“I see. You’re
saying we should have done this ‘in-House’ the first time.”
Barclay
nodded, puffing on a blackroot cigarette. “The last one was a disaster.”
“You think
that the other side was involved?”
Barclay
took Mr. Bramble aside, to a corner of the apartment where Bramble’s subordinates
were standing. “How well have you vetted them?”
Bramble
glanced back at them. “They’ve all been with me at least four years. I recruited
each of them myself.”
“That means
very little to me, Brambles.”
Mr.
Brambles took a step back. Barclay respected Mr. Brambles – he had been loyal
for nearly thirty years now, and had acted like a real Agent would when the schism
began to break out. He went underground, sent out feelers, and behaved in a
rational manner – suspicious, cautious, and self-interested. There were no
declarations of loyalty, no passionate appeals to camaraderie. Nothing to
suggest that he was trying to prove himself more trustworthy than he was.
But at the
same time, Mr. Brambles had been in long enough that he thought himself Barclay’s
equal, and just as smart. Barclay certainly tried never to overestimate his own
intelligence. Indeed, he even sometimes wondered if the errors he made – like when
he had allowed that woman in Jack Milton’s bed to survive – were some subconscious
desire to remain humble. The Milton affair yielded nothing – they hadn’t
learned anything new about June Greene or her companions. And they had lost
Milton and now, the story went, Milton had discovered some ability to destroy
the faceless men.
“Remember,
Mr. Brambles, that our enemy is identical to us in most ways. The moment we
allow ourselves to think we have outmaneuvered them is the moment they gain the
advantage.”
“You really
are as paranoid as they say,” said Brambles.
“Just
because you’re paranoid don’t mean they’re not after you,” said Barclay.
“What’s
that from?”
Barclay
shook his head. “Not important.”
Mr.
Brambles shrugged. “So why the crappy suit?” The one they had selected for the
interrogations was sitting in a garment bag, hung over the back of a chair.
Barclay had
to hold back a sigh. He missed the days when Mr. Brambles didn’t try to understand
the underlying meaning of his orders. Again, Brambles felt he was one of the
elite. Barclay never entertained such delusions. “Patterns have meaning. We don’t
always see each iteration of the pattern, but the pattern holds power
nonetheless.”
“So the
last guy wore something like this?”
“He wore
that one, actually. We had to clean his blood off of it.”
Brambles
frowned in disgust. “Similar build to me?”
“We had it
tailored as well.”
“Well,
pardon me if I find it a little discomforting to wear a dead man’s suit and do
his job in the same place he got his throat sliced out.”
“Ok, I
pardon you. But you still have to do it.”
“And what
about this guy? Four Eyes? What do we want to get out of him?”
“I’ll let
you know when you find it.”
This time,
Mr. Brambles accepted it like a good House Agent.
There was
no ashtray in the apartment – it was enough of a luxury for them to get the
ratty old couch for Brambles’ team to sit on. All in all, Barclay wasn’t too
concerned about their loyalty. The faceless man in the corner of the room that
only he could see would ensure that.
“Do you
know what time it is?” asked the man James Tarson thought of a Mr. Cheap, and
who went by the codename Mr. Brambles, but was born with the name Clifford H.
Anvar.
Tarson
leaned against the glass wall that separated them, and from Mr. Cheap’s point
of view, his voice was distorted through the crappy intercom system that
allowed communication from his cell. “No.”
“Good,”
said Mr. Cheap, and he made note of it in his book. “Please answer the
following questions. Do you believe that you can trust the reality you see?”
“I don’t
know.”
“When were
you recruited for the House?”
“Nine years
ago, in Reben.”
“How old
were you when you were recruited?”
“Uh… it was
spring so I was twenty-three.”
“And what
Agent recruited you?”
“Six Coins.”
“Do you
know what Six Coins’ real name was?”
“Sir
Roderick Candel, RAS.”
“Where is
he now?”
“Buried, I assume.
He’s dead.”
“Tell me if
you have heard of the following people. Henry Thall.”
“No.”
“Jack
Milton.”
“No.”
“Jeremy
Ford?”
“No… wait,
yes. He’s an assassin based in Wolfsmouth.”
“Do you
know that he was the one who killed Six Coins?”
Tarson
stepped back. “No.”
“You might
take some satisfaction in knowing that he also perished in the attack.”
“Not
really.”
“More
names. Rosanna Jaroka.”
“Yes.”
“Can you
tell us who she is?”
“Stag’s
Head terrorist. Hired killer.”
“And where she
is?”
“The Narcians
got her. That’s what I know.”
“Sky Dawson.”
“No.”
“June
Greene.”
“No.”
“Tarra Woods.”
“No.”
“Eclerion,
formerly known as James Arden.”
“No… is
that…?”
Mr. Cheap
looked up. “Yes?”
“No, never mind.”
Mr. Cheap
closed his book. “You were fairly well-connected in the House, were you not?”
“I suppose
you could say that.”
“When did
you become aware of the schism?”
“Later than
I would have liked.”
“Do you
know the Diplomat?”
Tarson
sighed. “Not personally. I’ve heard of him.”
“That puts
you in quite the privileged position. You know, as envisioned, any Agent of the
House is not meant to be aware of anyone except their direct superiors and subordinates,
and to be ignorant of their placement within the ultimate hierarchy of its
agents.”
“Yet here you
are. I’m assuming we’re both Agents?”
Mr. Cheap
nodded with a smile. “Colleagues and co-workers, my friend.”
“Are you
recruiting me?”
At this,
Mr. Cheap’s smile mutated from a warm one into a patronizingly mournful one. “I’m
afraid not.” Cheap set aside his book altogether and leaned forward. “One last
name. And I know you know who it is. I want to hear your opinion on him.”
“Ok?”
“Renford
Harren.”
Renford
Harren was the Thiefmaster of the Rookery – publicly, that made him the leader
of the entire organization, though in fact, there was a true leader given the
style of Lord or Lady Crow, to whom Harren reported.
Their
meetings were sporadic, but always planned in advance. Harren was a public
figure and thus could not always be sure that ordinary people would not notice
him, so despite the complications that it entailed, their meetings would often
take place within the Rookery building itself, or perhaps more accurately,
beneath it.
All these
passages had been walked by the Queen, which troubled him. Yes, Tarson had been
captured – privately he resented that they had chosen that as his designation,
but it had stuck. The previous meeting with Lady Crow had predated that
capture, and so Harren had been looking forward to this meeting with many questions
rattling in his head.
“Sir, this
way,” said the pleasant young man who worked in the nondescript office at the
end of the eastern hall on the 24th floor. He welcomed the
Thiefmaster into the office, closed the door, and the two of them began the
sweep, searching for any sort of listening devices or hidden cameras.
“You good,
Johnson?” said Harren once he had completed his sweep.
Johnson
held up a finger. “One moment, just another drawer.” He removed the last drawer
form his filing cabinet and shined his pocket-torch into the hole, then ran his
fingers along the drawer’s rails. “Yes sir, I believe I am clear.”
“Same. Let
us proceed.”
Johnson
reached behind the cabinet and tripped the latch, which allowed the door hidden
behind it to swing open. “Good to see you, Thiefmaster,” he said, and Harren
walked in.
The descent
was down a tunnel of black brick. There was no light, but he easily navigated it
by touch and memory. A Thiefmaster who was unable to climb down such a shaft
had little business in that position, or so the logic went.
Still,
there was little opportunity to rebuild the passages with new traps and
enigmas, and so he swiftly manipulated the levers and hidden switches and
buttons that were needed to cross the labyrinth that sat below the Rookery. He
found it all a bit theatrical, but if Lady Crow’s suspicions were correct, the
Queen may have inherited this obsessive obfuscation from her true benefactors.
At the
center of the labyrinth was a cell that looked more like some kind of deep-sea
exploration vessel than a conference room. But it was soundproof, windowless,
and magically warded such that no one could possibly overhear what was said
inside.
He cranked
the valve on the door and stepped inside. Lady Crow was already sitting there, always
the first to arrive.
“Renford.”
“M’lady,”
he responded.
Lady Crow
was an old woman. At his best estimate, he assumed she was somewhere between 65
and 70, though given her pluck and energy, she could be a well-preserved 80 for
all he knew. She wore a simple grey dress and kept her hair tied up. Despite
being in his late 50s, Harren felt like a child in her presence.
The
selection of Lord or Lady Crow was by Queen Elona herself. Sometimes they were
drawn from the ranks of the Rookery – actually, that was usually the case, and
though Harren had not ever worked with her prior to their promotions, he
suspected she was an old veteran thief.
“So,
naturally you’ve seen about this Tarson chap.”
“I’ve seen
both that he was captured and then lost, yes.”
“His exposure
seems to confirm Yasik’s suspicions. But I take it you don’t find this answer
satisfying.”
“Do you?”
she asked.
“No. His
disappearance is troubling.”
“Certainly.
You’ve sent Nascine on this mission?”
“Yes.”
“She’s not
too close to it?”
“I believe
she is properly motivated.”
Lady Crow
nodded. “And you told her about your suspicions about the Queen?”
“I did.
Months ago.”
“Does she
trust you?”
“I think
she is dutiful.”
“That is
not a terribly satisfying answer.” Lady Crow stood up. “I have a man in Narcia.
Well, many, but I have a particular man in Narcia with contacts in Arizradna.”
“Yes?”
“According
to this source, the House has found someone exhibiting NMAP, and is seeking to
recruit them.”
“NMAP?”
“Non-magical
arcane phenomena.”
“That
sounds like a contradiction in terms.”
“It’s not.
Do you know what the largest example of NMAP is in the world?”
“No.”
“The Path
of Aeoes.” Harren sat back. The Path of Aeoes – the shimmering, faint column of
light that extended from the center of the Sarona desert up into the cosmos –
was said to be the path that the creator-god traveled before settling on this
world, Sarona-Ki, which in the old Arizi meant “Solid Ground.”
“What is
that supposed to suggest?”
“The House
is attempting to recruit a human god.”
Harren grinned.
“Can you imagine how excited the world’s conspiracy theorists would be to know
that those words were uttered in this chamber?”
“Renford,
try to take this seriously.”
“That is my
intention.”
“We have
lived our lives in this country with an extraordinary fact staring us in the
face. Our Queen is thousands of years old, and yet looks as if she has never
suffered from any of the harmful effects of age. Not once since she took power
has any significant challenge to her rule made the slightest bit of progress.
She is this nation’s god, for all intents and purposes, as solidly as the
Narcians worship their trio, or Sardok has Ashtor.”
“So, why
would such a powerful entity allow herself to be submersed within the hierarchy
of the House?”
Lady Crow
took a deep breath. “I don’t believe she has. I believe that she is the House.”
(Copyright Daniel Szolovits 2019)
(Copyright Daniel Szolovits 2019)
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