The slums of the capital are unwelcoming as ever. Towers are optimized to fit about twenty apartments on each floor, part of a project to keep artisans reliant on each other. From the windows of these crammed apartments, there are residents emptying their chamber pots out onto the street. Innumerable swarms of bugs make routine stops at all components of their infrastructure. Rainwater leaks from barrels meant to fulfill basic needs. Bridges are devoured from underneath. Those who fail to heed the thinning wood risk death by blunt landing or drowning. No one brings livestock across through these parts, even when the avenues are wide. When they are not getting sick, the animals that do accompany travelers break bridges even more so than hapless people, along with polluting the middle of the roads with their manure and sending crackling sounds through the air with every step in the gravel.
There is a wide range of illict activity that is conducted in these run-down areas. Extortion rackets are the most common. Thanks to Luther, makers of lacquerware are caught in an unfortunate medium. They have lucrative businesses, which receive special grants to collect rent for the buildings in lieu of the Czar. But they lack the means to raise levies, enact laws, or live with the same luxuries as true nobility. Some of the people they house mysteriously disappear when buying lacquerware from other lacquerlords, as they are called. Sometimes, the lacquerlords pick on each other as well. Selling for a lower price than someone with more grunts is a surefire way to end up in a ditch. People who wish to stay safe work with wood and bronze, which is all they can afford. On the bright side, street robberies are rare. People are able to do their work from home, and they only have to leave for food. Most other goods can be purchased from neighbours. With so little reason to go outside, Morton and Corvus have the street to themselves. They must find the location of one specific lacquerlord. She must have a unit on the first floor of one of these buildings, most the largest on that floor and towards the back. These are all ugly stacks of timber to them, though. None of them stand out.
They notice emblems on the doors, some more numerous than others. This gives Morton an idea. “You said she was the second biggest lacquerlord here. Right?”
Corvus has a hunch for what his apprentice’s idea is. “Yes.”
“We should count the number of each emblem on this strip.” He pivots towards the way they came and begins his tabulation straight away.
The spymaster scrunches his face. The idea works. It is a small-scale census. “Alright,” he obliges, “I suppose we have a plan.” Corvus would have preferred something more efficient and realizes he should be more capable of coming up with ideas on the spot. He strolls down the street.
A tapping noise behind the two of them alerts Miccolo, who cups his right hand and shouts back, “lizards running around”. In the Raskidon language, this phrase sounds similar to “loose string”. By using an inflection and peaking intonation that make the words sound as if they were said in the middle of a sentence, nobody could know he was referring to garrote wire. Indeed, he is pointing out one of the handles was dangling from the rear of his waistband. It was a crucial thing to look out for. They are not wearing their robes here, where criminal operations are so prevalent. They agreed looking normal was integral to their safety. Corvus slips between two towers. He yanks the garrote by the loose brass handle and coils the iron wire back up. He takes one more peek out the short alley to ensure no one is watching him before tucking the weapon back in his waistband. With that his task continues.
While enumerating the distinct icons representing each lacquerlord, he elects to reflect further on the improvements of his apprentice. As a teacher, there is a bittersweetness when a student learns everything the teacher knows. The sweetness disappears once the student starts outperforming those who trained him. For Corvus specifically, the fear of being replaced is also a factor. Each time he counts a rose, a beetle, on the doors, he must then look up and down, side to side, front to back, and inward to ensure there are no threats to his life and position of his doing or someone else’s. Rats and vultures scatter once he steps over a corpse too old to bother reporting. Nothing for him to fear. This is what the slum folk do to one another. Corvus regrets not having a way to write. His memory could fail him during the count, a bigger concern given the sheer size of the slum. The section he finds himself in becomes crowded. To complicate his job further, he has reached crossroads. Four streets converge into a small square where open secrets are kept. Precious metals are being dealt in flagrant violation of imperial monopolies over their trade in the city. Marriage brokerage, while not illegal, is not meant to be done by quasi-nobility such as the lacquerlords. Nevertheless, this is what he sees. Many people here are evidently nudists, meditating in a circle with a miniature ceramic statue of Rat God N||awr. This tradition would have been a death sentence before Donik’s falling out with the Moxi Church. Now, it would provoke violence from passersby. Why offering tribute to one ruler of pests instead of another is so offensive is something Corvus never grasped.
He supposes there are denizens of this seedy square who would be conducive to the plot against Perun. As leader of the Czar’s Friendly Shadows, he makes a mental note to return with Miccolo and a solid plan. The two reconvene where they started. Miccolo takes notice of his partner’s delayed return. “Sir, what happened to you?” he checks, waving a hand in front of the spymaster’s eyes.
The dazed Corvus grabs his underling by the fingers and lowers his arm. “Oh, I should be alright,” he confirms. “I just need a moment to…process everything that I saw.”
The two go over their counts together. It would appear that the mysterious blue dove is the emblem of the person they seek, Shveek. It will still take a great deal of digging to determine her precise whereabouts. Unlike proper nobility, staying put in some castle is not a viable way for lacquerlords to stay safe. Even if they were given the chance to build some, mobility protects them with more efficacy. Miccolo displays more of his independence as he dredges for hints of secret passages. He is the most acquainted with stealth architecture because of extensive infiltration missions. Corvus watches as the slim boy place his foot on a window sill and digs his nails in to the lintel above. By repeating this process, with some floral casualties along the way, he is on the roof. Outdone by his apprentice yet again, the spymaster walks parallel to him. Instinct has taken over the role of teacher, and that is not conducive to his own goals.
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After fifteen or so weeks since the last one, the Double Full Moon has finally arrived. It is able to provide triumph and turmoil. A past court astrologer by the name of Merkid once wrote, “The Moons swing the tide in favour of the righteous. Our fleets are the best suited to trek through the waters during the times.” This advice was crucial for a past naval battle against Poqdovia. Tonight, it is the optimal time for Ryler, Morton, and Aster to strike a deal over a shared passion: fishing. They are enjoying access to imperial shipyards, found on either side of the hill’s foot when leaving the palace. The docks are inundated, preventing the three from sitting down with their rods. They stand at the edge, where the tide reaches their feet. Morton drops his hook in the water first. There are a couple of weights attached to prevent it from floating back to his feet.
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“This is good bamboo,” he articulates.
Aster elaborates that point for him. “Some high-quality bamboo indeed.” He grabs the string and tosses out the hook. “Wish I could grow it. It helps having you go all these places on Raskidon’s behalf.”
Ryler strokes his moustache with his first two knuckles, appreciating the flattery. “Hm, well, I definitely try to find the best version of every good.” His guard is down in the presence of a dynastic rival. He assumes there will be some deal where Morton and his guardian offer their assistance. It would bewilder him to see Aster push for such a young child to take charge of a domain in this degree of chaos. With at least ten years of regency on the table, the worst of it would be on Aster. The little fellow would never even get to rule, he predicts. But he also won’t be killed.
Aster allows for the fishing session to set the tone for the conversation that is to come. Dozens of canoes appear in distant view of the group. Word of the frenzy for fish reaches the shorebirds. They involve themselves in the tradition by hovering over the boats, awaiting the inattentiveness of either the fish or fishermen. A drizzle raises the water level at a pace imperceptible to the trio, who brought matching indigo boots. The substance is unknown, smuggled out in the form of finished products by corrupt mayors across the southern sea lane. They appear massive on the feet of a toddler, so Ryler assists him with emptying them out once in a while. Their buckets rest on pillars. Each one has a rock to weigh it down. A handful of meteorologists attribute stronger winds to either the moons themselves or the resulting tides.
The Count opts to make his proposition while everyone is in a decent mood. “Ryler, I wanted to request your help with a personal ambition of mine.” By now, there is a mutual understanding between the two of them what their respective goals in life are. He captures the attention of his friend. “First of all, you have my full support in this struggle for power.” The words are those of a brain on autopilot; sincerity will be a retroactive decision shaped by future circumstances.
“Oh! That’s good,” Ryler responds. The concept of skepticism continues to elude him.
“I need your guild to watch the pearl hunters.”
The merchant nods along to this request. “Yes, yes! It would be bad to leave them alone.”
“I was not sure what you would ask in return, but I looked into marriages, new ships, and an excursion into Phut to secure that rare substance.” Aster is sure at least one of those options would appeal to his friend.
Ryler is scratching his chin in contemplation. Dandruff floats down from his beard into the flooded dock. Forcing his way into the new trade would bring the most prosperity to his guild. The additional ships reduces the risk of conflict getting in the way of his business. Marriage is the least tempting, which he expresses without any tact, “well, tell me, are you glad to be married at a time like this?”
Aster finds it within himself to laugh the comment off. Even Morton thought it was a tad funny and giggles in tandem. “Auntie would just be big sister. I have to listen to sisters too.” The boy has a surface-level comprehension of the family arrangement. He does not remember who his mother is but figures his guardians must be close enough to her to be considered aunt and uncle.
The “uncle” takes a moment to admire the beauty of the two full moons. The rare phenomenon trigger daydreams of his countess’ bosom. A tap on the shoulder from Ryler gets sets him straight. “O-Oh! Of course, I am. As we speak, Beryl is speaking with pearl hunters to start our search,“ he answers. “I could never be this successful without her,” adds Aster. “Not now.” This question became deeper for him than he would have liked. There were times before the instability of the Czar’s realm had the scope to reach distant fiefdoms such as his own. Times that the nobles seemed insane for rebelling. He forces his head up so he can continue with fishing.
Within the next hour, Aster has the fullest bucket. The rain has amplified. Those in the canoes are finding their way home. Ryler has now had ample time to consider the deal. Between Cyrus and Morton, it appears that his competition will only shrink from here. “Aster? I’ll do it,” he announces. “I want help paying. Can we halfsy it?”
“Halfsies!” shouts Morton. He pulls a fish out of the bucket and finds the tail too stiff to fold over its head. Aster snags that out of his hands before Morton can create a bloody mess on himself. He drops the fish in his own bucket and scours a satchel strapped to his waist. His transactions are on such a large scale, there are more rings than bullions and more bullions than coins. Ryler heaves himself up, showing a few stretch marks too many as his shirt rolls up. Morton thinks to voice contempt, Aster to voice concern. They stare at each other and agree to show neither. Ryler hobbles up some steps for his trusty potato sack, which still holds wooden sculptures. He returns with it held open. Aster counts out twenty-seven gold rings, each embroidered with two rows of about fifteen emeralds. Small-time traders would be picking off gems from one ring or store them loose in their purses. As both of them know, this is a big deal.
Later that night, the tide reaches its greatest extent. The docks were built to prevent this from allowing ships to drift on top. But engineers lacked the supply of sand needed to reinforce the shores. Some ropes loosen and slip away from their moorings. The drenched sands invite the boats inland. Some extra encouragement comes from the currents. Precious few of the wild vessels make straight landings. The rest are victims of gravity, the disappearance of buoyancy, and inconvenient weight distributions. Victuals and arms stored on deck spill on the shore. Sails and oars snap. Hulls splinter. Some live animals escape, especially poultry. Many of the larger ones are no longer live.
Garrisons along the city walls of Palazo observe this disaster. They recognize that it is too late for them to save any ships from toppling. Assembling sailors would only be to retrieve supplies. Yet at least that much is imperative to have the fleet ready to sail off. When the Raskidon Naval Force is at port, sailors are housed in bunkers beneath the walls. This allows for an efficient reactivation during times of emergency. Bronze bells along the coastal side of the walls sound from above the huts.
Low tones hum with no more synchronization than lightning and thunder. The seamen, having their ears clogged with the tolls of bells rise from their piles of straw. Heavy sleepers are yanked up by their crewmates. Congestion forms at the bottom of the dirt ramps as people slip or otherwise struggle to gain footing. Some ten people make it out of each tunnel at a time and gather at the same gate. This bunch is quick to realize how little they can ameliorate the situation. One man who forgot a shirt runs after escaped junglefowl. His captain, though irked by his orderly’s impulses, needs more manpower to stand any ships back up. The captain sends some men to go with the rogue bird pursuer. The slower members of his crew pick up fruit and place it back into the barrels.
Overtime, the rest of the sailors pour in to assist with the redocking, just to discover it will be more of a cleanup.