and entry into the better social classes that went with it. Then he apparently looked at the land holdings of his new-found peers and the mansions that were built upon them, and in a fit of envy decided to play keep-up by asserting his old right to the factory land. Obsiously the Hall of Fruits wasn't going to consent to ceasing operations at one of their better premises, so Mr. Everclear had decided to engineer the place's closure via a shockingly disastrous safety inspection, thereby allowing him to claim the land.
How better to do it than to have the safety inspector himself destroyed beyond regeneration in an ostensibly preventable "accident", and to intimidate one of your breather employees into doing the dirty deed itself? The fact that said employee might bungle the job and cause you to suffer the "accident" instead was something that could not have been reliably foreseen.
It's said that the spirit of the Garden is strong enough to bring about justice by the manipulation of individual destinies; that it can sense and eliminate threats to its inner harmony by adjustment of time, circumstance and coincidence alone; that we Lichniks, and the Reapers, and the military and all the others are only small parts of the process; that Minarbor need never wield a cross word or a violent act because he carries the spirit of the Garden within him, and the Garden will always find a way to harmony on His behalf. They say the soil of Her Jolliness' Kingdom is only the most visible part of the Garden; that the Minarboreal spirit also operates in planes entirely beyond our wordly comprehension; but that sometimes, if our little prejudices get the better of us and we lose sight of the path ahead, this other part of the Garden will lend us a helping hand.
After Mr. Miller was transported for Shrubly re-education in Church-run corrective institution, it took Shepilov and I another week to wrap up the case. We arranged for the tragic accidental demise of Mr. Everclear to be announced to the public. They hailed him a hero of Minarborian industry. A tireless servant of the Garden. Much missed by all. I believe the chemical plant erected a statue in his honour. He passed into legend, leaving the name of lichdom pristine and untarnished - and in so doing, preserved the unbreathing glory of our sovereign Queen. Our job was done.
So here's to you, Mr. Everclear. I wouldn't have got the promotion without you.
