It took longer than the Baron had planned, and the same could be said for his financial adviser Ms. Okwete; she had brokered lucrative deals over her home city's oil assets in the midst of rising political turmoil, yet the levels of tension at DeMuer's properties and among his people in the last two weeks was more overwhelming than any she had experienced before. "Hasn't been like this since they got to Miss Jefferies," one of the S.P.I. veterans had observed (unfortunately in the company of an undercover journalist) earlier that week. Mr. Howe's assassins had resurfaced at the same time that DeMuer's principal arcane engineer, a man who was supposed to be 'exiled,' was running for governor.
Master Greyshott's defeat at the polls had afforded them one little gulp of air, and in the following days S.P.I., the Order, and everything else that could be considered 'security' settled into a more organized pattern. Things were far from normal, but normal enough at last for the Baron to venture out and investigate an investment opportunity.
He enjoyed the final two blocks of his walk in his old stomping ground of WestEnd, the only stretch where he was not accompanied by his Aurk bodyguard Jack; even Sir Malcolm, who had been following them at a distance, had not been noticed in Alain's peripherals for several minutes. The solitude afforded him some personal quiet and a chance to listen to everyone else's noise for a change as an outside observer: a busker playing the fiddle on an abandoned stoop to the arrhythmic clapping of a small crowd; a shrill Watch whistle among shouting and, oddly enough, laughter; someone crying, and someone's mother crooning.
It made him miss his old desk at S.P.I. in Province Plaza. Noise had seeped in through the windows as if they had always been wide open (they weren't ever, because of the neighborhood's smells), and for a moment he missed the way it used to drive him insane when he was trying to work.
He shrugged out of his jacket and hoisted it over his shoulder for the final stretch, taking in the artsy building before him. Habitually he checked the surrounding windows, but also the design that characterized the oddly Eastern edifice -- RhyDin could be overwhelmingly Western, sometimes. He pinched his cigarette out between his fingers and scattered its remains over the cobblestones, then stepped inside.
"Good morning," he said to the receptionist with an easy grin, even as his gaze methodically sized her up. "Alain DeMuer, here to see Ms. Shantalaine." Over her shoulder he noticed what looked like a dance studio, and further down what might have been the realtor's office; it was only a moment of observation, and he added with another smile to the receptionist, "Thank you."
Master Greyshott's defeat at the polls had afforded them one little gulp of air, and in the following days S.P.I., the Order, and everything else that could be considered 'security' settled into a more organized pattern. Things were far from normal, but normal enough at last for the Baron to venture out and investigate an investment opportunity.
He enjoyed the final two blocks of his walk in his old stomping ground of WestEnd, the only stretch where he was not accompanied by his Aurk bodyguard Jack; even Sir Malcolm, who had been following them at a distance, had not been noticed in Alain's peripherals for several minutes. The solitude afforded him some personal quiet and a chance to listen to everyone else's noise for a change as an outside observer: a busker playing the fiddle on an abandoned stoop to the arrhythmic clapping of a small crowd; a shrill Watch whistle among shouting and, oddly enough, laughter; someone crying, and someone's mother crooning.
It made him miss his old desk at S.P.I. in Province Plaza. Noise had seeped in through the windows as if they had always been wide open (they weren't ever, because of the neighborhood's smells), and for a moment he missed the way it used to drive him insane when he was trying to work.
He shrugged out of his jacket and hoisted it over his shoulder for the final stretch, taking in the artsy building before him. Habitually he checked the surrounding windows, but also the design that characterized the oddly Eastern edifice -- RhyDin could be overwhelmingly Western, sometimes. He pinched his cigarette out between his fingers and scattered its remains over the cobblestones, then stepped inside.
"Good morning," he said to the receptionist with an easy grin, even as his gaze methodically sized her up. "Alain DeMuer, here to see Ms. Shantalaine." Over her shoulder he noticed what looked like a dance studio, and further down what might have been the realtor's office; it was only a moment of observation, and he added with another smile to the receptionist, "Thank you."