Fish and Chips

            The debriefing was over. The operation had been a failure, certainly. Jaroka was somewhere in a Narcian holding facility in all likelihood, and whatever things she may have been able to reveal would only arrive at the Rookery at the discretion of Yasik or the people he worked for.

            The sky above Ravenfort was a dull grey. There had been a spot of heat, actually, as spring began. The air was thick and humid and not at all comfortable. Supposedly it had been raining heavily over in Canwick, which was a mere ten miles up the Stough River, but Ravenfort was merely sticky.

            Nascine rode the lift down to the eighth floor. Tartin was in his office, the stacks of paper piled even higher than she remembered. When he saw her come in, his eyes lit up. “Emily!” he exclaimed, rising to embrace her. He was wearing a wool sweater, which Nascine thought insane, given the weather. “My dear Emily, it is so wonderful to have you back! Please, have a seat. If you have the time, that is.”

            “Yes, I have the time, Gilbert.” She sat down and Tartin cleared a window in his papers so that he could look at her from the other side of the desk. “How have you been?” she asked.

            He shrugged. “Same as usual, I’m afraid. I worry I’m getting a reputation for being a bit of a recluse here. Still, the work gets done, and the cheques keep coming. We had a wonderful success in the Redlands just a few days ago. Hodgeson and the boys were able to secure the remains of one of the original navigator Golems from the Red Ships. Completely lifeless, sadly, but quite a piece of history. I daresay the Redlanders may be a little miffed to find the old boy missing, but if you ask me, we’ll do a better job preserving the body than they would. Oh, but that’s something you’ll hear a great deal about. You must tell me what you have been up to! Something in the North East Colony? Port Sang, was it?”

            That had been the cover. They’d told the rest of the Rookery rank and file that she and Tarson… er… Thatch. Chris Thatch was his real name – Tarson had only been a pseudonym. They’d said that she and Thatch had been in Port Sang, looking for some relic or some such thing. There was no mention of Kilarny at all. Nascine had never met her before, the mission, and was given to understand that she was not exactly one of the regulars around the office. It seemed that no one knew her to mourn her.

            “It was uneventful. And not very productive, I’m afraid.” She worried that her voice had wavered a bit. The exhaustion of the mission in Omlos had taken a great deal of energy out of her, but the revelation Yasik had granted her – that there was, even now, a House Agent here in the Rookery - sent chills down her spine. She had not told anyone except for Thiefmaster Renford Harren, the public head of the Rookery, “Lady Crow,” the actual head of the Rookery, and a woman who bore a striking resemblance to the Queen of Retrein. Even Tarson (no, Thatch, she reminded herself) was in the dark. All he knew was that Jaroka had been taken in by Yasik’s people – whoever they were.

            “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Don’t take it so bad, though. I think maybe a third of my expeditions turned up nothing, especially early on. You’ll get the hang of it, Emily.”

            She nodded. She loved Gilbert Tartin, truly. When she had first met him, it had manifested as an actual physical attraction, but Tartin had always maintained an avuncular attitude toward the people under his command. After a year of working with him, Nascine felt devoted to him more as a family member.

            “Gilbert, what are your plans for dinner?” she asked.

            Tartin looked at his paperwork and shrugged. “I was going to order in, I think. Why?”

            “I would like very much to have dinner out with you. Nicer place to chat, perhaps. Less distraction.”

            Tartin seemed somewhat befuddled. The office was as much a nest as it was a workplace for him. “I… suppose so. These could probably wait another day. How does seven sound?”

            “I’ll be round to pick you up then,” said Nascine. She hoped she was doing the smart thing here. The last thing she would ever want to do was endanger her dearest friend.

            They walked about a mile and a half to Carantilly Row, a long road in the south of town originally made famous for the dye market there. Every shop and restaurant was decorated with bright fabric of myriad colors. The buildings here were filled with little nooks where vendors could set up their tiny stalls. The locals cultivated an air of seediness to keep the tourists and the nouveau riche away, but most people could figure out very quickly that Carantilly Row was the authentic, traditional soul of Ravenfort.

            The two of them settled down to a piping plate each of fried fish and potatoes sprinkled with malt vinegar. It was a little bit of home Nascine had missed dearly.

            “This food is going to kill me one day,” said Tartin. Despite the ominous prophecy, he shoveled a forkful of potato into his mouth.

            She smiled. The man had looked as if he was chiseled from marble and had a perpetual layer of sweat and stubble from the rough roads he traveled when she first met him, but now, he had grown quite pudgy and soft. “Tell me about Yasik,” she said.

            He blinked. “Yasik? What… why do you want to know about Yasik?”

            “You introduced me to him three years after I started going on your expeditions. Who is he, really?”

            Tartin swallowed. He suddenly seemed a great deal colder, hunching his shoulders and avoiding Nascine’s gaze. “A friend.”

            “How did you meet him?”

            Tartin put his fork down. “What is all this about Yasik?”

            “I just want to know more about him.”

            Tartin took another forkful of potato. “He saved my life one time. It was early on, before you joined up. Must have been my sixth or seventh expedition, I’d say. Down in Carathon. Just a stupid mistake – I was trying to break into the University Archives. I botched my harness, trying to go down the outside wall, and I nearly fell. Turned out he’d been following me. He caught me, gave me a very stern talking-to, and then told me to call on him if I ever needed any help.”

            “But who is he?”

            “I’m pretty sure he’s with the University. You ask me, the whole Narcian Intelligence Service is just for the mundane, day-to-day espionage. Those academics, though. They’re the real eyes and ears over there, dealing with the big things – though what those big things are, I couldn’t guess.”

            “Do you trust him?”

            Tartin put his fork down. “What is this all about, Emily? You know I haven’t talked with that man since…” he growled and covered his face with his hand.

            “Gil…”

            “Just get to the point, Emily.”

            “I wasn’t in Port Sang. I was in Narcia. Yasik told me there is an Agent of the House in the Rookery.”

            Tartin lowered his hand and looked up. Nascine stared right back at him. Tartin exhaled a long, slow breath.

            “Well, if Yasik says so, then there is.”

(Copyright Daniel Szolovits 2012)