"The black oil-like substance once analyzed, also comes back as being blood of some sort. In addition, when we were on Axis island, we observed a mechanical construct of some kind. It was bipedal and decapitated, spewing what we assume might be this same oil."
"Really? That is odd...and troubling." The Mayor sits in his chair and ponders Fethryth's words for a long moment, peering down at his tea. "There are stories concerning the Bleak Gate, about shadowy creatures of hatred and malevolence that lurk there, waiting to find the thin places between the Waking and the Bleaking to pass through and wreak vengeance upon the living. Was there any evidence of a miasma or acrid fog before this attack? Strange at it may seem, that has historically been a strong indication of an intrusion into our world by the Bleak Gate...and has been known to occur at certain times of year up on the Hill."
Reed Macbannin finishes his tea and sets the cup upon the low parlor table. "Of course, the Bleak Gate is not the only possible source of such dark necromantic magic. There are accursed fey of the Dreaming who are known as shades, having similar attributes one might attribute to undead shadows from the Bleak Gate. Though these shades are quite alive - and can bleed - everything about them is tainted with their vile shadowy essence of the Unseen." He shrugs and says, "I have no strong suspicion to offer you either way, but I would perhaps look towards the Dreaming and the dark fey as the source of your malady."
Anneca listens to the explanation and theories of the mayor, unsure which (if any) applies to the facts at hand. She can't help but put her earlier theory to the test, to see if it fits. "Would one be able to summon one of these creatures - the creatures from the Gate or from the Dreaming - through ritual killings, or otherwise affect or control such a thing?" She still can't shake the feeling that the mayor is somehow untrustworthy, but his answers must be useful, if he tells them the truth.
"Yes, most certainly," answers the Mayor. "Though with most summonings from one of the otherworldly realms, the effect would be short in duration. The Cauldron Hill witches and warlocks, however, had mastery over such dark rituals and summonings, they themselves using these rituals to...well to fuel their experiments so-to-speak. Their main goal was to weaken the veil between the Waking world and the Bleak Gate upon Cauldron Hill to the point that they could use it as a gateway to wreak havoc upon the world." Reed Macbannin shrugs and says, "In a twist of irony, they somewhat achieved this dire goal, but only after every one of them, their minions and nearly a third of King Stanwick Romana's army was slaughtered in the great purge that solidified the Curse."
Jesselle consders what the mayor has to say and agrees to his terms. The man would not be in the position he is if he did not.
"Without revealing too much, I spoke with a spirit..." She gives the Mayor a passive shrug, "It is something I can do. As I was saying. I spoke with a spirit who described a shadowing form attacking it. The spirit also mentioned wanting to protect a family member."
The woman pauses a moment before she asks, "Can a person become or call upon powers and become such a dark being? And is it common for such a shadow/fey force to target a family figure?"
The young Constable's face turns pale a moment as she considers her own question and just speaks her thoughts aloud, "Would that mean such a monster might come after the..." she stops before she reveals more information than she might want to.
'is the Skyseer in danger too!?' she thinks to herself as she looks to her fellow Constables wanting share the thought but not able to at the moment.
"Ahh! You have talents of a medium then, do you constable? Intriguing." Macbannin seems truly impressed with Jesselle's prospective talents, either not really hearing or at least reacting to her trailing thoughts on potential concerns on either Heward or Nevard Sechim. He spreads his hands and shakes his head. "I am afraid I have never heard of such a power of transformation...at least by no one living in our era. The most potent necromancers of antiquity were said to have abilities such as you describe, but I speak of those who served the old demonocracy of ancient Drakr, before Triegenes and his holy crusaders overthrew it a thousand years ago, prior to the founding of the Clergy. I would still speculate your shadowy adversary is something fey in origin, or at worst something from the Bleak Gate that has crossed over for some purpose of vengeance against this victim."
The Mayor of the Nettles holds Jesselle in a steady gaze, seeming concerned for her. "Your gift is most remarkable, constable, but you above all others must heed all of my precautions when you make your climb to the top, for you would be more susceptible to the raving madness and terrible despair of the Curse than the others. I think it is best if you and I talk prior..."
Mayor Macbannin's words are cut off by a sudden trembling of the manor house and grounds - another tremor affecting the city of Flint. The silver trays and spoons begin to rattle audibly, while their ceramic tea cups shake the tea within them noticeably. Here and there a few books fall over on Reed's nearby bookshelf, and he stands up quickly to stop a crystal decanter with liquor from crashing to the ground on a nearby side table. Though the tremors are no worse than what they felt before on the night of 1 Summer, it seems to go on for longer somehow. Then, just as suddenly as it starts, it stops. In the distance the constables can hear the whinnied protest of several horses, with a man's shouting to keep them under control clearly heard; doors are heard opening and closing along with the footsteps of several servants of the manor, shouting and calling to each other. The door to the parlor opens up and Master Cillian Creed enters, his demeanor composed but looking intently at the Mayor for any reaction.
"Oh we're all right here Cillian. Nothing to worry about - go see to the groundskeepers to check the outer buildings, and have a fresh patrol go and recheck the fences immediately."
"Of course, sir," intones Cillian Creed smoothly, glancing only briefly at the constables before bowing and closing the parlor door behind him.
Reed Macbannin reaches inside a vest pocket for a golden pocketwatch as he briefly checks the time, then says, "These tremors are becoming quite a bother, aren't they? No harm done, but just the same I should make a showing to my servants so as to calm their nerves."
Anneca re-adjusts her weaponry, thinking about how best to preserve her spellcasting energy throughout what is sure to be a violent day of subsequent missions. "When do we get the wards? The shaking ground adds a sense of urgency to our mission. We've already dallied enough. I'd like to get a move on to our untimely and unnatural deaths at the hands of ghostly beings."
"I'm afraid that won't be possible right at this moment...and you seem to be absent one venerable Skyseer unless my ability to count has been compromised!" Reed Macbannin smiles a charming smile at Anneca, though his face turns more serious afterwards. "I must check on my people - remember to send me communications no later than the morning of your climb, and be present on that day with Skyseer Sechim no later than two o' clock." He smiles once again, though it seems clear by his stance that their parlor meeting has come to an end.
Down from the mists of Cauldron Hill and the Mayor’s mansion they roll, taking the Cliff Route through the rain-soaked outskirts of The Nettles back to the solid walls and cobblestone streets of Central District. Soon enough they are back on Gladson Way from Providence Street and turning into the Flint Branch Compound: Sergeant Hunley Stiverson waves at Sully as the front gates are opened to them, with a nod and friendly salute to the constables themselves as they pass by into the Entry Block and the raised portcullis beyond.
Passing through the Outer Yard they see a healthy dose of activity coming from the usually quiet western Training Yards, with a host of laborers hauling boards and crates of equipment there under the supervision of the three martial instructors: Johanna Durrance, Durbul Lescane and Indigo Daybee. It occurs to the constables that the time is starting to near for the deadline of Summer applications to the R.H.C. for new prospective R.H.C. recruits. With the instructors starting to get their respective “houses” in order, the time will come soon when a host of approved raw recruits will be here before the Fall, undergoing the rigorous evaluation and examination process until only a worthy few are chosen for service – the crop of “Five-Double-Oughts” as Devinn LeMont and Wilhelm Coin are starting to term them. The carriage passes by as the instructors notice them briefly and nod, seemingly busy in their own prepatory discussions.
Through the Main Blockhouse portcullises under the watchful eyes of Captain Umurn from her watchtower and into the Inner Courtyard, the constables pull to a halt past the eastern-side barracks to just short of the carriage house, with several uniformed stablehands rushing forward to bring water to the irritable horses who want to be put back in their dry stalls. Sully throws the handbrake on the front carriage wheels and calls down to them. ”So, Constables, what now? Is this it for now or should I keep them harnessed for another trip out?”
Elsewhere in the Inner Courtyard area of the heart of Flint Branch’s compound, some constables can see the ever-gleaming and impeccable Constable Carlao Ven over near the doors of the Instructor’s Wing of the westside halls, chatting up the ever alluring but all-business Instructor Lockley, a younger manservant trying his best to follow along behind the strutting former war-hero with his helm and packs held in both arms. Coming out from the eastern-side Dining Hall are Constables Serena Taflis and Kaea Than’dil; though they do not see Dima Sorginson about, it appears the ’Dauntless’ team is gearing up to leave the compound for whatever assignment the Chief Inspectress has them on today. At the northern end of the compound just in front of the doors to the main R.H.C. Headquarters Building, servant Fin Wraggle sweeps the walkway vigorously with a straw broom, briefly looking up to smile at the constables just arrived back in their carriage.
Without much preamble or delay, the six constables spend a few minutes talking out their next steps, knowing that what they do in the next few hours may determine their success or failure in thwarting the upcoming weapons smuggling event that gives them their foreign doctor. So they tell Sully to head back out as soon as the horses get some water, giving him instructions to take them to the R.H.C. section of the Royal Shipyard just past Royal Square. Back up Gladson Way to Providence Street and then the Brightway, back through Brightgate just as they had rolled the night before when going off to meet foul Lorcan Kell and his unruly cretins. Yet in this case they do not turn north onto Guild Street in the heart of Central’s administrative heart, but instead continue to roll west towards Royal Square and the waters of Upper Flint Bay, with the tall masts of the naval ships now showing in the distance.
For a few of the constables, rolling into Royal Square and disembarking there brings back memories of 1 Spring, when they foiled the first of two assassination attempts that day against their King. The bridge to Fleet Square and the shipyard island is both fortified and heavily guarded by Risuri Marines, but after an examination of their R.H.C. badges and a review of their names on a standing ledger for Constabulary officers by the ranking sergeant, the group’s carriage is allowed to pass with crisp salutes by the entire detail. Risuri Marines, after all, know all too well the heroic service of the Constabulary in saving not only their King, but the flagship R.S.S. Coaltongue itself and countless lives of posted marines and sailors that were onboard that night.
The R.S.S. Coaltongue is no longer in its original mooring spot that the constables remembered, the mighty flagship of the Risuri Navy now steaming with other warships of the main fleet on summer maneuvers in the Avery Sea. To one end of the island, however, stand the skeletal keels of two more steam-powered warships, the next two in that new class of warship that pairs Risuri fledgling technology with magical might. Emerson remembers something Talyssa Dane once said in late Spring, that Chief Royal Engineer Massarde once boasted to her both new warships would be completed in but half the time of the first, just a little over two years since the keels were laid down. That the unprecedented efforts of industry and engineering have in no small part led to the severe stresses of Flint’s labor force in the Bosum Strand and Parity Lake is not lost upon the group, with tensions amongst the labor class being stoked by the Dockers taking on ever more serious proportions.
The middle section of docks are taken up by a mixture of classic sailing ships – two full three-mast frigates and a mixture of lighter three-mast schooners and two-mast corvettes for coastal defense. Farther down are a small collection of earlier-generation ironclad steamships without masts, comprising a formidable squadron of defense ships that can seal off Flint Bay from attackers. Past these various ships of the Risuri Navy they roll, until they come to the far end of the docks where the R.H.C. keeps its own retinue of ships dedicated to their use: the excise cutter Audacious, the steam cutter Inevitable, the sailing schooner Roscommon and the Khalundurrin – an ironclad steamship purchased from Drakr by the R.H.C. in an era before Risur could produce their own. Absent from the very end of the docks is the four-mast extreme clipper ship Impossible, with Captain Rutger Smith apparently out on the same summertime maneuvers as the Coaltongue.
At the moorings of the single-mast cutter Audacious they come to a halt, a single man in dirtied-up naval garb wiping his hands as he comes down the quay to meet them. All of them recognize the man as Sub-Lieutenant Ian Smithe, an able engineer who served under Captain Smith on the Impossible during the Axis Island Expedition. Smithe waves at Sully and then briefly salutes the constables as if almost forgetting they had honorary rank over him, smiling at a few of them he remembers from before. ”Well now, I was wondering if any of you were going to show up today…I had plans to work on the ’durrin’s engine but had to scrap it in case you needed a jaunt out to the bay. Which I guess you do.” Smithe smiles and thumbs back towards the Audacious. ”Where to then? I can handle the riggings unless one or more of you can, or want me to take the wheel. Ven and Dauntless usually like to take it out themselves without a navy man to aid ‘em, but that’s your preference of course.”
Anneca gives a small wave to the soldiers, recognizing a few of them from the eve of the rebellion. While many of them know about Anneca harnessing the power of the Brand, she doesn't take the credit particularly eagerly - except when it comes to her own self-regard. She shakes hands with Smithe upon her arrival, though she has little to say to him as far as niceties go. Smithe didn't make the best of impressions upon her last they met. "We're heading to the prison barge. Who doesn't love a nice mid-day visit to a floating prison? I don't have the slightest bit of skill with ships and boats, so we'd appreciate your help getting us where we need to go." She idly wonders if the warden will force them to disarm themselves again, as a matter of safety.
Emerson follows Anneca down the docks to the Audacious and salutes any military personell in like fashion. "Good morning Smithe." Emerson climbs aboard, stows his gear and dusts off his hands. "I'd be glad to help but will need direction. I slept through most of the sailing lessons in the Academy."
Gemma walks in step with the others down the dock, making obseervations as she goes. She gives a greeting to Smithe as well, followed by a quick quip about being okay with a few knots but otherwise quite useless on a boat.
"At least it's decent enough weather right now for this though. I say we get going before it turns on us. Plus, we're on a bit of a schedule."
”Right-o” says Smithe cheerfully, wiping his hands on a rag before tossing it aside and making back up the quay to the Audacious, giving a short but loud whistle to a few Risuri sailors on a nearby dock. The sailors head on over to help untie the mooring lines from dockside even as the constables gain the single main deck of their R.H.C. excise cutter: a single fifty-foot mast cutter with a mainsail and two headsails attached to a bowsprit, about thirty feet in length and a fifteen-foot beam, armed with two light cannons facing forward at the bow just above a prow designed for cutting the water. The Audacious can be run by a single crewman, though four are needed to maximize its speed and maneuverability as well as to fire the guns, with a maximum complement of ten. Within minutes the mooring lines are cast and the anchor up, with the small ship taking up the brisk winds and darting out towards the churning waters of Upper Flint Bay. ”Hold on to something!” says Ian Smithe as the spray from the prow starts to billow up and the ship starts to rock back and forth, adding, ”The morning squall may be over but the waters are still restless…hope you haven’t had a full lunch now!”
Four constables with shaky legs and queasy stomachs come off the Audacious to the equally rocking but railed docks that mark the main entry point to Goodson’s Estuarial Reformatory: no less than a dozen obsolete former war frigates and even older transport galleons are lashed and moored together, devoid of sails or riggings and secured with dozens of anchors to make an odd wooden floating village of sorts. In this case the “village” is comprised of convicted Flint prisoners and their privately funded gaolers, all courtesy of the wealthy industry magnate – and self-proclaimed leading philanthropist of Flint - Guy Goodson of The Ayres. Though the collection of floating prison barges is not the only destination for Flint’s criminals, it certainly receives the most attention in the dailies. Guy Goodson has declared his brand of prisoner “reform” to be not only profitable and safer for Flint’s citizens with his advanced procedures, but also boldly claims the reformation rate of criminals to “decent” and productive members of society far exceed anything performed by the public jails of Flint’s various districts.
Sub-Lieutenant Smithe shouts a hearty goodbye and furiously starts working the sails, with uniformed guards holding the cutter in place at the docks without bothering to set anchor. Once again the Audacious is speeding off under the impressive winds, making its way further south and west towards the official docks of Pine Island District proper; the four constables watch as Jesselle and Tobias speed rapidly away from them, arranging ahead of time to meet them later on at the district border of Pine Island and the West Bank of Stray River Districts.
Two of the four guards politely escort the four constables up the shifting quay up to the nearest converted prison barge, whereupon they see a dozen prisoners dutifully scrubbing down the rain-dampened deck, each manacled around the ankles and secured with long chains to the deck itself. Not only are there guards with truncheons keenly observing them by where they work, but both at the forecastle as well as up above three crows’ nests stand more guards with Pemberton muskets. The oddity, however, comes with a small group of minstrels playing a serene song from the forecastle deck, as if the music is supposed to help the prisoners work but seem oddly out of place. Elsewhere on the adjoining deck of another converted ship, the constables see a score of prisoners doing calisthenics to the drumbeat of a guard officer, even as a robed sagely fellow reads out verses of sermonizing prose as if conducting a Clergy lecture.
Soon enough, a younger man in fine attire of a modern lord’s outfit but with a weatherproofed poncho comes out of a converted cabin doorway to greet them, accompanied by two armed guards. The man bears a golden pocketwatch chain and has a ring on his finger that suggests he is well used to the finer things in life. Yet instead of seeming haughty or arrogant, he seems rather nervous or anxious. He comes up to the four constables, bows deeply to them, clears his throat nervously and says in an awkward tone, ”Ahh visitors…um from the King’s Constabulary no less! Constables, I am honored to make your acquaintance!” He bows again to them. ”I am Derek Goodson…but you must already know that…well…yes welcome to ‘Goodson’s Estuarial Reformatory’ – the finest and most efficient reformatory for the education and reformation of those that have yet to pay their debt to society. The results are quite promising…quite verifiable and bearing the full confidence of our beloved Governor Stanfield I might add!” Derek Goodson smiles rather sheepishly and tries to say as if in confidence to them with a wink, ”And the venture does show a profit I might add! Ahem. But I’m sure you did not come here for all that, though I will put myself at your disposal for a personal tour if you’d care to…ahh…if that is your business here? May I inquire what brings the King’s Constables to my humble door?”
”Alright constables, I’m headin’ back to Goodson’s to tie off and wait for the others to finish their business out there, and then I’ll bring ‘em all back here so you can meet up on some dry land. If you need something of me before then, just leave word with the dockmaster over there at that blockhouse at the end of these here docks, and they’ll get word to me – this here dock is guarded by the Pine Island police watchmen, and should be fairly reliable…at least as far as anyone in Pine Island is reliable that is! Cheerio!”
Sub-Lieutenant Smithe waves his goodbyes and once again makes preparations to cast off, though it’s clear he has to change up the sails in order to tack back into the wind towards the barges. Even now they can vaguely see Goodson’s Estuarial Reformatory out in the bay to their north and east, somewhat a misty haze in the still-churning waters of the bay.
Over here in Pine Island District, the pollution seems a fair bit less than what they are used to in Central or one of the districts adjoining Parity Lake. Yet the smog of Parity is traded for the smells of rotten fish and stale water, with canals of brackish water cutting deep into the interior of Pine Island along most points of its length. The wooden docks, wooden warehouses and other ramshackle wooden buildings have a distinctly worn and rotted wood characteristic to them, with the roofs and sides heavily coated in tar pitch. Almost akin to a floating city of docks and platforms in its own right, numerous makeshift plank bridges crisscross over canals away from the more formal guarded bridges. Almost no vegetation seems to grow here other than scrub grasses and weeds, with the inner sections of the district away from the coastline taking on the brackish and murky green of the interior bayous. Farther in, the constables know that the bayous are broken up by small hillocks and rises of stone that have agricultural plantations and standing buildings upon them, each with their own private docks that can convey men and materials in and out of the bayous towards these ramshackle dock locations.
Here, it seems, the police are mostly confined and concentrated to the watch stations and wayposts of Pine Island closer to the bustling activity of small-time fishing and trading, with agricultural goods from the bayou plantations being the most notable trade from an official standpoint. From an informal economy and black-market standpoint, Pine Island represents the kind of free-wheeling trade that is, for the most part, wholeheartedly ignored by the rest of Flint. It is said the illegal fey pepper trade and other illicit herbal substances are freely bought and sold here like no other part of Flint; only the slave trade gets much public attention and harsh reprisal by Mayor Roger Pepper when exposed openly, though it is said that many of the interior bayou plantations’ harvests are built on the backs of unwilling slave labor. As for smuggling and black-markets, the docks and seedy buildings of Pine Island run literally for miles up and down Flint Bay’s western side, petering out to the northwest only when the coastline gets closer to the well-patrolled grounds of the Battalion Military Academy and the adjoining fortifications of the Risuri Army.
Jesselle and Tobias make their way past the blockhouse of the Pine Island Upper Bay Dockmaster, given only a cursory nod by two police footmen who guard there with halberds. They emerge out onto one of the few good roadways running north and south along Pine Island’s coastline, with options to head north towards the heart of Pine Island’s Lower Bay tavern rows, or south to where the formal warehouses and administrative buildings are that border the West Bank of Stray River…or even following a nearby canal west towards the interior of the district where they could rent a rowboat if headed towards one of the bayou plantation hillocks.
"Pleasure to meet you Mr. Goodson. Emerson Hill." He shakes Derek's hand and continues. "I was fortunate to meet your father earlier in the year on the Coaltongue. I trust he is in good spirits and health?" Emerson can tell that he is somewhat flustered and tries to put him at ease.
"These are Constables, Summers, Teldanona, and Atherton."
Anneca voraciously reads the papers daily, constantly on the lookout for undetected patterns that the press may have inadvertently uncovered, rather than simply relying on the daily briefings from RHC's intelligence. It's a bit of an expense, but she maintains an archive in her townhome to ensure that she can cross-reference as necessary. She ensures that she reads every article, every day, before meticulously filing it away and making the notes in her journal and her ever-growing diagram. As a result, she has read far, far too many articles from boot-licking, simpering reporters discussing this frivolous and wasteful upcoming wedding. She tries to be polite despite her feelings towards his upcoming nuptials. "Congratulations on your engagement. We need to speak to Ford Sorghum and Travis Starter, and we're told that they're prisoners here. Furthermore, we need a place to interview them privately."
Fethryth hovers in the background. Specifically the area around Gemma. She's pretty sure nobody's going to shoot more arrows at her fellow constable, at least not yet, but it can't hurt to be careful.
While the others talk she looks around for anything odd or suspicious in the area.
Jesselle had taken the time to change out of her uniform into something both more comfortable and hopefully something that would not stand out as much. Standing there with Tobias though, she wished she had dressed down even more. What could you do though.
She looked to her colleague and wondered how to best approach, "Any thoughts? Taverns or Warehouses... If we want to listen to the locals, taverns, the wahrehouse will be a bit more stingey, but flashing a bage may open them up."
As she waits for Tobias to consider what she has said and give his opnion, Jesselle tries to remember anything of importance or of note within the Pine District.
"Oh definitely Taverns!" Tobias says smiling at Jesselle. "Let's keep the badges as a last resort. I find the best way to get information from a criminal is to look like you're on their side. Unfortunately with these grey cloaks we may need to rely on some smooth talking."
While his colleague thinks, Tobias approaches anyone who looks friendly enough to engage in conversation and tries to find anywhere the dockers like to drink and congregate in the area.
Jesslle considers her thoughts for a moment and nods to Tobias, "Probably for the best and I think I know the best spot to try."
[,
”Oh, of course, of course! Yes yes, in excellent health and vigor, sir!” Derek Goodson vigorously shakes Emerson’s hand and nods in genuine amiable fashion…and even a note of relief. It’s clear at least to Emerson that the young elite was perhaps expecting trouble from the R.H.C. in the form of an inspection or review of the Reformatory’s operations, even though the constables themselves clearly know the Constabulary has no such jurisdiction.
The talk of his father and the Coaltongue also seems to stir a memory in the elite son of the wealthy industrialist, who widens his eyes as he looks at all four of them once again in something akin to awe. ”You all are…are you all the ones who foiled the foul play against the King that night upon the ship? The very ones who spoiled the traitor Ethelyn’s plans against her own brother, who if left unchecked might have caused the ruin of us all! Why, you saved many lives that night, not the least of which may have been my own father!” Derek shakes Emerson’s hand once again, and then extends such to the other three in what seems to be genuine admiration and appreciation. ”Honored! Honored I am to be in such company…and my father did say that the spectacle of the Firebrand firing into the sky was truly a marvel to behold by all! You all did your supreme duty and none of the important dignitaries were disturbed…or even aware of their peril until well after disembarkation! Or so the reputable dailies had stated afterwards. What a marvel!”
The fawning goes on for a few moment longer until a non-uniformed assistant comes over to politely cough. ”Hmm? Ahh yes, where was I? Oh yes, you have important business at my fine fine Reformatory…you wanted to see who again?”
After a reiteration of the names by Anneca, Derek Goodson bows deeply and instructs his assistant and one of the guards to go find them on the rolls and fetch them to the best cabin room on the main administrative ship. As they go off, the elite young man accompanies them to his main offices and offers them their choice of tea or brandy as well as some fine-looking “brigaderos” Beran pastries that are apparently all the rage in the elite circles of North Shore and The Ayres.
Of course, Derek Goodson suggests in a not-so-subtle manner that he would greatly be indebted to them if they would show up in full dress uniform as his acquaintances at his wedding reception gala, focused in on Emerson most of all. ”Oh, Faith would simply die if I could call upon you at the reception…she has an interest in nefarious plots and conspiracies you know…to even have one genuine Kingsman in attendance and for me to slyly point out your connection to the most eventful event so far this year would be…well I think she would fancy me most profoundly for the esteem of it!” Goodson blushes slightly and laughs in a high pitch of delight, and then adds, ”And of course if you would attend as my personal guests and desire accompaniment for the gala I can certainly arrange some fine upstanding ladies and gentlemen – good upstanding acquaintances of mine of course – to call upon you and be of proper escort…not that any of you would need my assistance in obtaining accompaniment for the event but I know the Constables are very busy and it would really be no imposition for me on that point…”
”Director Goodson, sir? The prisoners in question have been presented to the briefing cabin,” interrupts Derek’s advisor as he enters the offices.
”Oh. Yes, quite. Thank you, Mavis. They shall be along expeditiously.” Derek hastily stands and says before they go, ”Please do consider the offer of attendance and you may post my family’s house at any point for it…Faith and I would be greatly honored, of course!”
"As long as I'm not on assignment, I would be delighted to attend." Emerson stands as if waiting for the advisor to show them to the briefing cabin. He's sure that the rest of his companions are more than ready to part company with Mr. Goodson. "Director, could I have a word with you before we depart? It won't take but a moment."
”Of course, of course! Anything to be of service to His Majesty’s chosen!” Director Derek Goodson holds in the narrow hallway for Emerson Hill, even as the other three are led to the aftcastle decks by assistant Mavis. ”How can I be of further service, Constable Hill?” The junior Goodson seems to be eager to please him.
In the aft cabins of the main administrative ship, the constables find two prisoners in a single spacious room with a single bolted-down wooden table and several heavy wooden chairs; there two men are shackled and chained to a set of iron rungs in the wall and seated on a secured wooden bench at the farthest wall from the guarded doorway. Assistant Mavis explains the cabin is used for simple meetings of the observation staff with its “reformed guests” as well as to conduct parole sessions for those convicts that have made progress. The assistant states there is another smaller cabin that can be similarly used, if the constables which to separate the men for their interrogations. Both prisoners look dejected and glum in their surroundings, though each petty criminal looks up with a mixture of nervousness and curiosity as to why the uniformed R.H.C. would pay them a direct visit.
What Jesselle seems to recall about Pine Island in the next hour or so does seem to reconcile against the reality of the place. Fundamentally, Pine Island District is the rough-and-tumble "frontier town within the city" locale, seemingly subject to a different set of rules than the majority of the other districts of Flint. Its location across the bay and markedly different geography of the long shoreline, pine and granite islands, bayou country and interior agricultural plantations make Pine Island its own entity in truth, an entirely different experience for the Flinters that call Pine Island home as opposed to those living in other districts...with the possible exception of the Cloudwood. It's an independently-minded place like the Cloudwood or The Nettles, but with much more opportunity for sordid and unseemly gains than either of those districts. It's sordid and nefarious like parts of Bosum Strand or much of Parity Lake, but without the true city-bred feel or grip of control by the city's government. From a high-level and cynical perspective, Jesselle knows the interest in Parity Lake by city officials basically boils down to just a few standing precepts:
* Flow of inputs into the agricultural bayou plantations must not be disrupted.
* Flow of agricultural goods out from those plantations to the docks and harbors must not be disrupted.
* Access and support of the Battalion Academy and Risuri Army fortifications must not be disrupted.
* Public displays of slave labor or excessive "disappearances" will not be tolerated.
* Black-market activities above a wildly egregious or public level will not be tolerated.
Indeed, it's widely known that even the North Shore black markets and "special" clubs have their illicit wares originate from Pine Island District, which are then traded through proxy channels to district-specific criminal elements. Pine Island is, in summary, the no-holds-barred entry port for most of the smuggling that occurs in and around Flint. Tobias and Jesselle can clearly see the sheer number of docks, warehouses, canals, ships, boats and other support buildings run for literally miles up and down the western side of the bay, and could never be controlled by district police forces in current numbers. So the policemen stay to key watch stations, warehouses and dockmaster control points along the stretch of Pine Island, ensuring the flow of goods in and out of the plantations are secure, leaving much of the rest of the district to whatever it wants to do.
Yet the independent nature and informal-economic opportunities for Risuri Pine Islanders means that no one group or outfit can possibly hope to control the district - even Lorcan Kell and his Kell Guild has little control over even more than a single set of docks or small shanty neighborhood here. Until recently, the territory was controlled by no less than a score of local tough gangs and a dozen of smuggling kingpins, with winners and losers and alliances constantly shifting by each week and season. That the rumors suggest this may be changing in Pine Island is a dramatic departure from decades of Flint's history...and disconcerting that a single criminal syndicate may be able to consolidate an effective chokehold on Flint's wild port of entry.
Tobias and Jesselle first frequent The Lonely Harlot Inn along Lower Pine Island's tavern row, just north of where they disembarked and known to be a place where some wealthier and non-local patrons can drink and do business without being knifed for not being a local Pine Islander. The inn is clean, well-tended and very crowded this afternoon when the constables walk in, with the noise level sounding loud but rather cheerful. The bartender jovial and greets the duo almost immediately as they arrive, pointing out a special "amber n' scarlet" special brew that the Harlot prizes as its special house drink of choice. Tobias and Jesselle note that many of the patrons appear wealthier than lowly sailors and laborers of Pine Island...with the vast majority of them armed with blade or pistol or both. Though the Harlot has rooms upstairs it seems they are not often used, despite the prices for them being fair. The food smells good even though the ale and beer seems to not be that good...except for the "amber n' scarlet" that many seem to favor here. Upon closer examination, that brew has a trace of red swirls and spices mixed into it, smells like citrus lemon and may have fey pepper mixed within. Certainly, that might explain the rather jovial, chatty and hungry nature of the patrons, for an inn that seemingly makes more on its food than the quality of its liquor.
Tobias and Jesselle work the patrons rather effectively as a result, and find out that if one is looking for "Dockers" they are better off going back across the bay to Bosum Strand. However, if they are looking for veteran dockworkers and sailors of Pine Island, there's a well-known local place for them not too far up and over close to a sprawl of docks near one of the main canals, called The Lusty Wench Tavern. While unoriginal in it's name, the word is that's one of the hotspots of Pine Island sailor activity...and while dangerous it may be less dangerous for the constables to enter as compared to other taverns in the locals' areas.
Anneca sizes up the pair of petty criminals, determining what it'll take to break loose tightly-held secrets. "Let's get them in separate rooms. You, come with me." She points to the one closer to the door, not sure which one is which. It's important to keep them separate, to test lies against one another and ensure that they aren't sure if the other one has flipped. Getting the keys to the shackles from one of the guards, she takes them off the prisoner quickly and leaves them on the bench. She gestures over to Gemma and Fethryth. "If one of you would like to join me, I'm sure the other can handle the other prisoner with Emerson."
She leads the prisoner out to the second interview room, shutting the door once everyone is inside. She gestures at him to have a seat, taking another one directly next to him. She sits mindful of the possibility of danger from an unshackled prisoner, but she doesn't let it show. It is time to show him who is in charge of this interview, quickly and efficiently. She points to the badge of her uniform. "Do you see this? We're with the R.H.C., which means that we are here on official business on behalf of the King. I want you to understand a few things before we begin. First, I expect nothing but the truth from you. I expect it to be freely given, without omission or deceit. Second, my colleagues expect nothing but truth from your compatriot. Third, your truthfulness will be relayed to Director Goodson, who owes me a great debt for saving his father's life; I can say with confidence that his assessment of your reformation into a law-abiding citizen will depend largely on how forthcoming you are, especially compared to your fellow penitent. Tell me if you understand. We're going to start with an easy question - what is your name?" Her tone carries an underlying threat to his freedom should he not cooperate, one that she is certain he understands well.
Tobias and Jesselle make their way to The Lusty Wench Tavern, and find the dimly lit tavern to be as shady and potentially unwelcoming as they might has imagined. Strangely, it is cleaner and more well-kept than they would have expected, with a healthy-sized crowd that is loud and rowdy, both in the main common room and side gaming rooms. All of the tables along the periphery are darkened and hard to spot patrons clearly, with the most light set along a small raised section of floor where several dancing girls give the tavern its namesake.
The bartender is noticeably less friendly than at The Lonely Harlot Inn, glaring at the pair of them almost immediately and having almost a cynical frown to his demeanor. As they approach the bar the bartender simply grunts and points to a menu carved into the wood bartop itself; the drink of choice is something called “gillweed” and by the looks of a few nearby that seem to take to it, gillweed is a light yellowish-green drink with a shot of probably rum or some other dark liquor poured in. A lot of the sailors seem to be drinking it, and by the looks of it there are a fair number of sailors and deckhands here getting drunk from it, with the gaming rooms and tables well underway in the early afternoon.
Fethryth follows Anneca into the interview room. Instead of sitting at the table she leans against the back wall, crossing her arms and trying to look nonchalant.
Since Anneca's scaring the pants off the prisoner Fethryth decides to play 'Good Cop' to Anneca's 'Bad'. It's not a role she's used to and it shows. "It's a couple of easy questions. Nothing to worry about, right?"
Emerson can hear Anneca rip into the poor man Ford Sorghum with her usual zeal. ”Director, I think I must strike while the iron is hot in regards to these interrogations. Perhaps we can speak later?”
He walks into the room and sits across the dejected looking Travis Starter. ”Good morning Mr. Starter. We were wondering if you could help us in an investigation regarding Nilassa Hume…”
Gemma goes with Emerson, smiling ever so slightly when she hears Anneca's start to her interrogation.
Knowing full well that Emerson will be much better at this sort of thing, she stands solemnly to the back and side of him and only offers a small interjection.
"It would be much appreciated if you have any of the information that we're looking for."
The intense and piercingly off-putting nature of Anneca's opening with Ford Sorghum completely sets him aback. While Fethryth tries to play the "good constable" role to Anneca's "bad" as they once learned in instructional sessions to become a constable in the first place, it was never Fethryth's strongest coursework by far. Yet, the petty criminal seems thoroughly intimidated by the interaction with two of the King's Constables...and it's pretty clear the man with stringy brown hair is not a hardened criminal by any impartial standards.
"It's Ford! Ford Sorghum ma'am! I've got nuthin' to hide from kingsmen now, and I didn't do nuthin' to gain the hard stares of the R.H.C.! Wha...what did I do? Nuthin' I didn't! Those Parity black-bootin' pus-sacks just hauled up Travis and I for no good reason, no good reason a'tall! And then we're here and at least our friend was bailed out by her like-father, but does anyone come an' get us outta this salt-stinkin' vomit hole? NO!"
Ford Sorghum crosses his arms and even though he seems scared of the women constables, he seems maddened that this is his lot in life, as if what has happened to him is completely unfair. "Whattdya want for me then? You said you've got pull with Goodson...I don't deserve ta be here! Get me outta here and I'll tell you everythin' I know - I'm a loyal Risuri man I am now!"
Travis Starter picks at his shaved scalp from probably lice, which looks to have once been blonde hair. He looks nervously from Emerson to Gemma and their R.H.C. uniforms...but once Emerson mentions Nilasa Hume the man's eyes go wide with a mixture of concern and curiosity.
"Nilasa? She's alright ser constable, ya? I mean if you're lookin' here then she's not here...and she shouldn't be and neither should Ford and me! But what's the greycloaks want with Nilasa...unless..." Fear and concern starts rolling across Travis Starter's face, and he quickly tries to cover. "She's Risuri through and through now, constables, and so are Ford and me! Honest as the smog is thick we are! You won't get a bad word from me about her, so I'm just warnin' ya that if you're looking to string her up for the rebellion or somethin' like that, I'm not your man." Travis looks around nervously and adds, "Besides, constables, it does no good to be a snitchy sort out here with the others knowin' I spoke with ya. Else I'll be leakin' blood like a broken keg tap before nightfall."
Tobias raises an eyebrow at Jesselle but shrugs and takes a seat at the bar. "Gillweed, eh? I'll have some o' that!" He says, letting his country drawl slip out. Sliding a few coins onto the counter he looks around the tavern as he waits for his drink.
Without any new information he doesn't quite know where to begin but he talks up the tavern to anyone who will listen before asking a few questions..
"Suppose I'm lookin' to move some cargo around here? Lots of sailors in this Tavern, you guys probably know a thing or two, yeah?"
”No one is accusing anyone of starting a rebellion. But judging by the look in your eye, the three of you stumbled onto something more dangerous than you thought you would be involved in. How about you start from the beginning?”
"There's wasn't no stumbling, constable! Honest! Ford and me and Nilasa go back a long ways to when we was beggin' streetrats in Parity before our proper naming day! She was stayin' over for a little time as she was between places ta stay, but nothin' was goin' on with us at all! Just catchin' up and talkin' over the old days! But does that stop the beatsticks of Parity from crashing in and arresting you for no good reason at all, except bein' on some old list?" Travis snaps his fingers. "No it doesn't!"
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"Mr. Starter. We are charged with looking into events which occured shortly after your arrest with Miss Hume. We know it has something to do with the three of you. So forgive me if I don't buy the old, 'I was standing around minding my own business' line." Emerson sits back in his chair and looks down, the index finger of his left hand traces throught the imperfections of the table surface.
"Look, if you two where incarcerated unjustly, we will do everything in our power to make sure you are set free. But we cannot do so if we don't get the whole truth from you on what Miss Hume was involved in. So do us a favor and help us help you."
Anneca leans in, knowing that she has the power of the prisoner thanks to her clear delineation of his options. "We're investigating the death of Nilasa Hume. Tell us what you know of her, what her plans were, and what she was doing in the Danoran consulate yesterday. Omit nothing that might even potentially be relevant. It's our job to sort through the information that you give, not your job to determine what we hear. And don't you dare tell us something that we know to be false, or you can bet that the Director will get a full report of your lack of cooperation." Anneca is naturally a suspicious person, which often makes it difficult to tell if someone is lying - because her natural inclination says that everyone is lying.
"Wait...what? Nilas...NO!" The prisoner Ford recoils from both Anneca's press and the table itself, nearly falling over himself to land on the floor in what appears to be genuine shock and grief. "How did she...she was my friend she was! Back to the old days we all went!"
Despite being clearly taken aback by Anneca, Ford Sorghum seems scared of something else now, and his next words are aimed more to Fethryth for appeal than to Anneca. "I don't know nuthin about why she was at the Danorans! Honest I don't! But you're saying she's dead and now you want to...because she was trying to...no no no I want outta here! The other scummers here knowin' you came here all fancy and wanted Travis and I to spill secrets...that'll get me tossed over the side with irons to the dark deep by nightfall it will! Get me outta this place - and Travis too - else there won't be anythin' left of me to say nuthin' by the morn!"
"Look, constable," says Travis Starter as he tries to clearly broker a deal with the opportunity of spilling what he knows, "I've got a son that's my own flesh n' blood he is, now at an orphanage in Parity with no one to even check on 'em. It's not right that they put me and Ford here - you know the bootlicks in Parity and other watchhouses get paid for each bloke they put in here, right? Lots o' crowns flowin' by the 'sticks to show off how reformed ole' Goodson and his floatin' wreck terror is gonna change us all for the better!" Travis spits on the ground in clear hatred of the place. "Maybe I can help ya, but I want to be free and clear of anything shipside and floatin' on water, with me legs on good solid ground."
Fethryth walks over to the table and sits next to Anneca. She reaches in the pouch attached to her thigh and pulls out a thin flask with a small cup. She carefully fills the cup part of the way and slides it across the table.
”It’s brandy. Liquid courage.” The constable offers Ford a small smile. ”Look. You’re in a s*!#ty ass situation. I know it. But we can’t put you in protective custody unless we have more solid from you. We know Gale is involved, and we know Hume was brokering a weapons deal. But, honestly? That’s not what concerns me most. There’s some very strange things going on and we need answers. We're also not stupid; if you're willing to provide them I see no reason we shouldn't put you in special custody to keep you safe."
Anneca raps her knuckles against the table, hoping to get Sorghum's attention. "She was trying to what? Come on, you want our help? You want me to tell the Director something good about you? Tell me what you know!" She may be hitting him with all the stops, but hopefully it'll be enough pressure to get him to crack - without being so much that he'd shut down entirely. She hopes that Fethryth's gentler approach might help provide something a little bit different.
Gemma looks at Travis Starter, hearing his plight but trying to remain distant from it. Maybe he has a son, maybe he doesn't, who knows? At the very least, it's leaves the possibility of leverage.
"We can certainly look into the possibility of getting you out of here and reuniting you with your son if you cooperate. However, depending on what you know and how close you were with Miss Hume, business-wise of course, your life may prove a bit tricky no matter where you are. The more you're able to help us, the more protection we may be able to afford you."
Travis narrows his eyes shrewdly at Gemma, then looks to Emerson, then back to Gemma. "Swear it then, constables. Nilasa did me no favors since me and Ford vowed for her and got thrown in here, so get Ford and me outta here when you go, on yer ship, today, and I'll tell you everything true that you wanna know now."
It's a near thing, feeling Ford break to their demands. It almost doesn't go their way, even with the knowledge that Nilasa was murdered. Perhaps it was the brandy and the smile that Fethryth offered in coordination with Anneca's press. Whatever the reason, Ford finally relents and seems resigned to whatever the duo of constables want.
"Alright," says Ford tentatively as he downs the brandy, probably the first good drink he's had in a long time. "Alright, I'll tell you about Nilasa...and then you can get me outta here? Or at least better quarters and some...um...special visits or the like?" Realizing the two female constables are probably not the best ones to ask about conjugal visits, Ford lowers his head. "Whatever you wanna do with me is fine, I just don't think it's fair what happened to Travis and me here...I mean I know existin' isn't fair and you take your dice rolls and live how you gotta live, but we really didn't do nuthin' to get put in here."
"Anyways, whattya wanna know? Nilasa was just bunking with us at our place for a time and catchin' up on the old days when we were streetrats o' Parity, beggin' and stealin' and tradin' information for coin. We had nuthin' planned with her - Travis and I were between jobs actually - and Nilasa wasn't there to bring us on her crew or anythin' like that. She knew we weren't all caught up in the strife with the rebellion or against what she was against. And she was our friend, and she knew not to bring us in to some ruddy cause we didn't care about. But she had something cookin' which she told us about...wanted our notions on it and what we thought about how she was goin' about it - like real advisors you see."
Ford takes a pause and looks to the empty cup, as if hoping for more to steel his nerves before continuing.
Anneca leans forward, ready to finally get the information that they came for. She pulls back her intense interrogation style for a moment in order to give him an opportunity to tell them everything that he knows. She watches his submissive body language, knowing precisely when to finish him off. "What did she tell you?" She matches the simple question with a friendly brief touch to his shoulder, to ground his attention and subtly seize control of the room.
"Done. Now, please start from the begining of your first recent encounter with Nilassa. Leave nothing out. Any small detail may be the thing that helps us solve the case."
"She...she asked Travis and me about The Family and if we heard about 'em over in Pine Island, which we hadn't really or at least I hadn't. She was workin' a deal you see, workin' to smuggle in a cache of wands...magical weapons of a sort. For Gale and her bands up in the Cloudwood you see. Lots of treasure goin' to it from Gale - tens of thousands of crowns - for dozens of wands from some Crisillyiri ruins or someplace where the Clergy once held illegal magics from that old elf empire." Ford looks around nervously for a moment and both Anneca and Fethryth, but seemingly realizes there's no turning back from where he started. "Nilasa went on how she'd get Gale's bands armed with real magic that lots of her ilk could use...for sabotaging things and to...to protect 'em against lawkeepers. She was bragging about it hard, wanted our notions about The Family...but not long after the 'sticks raided our flat and arrested the lot of us."