Count Aral's body language went completely over Kazador's head. He was just glad that they had a plan. Thus far they had been knee deep in political intrigue and magical shenanigans. While he was capable of keeping up, he preferred more straight forward solutions. Back home, when it still existed, the posturing of the nobility was usually reserved as towards trying to appear as honorable as possible, while maximizing profit. It seemed to him that humans and elves had the ability to play the game of power to a degree which he would have thought impossible before.
"As to whether this information should be passed on to the Royal Court... I have no idea whether the King uses such magics in the security system that preserves his life, and frankly that is a question I would prefer not to have the answer to. I..."
Sir Chalest trails off, his eyes drifting to the apparently empty air at the noble's right side. A few moments later they snap back.
"How far can I trust you, Count Aral, with knowledge that could easily be my death?"
The Count looks quite surprised by the question then inclines his head respectfully. "I will share the knowledge with no one unless my silence poses a clear and serious danger to an innocent life or the Crown of Iustia."
Sir Chalest considers the answer for a few seconds, then moves on, speaking quietly and with minimal movement of his lips.
"Very well. A long... a very long time ago... I was affiliated with the Hand of the Reaper. Not an assassin of course - just a specialist. When I tried to leave the Reaps tried to kill me, very nearly succeeded, and believe me dead. I now seek to take them down, partly in atonement for my sins, partly because they will kill me and probably everyone I care about if they find out I still live."
"If those who guard the Crown investigate me as well as they damn well should, they will find out my background. When they find out someone who was - and presumably still is - a member of the Reaps is looking into the King's security they will kill me. If they do not then the Reaps' sources will reveal I am alive and they will kill me."
The old man gives a grin that has nothing to do with mirth "And they do have sources, Count Aral, even there. I am, to my knowledge, the foremost expert on the Reaps, so when I say they have sources everywhere, believe me. As far as I can tell, the only difference from when I was co-opted is that now they've started playing at politics as well as simply murder for hire."
Sir Chalest's eyes drift for a moment, before snapping back again.
"The only reason I care about money my lord, is that it helps me with my goal. If somehow, impossibly, I succeed in destroying the single most dangerous mortal group in the world without dying, then I will surrender myself to serve out my sentence. I can't even send money to my family, because doing so might alert the Reaps I still live. I do care about you however, as you appear to be a politician with actual principles and common sense, and therefore more precious than any amount of gold."
"Now - if my candour has worn out my welcome I will not take it amiss if you would have me move on. I should add that my companions are innocent of my youthful stupidity. I owe my life to them, and for all my sins I am a man who pays his debts."
Mala nods as he speaks. "I can confirm all of that is accurate. Our friend here has a deeply vested interest in maintaining a low, low profile."
"To my knowledge you are now one of six people aware of this secret. I can only pray I have made the right decision."
"If doing the right thing was easy, everyone would do it." Kazador said to the man. "The Reaps are powerful, aye. But they run on fear. There will come a time when their power wanes, and when the people they used to control hate them more than they fear them, the group will crumble. I, for one, look forward to smashing a few of their heads to hasten the timeline."
Count Aral maintains an air as if having a pleasant, calm conversation with acquaintances and nods to Sir Chalest. "Very good, sir. I was unaware of any who had successfully left the Handle of the Reaper. Perhaps you are the first in history. But this does not change my working relationship with you. I knew that I had dangerous foes, including the Reaps, as you call them. I will simply keep your name, identity, and role as far out of public knowledge as I am able."
"It does seem that your actions to protect the current peace have harmed the Handle of the Reaper significantly. I wonder how much damage their organization can sustain before debts are called in, wrongs are avenged by rival organizations, and corrupt officials grow a conscience. The avalanche may be completely hidden until it truly begins."
He shrugs and smiles. "We can only hope. Shall we turn in for the evening?" He points back to his mansion, where doubtless there are fine rooms set aside for your rest.
"That would be lovely."
Well-fed and well-provisioned with clothes, baths, and whatever other care you require, you turn in for a good night's rest. You wake in the morning ready to enact your plans.
'Sir Chalest' froze when he woke up in the comfortable double bed, still clean from his bath the night before. It took him a minute to realise the bell on the inside of the door was still ringing slightly - presumably the wake up call he had requested. he hobbled over with bleary eyes, dispelled his security precautions, and opened the door to find a manservant with a covered trolley fragrant with the aroma of fresh bread and well cured bacon.
"I understand you elected to take your meal in your room, sir." the Manservant offered, coming in to set up the tray. "The southwest drawing room is at your groups disposal from 9 am on. The time is currently 7, as requested. I took the liberty of having a simple but portable lunch prepared."
With a bow the manservant refused a proffered tip and excused himself, ignoring the tear that rand down Sir Chalest's ruddy face.
'Well. I'd forgotten what life c'n be like. 'Least if I'm planted today it started better'n any I c'n remember.'
The rest of you receive similar, gentle wake up calls at an appropriate time and are treated to fine breakfasts. The Count greets in you the morning with a bow and asks "Do you desire a carriage back to Bannerhold?"
"Would be nice." Kazador said. His armor was glammered to look like regular street clothing and he was finishing eating a slice of bread from the fine breakfast provided. "Would be a long walk back, and too much magic raises eyebrows."
"That would be most gracious of you," Mala says. "So long as we can enter Bannerhold discreetly and without bringing undue attentions on either ourselves or you."
Before leaving, Mala takes a moment to pen a missive to the Bishop of Helm:
Your Eminence:
We have been busy in Bannerhold. The full tale is too long for this missive. The parts most germane to Helm are as follows:
Van Beem was a catspaw. She was hired by one Tyron Alabaster, who was himself an agent of Lord Brendan Harcourt. Her assignment was to attack Iustian ships in Helm's waters, in order to manufacture a situation under which Iustia could annex Helm, as it did the Feld Islands under Charles II.
What makes it worse is that Harcourt's motive for all this was pure, selfish greed -- he owns several large stands of darkwood in Helm. Engineering Helm's annexation was solely intended to nullify Helm's laws on darkwood harvests, so that he could clearcut those stands and realize the profit all at once.
We uncovered Harcourt's plot; by the time you receive this message he will most likely have been executed for his treachery to Iustia.
We continue our investigations. As part of those, we met with one "Isabella", the leader of the Friends, a group resisting the current oppressive laws in Iustia regarding non-humans. Their leader is interested in establishing a safe haven for non-human refugees, and would like to find out whether Helm might be open to such an arrangement. We made no promises, but agreed to inform Your Eminence of her interest. Should you wish to contact her, here is a dead-drop your agents can leave messages at ...
Isabella -- surely not her true name -- is a dangerous and crafty woman. I believe, however, that she is genuine in her interest in sending non-human refugees to Helm. Tread cautiously if you decide to engage with her, and take care to make your own assessment of her intentions.
Written in haste, M
She shares the contents of this letter with Count Aral and asks if he could please see it sent to the Bishop.
The Count reads the letter and nods. "Indeed I will see it sent to him. Discreetly of course. It would look bad were I to be found sending letters to a head of state."
He supplies you with a well-made but modest carriage and you load up, heading into Bannerhold. You meet quietly with the Count's man and get a copy of the plans.
Once they have resumed their disguises, thanked Count Aral's people and made a discreet exit, Melia says "So, we should go look at these plans. Probably at the townhouse. But let's approach that cautiously, hey? Just in case the place had unwelcome visitors in our absence."
Mel does not find evidence that your townhouse has been tampered with.
You receive the plans without incident, with Count Aral's personal recollection in a letter adding information as it can. Unfortunately, he has not frequented Beaumont's very often and generally only in the more public areas. But perhaps you can infer what more of the areas on the blueprints are from your knowledge of the customs and architecture of the Bannerhold Nobility.
Hal - now in his vagrant disguise agrees with Mel, and is all too happy to look for traps with a fine toothed comb - actually a complicated device made up of a series of harmonic tuning forks cleverly attached together to allow checking for all the major arcane harmonics in the abjuration scale at once. He does have to pluck a few hairs out of it before he starts though.
"Before we look at givin' it a poke, c'n we think of anyone who might already have 'ad a look inside? Normally I'd check the wh... ah... 'entertainers' but I reckon we might want ta give that a miss."
"Not a bad idea. Just so long as the people ye be talking to don't inform everyone inside that people be poking around." Kazador replied.
"Let's start by taking a look at these plans," Melia says, rolling them out on the table. "I bet that'll help us figure out what else we need to learn."
"Alright. Logically thinkin', if there's a secret book, then he's gonna want ta store that somewhere secure, and somewhere he c'n get at it without makin' people curious. Bedchamber. Toilet... is that a war room? Anyway, looks like that's all there" Hal points at the bottom left corner of the top floor.
"Only reason ta have a secret tunnel to a sewer entrance is as an escape, and I'm not sure he'd need it. Could always jump out a window, or more likely, have somethin' magic."
"I've got five gold on that corner in genersl, and another 5 on the war room." True to his word Hal pulls out some grubby coins and puts them on the map.
"Gotta admit... I'm thinkin' 'bout scryin' the place just ta satisfy me curiosity." Hal confesses "Anyone else wanna take the bet? Either of 'em?"
Hal figures out what the fancy room is and thinks the sewer likely runs along the east side of the estate.
Hal determines that the fancy room is, indeed, the master suite. You start planning...
"I really think we should go check in with Viscount Turick," Melia says. "Having him as an ally has been extremely useful, but I think keeping him as an ally means we need to keep him in the loop. If we go breaking into Duke Beaumont's estate without his knowledge and bungle it, he might well disavow us to preserve his own position at court."
"It would certainly be helpful if we could scry out further information about his manor," she says in response to Hal's suggestion. "But ... can we? If I recall correctly from my Arcana for Non-Majors course, scrying generally targets an individual, like Duke Beaumont, not a place, like his manor. Though I suppose you might well have some tricks that Professor Amrynn didn't know. I don't think she had a high opinion of any tradition of magic outside of her own highly formal practice."
"And if he is worth anything, scrying his manor could well alert him. Let's just break in through the sewer exit." Kazador said, taking a practical approach. "Unless there be a spell that creates something like a floating eye, or a familiar, that we can send in before us to look around."
Mel knows of spells, such as Detect Scrying, which a noble may keep active if they are paranoid and have a guilty conscious. She is also aware that the following is true of all scrying subschool spells:
"I can see what ya mean about Turick. Pro'ly true we need ta keep him in the loop, but we'll need ta keep our sources hidden, right?"
"As for scryin', well, that's true. I've got some tricks that'll let me get round some of it, but there tends ta be a tradeoff 'tween what ya get and the risk ya take." Hal agrees. "Big one is sendin' somethin' in ta scout and gettin' an answer back, which, I grant ya, isn't technically scryin' as such."
"If he's got protections 'gainst scryin', he'll have traps 'n' alarms on the sewer. Just sayin'."
He hesitates "So, Turick next?"
"Yes, Turick, I think," Mel says. "He may well have further information about Beaumont's estate, or approaches we haven't considered."
You travel in disguise to Viscount Alain Turick's then get passed through his security protocols until you meet him in your established personas. He holds a notebook while sitting in a fine armchair in his study. "Yes? What are the latest developments?" You are each offered a comfortable chair and your choice of fine drink and refreshments.
"We met with ... an informant, let us say, who gave us some highly disturbing information about Duke Beaumont. So much so that we left the city briefly to confer with Count Aral directly, in person, on the matter." Mel says.
"I'm afraid we are not at liberty to divulge the precise source, as doing so might endanger the source and preclude future information. What I can say is that their information is plausible, but they are also driven by their own motivations and an intense dislike of Duke Beaumont."
"The informant has contacts in the Concordat. Through those contacts, they learned that Duke Beaumont has a 'mutually beneficial' arrangement with Amrynn Faedi, the Concordat's Magister of Divination. Each of them holds a Book of Whispers, which they use to communicate state secrets to one another. Both of them use the information they share to boost their own reputations, and to influence the two realms."
"I cannot say what exactly Amrynn Faedi might have done with the information she has gleaned this way. But as for Duke Beaumont -- it fits all too well with his reputation for superior intelligence where the Concordat is concerned. His dislike of non-humans is amply demonstrated by the strict laws he has helped push through. Meanwhile he has been quietly patronizing plays designed to stir patriotic fervor. It looks to me as though he is pushing, slowly and steadily, to prepare for a war with the Concordat. If so, it is a lethally dangerous game he plays -- with more lives and fortunes than his own. And so far as I know, without the authorization of His Majesty the King."
She signs, rubbing a forehead. "Our source tells us Duke Beaumont keeps the Book of Whispers somewhere in his estate, but that it is magically protected. He has a smaller book containing passwords for unlocking the Book of Whispers and potentially other things, which he carries on his person at all times."
"As I said, the informant is not impartial. They actively hate Duke Beaumont. The possibility exists that this information is false. But even so, the allegation alone is serious enough that it demands a careful, thorough investigation. Should it be true, the consequences of letting this state of affairs persist would be grave. We have been discussing ways and means to go about such an investigation. But we did not want to proceed without informing you."
The Viscount sighs and rubs his temples, clearly frustrated and worried. "A grave accusation, indeed! This is treason at the highest levels. Generally, the punishments of a duke would be meted out with a velvet glove, such as an unofficial exile to the countryside. But Beaumont will meet the axe for this, if evidence can be found. How can I help?"
"It's a difficult nut to crack," Mel says. "So far as I can see, acquiring proof means we need both books: the Book of Whispers and the book of passwords. The former means gaining access to his estate; the latter to his person. Neither will be simple, and we cannot let him know that we're investigating. If he has reason to believe someone has learned his secret, all he has to do is destroy the evidence. Even destroying just one of the books would be sufficient -- without the password we can't access the contents of the Book of Whispers. And without the Book of Whispers, the password would be worthless."
"Count Aral provided us with a map of his estate." She rolls out the map. "We might be able to get inside, but we don't know where to look. For that matter, we don't even know what the books look like. It's a pretty big place, and there's no telling where the book might be. We considered attempting to scout the place out via divination spells, but it's almost certainly warded against those one way or another."
Kazador shifted uncomfortably. "IF we get to one...could we magically duplicate it? That way we can get out and they will think we didn't take it, that we failed? Or if they don't know we got it, that when they come back they'll find it there. That way we can move against the other without them destroying it." He offered the idea, hoping it did not sound too stupid.
"A cunning thought" Hal concurs "True duplication is likely impossible without significant time and resources, but a lookalike might be doable. Indeed, I think I recall a court case where a magical thief stole a gentleman's signet ring while replacing it with a duplicate. While I do not know such a spell myself, of course, I may be able to deduce the basics. If I recall the case correctly, however, the issue was that the spell wore off too soon."
Instant Fake
"Similarly, there is a spell that might allow one to read a book from a distance. Typically used by serious researchers, I have no idea if it might work to read a book placed upon a person... but in theory this might be possible."
Commune with Texts
"Forgive me my lord, but how much proof do we need? Must we 'catch the Duke quill in hand, as he spills the secrets of the land'? Is it sufficient to simply make only him aware of a secret, and see if his contact acts upon the information?"
"Finally - and with the greatest of respect, my Lord... if these outsiders can find the truth so quickly I cannot believe that none of the King's agents had even a glimmer. I suspect instead that agents that found any information have been made to disappear - or more likely simply assumed that any accusation against a noble of such stature would be pointless if not actively suicidal. If your success in purging the nobility of scoundrels is known, perhaps the Throne might direct agents to anonymously report suspicions of further noble criminality to yourself."
The old man hesitates a second then continues "No I retract that. There is too much chance the Duke will simply have you killed. Anonymity must be your first shield against a short sword in the dark."
Once free of the Viscount's ears Hal pipes up with another thought.
"I reckon it'd be worth checkin' if y'r 'informant' actually saw the book. Make it easier a forge. Also, we might be able ta work out who made it."
The viscount ponders the weighty questions of sufficient proof against a royal Duke. "Information passing to the duke's contact would suffice to bring divination magic to bear on him to force the truth out. As you would imagine, such inducements are not brought to bear upon a high noble except in remarkable circumstances. Now it may be difficult to prove what information the Concordat has or fabricate information sufficiently interesting to ensure he would share it. The King would likely need to be brought into the circle as the false information should pass from him to Beaumont."
He smiles wryly at Hal and offers him a fine scone "Good sir, your renewed interest in my safety and security is commendable. I will endeavor not to die."
"Right, lads. I think that we've spent enough time planning." Kazador said. "Come, follow. We go through the sewer escape tunnel and we get a move on." He announced.
The Don shook his head slowly "Been a while since I've been referred to as a 'Lad', but I suspect you are correct. I have some spells that can help with layout, the detection of hidden dangers, and the detection of spells. I can probably even help with toxic gasses. I'm useless in a fight though, so if we run into rats..." he trails off and snaps his fingers.
"Of course! That's what I was missing! We can infiltrate as vermin! I myself could easily dominate the will of a rat, and physical transformation is a definite possibility. Hmm. Possibly a bird instead."
"I could then look for items that match the form of... no, they will have sheeted their safes in lead... unless... unless I cast a spell to detect lead."
Another burst of inspiration "And if I can detect individual servants, then I can craft a spell to duplicate their forms and auras! I could disguise you as you lurk in the sewers, and when you move into the mansion, you will have that most impenetrable of illusions - that of being expected!"
"My lord Viscount, can you see a flaw in my logic? Is there some well known spell that might see through such machinations?"
The viscount nods "This seems a very clever plan and I will pass some notes on it to my head of security after this operation is concluded. You may only wish to ensure it is a very small bird or animal as a tiny one could still trip an alarm spell, which is a common defense."
"How about a thrush?" Melia suggests. "They're quite small. And I saw a bird seller in the market."
"A Thrush is an excellent idea!" Haroldson agrees. "And far less likely to be attacked as vermin. I will, however, be unable to talk or cast spells once in the form. I can perhaps give a few signals; four peeps for come, three peeps for no, two peeps for yes, one peep for flee. For that reason I think that while I could reconnoitre, I will need to enter the sewers with you in a more conventional form. There I will keep an eye out for traps etc, but this will mean I will actually be even less use should it come to a melee."
"I will need perhaps an hour to prepare, so if someone could acquire said thrush during that time it would be helpful. We can rendezvous somewhere near the sewer entrance - perhaps a third person can find us a comfortable spot? From there I will head to the estate, investigate, then return and report - and free the poor bird - and then we can proceed inside. I suggest someone keep an eye on the estate while I do so we have up to date intelligence on who is present. Given thrush habits and eyesight I will need to enter during the day lest I draw suspicion or fall prey to a feline."
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"Sure," Melia says. "I can go buy a thrush."
With the planning reaching a conclusion, Melia makes her way to the marketplace. The bird seller's shop sits off to one side, in the shadow of a taller building. Cages full of birds festoon the outside. Crows and ravens and magpies, vireos and bluebirds and sparrows, finches and chiff chaffs and wrens. An entire cote of doves and pigeons topped the building, its inhabitants lining the eaves and pecking amongst the cobbles. Down near the ground, a series of larger cages held chickens, a pair of small swans and one grumpy-looking turkey. A peacock and peahen wandered freely outside the door, turning beady eyes on passersby and occasionally letting out quavering, mournful calls.
Pushing through the door, Melia finds yet more birds inside. Hundreds of cages line the walls and dangle from the ceiling. Behind the counter, the shopkeep proved to be a large human man, currently fast asleep with a jowly cheek planted against one ham-sized fist. His snores gave a basso profundo counterpoint to the constant chorus of birdsong. Melia hesitated, unsure whether to wake him.
A large black raven perched on the shopkeep's shoulder. It twisted its head back and forth, peering at Melia with beady eyes. After a moment, it flapped its wings and croaked out "Wake up, fatso! Wake up, fatso!"
The man gave a snort and sat up, blinking. "What? Oh! Good morning, miss. How can I be of service?"
"Ah, yes, good morning," Melia says, suppressing a smile. "I'm interested in purchasing a thrush. They sing so beautifully."
"A fine choice, miss!" he says. "Yes, we have thrushes. If it's song you're after you'll want a male. Desrie!"
This last word he hollered at the top of his lungs. Melia jumped slightly.
Hearing a series of swift footfalls, Melia looked around in time to see a young girl -- perhaps eight? -- emerging from a staircase leading upwards. The girl peered curiously at Melia from a pair of mismatched blue-and-green eyes beneath a wild mane of obviously untameable hair. She wore a simple white shift and no shoes. "Yes, Da?" she asked.
"The lady wants a thrush, Desrie. A good singer."
The girl bobbed her head. "Yes, Da," she says. Scampering over to one side of the shop, the girl grabbed a step stool fully three-quarters her own height and hauled it scraping along the floor. Climbing up, she reached up to a cage at the top of the wall. The stool wobbled alarmingly under her feet, and Melia stepped quickly forward to steady it.
"Thanks, lady," Desrie said, reaching up to the cage.
"Wake up, fatso!" the raven put in.
"I'm awake already, I'm awake!" the shopkeep grumbled.
"Does it always say that?" Melia asked.
Desrie giggled. "Ma used to yell that at Da constantly. I was really little but I still remember. It's almost like she's still here."
"Wake up, fatso!" cawed the raven.
On tip-toes, Desrie peered into the cage. She pursed her lips and let out a piercing, burbling whistle. The thrushes within cocked their heads, and then one answered with a liquid trill of its own. Desrie stuck out a finger, and with great dignity the bird stepped forward off its perch.
"Aren't you a handsome bird," Desrie cooed to it as she clambered down the step stool. "Yes, you are." She reached out and picked up a small wicker cage from a pile of identical cages and opened the door. The bird ducked its head as she put it in and settled on the perch.
"There you are, lady," Desrie said. "He'll go with you. They like worms, bugs and snails, especially in the spring, and berries and seed year-round. Keep him warm in the winter. Usually they fly away south for the winter, to the elven lands. Maybe even farther."
Thinking back, Melia did recall seeing thrushes pass through the woods of her youth each fall. But they did not stop in Lywelas. Wherever they went, it was further south than that.
"Can you ... speak with birds?" Melia asked.
"No, not really," Desrie said. "Leastwise, not like people-talk. But we get along." She handed the cage to Melia.
"Thank you, Desrie," the shopkeep said.
Desrie bobbed a quick curtsy. "Bye, lady!" she said. "Take good care of him!" And with that she bounded away back up the stairs to return to whatever she had been doing up there.
Ai, Ostara, Melia thought with a twinge of guilt. I hope this bird survives this mission.
"That'll be a silver for the thrush and two golds for the cage," the shopkeep said.
Melia pulled out the coin. "Plus a silver for good service," she said. "You have quite the daughter."
A look of sadness flickered over the shopkeep's meaty face. "Aye, I do," he said. "Spitting image of her mother, rest her soul."
"I'm sorry for your loss," Melia said, passing over the coins.
"Wake up, fatso!" the raven screeched.
"Hush! We're all done now. Unless there's anything else, miss?"
Melia shook her head. "No, that's all."
"Have a good day then, miss."
"Bye," Melia replied.
As she walked out of the shop, Melia heard a rumbling snore. Glancing back, she found the shopkeep had set his face back on his fist and apparently gone from full consciousness straight to deep sleep without even a moment's pause between. The raven blinked at her.
Bemused, Melia stepped out of the shop to move on with the next part of the plan.