[IC] [Steampunk] When the Smoke Clears 2.0

[Sini]

Why do I do this? Percival Bavidge sat in a dimly lit underground room, the one they had prepared for the next task that had befallen him as Superior. Some smudges of dubious origin smeared the plastered walls. Being an inquisitor in his Majesty’s service meant he spent a lot of his time underground, asking questions, scaring and hurting people. Prodding –occasionally torturing or flaying- blathering fools for information, for truth. Or for what they wanted the truth to be. Nothing of what I do was planned. I had dreams, and they definitely weren’t these kinds of dreams. As if to emphasise his thoughts, a long excruciating wail came from another interrogation room farther down the long hall.

He well remembered the conversation that had led to this moment. Arch Inquisitor Doyle had elevated him in one smooth gesture to Superior, offering him a vague mandate with considerable influence and power. Next, old Doyle with the flawless white hair had assigned him to follow up on some rumours concerning sedition, but most importantly he had to find out who the Tanner was.

A Practical snatched the canvas bag off the head of the unfortunate figure lying naked on the damp, uneven floor. The man was skinny, his hand manacled securely behind his back. Another Practical, this one tall and muscled as an ox, pulled the stinking excuse for a human into the chair facing Percy. The prisoner blinked a few times, his eyes red and watery in the bright candlelight.

“Your name is Thomas Farewell?” Percival asked, his voice like ice.

The naked man nodded. “It is indeed, but everyone simply calls me Tom. I can assure you that I have done nothing unlawful, nothing criminal,” he spoke fast and without the accent of the lower class. “No, that would not be my way at all, sir. I can think of no reason at all to be manhandled this way!” His eyes, adjusted now to the light, swivelled around the room. An observant man? Good. Let him look. Thomas Farewell continued, getting anxious for his eyes had fallen on the anvil next to the table. “I am a member of the mercer’s guild, a well-respected organisation. Well-respected indeed and in excellent standing.”

Superior Bavidge cracked his hammer down on the anvil. “Stop blabbering!” The sound of the impact reverberated throughout the small, damp room.

“Do you have any idea how tired I am? Of how much I have to do? We are going through troubled, stressful times currently and there are matters for me to attend to. It is, therefore, an extremely indifferent notion if you will leave here walking or crawling.” Percival did not think his point had come across sufficiently, so he piled on. “I do not care if you will be able to see for the rest of your life, able to take a piss whilst standing or keep your shit in.” He sighed and leant back into his chair. “Do you understand, Mister Farewell?” Percival almost giggled at the irony of his prisoner’s name.

Thomas Farewell looked up, wide-eyed, then glanced at the huge Practical that had dropped him into the chair like a sack of lard. “I understand.”

“Good,” Superior Bavidge conceded. “The rules of this game are simply. I ask a question,” he pointed at his own chest, then proceeded to count the criteria on his fingers “you answer correctly, precisely and, above all, briefly. Is that clear?”

“I understand completely, sir. I do not seek to speak other than to-” A fist the size of a full-grown man’s head sunk into the prisoner’s gut, courtesy of the huge Practical.

“Do you see that your answer there should have been ‘yes’?”

The man gagged and heaved, merely nodded to affirm the epiphany.

The big Practical seized the wheezing man’s foot and put it on the cold anvil, clasping irons around the ankle. Oh, cold metal on the sensitive sole! Quite unpleasant, indeed, but it could be so much worse. And something tells me it will be.

“I apologise for the lack of imagination, Mister Farewell.” Superior Percival Bavidge sighed once more. “In our defence, it is difficult to be always thinking of something new. I mean, smashing a man’s feet with a lump hammer is so…”

“Pedestrian?” The large, muscular Practical ventured.

Percy heard a sharp volley of laughter from the other, rank Practical standing beside the door, and felt his own mouth grinning. He should have been a comedian, rather than a torturer. He jumped on the boat. “Pedestrian! Precisely so. But don’t you worry, Mister Farewell. If we haven’t got what we need by the time we’ve crushed everything below your knees to pulp, we’ll see if we can think of something more inventive for the rest of your legs. Agreed? Agreed.”

“But I have done nothing wrong!” squealed the naked prisoner, just getting his breath back. “I know nothing! I did-”

Percy made a cutting movement in the air with the hammer, his face in a scowl. “Forget all that. It is meaningless. We know you write for the Pamphlet. We know you are Sam Well-Fare.” As if to illustrate the Superior threw a bundle of dirty papers on the table. They had been printed poorly, on recycled, smudgy paper. The runny ink told tales of sedition and treason. “We have watched you for some time now.”

Thomas Farewell sank back into the chair, beaten; then sprang up as the Superior gently tapped his foot with the hammer.

“What I want you to concentrate on… are my questions, and your toes, and this hammer. But don’t worry if you find that difficult. Believe me when I say that once the hammer starts falling, you will find it easy to ignore everything else.”

The prisoner stared at the anvil and hammer, passively resting on top of his foot. His nostrils were flaring and he breathed heavily. And the seriousness of the situation finally impresses itself on him.

“On to my questions, Mister Farewell. You are familiar with Alberic Bourneham?”

“Yes! Please! Yes! I know him, we have spoken a few times.”

Percy nodded and shifted in his chair, finding a more comfortable position. “What did you speak of?”

“Many things.” The Practical slapped him across the face, splitting a lip. “Concerning the living and working conditions!”

“Did you write for the Pamphlet?”

“What? But you already said that-”

Percy grimaced. “I know what I said. What are Mister Bourneham’s goals?”

“I don’t… I don’t… You have to ask him!”

“Oh, dear me, no.” The heavy hammer came down with all of Percy’s strength and crushed Farewell’s big toe flat with a dull thud. The writer gaped at it, eyes bulging from his head, almost ready to fall from his sockets. Ah, that beautiful, horrible moment between stubbing your toe and feeling the pain. Here it comes.

Thomas Farewell shrieked, squirmed around in his chair and reverted to wailing. His face was contorted with agony and horror.

“The Tanner,” Percival said.

The prisoner started talking. “The Tanner is the one who introduced us. The Tanner is the advocate for the poor man, the wronged man.”

“Who is this Tanner?”

“Nobody knows! He came from the country. He’s a tanner! Gah!”

It didn’t take a genius to figure that one out… Superior Bavidge nodded, pursed his lips and watched Thomas Farewell’s toe swell, turn purple for a moment. Then ordered the prisoner seized. "What else?"

"He's a widower, lost his children too..." Farewell was sobbing, staring at his tortured appendix. Groaning, the writer asked “Am I free to go?”

Percival, with a most magnificent grin nodded his consent. “Oh yes, Mister Farewell. You are free to go. Free to go back in your bag. Farewell, Mister Farewell, it fare you well!”

He hoped by the Maker he was zeroing in on this elusive bastard that was on everyone’s lips. The Tanner… You have an appointment with the headsman, my friend. Otherwise Doyle will send me in your stead, and I rather like my head where it is.

[Konica]

The heavenly body moaned with a deep low grumble. A moment of peace encased in awe was vigorously trampled by hysteria as the blackness escaped the earth. Workers scrambled and ducked and sought out shelter through distance. Adrianna St. Clare stood triumphant as the goo stained her overalls and clumped in her long blond hair. She turned to her assistant in this venture, who donned a pensive stare.

"What are you looking so miserable about?" she shouted, ears still ringing. "There's an ocean of oil under our feet! Nobody can get to it but us!"

A fortnight later the geyser was plugged and the venture continued as planned, draining mother nature of her black gold. Adrianna dressed in an outfit more befitting of a lady, a dark red dress with a lavish sun hat. "I trust you'll have everything under control" she said to her subordinate. "I fear I won't be returning anytime soon. The news I received was unfortunate, and there is business I must attend to in the city. There should not be any competitors or unions way out here. But remember, this is company property. You have the freedom to shoot trespassers without judgement." On that note Adrianna boarded an airship and drifted back into the city.

It’s been four months since she was last in Kingstone, Adrianna occupied herself the last couple years traveling and investing in various business ventures. Ever since her elderly husband grew ill Adrianna virtually gained full control of his company and brought it to a new level of prosperity. The trip to Kingston only took a few days, by which time Mr. St. Claire's health declined rapidly. Much to his dismay the private doctor informed her there was nothing he could do, which meant he would soon find himself unemployed.

"May I have a moment with my husband?" Adrianna said to the nurse who nodded and quickly left the bedroom, all the while avoiding eye contact with the lady of the house. Her husband Daniel wheezed heavily as his lungs struggled of air. Resting on an absurdly large bed, he wore a scarlet red robe made of silk. His once dark hair was now stained with grey and age. He tilted his head slightly as Adrianna sat in the chair by the bed.

"You... came..." he said between breaths.

"I am your wife, what do you expect?" she said flatly, fully aware she has been away for months. It's been even longer since she'd last seen the family.

"You're the only one that came... thank you. I'm not- I've made mistakes. I just wish I could've been more... more..."

"Altruistic?" she answered as he looked for the right word.

"Yes. If only... Please, take care of my daughter. Take care of Amelia."

"She's not a child, she can take care of herself" Adrianna felt she has said something similar many times before.

"Please just... just watch over her. I'm begging you."

"I will." Adrianna couldn't help but smirk. This was the first time she'd ever seen him beg.

"And thank you, for coming to see me..."

The doctor declared Daniel St. Claire dead the next morning. A few family members and business partners showed up at the funeral, many arriving later as the reading of the will approached. Three of the five of Daniel's children showed up, including Amelia. None were Adriana's, as evident by their dark raven hair; a stark contrast to Adriana's fair blonde. Oddly enough, or perhaps not, none were too distant from Adriana in age. Jack, the eldest son, was actually a couple years older than her. He became visibly upset after his father's possessions were handed down. Furniture and items were divided evenly, but no one paid mind to that rubbish. A large sum of money was passed down to Amelia, and unsurprisingly the company, stocks, and majority of Daniel's fortune was left to Adrianna.

"I knew the old man was an imbecile, but this? Why couldn't he have his fun then die in peace? Why did he leave everything to a whore like you?!" Jack exclaimed with a fury.

"Now, now, is that any way to speak to your mother?" Adrianna responded, smug, confident, and satisfied. She was a little worried Daniel would pass everything on to Amelia who held much of his affection during the last months of his life. He must've realized Adrianna was the only one capable of running the company.

"I'd rather shoot myself!" Jack declared with finality, angrily stomping out of the building.

"I should apologize for Jack" Amelia said softly. Her short raven colored hair made her look younger than she already was. She was in fact the youngest of the siblings, daughter to Daniel's second wife. "My father wasn't a... kind man. A trait Jack must've inherited. I'm sure my father's fortune was more attractive than his charm" she mumbled, only briefly looking Adriana in the eye. "But still, you were with him when he passed. More than I can say for myself. I feel I should thank you."

"He cared about you. He said he had regrets." Adrianna gazed intently at the girl, trying to read her.

"Yes well, too little too late I suppose."

After the funeral Adrianna returned to the mansion that was now under her name. Most of the furniture and appliances inside were taken out and given to the people stated on Daniel's will. Stacks of letters have already piled up, all detailing concern for the future of the company. Many were worried Adrianna, a woman lacking formal education, was incapable of running a company despite her doing exactly that for the last few years. Adrianna had some concern as well, she feared business partners and stockholders would abandon the company because of her new position. She rubbed her temples as she contemplated a method of mitigating the situation. A few hours later she found herself in the Nightingale, a high class bar for wealthy socialites. She greeted an older well aged eccentric gentleman wearing a white suit who has been roaming around the place for hours. He wore several extravagant rings in his fingers, each worth a week’s pay at the least.

"Mr. Vendito it's been a while" she said, sitting beside him and placing her glass on the bar. The black dress she wore at the funeral was replaced with a red backless one which matched her lipstick and nails.

"Aww yes. Mrs. St. Claire. I'm sorry for your loss" the man said with colorfully expressive tones in his speech.

"It's Ms. not Mrs. now, and I'm surprised you heard."

"Hearing is good for my business. Besides, when the owner of a rising company passes it's hard not to hear."

"Hmm, yes I see. I'm looking for a young dark haired girl, not too heavily made-up" she said taking a sip from her glass, leaving behind a red memory of her lips.

"Of course, of course. It won't take long" the man replied with a grin.

[Squrmy]

“And don’t fuckin’ come back, ya poor bastard!” The words - bellowed by a portly-looking woman, dressed in the long, flowing black dress of a retired courtesan - were emphasised by the actions of two large, bull-like men under her employ; who proceeded to heave the man whom she had unceremoniously addressed from the top step of one of the side-entrances of a brothel onto the pavement of the alleyway outside it - facefirst.

Aaron hit the ground hard, a somewhat muffled grunt leaving his lips as his body collided with the cold, hard pavement - facial features protected only by his hands, the palms of which were torn and bloodied as they slid along the wet bricks of the narrow alleyway. Despite his ungraceful exit from the interior of one of the most expensive brothels in Kingstone, Aaron was quick to get to his feet - flipping his middle finger up at the portly matron and her bouncers as they disappeared back inside the building; the sturdy metal door slammed shut and locked with a definite air of finality.

Bleary-eyed, the man looked around his surroundings with some confusion. Aaron had been on a drinking bender for days, and it took him a moment to collect his thoughts enough so that he could figure out just where he was. “Fuckin’ hell,” He muttered to himself, in the thick accent of someone who’d grown up in some of the more lower-class areas of Kingstone - running a hand through his messy blonde hair.

Turning on his heel, the half-drunk man made his way up the deserted alleyway towards The Promenade - brushing off his bloodied palms on his baggy brown leggings. Aaron was dressed in clothes that would originally have looked smart: a well-fitting button-up white shirt with the flowing, frilly sleeves that were fashionable at the time (untucked and crumpled), a grey-and-navy jacket which had been hastily pulled on in his forced exodus from the brothel, a pair of brown leggings that were stained with a weeks’ worth of food, alcohol, vomit and bloodstains - and a pair of knee-high boots, relatively expensive, crafted from soft brown leather to make them more comfortable.

The tired, confused and grumbling Aaron eventually made his way to the main street of the Croome District - which was already packed with Kingstone’s citizens making their way to work, dodging the actors trying to promote their company’s performances which would be taking place that evening. Any of the actors that might have approached Aaron were put off just by the look of him - his blonde hair was tied back in a messy ponytail, there was a weeks’ worth of stubble on his cheeks, his clothes were stained and messy, his eyes were bloodshot and the handle of a pistol could be seen sticking out of the back of his leggings; which would normally have been concealed by his tucked-in shirt.

After about forty-five minutes of meandering around the city, Aaron eventually got back on track - finding himself walking down a street packed with miserable-looking workers who were heading towards the Industrial Centre of the city. He pushed his way past them, heading towards their source - the Old Commons, where he’d been forced to stay when he’d begun to run short on funds; about a month and a half ago.

The commission he’d received from the ships he’d helped to capture during his last sea voyage would have been more than enough money to last him for a few years, if he’d spent it wisely. But, unfortunately, ‘wise’ was not a word often used to describe Aaron’s behaviour. He was an alcoholic, an occasional heroin abuser, a frequent visitor of brothels - and, worst of all, he was a gambler. He’d pissed away almost half his savings during his first fortnight back in the Union - all in fucking card games which - he told himself, frequently - had definately been rigged.

He received a base wage for the time he’d spent in the Navy, but as he was no longer in active service it was hardly enough to live off - and Aaron didn’t want to get by. He wanted to live. So, once he’d begun renting his room in one of the Old Commons’ cheaper taverns (a shithole, in other words) he’d began to advertise himself for work - and, quickly, he was approached to take on a job for a Criminal Syndicate operating out of the area. Once he proved himself competent by completing the job, he was quickly approached by many more men - and more frequently. A freelancing bruiser of sorts, Aaron made a fair wage - and could have got of the Commons (or, at least, into a nicer room) by now; if he hadn’t been pissing his money away every few weeks by going on drinking and gambling benders that lasted for days at a time.

As he approached the entrance into the Old Commons - which was heavily guarded by grim-faced Watchmen, more to search the men coming out of the District rather than those going in to it - Aaron took a moment to make himself look a bit more presentable; after all, he didn’t want to give the Watchmen an excuse to arrest him. Once he’d tucked his shirt back in and got rid of the worst of the stains on his shirt and leggings, Aaron made his way into the Commons - tugging a previously-rolled cigarette out of his jacket pocket, lightning it with a match he struck upon the bottom of his boot.

Puffing at the smouldering papers, Aaron discarded the burnt-out match down onto the poorly-paved surface of the Commons’ first road; exhaling a cloud of blue-grey smoke through his nostrils. Wandering through the tightly-packed, smelly district, Aaron knew he was being watched - but by whom, he didn’t know; he just felt it.

The Commons was loud by nature - drunks roaring their heads off despite the early hour, the general din of marketplaces as Aaron passed them by, shopkeepers hawking the few wares that they had, and the sound of the distilleries and factories located nearby, situated in the district because of the cheap price of the Real Estate. Despite these noises, however, Aaron was careful to listen closely - for any tell-tale sound that a move was being made against him.

He turned a corner, making his way somewhat more briskly than he had been before down a narrow alleyway. Almost as soon as he’d started down the narrow street, Aaron knew he’d made a mistake - the hairs on the back of his neck were on end, and he felt uneasy. After a few moments, he glanced back over his shoulder - and felt a sinking feeling in his stomach at the sight of two grim-faced men following behind him. Looking forwards again, Aaron saw three more approaching him from the other end of the alleyway - and there was no other way out. Nowhere to run.

Aaron stopped in his tracks, holding up both hands by his shoulders - an appealing expression painted on his facial features. “Now, boys - I’m sure, whatever you want, there’s another way to get it, eh? Why don’t we try an’ talk things out?” One of the two men who had been approaching Aaron from behind grinned - showing a mouthful of cracked, unhealthy teeth; but otherwise, not a word was said by any of the thugs. “Guess that’s a no, eh?” Aaron mused, a small smile on his lips despite the seriousness of the situation; typical Aaron, to make a joke of being in danger.

The men were quickly closing in on him, confident of their chances because of their superior numbers. And Aaron, despite himself, found himself placing his bets on them - after all, there was five of them. Wiggling his fingers, Aaron cast a glance at both groups of men - who had stopped on either side of him, about five paces away each, holding a variety of weapons. One man, who was built like an ox, wore a matching pair of knuckledusters on each hand.

“Knuckle dusters, huh? I ain’ seen them in ag--” Aaron, who’d begun speaking in a conversational tone to catch the men offguard, immediately broke off - pulling his pistol from its position in the back of his pants, thumbing back the hammer, and taking aim at his target in one smooth motion; and it only took him a few seconds. Immediately afterwards, he squeezed down on the trigger - the acrid smell of gunpowder filling the air, along with an unmistakable bang that was yet another of the unsavoury but regular sounds associated with the Commons. The heavyset man with the knuckledusters fell back, a hole in his chest and gurgling blood, as his companions stared at Aaron with open mouths for a half-second - before charging for him with a unanimous roar.

Well, shit, Aaron thought to himself, sidestepping one of the men’s clumsy lunges with a dagger - shoving his pistol back into its place in the waistband of his leggings, and cracking the would-be murderer in the jaw with a strong right hook before dancing back a few paces. Now that both men who had been tailing him from the back were dead, Aaron only had to focus forwards; as the alleyway was narrow, about one-and-a-half men across, and he had no danger of being flanked.

He pulled his own dagger out of the top of his boot by the hilt, narrowly avoiding a slash at his neck - which, instead, was taken upon his cheek; cutting it open, warm blood trickling down his face and off his chin. “Cheeky bastard,” Aaron growled from between gritted teeth, lunging upwards to bury his dagger in the thug’s underarm; twisting it upwards, signing the fellows death warrant as he quickly danced back again, bringing his weapon with him.

Now, there was only two men left - and they looked slightly uneasy, eyeing the man holding the bloody dagger. “Aw, scared now, are we?” Aaron inquired, grinning - gesturing to the fallen corpses of the thugs’ companions. “Smart men, you are. Can’t say the same about your fr-,” He broke off, interrupted by the angry bullrush of one of his remaining assailants. The charge was easily dodged, and Aaron slashed the man’s neck open as he charged past; the razor-sharp edge of his dagger gleaming red as a beam of sunlight flashed upon it.

Apparently learning from his fallen friends’ mistakes, the last thug tried to make a run for it - but Aaron didn’t bother to chase after him. Whoever it was that had wanted him dead would have a hard time hiring more men as soon as word of the fate of the survivors’ companions got around. Sighing, Aaron turned back to the four corpses (or soon to be corpses), and set to the task of looting their corpses for anything of value.

[Cold]

Leaning against the enormous chimney on the roof of the East Chamley textile mill, Alberic Bourneham, Marcus Wise, Antonius Fervel and Isaac Russell used their half hour break to. It was the break before the morning shift and the dark sky was slowly getting lighter. Factories never stopped and hundreds of thick columns of smoke were pouring out of the tall chimneys that dominated the skyline. Looking to the east, past the Old Commons, one could see the famous donjon of Kingstone but to the west were only more factories and workers housing.

There were three shifts at the East Chamley factory: the morning shift, from six to a half past one, the day shift, from two to half past nine and the night shift, from ten to half past five. Between shifts there was a thirty minute break which most workers spent outside to escape the hot and crowded working stations. Getting all the way to the roof of the factory meant going up three narrow staircases and took up precious minutes of their break but it was a place with guaranteed privacy. The factory had a saw-tooth roof, but there was a door that gave access to a small platform between two chimney for maintenance workers. It was here that Alberic and his associates, if they could sneak away without anyone seeing them leave, would discuss business.

As another gust of wind hit blew the matchbook out of the hands of Isaac Russell, who had been trying in vain to light his pipe for the past two minutes, the other three chuckled.

“Might as well get to it then.” Isaac Russell said dryly as he put the pipe back in his coat pocket. In the factory he was in charge of the machines that spun the yarn, a job that earned him just a few cents an hour more than the average pay. Though age had turned his hair from blonde to grey, he was just as broad and sinewy as he was when he was shovelling coal. His brute strength was one of the reasons why Alberic liked to keep him close, but he also commanded great respect from the other factory workers.

“Talks are going nowhere.” Alberic said and took a swig from his flask.

“I think I’m not gonna like where you want to go Alberic.” Antonius Fervel said. He was a more moderate voice within the union but despite of that, or perhaps because of that, had a lot of friends and followers. More and more people in the union had become concerned that the leadership was becoming too radical and Antonius was one of them. The man, who lost his left hand in a work related accident a few years back, was an angry drunk and drunk he was often but at least he could be reasoned with.

“You don’t have to like it.” Alberic replied coolly. “What’s the point of talking to people that won’t listen? The bosses don’t take us seriously Antonius.”

“The police won’t let this go Alberic, I’m telling you. You’ll end up dead or in prison and in prison you’ll end up dead. They’ve been snatching people off the streets.”

“Maybe you don’t like where we’re going, but we can’t just stay put.” Marcus Wise chimed in. He was Alberic’s closest friend and had a greater hatred for the factory owner than even Alberic himself. “They already think we’re a danger and want to take us down before we even properly get on our feet.”

“Marcus is right.” Alberic said after his friend had finished saying what they agreed he would say before they came to the roof. “You think they don’t know who you are? You think they will just let you be if you stay quiet?”

“If we throw some things around, they will see what they are dealing with. They will see that we won’t back down if they arrest us.” Marcus added. “They need to see that if they go after us, we go after them.”

After a brief pause Alberic spoke up again. “We need you in this Antonius. We need you, we need your friends. Just like we need you and yours Isaac.” He liked to think of himself as a great orator, a great leader of men, but in reality it was Marcus who could always find the right words and the right tone to convince a man.

“You’ll have us.” Isaac said finally. Antonius remained silent but did not protest. They all knew what Alberic wanted even before the talk on the roof. The last few days there had been talk of a strike and yesterday there was talk of sabotage. Whenever Alberic wanted something, he would make sure that everyone was already talking about it. In two days the Erdley Textile Workers Association would go on strike. Of course, Alberic had greater plans. He was out in the open and he was vulnerable. He had to watch his step or risk falling into the hands of the police, or worse. However, Alberic's plan to avoid trouble, was to create more. The strike was to start peaceful, but if Alberic could have his way it would certainly not end that way.

[Flagg]

They found him sitting alone at a small table set for two, looking off towards the bay. He was a short man, shaved bald, dressed in an expensive but unostentatious suit, the outfit of a man with plenty of money but no need to flaunt it.

For a moment, Atos was inexplicably unsettled by the way in which the sun reflected from the man's round spectacles, replacing his eyes with featureless white disks, like the optics of an automaton in one of Guerea's fanciful stories, or the eyes of those weirdling fishes pulled up from the dark reaches of the sea.

“Mr. Fish,” said Atos, in appropriately grave tones.

The man turned, his glasses losing their unnerving glare, and stood.

“Inquisitor,” he said with small nod, “An honor.”

Atos took a seat at the table, gesturing for his Practicals to keep out of eavesdropping distance. They retreated to the far side of the balcony, adding menace to an otherwise quotidian scene.

“You are familiar with why I am here, Mr. Fish?” Inquisitor Atos asked.

Fish sipped his tea for a long moment, then placed it on the saucer with a loud clink. “Your note was terse, your excellency, but I take it you are interested in our Pan-Dessian investments?”

“Quite, Mr. Fish. Quite interested, even concerned. You understand, the only reason I am interviewing you here and not in my offices is because of the services rendered by your firm to the Crown in the past. But should we discover anything illegal or you fail to comply wi-”

Mr. Fish held up a small, perfectly manicured hand. The inquisitor got a whiff of the man's cologne, a pleasant, understated, clean smell which almost but did not quite mask a hint of corruption beneath it.

Atos frowned, wondering if Mr. Fish was ill. The lawyer offered a perfectly white smile, his flawless teeth and sharp green eyes flashing in the setting sun.

“You will pardon the rudeness of my interruption, excellency, but he firm has nothing to hide from His Majesty's Inquisition. In addition to the records my office has already provided, we will be happy to comply with any of your inquiries or demands. What, may I ask, about our Pan-Dessian activities has aroused your interest?”

“The children missing from Teors and Valdis.”

A small, puzzled smile crept across Mr. Fish's mouth. “I'm afraid I don't understand, excellency.”

Atos nodded grimly, “Teors, Valdis, New Gapos, all colonial towns with mining and fishing interests owned, through one legal contrivance or another, by Barrow & White. All colonial towns with large, state-run orphanages.”

Fish cocked his head to one side, “I was under the impression that Superior Vorna had jurisdiction over the colonies.”

“So he does. I am an Inquisitor Exempt, recently appointed. Vorna has no jurisdiction over my inquiries.”

“I see,” said Fish, “I see. Well, the accusation implied by your line of questioning is most serious.”

“Most.”

Fish leaned back slightly in his chair, finger tips together, pondering. Atos watched him.

“We were very careful.” Fish said at length, offering a small shrug.

“Yes. But I am very good at my job.” said Atos, “Despite the efforts of your firm's pet Superior. I will settle with him once you and your employers are under lock and key.”

The Inquisitor made a surreptitious gesture and his Practicals approached the table. “I appreciate you not denying it, Mr. Fish. It makes what comes next easier for me and much less painful for you.”

Fish smiled slightly, eying Atos' black-robed minions as they approached.

“That a Firm as illustrious as yours would look for an easy dollar in the illicit battery trade surprised me, at first,” said Atos, “But whale oil is getting more expensive by the day. Yours isn't the first company of reputation I've discovered dabbling in the black market. If you cooperate, expose others in the same racket, it will go easier for you.”

The lawyer nodded, still smirking.

“May I ask what's funny, Mr. Fish?” Atos asked.

“Yes, you may,” replied Fish with a small chuckle.

The shadow of one of the Practicals fell across Atos, and a heavy hand seized the Inquisitor by the shoulder. Atos turned, his mouth falling open in surprise.

The Practical grabbed his master by the chin and forehead. A loud snap and it was done.

Inquisitor Atos slid lifeless from his chair. Mr. Fish sipped his tea and turned back towards the harbor.

His glasses once again reflected the fierce white glare of the setting sun.