With the last bouncer down, Kazador made his way to Fytor. "How goes it, lad? The toughs are all down, but it's only a matter of time before either the Watch comes, or even more worryingly, enforcers. Ye got the runner?"
Túrion nods to the Madame as they continue their talk:"Then we are of one mind about this. I understand you do not want to go into specifics, but anything could help. What are his tastes that make you feel so strongly? You make it sound like he has very specific preferences - which may lead to a very tailored trap for him if need be..."
"No one should insult you openly, with or without escort. You may grow up thinking you and those you associate with are worth less because there is a price on your bodies - but ultimately, everybody has a price - the ladies at your home are just more honest and direct about it. Commendable, in my opinion. A soldier may believe he is a better person because he risks his life for values and the community - but he does not, and is not. He risks his life and does it for pay all the same." Túrion shrugs, then smiles back at Isabella:"Sorry, I rant on. But just because I don't want you to doubt yourself no matter what."
The madame's eyes narrow and she speaks in a low tone. "He prefers younger women, as young as I will allow. And he strikes them from time to time. I have spoken to him about this repeatedly but he passes it off as a simple moment of passion and assures me he will be more careful next time." She shakes her head. "But he shows no improvement. If you are interested in trapping him, I may also be interested."
Isabella listens to Turion's opinions thoughtfully then murmurs "I agree outside one exception. The soldier who fights for freedom without pay or recognition."
Regarding the play, Turion quickly observes that it is essentially nationalist/imperialist propaganda, detailing the glories of Iustia, its freedoms, and its laws. Some nobles in the play clearly correspond to some nobles in Bannerhold, praising the "brave" nobles and mocking the "weak" ones. The only character that Turion can clearly map onto a non-fictional noble is a dottering and cowardly old count who is clearly mocking Count Aral. Having met the old count, Turion sees that his senility and frailty are vastly exaggerated. There is also a bold and selfless leader of the "brave" nobles but Turion can't quite determine who corresponds to that character in the play.
And so, slightly annoyed at herself for not having foreseen this, she goes back to her room and sleeps the rest of the night away.
The next morning she gets up, spends the morning planning a geometry lesson based around a maritime theme -- calculating the height of a mast based on the length of its shadow, estimating distances between ships, and so on.
Thanks, Brolin, she thinks.
After teaching she excuses herself, saying "I have a few errands to run, and will be back before dinner."
Making her way to the market, she purchases a few necessities -- tooth powder, some socks, and a new handkerchief.
Once she has procured these plausible items, she ducks into a short alley free of watching eyes, and changes her disguise to her burglar persona, Char.
A few discreet questions are enough to locate a vendor willing to sell some lockpicks with no questions asked. Or rather, willing to sell with no questions answered, as Char simply glares at him in response to his attempts to wheedle information out of her.
Char leaves the seedier part of town. Once she's sure she's not been followed, she ducks into another alley and emerges at the other end as Melia Elman.
She heads down to the docks and double checks on the Siren to see that all is well.
Finally, she drops by the town house, lets herself in, closes the curtains, and drops her disguise.
"Sweet Lady," Mel says. "It's exhausting being so many people!"
She sits at the table and composes a letter to Hal:
I have gotten a job at the Harcourt manor as a tutor for their son, Arthur. So far I have learned that Count Harcourt has been conducting avid, detailed research into maritime and international law, with a particular focus on Iustia's annexation of the Feld Islands some 90 years ago. At a guess, he is looking for some legal fig leaf to cover a forcible annexation of Helm, possibly on the grounds of failing to control piracy. I wonder if he or one of his cronies was responsible for financing Gertrude van Beem? Her piracy, unchecked, could easily have provided a casus belli for an annexation.
I have not yet interacted with Count Harcourt, barring a very brief introduction in passing. The valet, Ernest Eberman, cautioned me that he has a vile temper.
Lady Harcourt appears to spend most of her time engaged in social activities, and pays little attention to her son. As for the boy, he seems a good sort, if desperately in want of attention from his parents. I shall have to see if there's anything to be done to shield him from the consequences of his father's actions -- assuming any fall out.
I intend to investigate further tonight. As for your own cover, the valet, Ernest Eberman, seems a decent sort with a poor master. I pity him. But at the same time, if he is fired for no cause, I wonder if his anger at his former master might make him willing to spill any secrets he knows.
Mel
Mel sighs as she writes that last sentence. If it gets us information we need, I am entirely willing for Eberman to be cast aside, she thinks, grimacing. I hate this. This whole thing. What it's done to me. I hate that I'm willing to see a faithful servant of long standing cast aside so that we can use him and his position. Ostara, all the paths have thorns! Help me pick one that leads to a good outcome, even if I am bloody at the end.
And with that, she takes out the journal and writes out the letter again, this time for Count Aral to read.
With all of this done, she packs up, leaves the house as Melia, changes to Madame Crixton behind a bush some blocks from the Harcourt Manor, and returns.
That evening, after preparing a lesson for the next day, she waits until the house is quiet once more, and sneaks back to the study. After cautiously looking and listening for any sign of activity in the study or adjacent rooms, she takes out her new lockpicks and makes an attempt at the door.
Túrion raises an eyebrow: "That does give options, yes. I do believe we can work with that. What is the youngest he asked for, or rather, that you allowed? I should be able to provide suitable bait...we can make up a story of how the girl stole from you, and you considered him a suitable punishment - that is, give him permission to hit her as long as he leaves no marks...don't worry, it won't get to that."
Or more likely, a matter of 'lost in translation', little flower. But I can't really tell you that, now can I?
During the play, Túrion sneers. "Propaganda, all of that. I should have researched the play before taking you to see it. But it's well all the same. Just know what you are seeing here - it's a self-idolization by the nationalist fraction of the nobles."
Count Aral writes back to Mel after a few hours:
"Harcourt's interest in the Bishopric of Helm matches my observations of him. I am confused, however, as any annexation with a flimsy basis of piracy would be incredibly risky. The average Helmian citizen does not live on the coast and would not consider piracy an existential threat. If the people of the Bishopric resented Iustian hegemony, the Iustian treasury and military would find themselves stretched thin during tensions with the Concordat. I see three possibilities:
First- Count Harcourt has a plan for winning over Helmian public sentiment.
Second- Count Harcourt has significant personal interest in the annexation of Helm that he is elevating over the interests of Iustia.
Third- Count Harcourt does not fully understand the risks to Iustia of such an annexation."
Late at night, "Madame Crixton" moves quietly through the hall and hears nothing but slight snoring coming from the Count's room. She tries the door but her first attempt at serious lockpicking is stymied. She continues working the lock until it finally opens with a satisfying *click.*
After the third failed attempt, Mel thinks Dad, I'm really, really sorry I didn't pay more attention when you were talking about locks.
She takes a deep breath and gives it another go.
The lock relents, and opens with a satisfying snick.
Mel lets the breath out, opens the door and ghosts into to the study. She closes the door softly behind her, so that nothing will look amiss if anyone happens to come by.
Inside the room, she murmurs a word to her Hat of Disguise, and becomes Char. If I'm caught, at least "Madame Crixton" won't be compromised, she thinks. If someone had caught me in the hall I could plausibly have claimed I got turned around on my way to the garderobe. In here, though ... better not to be the tutor.
"Lady -- let me see clearly," she prays quietly, and pulls out a candle, together with a tindertwig.
Before she can strike it, however, light blooms in the tindertwig. She looks at it in surprise. Then a broad smile crosses her face. Thanks, Ostara, she thinks.
Setting the twig down, she takes a towel she filched from the garderobe and lays it across the base of the door to prevent any light from seeping under the crack below.
With that done, she picks up the glowing tindertwig again, returns the candle to her haversack, and examines the room.
Having infiltrated the office safely, "Char" scopes the place out and notes two large bookshelves a locked window, an elegant-looking chair for guests, and a high-backed chair behind a writing desk. Quills and papers are organized neatly on the desk.
You note that the guest chair, while looking elegant, is actually built to be slightly uncomfortable with a sloped seat. The high-backed chair, on the other hand, appears to be legitimately comfortable.
Kazador notes the barkeep is still standing fascinated in the cloud, unmoving.
Fyrtor knocks out the woman while the elementals hold the conscious one.
Noting the petty tactics for making guests uncomfortable, Char rolls her eyes. Typical, she thinks.
Char spends a moment to note the positions of everything, so that she can be careful to leave things in their original positions. Then she examines the papers on the desk, being careful to keep them in order.
Char looks through the papers on the desk. Ostensibly, they involve the day-to-day affairs of the Count involving transferring monies, collecting rents, etc. It is possible they contain a hidden meaning. Also, the desk has three locked drawers.
Char slowly picks her way through each of the three locks on the drawers and determines that, as far as she can tell, they are not trapped.
Well, I'm committed now, she thinks. There's no re-locking these drawers without the key. The office door -- he might have just forgotten to lock it. Maybe. But this? All three of them plus the door? No. I may as well just take it all.
She takes the papers off the desk and shoves them into her handy haversack, then opens the drawers one at a time, cautious of making noise, and checking for false bottoms or other concealed hiding places.
Char gets all of the papers in their various binders then finds a false bottom in the right hand drawer! She slides it out and finds several diamonds and a binder of papers.
Char scoops all of the papers into her handy haversack, then closes the drawers tidily. She looks thoughtfully at the diamonds a moment, then pockets them.
She goes over and checks the books on the shelves and starts scanning for anything of interest. But then she stops. The longer I'm here the greater the chances I'll get caught. Grab it and go.
She quickly packs the contents of Harcourt's shelves into her handy haversack. It's getting quite full towards the end, and she has to transfer a few smaller items from the main pouch to one of the side pockets, but it all goes in.
Returning to the desk, Char takes the diamonds out of her pocket and stares at them. They glitter in the light from her glowing tindertwig, eight of them, small but flawless.
Harcourt's a jerk, she thinks. And very likely involved in a plot to start a war.
But his son is blameless. And his wife, for all her faults, does not appear to be an active participant in any of this.
Sighing a little, she takes the eight diamonds, and puts them on the green leather blotter atop the desk. She arranges them, as best she can, in the shape of a hawk grasping a snake: the house sign of Duke Roger Beaumont. With only eight to work with, the shape is rather abstract, like a constellation.
I hope that gets the message across, she thinks, extinguishing her light source.
The message being: You have attracted the attention of someone greater than yourself, Harcourt. Moving cautiously in the dark but familiar with the layout of the room now, she opens the curtains on the window again, then unlatches the window and swings it wide.
Someone who does not care about your paltry diamonds. She moves back to the hallway door and retrieves the towel she laid across the door jamb.
Someone who's not me. She resumes the form of Eugenia Crixton, and listens for any sound of anyone in the hallway.
Char hears nothing in the hallway outside of Harcourt's office.
Fyrtor moves to knock out the woman the elements surround.
As the grey remnant that is all that is left of the night falls to the light of dawn, died crimson through the hazy smoke fires of a thousand waking chimneys, Harold returns home.
Strange to think of it as home... he ponders, as he slips through the door, eyes and ears peeled for any clue that something might be astray. Every footfall is kept soft, every arcane sense alert.
"Bloody hell. I said it was all clear, didn't I?"
Harold jumped, and turned to glare. The tulpa waiting inside rolled its eyes expressively. it was hard to tell on the inhuman face, but Harold was pretty sure it was smirking.
"Given me life's on the line, pardon me for bein' careful!" Hal retorted, but moved in with more alacrity, and started searching.
The hallus cocked its head "Looking for more of those biscuits?"
"No. I'm lookin' for some sort of secret message left for me!" Harold lied. "Stop usin' me memories."
"Like this letter?" the irritating creature said. "Says Hal. That's you, ain't it?" A sigh "Those were good, weren't they. The way they dissolved into crumbs when you bit into them, but only in your mouth. The cinnamon taste. The warm..."
"Yes! Thanks, for remindin' me I ain't eaten in hours. There ain't any, so shut up!"
Sitting down at the table, Hal started to read the letter, and sighed. "Can ya put on a pot o' tea?"
His new companion coughed a laugh "Well I would, but given I'm a figment of your imagination I'm not "
"Just... boil up a kettle and stop arguin' philosophy. I gotta work out how ta get in touch with the boss."
Having knocked out both women who were gathering papers from the safe and fascinated the bartender, you have some time before anything else will happen.
The madame's mouth is set in a firm line. "I have never, and I will never, place someone younger than eighteen with a client. Other houses might and clients such as Alabaster ask but I have standards." Her eyes grow colder, but attentive at the prospect of wreaking justice. "I would be interested in something happening to Alabaster, particularly if it could not be readily traced back to my establishment."
Isabella muses Turion's comment thoughtfully. "So the soldier sells his body for pay, but the freedom fighter does not?"
Turion muses that the leader of the Iustian nationalists in the play does not map readily onto either Baron Cust or Count Harcourt.
Melia determines that the doorman is snoring lightly somewhere near the main door. Then she lurks in the kitchen and catches sight of the night guard's lantern as the guard makes her rounds. After watching a couple of rotations, Melia commits to her timing and slips quietly out the back door. But the back gate poses a small problem as Melia does not have the lock to it.
The middle-aged form of Eugenia Crixton somewhat incongruously darts up and over the gate, vaulting slightly over the top and landing lightly on her feet. Then she steps quickly into the shadows, assumes the form of Char the sneak thief, and speeds off into the darkened streets of the city.
Stopping to assume the form of Melia again not far from the townhome, she lets herself in the front door and shuts it firmly behind her once again.
The first clue is the warmth inside, suggesting a lit fire.
The second is the aromatic smell of baking.
The third is the thump from the kitchen as the door shuts.
The kitchen is a mess. Hal - who had apparently dozed off by the fire whilst reading a large book - is stumbling to his feet while holding said book and reaching for his staff. Meanwhile the main bench is covered in flour and dough, and a small dragon - also covered in flour - looks up guiltily.
Hal smiles widely as he sees Mel. "Boss! I gotcha note, just tryin' to work out how to get in touch with ya. How'd it go?"
"Uh," she says, intelligently.
Rallying slightly, she follows that up with "Fine, thanks. I got a whole bunch of ... Hal, there seems to be a small dragon of some kind in the kitchen. Doing some baking, by the looks of it. Dare I ask? ... okay, I dare."
She gestures slightly, hands fluttering in the air to indicate the scene in its entirety, and says: "What?"
Hal's eyes opened wide "You see it too?"
There is a muttered exclamation from the dragon, and it rolls its eyes.
*Well that's lovely. Here I am doing my best to make some biscuits, and you go and question my existence.*
The voice sounds suspiciously like Hal's shifted to a higher register. It also utterly fails to echo - a dead give away it is telepathic in nature.
Hal shakes his head "I picked up a spell to help with the hallucinations. S'posed to help you sleep, 'n' kick 'em out of your head. I thought it didn't work."
The dragon scrunches up his face *Told you I was real*
He turns back to Mel *I was going to clean it up* he announces, though his overly-expressive draconic face indicates this is probably a lie.
Hal coughs "Anyway. Thought it was like a... ghost thing now. Some sorta way of manifestin' me native psychic power as tele-kin-esis. A really annoying way."
The dragon is aghast *I made for you, you ungrateful...*
"All right," she says wearily, interrupting the bickering.
She turns her gaze on the small dragon. "Hello, I'm ... lots of people at the moment, but you can call me Melia. Ordinarily I'd be fascinated to meet you and talk for a while, but unfortunately I'm in something of a hurry at the moment. So yes, clean up when you're done, please."
"Hal! Could I speak with you a moment? Privately, if you please." Not really waiting for an answer, she grabs a shoulder and marches him into the dining room.
"Listen. I cleaned out Harcourt's office this evening." She slings her haversack on the table and begins extracting its contents. First the loose papers, then heaps of books. "I haven't had any time to examine them, but these ..." she taps the papers "... were locked in the bottom drawer of his desk, so I'm guessing that's things he didn't want other people finding out. The books are a mixed bunch, I don't think they're necessarily important, but I took them anyway in case he hid other papers inside them."
"What did you find out in Helm?"
Hal looks sheepish "Just shopped and studied, 'm afraid. You cleaned him out already? He's gonna notice this stuff gone - could be dangerous to go back, if this is the first night after you arrive. You plannin' to put 'em back? If ya'are we need ta read - or better, copy 'em - right now"
"Also, I left a bit of misdirection -- a sign implicating Duke Beaumont for the theft. I am hoping that I'll learn some interesting things from Harcourt's reaction to that." She finishes extracting the stolen goods from her haversack, and slings it over her shoulder once again.
"Still ... I'd like you to be nearby tomorrow, please," she adds. "In case I get in trouble. Is there some way I can signal you if I develop a sudden urgent need for an escape route?"
She hesitates, then sets her haversack down again. "Also, I'm thinking of leaving this here," she adds. "It's full of gear that no simple governess would have. Not to mention a simple governess wouldn't have an enchanted satchel in the first place. But ... the big weakness here is that I am relying on this hat to keep my identity safe. All it takes is someone brushing up against me to realize I'm wearing armor. Or if it gets knocked off, well, there goes my disguise."
"I don't know," she frets. "Maybe it would be best not to go back at all. I left behind all the stuff I got to pose as Eugenia Crixton -- but then, I wouldn't need that face much longer anyway, so small loss there. Is what I might learn by going back worth the risk? I don't know. It might be. Or I might be risking my life for nothing but the whim of seeing Harcourt's fury."
She stares at the papers. "It all depends on what's in these papers. They might have everything we need to know." She lays a hand on them. "But I don't have time to read them if I want to get back before I'm missed. If only I knew what was in them!"
"Well. It's up to you Boss. Did you get a chance to check out the basement?" Hal asks.
"Hypothetically if you wanted to go back... we need to make it not a coincidence. Was your room vacant? Does it have a window? If so... you were asleep. Got woken up by a man with a knife. He said the room was supposed to be empty, gave you a choice between being quiet and being dead. He gagged you, tied you up, left."
"We make sure to use a knot no-one can ie 'emselves into. Then they know there's at least one other person who broke into the place. You leave everything suss here, 'cos they will scan you. I act it out with you so you'll pass a truth spell, and the image is there if they look back in time. If they work out you're in disguise, you claim cosmetic reasons, or bigotry."
"As for gettin' in contact with me... hard to think of a good way to do that off hand. I could check in on you periodically... or we could have the baker out there hang out on the roof and listen for you?"
Hal snapped his fingers "Got it! Marry me. Not for real! There's these old fashioned paired marriage rings. Person wearing the ring dies, takes it off, or cheats then both rings break. My wife and I had a pair."
Hal's voice trails off at the end.
Sanctified rings
Mel gets brief flashes and glimpses of the stack of hidden papers. She notes briefly that there are letters from Harcourt's private lawyer, who is protesting some purchases from a Tyron Alabaster at inflated prices. From the correspondence, it is clear that Harcourt overruled the lawyer and ordered him to make the purchases with little justification. Further, there is a draft resolution for the Iustian council that proposes declaring hegemony over the Bishopric of Helm to protect it from the depredations of Gertrude van Beem. Her name is scratched out in several places with little notes in the margin.
Fyrtor starts tying up the women.
Kazaodor stared at the barkeep and wondered what to do. The last thing he wanted was for the man to scream or somesuch. ”Do we need to?” He called back. ”He’s all googly eyed here. Messing with him will snap him out of it and cause another scene.” He was willing to, of course, but didn’t want to take unnecessary risks.
With a sigh Kazador hopped up and down, stretched his arms, and then with some hesitation, moved behind the man. ”Here goes nothing…” As he attempted to put the man into a chokehold.
Kazador grapples the man without much difficulty and maneuvers him into the kitchen, despite him struggling mightily, where Fyrtor has bound the women.
Melia gasps slightly at the sudden flood of information. "Kiitos, jumalatar," she whispers.
"I ... just heard some of the contents of these papers," she says, in a more normal tone of voice. "Harcourt was behind Gertrude van Beem's piracy. He bought a house from Tyron Alabaster at ridiculous prices, who then used that money to hire van Beem. And Harcourt was drafting a bill to declare Helm a protectorate of Iustia on the grounds that they couldn't protect themselves sufficiently from van Beem's attacks."
She rubs her forehead lightly. "But I don't know why. Why does he want Helm in the Protectorate so much? Maybe there are answers in there if I look more carefully." She stares at the pile of papers and reaches a decision.
"I'm not going back," she says. "I don't think what I might learn is worth the risk. Maybe we could stake the place out? If Harcourt goes somewhere in a hurry tomorrow morning, we can follow him. Ditto for any messengers he sends. That would be considerably less risky than being on the premises when he discovers his papers missing."
"I do regret the boy, Arthur, though," she says. "He'll feel betrayed, I'm sure. Because he was."
With the man secured, Kazador went about reading the papers. If there was to be an interrogation, then it would be useful to be as knowledgeable as possible.
Hal makes a sucking noise as he stares off into space.
"I reckon it should be possible to stake it out. If we see him movin', then we can follow him. Bit more problematic if he sends a note, though. Hmm... I might be able to knock up a spell lets us spy on 'im. Odds are he'll detect it, but he might just figure it's Beaumont gloatin'? "
Kazador starts looking at the papers and finds an accounting of day-to-day transactions by the inn.
From a few patterns in the writings, you can determine that it's written in a code that you haven't yet cracked.
”Lad, take a look at this. Something doesn’t feel right but I can’t put me finger on it.”
"Let's have that spell ready to go, but not use it unless it becomes important," Mel says. "And we'd better catch a little sleep while we can."
The barman sneers and spits "Those papers could be anything. Never seen them before. You just wait 'til the guards show up and see what you've done here!"
compulsion mastery DC 14 will to negate suggestion
Kazador took his hammer, and whispered to it "Gromthi, riken." It was a strange phrase, that one would never hear outside of the runic craft. For he was calling on his ancestors to have 'kingship' as a concept, but signified that it was currently ongoing, but not indefinite. An example of this would be 'hunken' which signified currently carrying a heavy burden, but the burden not being permanent. The runes on his hammer glowed and he touched it to the man's head.
"I suggest that ye talk of what ye know of the Reapers and what these papers say."
He hoped that the magic would be enough to overcome the man's willpower...
Hal nods, the lethargy of sleep he so recently escaped all too ready to reclaim him.
"Oh!" he says, perking up for a moment. "I found a spell to help shield the ship. Could use it here if ya like? Creates a dark cloud that blocks sight - so it'd need to be done inside the house, 'less you want your neighbours callin' the constables. Does mean if they've got something to track ya back they'll get nothin'. 'Cept smell, of course, but I dare say ya took care o' that already."
"If y'r worried about the boy, I could fake up a body for your old alias? Not sure havin' a tutor murdered's any better, really, but up ta you."
Aloud, she says "Uh, an anti-scrying spell? Hrm. I don't think Harcourt has those kind of resources readily available. But better safe than sorry, so go ahead."
"As for the other part, well, I'm inclined to think sneaking in to set up a fake body would likely be more risk than it's worth. Let's just get some sleep and then go observe the place in the morning, early."
From the kitchen comes a clatter, as of a pan knocked accidentally off a table.
"And I do hope our kitchen will be tolerably clean in the morning," she adds, louder.
"Great. I'll walk the boundaries of the rooms, sprinkle a bit of powdered lead round, should be good in two shakes. I can't really do the outhouse though, so if ya come back and open the door and see a dark looming cloud that blocks all sight and sound, just walk right through it. There might be a moment of 'ineffable dread', 'cordin' to the notes. Just keep on goin', the boundary'll only be about a few feet. Y' can't see it from inside either."
"As for cleanin'... well, there's a spell for that. Guess I could go use it in th' mornin'? C'n use it on you as well, if ya want." he continues more quietly "I don' hold out much hope for these biscuits, ta be honest."