A Traditional Sort of Man

            Tarson had settled down a bit, now that they were back on Retron soil. Nascine imagined that he would be a little less eager, a little less ambitious now, having seen how bad a Rookery Expedition could go. She still could not understand why they had sent such a novice with her, and she could still not get herself to think of him by his real name, which was Chris Thatch.

            Valerie Justinian had evaporated the moment they left Narcia. Nascine had taken on a few aliases in her years with the Rookery, and so the practice of shedding identities as a snake sheds its skin was second-nature.

            The Rookery was a large enough organization that it was not that strange she had not seen

            Thatch – his name is Thatch.

him before their mission. She had told him the basics of the note that Yasik had left her back in Omlos – that he had double-crossed them, stealing Jaroka for himself. She had not yet told him to be on the lookout for a House Agent.

            In that sense, she envied him. Yasik’s note had been a dead weight around her neck since she had read it.

            Nascine had put together a map of the Rookery’s organization, to the extent that she knew. Queen Elona had provided a little extra information, explaining a few things Nascine had always wondered about. For starters, she had never realized quite how many people worked directly under the Lord or Lady Crow. Systematically, she would work her way from the top to the bottom. Elona herself had vouched for the trustworthiness of Lady Crow – Nascine supposed such a job would require the most stringent of screenings. That put Renford Harren as the first person to clear.

            Harren was a wiry man, tall and thin, with black hair that was salted with strands of white and skin like beaten leather. He looked the part of a thief, which, Nascine supposed, was intentional.

            Harren did not much leave the country these days, except to occasionally visit Entraht to take part in the annual Public Theft. The Public Theft was a tradition dating back centuries as a celebration of Narcian-Retron relations. The Thiefmaster of the Rookery would come to “steal” a tribute from the Narcians, who offered it as a show of friendship. It was strange enough for the Retrons, and Nascine imagined the Narcians found it even more bizarre, but tradition was tradition.

            And Harren was a traditional sort of man. Married for twenty-five years, with teenaged children. Nascine, even in her line of work, had always considered the Agents of the House to be something quite different than that. She imagined them as lonely individuals, with nothing to tie them down, nothing to lose should they have to break off and disappear. She had never thought of them as being real people, with real lives.

            The problem was that up until her conversation with Yasik, she had been on the side of those who considered the House to be a myth, or at best a minor, distant historical entity who had achieved legendary status through the feedback loop of popular imagination.

            It would not be an easy thing to speak to Harren directly. Nascine was a veteran thief, certainly, but that hardly put her on a first name basis with the head of the Rookery.

            Harren was not first on the list, though. Elona had told her to look into Tartin. Nascine could not believe that Tartin was an Agent. After the Offices, she knew he was exposed. She had seen him at his weakest and most vulnerable.

            It was raining when Nascine knocked on Tartin’s door. She waited for a while, thinking she should have called when she was getting near, but soon the door opened.

            “Emily, come in,” said Natalie. “And do take off that jacket before you get the carpet all wet.” Tartin and Natalie had been together for many years now. She was about his age, and worked one of those important-sounding jobs for a manufacturing firm. Tartin could have lived well enough with his salary, but Natalie provided the two of them with a degree of luxury, albeit with a tasteful sense of restraint.

            “It’s been far too long,” said Nascine. Natalie led her into a sort of front living room that overlooked the street. This was one of a number of venues for entertaining guests, and had great bay windows to allow as much sun in as possible.

            “Emily, I’m brewing a new tea I picked up at the market earlier. Would you… what am I thinking? Of course you’d like a cup. I’ll fetch one.” She stole back into the kitchen. Nascine looked around the room in the meantime. There were a few new features – a grandfather clock, set against the wall opposite the windows, and a mounted set of stag’s antlers. Nascine wondered what Rosanna Jaroka would think of that particular piece of décor. Natalie had a house out in the country as well, but she did not skimp on the decorations here. She did not like to flaunt it, but it was not hard to tell that she was of aristocratic stock. Natalie came back in with a steaming cup.

            “How is your work, Emily?”

            Nascine accepted the cup, sipping a little. “Fine. Gil is out?”

            Natalie nodded, sitting in a comfortable chair. “Yes. Wandering, as I like to say.”

            Nascine sat on the sofa. “Whereabouts?” she asked, attempting to make it seem as innocent as she could.

            “You know, I think he sometimes goes to the Finger’s Market. He says he likes to see all the fresh fish.”

            “It’s a charming enough part of town,” said Nascine. That was where she would track him. It would, of course, be quite difficult to follow a friend as old as Gilbert Tartin without being noticed, but Elona told her to start with him, and at the very least she would do her due diligence before moving on to Harren.

            It was early morning now, and the fog was thick, making everything seem to dissolve into the distance. Nascine had learned at a very young age that fog was a friend. Not only did it obscure, but it could also dull and flatten what fell in a person’s field of vision.

            She had climbed up the old Harley’s Electric building, which still bore its sign, though the paint had faded and so the sign was textured with the underlying bricks. From the rooftop, it was quite easy to see the entire market.

            Tartin was right there, walking with purpose toward a store called “Thompson & Son’s Salvage and Tinker.” When he reached the door, he clearly had found it locked, shaking the handle in frustration.

            Tartin moved around the store, eventually walking down into an alleyway where Nascine could not see him. She peered around the building, trying to see if there was an angle at which she could see him. Suddenly, he was there on the roof, pulling himself over the ledge.

            Nascine ducked down, allowing the ledge of her own roof to obscure her.

            The man has not lost his touch, she thought. He may have scaled his building faster than she had hers.

            Tartin leaned over the ledge facing the alleyway and dexterously reached down to the window below. Nascine watched in admiration as her former mentor pried the window open and swung down from the ledge and into the building. It was only after he had gone out of view that she thought to be concerned about just what he was doing in there.

            “Emily Nascine, I presume?” came a voice behind her.

            Nascine spun around, looking up at the wiry man standing in front of her.

            “Mr. Harren… I…”

            “You were watching our dear Gilbert. I must say, the man may have put on some weight, but he is still an exemplary thief.”

            Harren was wearing a simple grey jumper and loose, comfortable-looking trousers.

            “Sir, what are you…?”

            “Doing here? I was looking for you.”

            “I… I was…” she considered pretending she was simply practicing, keeping her skills sharp, but she was too shocked to come up with the right words.

            “It’s all right. I know why you’re here. And I know that Queen Elona was the one to send you.”

            Harren looked down at her. She realized now that he did not blink. “Sir, the Queen?”

            “I know, Nascine. And I know about the House mole. We can talk about it.”

            “The Queen told you?”

            Harren gave a strange half-smile. “No.”

            Nascine looked Harren over, attempting to assess if he had any weapons, but it seemed he was unarmed. “Why are you here, Mr. Harren?”

            “Because I need your help, Emily. You’re the only one I can trust.”

            “I’ve never met you before.”

            Harren smiled – again, only halfway, as if it was painful to do so. “Yes.”

            “What is it you need me to do?”

            Harren crouched down and looked directly into Nascine’s eyes. “I need you to help me expose Elona as an Agent of the House.”

(Copyright Daniel Szolovits 2013)