The Pass at Ja'ir, in 'Backwater' Vrashne
The mountail called Ja'ir cast a long and deep shadow even in the early morning hours, and at sunrise the village huddled onto her west flank sat in total darkness while the horizon glowed. As the minutes passed and the day approached, ridges, then the valleys below them would take shape and fill up with daylight; the lay of the Dalibad Ufrit would be revealed, and the copper towers in the little port of Dalibad itself, away to the southwest, would glint in the distance.
Seamus knew exactly how it would all happen, because this was his fifth time watching it. He watched from his small third-story apartment's adobe terrace, nursed a small ornate cup of pungent, thick black coffee, and grumbled over his hangover. The light hurt, but morning was (supposedly) always the time that the Ufar's new adviser came for a visit. He disappeared into the busy, crowded village's narrow streets and did not emerge until noon, whenever it was time for a visit at all, but the Saint Aldwin Order's informant was unable or unwilling to follow the man closely enough to figure out where he went or who he was talking to.
A train whistle sounded in the valley, ringing through the woods and scattering flocks of birds still unused to its shrill. For five days Seamus had also witnessed the railroad making its way from Dalibad up to Ja'ir, the massive mountain whose southern end was the only viable path through the treacherous ranges that stretched into the east. Not many teas and spices came by this road, but instead a number of the resources the surrounding nations needed for their rapid industrialization: wagons and trucks (simple vehicles that closely resembled the old Mack AC's) laden with coal, iron, copper and timber came through the Ja'ir pass to other roads up and down the coast to busier ports, or to the port of Dalibad itself which was also growing, but modestly. By day the village buzzed and rumbled with the traffic, but at this point in the morning most of the departing drivers were still warming their engines and making ready.
All told, the Dalibad Ufrit was solid but humble, important in a minor fashion, and the Ufar was invited to balls and given trade treaties in exchange for the arrangements his predecessors had made long ago, which opened the pass up to relatively unrestricted merchant travel as a means of ending a lengthy and costly war. That the feeble old Ufar had so recently reshuffled his courtiers and advisers, and taken a sudden interest in the new roads and rails that had been snaking their way into and through his small realm for well over a year, did not even constitute a red flag in the Order's opinion; but it warranted investigation all the same.
And so Seamus whiled away his dull nights in the village drinking and sharing wild stories, and his days watching, waiting and recovering. Sooner or later he would see the Ufar's new adviser at long last, witness him going into a brothel to be with his favorite prostitute, and solve the entire mystery. Then he would ride out to Dalibad, take a ship down the coast to Akor, and sail on the Red Jack to Teobern; a fast ride through all the right shortcuts would put him in RhyDin in less than three hours, and then he could see...
"It is most un-like you to be lost in thought, Sir Morvan." Seamus started, squinted, then grinned at his companion for this dull holiday: Javal, kish (a sort of knight) to the Triye (a sort of minor prince) of Dar-El Zjamin, little more than a village in the middle of several tea plantations outside of Akor. Javal's young Triye and Seamus' young Baron proved to have similarly entrepeneurial minds, and a friendship was struck up between them, as well as many of their knights. "But perhaps I am... off of the mark, and perhaps you have lost the last of your thoughts to the liquor."
"Quiet, Javal," said Seamus, still squinting through the morning. "Have some coffee. It's going to be another thrilling day, friend."
"This non-stop action you speak of?" Javal smiled as he sat across the table from Seamus, and poured himself a small cup. He had a funny habit of saying 'non' and 'un' as separate words, and today was a rare event: usually Seamus harassed him for it, quite a lot.
"Something like that." Seamus sighed openly and rubbed at his brow; he could hear his head throbbing, and the little yearning ache he felt for Atalanta's company made matters worse. Falling in love was an inconvenient business, though Seamus admittedly knew very little about it. "What the hell are we doing here, Javal... Not that your company isn't the highlight of every passing moment," and the two shared a grin and a chuckle, "but there's plenty that needs to be done at home."
"Your Baron is concerned," Javal said simply, opening his hands and shrugging very lightly, as if there was no need to question at all. "He is a far-sighted man; he must see a pattern."
"You think our man Obed's up to something here?" Seamus raised an eyebrow, the sharpest expression he felt he could muster at the moment.
"Not at all," Javal answered, chuckling again and shaking his head. "I think that this is... as you say, a very very large waste of time. But foreign powers besides Sinaldwin," meaning Saint Aldwin, "have turned their eyes on Vrashne, and there is a dark pattern emerging even in this," he waved a hand towards a convoy of trucks rattling by to make his point, "rising tide of change, and this is still a, um... a..."
"Lead?"
"Yes, a lead worth investigating."
Seamus made a face, but also a little grunt that translated to conceding Javal's point. "Still. I hope Obed shows up today... Then we can go home."
"You are in love, Seamus," Javal observed, and Seamus blinked at how astute the other man was. "And it can be a dangerous thing. Be careful what you wish for."
* * *
Two hours later the pair had just finished a long breakfast typical of upland Vrashne, about six small plates of food staggered out over time. Javal was hunched over the table, carefully rolling a number of spiced cigarettes, and Seamus was busy puzzling over a newspaper printed in Vra'in (his reading fluency was abysmal), when three knocks came at the terrace door. They moved immediately, Seamus pressed against the wall to one side while Javal carefully opened it.
To one of their hired 'eyes on the street.' There was a brief exchange in Vra'in, too fast for the Newbreton knight to understand, but Javal updated him quickly: "By the old shrine, in the east of town. Do you choose the higher path, my friend?"
Seamus grinned and shook his head, as the informant looked between the two of them, goggle-eyed. "Streets for me. Happy flying, Javal."
Exhaustion and the hangover's lingering pain didn't go away, but Seamus found a place for them, 'off to the side,' as he focused on the environment, his goal, and their changing relationship. Teobern was home to an old martial arts philosophy that had been adopted by the Order, aimed at preparing mentally for 'missions,' akin to transforming the human mind into a sort of computer. Every aspect of himself and his surroundings changed into a factor, each constantly in flux, and diligently he saw to it they added up to his goal.
He scrambled to the edge of the rooftop and waited for a lull in the traffic, but not too long for a complete lull -- a handful of witnesses to a man dropping down to the street from above was not so terrible a risk, weighed against the limited time available to him. He fell to a windowsill, then to empty scaffolding, then to the narrow lane and threw his hood up as he passed into a larger crowd. He moved with the flow of traffic wherever he could, passing people at a brisk walk. When a truck rolled by honking its horn, Seamus fell to one side with the others, then ran lightly between its rear wheel and the buildings.
It turned onto a wider road, Seamus rejoined the crowd, and within two minutes of walking he had spotted three men looking around at least as much as he was. Former soldiers, broad-shouldered, middle-aged and stern-looking, with a dozen people within the loose triangle they formed. Among those was a wealthier man, well-dressed and fitting Obed's description... This would not be easy. Not on his own, in any case.
He passed a man leaning under an eave and flashed him three fingers, then closed his hand. Javal melted into the crowd five seconds after, picking his way over to the largest of Obed's three bodyguards. In a moment there were cries of anger as Javal ran away with the contents of the man's pocket, the crowd parted and watched, and Obed stared after them uneasily. Not enough to postpone his meaning: he shook his head and turned down another narrow street, and Seamus followed him.
Thunder rumbled. A grey blanket rolled over what had been a bright, chilly midmorning, and a thin haze settled over Ja'ir's snowcapped peak. The weather was turning...
* * *
The 'skiba den was not unlike opium dens on many other worlds: a seedy establishment located beneath a warehouse, thick with smoke, and even at this hour of the morning there were addicts sprawled on the plush couches in a narcotic daze. The bartender was too busy preparing his own small dose to give entering customers more than a grunt and a sneer, flatly ignoring drink requests at this time of day, holding out for requests for his 'spices' and business with the 'dancing girls.'
Obed stepped in, with no bells at the heavy wooden door -- undoubtedly meant to keep sound in -- to announce his arrival. He gave the bartender a dismissive wave which was met with a look of recognition and a brief gesture towards the usual table, all of which a fortuitous arrival at the door was quick enough to witness. The well-dressed man took a seat in a large circular booth and lit a strangely aromatic cigar, while the patron who followed him found a corner to slip into an apparent daze, similar to the other customers.
Minutes passed. One of the patrons was pulled to his feet by a woman in a long, sequined skirt, and led by the hand into a back room; Obed watched mutely, stared at the door, and puffed on his cigar. There was nothing else in the room worth paying attention to, nothing more interesting than the muffled thumps and shuffling that came through the locked door. The hazy den continued to be dull and quiet, an immobile place, until a man with mirrored glasses came in.
He was wiry in a way that made him stand much taller than his just shy of six feet, and confidently oblivious to his surroundings except those that concerned or interested him. He felt no need to gauge or analyze the environment the same way most other spies did; he had a very good handle on threats he could and couldn't deal with, and it let him walk through dangerous missions and into secret meetings with blinders on. It was the kind of attitude that drove other operatives up the wall, and he loved that about himself.
The man with mirrored glasses pulled out a chair across the table from Obed -- the open quarter of the booth -- and sat backwards in it. He set his elbows on the table, clasped his hands together, and said, "So let's talk about your Ufar's new direction, and what I can do to show you the way."
* * *
"I couldn't get close enough."
Javal poured two small measures of a clear liqueur, while Seamus stretched in his cushioned chair and sighed, hands folded behind his neck, kneading himself with his thumbs. "This, ah... jamming, as you say?"
"Yeah." He took his drink. Their apartment was quiet: snow was coming down, the sky was dark, and most had taken shelter indoors and hunkered down for the storm's duration. "I don't know what he was doing there..."
Javal leaned forward, intrigued, frowning: "This cannot be any great surprise, that Obed was meeting with a foreigner." He sipped his drink, then pointed. "You know, he may be foreign himself..."
"Mm." Seamus shook his head. "No -- I mean, maybe, but that's not what has me concerned... I know that man. I've seen him. Even worked with him, so to speak." Javal's face grew quiet. "Alexander Shade, grandnephew of the founder of Shade Inc., a private military company we try to keep at a distance."
"The type that... designs diseases, builds and sells very large bombs, arms two armies against one another..."
Seamus grinned and gave a short, humorless huff of a laugh. "You've got the rub of it. He worked with SPI and the company's Security Division for about a year, and stopped nearly a year ago. He was taking too many long vacations overseas, if you get my meaning... He'd given us the surname 'Tallorin,' and we suspected it was fake, but..." The knight peered across the room at Javal. "Y'see, that's standard practice for a lot of the people I've got to work with. Lots of them go on the run or into hiding at some point in their lives..." He shrugged. "But when we found out it was Shade, we tried to find him and confront him... and he'd caught wind of it somehow and disappeared. Never let him into any of SPI's sensitive contracts from what I'm told, but he's spent enough time around us to be an expert on our modus operandi."
"Then whoever has introduced him into this equation," Javal said slowly, "has an idea that your people may interfere in Dalibad. Or... perhaps they may have designs on threatening your interests here."
"And we've got a few," Seamus admitted, "starting with the pass and the railroads. Iron and timber through the pass to build the rails, rails to increase trade, distribute finished goods..."
"...and so on, and so forth, to increase the pace of, ah... industrialization."
The Newbreton knight shook his head. "We can't assume they're after us, specifically, but that they're expecting us seems... likely. Like it fits, anyway." He pinched the back of his neck again. "This isn't my field. Collecting puzzle pieces, sure... not putting them together. I'm not that man. We need to get this to our analysts... and to DeMuer."
"And with your leave," Javal said, though it was merely a formality as he would do this with or without Seamus' permission, "I will bring the information to my lord's spymaster. I can imagine he will be -- "
Whatever Javal was imagining, it was left unsaid; a sharp series of knocks came at the door, and Javal sprung across the room to open it. It was not one of their informants this time, but a messenger Seamus had seen before on other assignments with his Vrashne counterpart. He was very out of breath, and barely managed a bow as he stuffed a scroll tied with a black ribbon into Javal's hands, then stumbled off for a glass of water. Seamus read the signs and anticipated the news correctly: as he began to collect his things, Javal spoke again.
"...It appears that you and I are to be, ah... 'wanted men,' very soon. This was issued in Dalibad only two hours ago, orders to jail any foreigners outside of this list of nations -- and neither of our mother countries have made the cut, I am afraid -- who are not present on explicitly Ufrit-approved diplomatic or mercantile business. And those are to be 'removed from the Most Perfect Ufrit of Dalibad immediately,' upon concerns over foreign spies, save for some who may have 'letters of special exception.' " Javal folded up the letter and pocketed it, then clasped his hands together. "Something is indeed happening, Sir Morvan, and I regret that we have spent this time so idle and inattentive, relatively. I... hope it will not prove costly. We should leave at once," he added, and tossed keys across the room to Seamus. "Take the motorcycle, and make for a southern port before news reaches there, too, or the southern border if you have no other option."
Seamus stared for a moment, hesitating: "You'll be...?"
"I shall be fine, Seamus," Javal reassured him. "I may blend in a little on my way out, but you... will not do so as easily. We will see one another in Akor in two weeks, if we both survive. Godspeed."
* * *
The following morning, as the Red Jack chugged its way out of Akor's busy port, Seamus stared despondently over the railing at the retreating city. Under most circumstances he would be happy to be leaving for RhyDin so much sooner than he expected... but not under these. He would be lucky to see Atalanta at all... Politics were not among the knight's wide range of skills, but he had lurked over the Baron's shoulder at enough functions to know that this was more than a minor diplomatic faux pas, far more than a gaffe. These were the rumblings that alluded to war, and while the course was not yet set in stone, the Barony of Sinaldwin would be hard pressed to avert it. "...And who'd want to bring a war to Dalibad?"
He muttered the question into the air, but the wind gave no useful answer. Whenever he tried to imagine who would instigate this level of sabotage, all that came to him was an image of its depraved courier, the man they called the Butcher of Singra: Alexander Shade.
(Cross-posted from here.)
The mountail called Ja'ir cast a long and deep shadow even in the early morning hours, and at sunrise the village huddled onto her west flank sat in total darkness while the horizon glowed. As the minutes passed and the day approached, ridges, then the valleys below them would take shape and fill up with daylight; the lay of the Dalibad Ufrit would be revealed, and the copper towers in the little port of Dalibad itself, away to the southwest, would glint in the distance.
Seamus knew exactly how it would all happen, because this was his fifth time watching it. He watched from his small third-story apartment's adobe terrace, nursed a small ornate cup of pungent, thick black coffee, and grumbled over his hangover. The light hurt, but morning was (supposedly) always the time that the Ufar's new adviser came for a visit. He disappeared into the busy, crowded village's narrow streets and did not emerge until noon, whenever it was time for a visit at all, but the Saint Aldwin Order's informant was unable or unwilling to follow the man closely enough to figure out where he went or who he was talking to.
A train whistle sounded in the valley, ringing through the woods and scattering flocks of birds still unused to its shrill. For five days Seamus had also witnessed the railroad making its way from Dalibad up to Ja'ir, the massive mountain whose southern end was the only viable path through the treacherous ranges that stretched into the east. Not many teas and spices came by this road, but instead a number of the resources the surrounding nations needed for their rapid industrialization: wagons and trucks (simple vehicles that closely resembled the old Mack AC's) laden with coal, iron, copper and timber came through the Ja'ir pass to other roads up and down the coast to busier ports, or to the port of Dalibad itself which was also growing, but modestly. By day the village buzzed and rumbled with the traffic, but at this point in the morning most of the departing drivers were still warming their engines and making ready.
All told, the Dalibad Ufrit was solid but humble, important in a minor fashion, and the Ufar was invited to balls and given trade treaties in exchange for the arrangements his predecessors had made long ago, which opened the pass up to relatively unrestricted merchant travel as a means of ending a lengthy and costly war. That the feeble old Ufar had so recently reshuffled his courtiers and advisers, and taken a sudden interest in the new roads and rails that had been snaking their way into and through his small realm for well over a year, did not even constitute a red flag in the Order's opinion; but it warranted investigation all the same.
And so Seamus whiled away his dull nights in the village drinking and sharing wild stories, and his days watching, waiting and recovering. Sooner or later he would see the Ufar's new adviser at long last, witness him going into a brothel to be with his favorite prostitute, and solve the entire mystery. Then he would ride out to Dalibad, take a ship down the coast to Akor, and sail on the Red Jack to Teobern; a fast ride through all the right shortcuts would put him in RhyDin in less than three hours, and then he could see...
"It is most un-like you to be lost in thought, Sir Morvan." Seamus started, squinted, then grinned at his companion for this dull holiday: Javal, kish (a sort of knight) to the Triye (a sort of minor prince) of Dar-El Zjamin, little more than a village in the middle of several tea plantations outside of Akor. Javal's young Triye and Seamus' young Baron proved to have similarly entrepeneurial minds, and a friendship was struck up between them, as well as many of their knights. "But perhaps I am... off of the mark, and perhaps you have lost the last of your thoughts to the liquor."
"Quiet, Javal," said Seamus, still squinting through the morning. "Have some coffee. It's going to be another thrilling day, friend."
"This non-stop action you speak of?" Javal smiled as he sat across the table from Seamus, and poured himself a small cup. He had a funny habit of saying 'non' and 'un' as separate words, and today was a rare event: usually Seamus harassed him for it, quite a lot.
"Something like that." Seamus sighed openly and rubbed at his brow; he could hear his head throbbing, and the little yearning ache he felt for Atalanta's company made matters worse. Falling in love was an inconvenient business, though Seamus admittedly knew very little about it. "What the hell are we doing here, Javal... Not that your company isn't the highlight of every passing moment," and the two shared a grin and a chuckle, "but there's plenty that needs to be done at home."
"Your Baron is concerned," Javal said simply, opening his hands and shrugging very lightly, as if there was no need to question at all. "He is a far-sighted man; he must see a pattern."
"You think our man Obed's up to something here?" Seamus raised an eyebrow, the sharpest expression he felt he could muster at the moment.
"Not at all," Javal answered, chuckling again and shaking his head. "I think that this is... as you say, a very very large waste of time. But foreign powers besides Sinaldwin," meaning Saint Aldwin, "have turned their eyes on Vrashne, and there is a dark pattern emerging even in this," he waved a hand towards a convoy of trucks rattling by to make his point, "rising tide of change, and this is still a, um... a..."
"Lead?"
"Yes, a lead worth investigating."
Seamus made a face, but also a little grunt that translated to conceding Javal's point. "Still. I hope Obed shows up today... Then we can go home."
"You are in love, Seamus," Javal observed, and Seamus blinked at how astute the other man was. "And it can be a dangerous thing. Be careful what you wish for."
* * *
Two hours later the pair had just finished a long breakfast typical of upland Vrashne, about six small plates of food staggered out over time. Javal was hunched over the table, carefully rolling a number of spiced cigarettes, and Seamus was busy puzzling over a newspaper printed in Vra'in (his reading fluency was abysmal), when three knocks came at the terrace door. They moved immediately, Seamus pressed against the wall to one side while Javal carefully opened it.
To one of their hired 'eyes on the street.' There was a brief exchange in Vra'in, too fast for the Newbreton knight to understand, but Javal updated him quickly: "By the old shrine, in the east of town. Do you choose the higher path, my friend?"
Seamus grinned and shook his head, as the informant looked between the two of them, goggle-eyed. "Streets for me. Happy flying, Javal."
Exhaustion and the hangover's lingering pain didn't go away, but Seamus found a place for them, 'off to the side,' as he focused on the environment, his goal, and their changing relationship. Teobern was home to an old martial arts philosophy that had been adopted by the Order, aimed at preparing mentally for 'missions,' akin to transforming the human mind into a sort of computer. Every aspect of himself and his surroundings changed into a factor, each constantly in flux, and diligently he saw to it they added up to his goal.
He scrambled to the edge of the rooftop and waited for a lull in the traffic, but not too long for a complete lull -- a handful of witnesses to a man dropping down to the street from above was not so terrible a risk, weighed against the limited time available to him. He fell to a windowsill, then to empty scaffolding, then to the narrow lane and threw his hood up as he passed into a larger crowd. He moved with the flow of traffic wherever he could, passing people at a brisk walk. When a truck rolled by honking its horn, Seamus fell to one side with the others, then ran lightly between its rear wheel and the buildings.
It turned onto a wider road, Seamus rejoined the crowd, and within two minutes of walking he had spotted three men looking around at least as much as he was. Former soldiers, broad-shouldered, middle-aged and stern-looking, with a dozen people within the loose triangle they formed. Among those was a wealthier man, well-dressed and fitting Obed's description... This would not be easy. Not on his own, in any case.
He passed a man leaning under an eave and flashed him three fingers, then closed his hand. Javal melted into the crowd five seconds after, picking his way over to the largest of Obed's three bodyguards. In a moment there were cries of anger as Javal ran away with the contents of the man's pocket, the crowd parted and watched, and Obed stared after them uneasily. Not enough to postpone his meaning: he shook his head and turned down another narrow street, and Seamus followed him.
Thunder rumbled. A grey blanket rolled over what had been a bright, chilly midmorning, and a thin haze settled over Ja'ir's snowcapped peak. The weather was turning...
* * *
The 'skiba den was not unlike opium dens on many other worlds: a seedy establishment located beneath a warehouse, thick with smoke, and even at this hour of the morning there were addicts sprawled on the plush couches in a narcotic daze. The bartender was too busy preparing his own small dose to give entering customers more than a grunt and a sneer, flatly ignoring drink requests at this time of day, holding out for requests for his 'spices' and business with the 'dancing girls.'
Obed stepped in, with no bells at the heavy wooden door -- undoubtedly meant to keep sound in -- to announce his arrival. He gave the bartender a dismissive wave which was met with a look of recognition and a brief gesture towards the usual table, all of which a fortuitous arrival at the door was quick enough to witness. The well-dressed man took a seat in a large circular booth and lit a strangely aromatic cigar, while the patron who followed him found a corner to slip into an apparent daze, similar to the other customers.
Minutes passed. One of the patrons was pulled to his feet by a woman in a long, sequined skirt, and led by the hand into a back room; Obed watched mutely, stared at the door, and puffed on his cigar. There was nothing else in the room worth paying attention to, nothing more interesting than the muffled thumps and shuffling that came through the locked door. The hazy den continued to be dull and quiet, an immobile place, until a man with mirrored glasses came in.
He was wiry in a way that made him stand much taller than his just shy of six feet, and confidently oblivious to his surroundings except those that concerned or interested him. He felt no need to gauge or analyze the environment the same way most other spies did; he had a very good handle on threats he could and couldn't deal with, and it let him walk through dangerous missions and into secret meetings with blinders on. It was the kind of attitude that drove other operatives up the wall, and he loved that about himself.
The man with mirrored glasses pulled out a chair across the table from Obed -- the open quarter of the booth -- and sat backwards in it. He set his elbows on the table, clasped his hands together, and said, "So let's talk about your Ufar's new direction, and what I can do to show you the way."
* * *
"I couldn't get close enough."
Javal poured two small measures of a clear liqueur, while Seamus stretched in his cushioned chair and sighed, hands folded behind his neck, kneading himself with his thumbs. "This, ah... jamming, as you say?"
"Yeah." He took his drink. Their apartment was quiet: snow was coming down, the sky was dark, and most had taken shelter indoors and hunkered down for the storm's duration. "I don't know what he was doing there..."
Javal leaned forward, intrigued, frowning: "This cannot be any great surprise, that Obed was meeting with a foreigner." He sipped his drink, then pointed. "You know, he may be foreign himself..."
"Mm." Seamus shook his head. "No -- I mean, maybe, but that's not what has me concerned... I know that man. I've seen him. Even worked with him, so to speak." Javal's face grew quiet. "Alexander Shade, grandnephew of the founder of Shade Inc., a private military company we try to keep at a distance."
"The type that... designs diseases, builds and sells very large bombs, arms two armies against one another..."
Seamus grinned and gave a short, humorless huff of a laugh. "You've got the rub of it. He worked with SPI and the company's Security Division for about a year, and stopped nearly a year ago. He was taking too many long vacations overseas, if you get my meaning... He'd given us the surname 'Tallorin,' and we suspected it was fake, but..." The knight peered across the room at Javal. "Y'see, that's standard practice for a lot of the people I've got to work with. Lots of them go on the run or into hiding at some point in their lives..." He shrugged. "But when we found out it was Shade, we tried to find him and confront him... and he'd caught wind of it somehow and disappeared. Never let him into any of SPI's sensitive contracts from what I'm told, but he's spent enough time around us to be an expert on our modus operandi."
"Then whoever has introduced him into this equation," Javal said slowly, "has an idea that your people may interfere in Dalibad. Or... perhaps they may have designs on threatening your interests here."
"And we've got a few," Seamus admitted, "starting with the pass and the railroads. Iron and timber through the pass to build the rails, rails to increase trade, distribute finished goods..."
"...and so on, and so forth, to increase the pace of, ah... industrialization."
The Newbreton knight shook his head. "We can't assume they're after us, specifically, but that they're expecting us seems... likely. Like it fits, anyway." He pinched the back of his neck again. "This isn't my field. Collecting puzzle pieces, sure... not putting them together. I'm not that man. We need to get this to our analysts... and to DeMuer."
"And with your leave," Javal said, though it was merely a formality as he would do this with or without Seamus' permission, "I will bring the information to my lord's spymaster. I can imagine he will be -- "
Whatever Javal was imagining, it was left unsaid; a sharp series of knocks came at the door, and Javal sprung across the room to open it. It was not one of their informants this time, but a messenger Seamus had seen before on other assignments with his Vrashne counterpart. He was very out of breath, and barely managed a bow as he stuffed a scroll tied with a black ribbon into Javal's hands, then stumbled off for a glass of water. Seamus read the signs and anticipated the news correctly: as he began to collect his things, Javal spoke again.
"...It appears that you and I are to be, ah... 'wanted men,' very soon. This was issued in Dalibad only two hours ago, orders to jail any foreigners outside of this list of nations -- and neither of our mother countries have made the cut, I am afraid -- who are not present on explicitly Ufrit-approved diplomatic or mercantile business. And those are to be 'removed from the Most Perfect Ufrit of Dalibad immediately,' upon concerns over foreign spies, save for some who may have 'letters of special exception.' " Javal folded up the letter and pocketed it, then clasped his hands together. "Something is indeed happening, Sir Morvan, and I regret that we have spent this time so idle and inattentive, relatively. I... hope it will not prove costly. We should leave at once," he added, and tossed keys across the room to Seamus. "Take the motorcycle, and make for a southern port before news reaches there, too, or the southern border if you have no other option."
Seamus stared for a moment, hesitating: "You'll be...?"
"I shall be fine, Seamus," Javal reassured him. "I may blend in a little on my way out, but you... will not do so as easily. We will see one another in Akor in two weeks, if we both survive. Godspeed."
* * *
The following morning, as the Red Jack chugged its way out of Akor's busy port, Seamus stared despondently over the railing at the retreating city. Under most circumstances he would be happy to be leaving for RhyDin so much sooner than he expected... but not under these. He would be lucky to see Atalanta at all... Politics were not among the knight's wide range of skills, but he had lurked over the Baron's shoulder at enough functions to know that this was more than a minor diplomatic faux pas, far more than a gaffe. These were the rumblings that alluded to war, and while the course was not yet set in stone, the Barony of Sinaldwin would be hard pressed to avert it. "...And who'd want to bring a war to Dalibad?"
He muttered the question into the air, but the wind gave no useful answer. Whenever he tried to imagine who would instigate this level of sabotage, all that came to him was an image of its depraved courier, the man they called the Butcher of Singra: Alexander Shade.
(Cross-posted from here.)