That’s it, Constable Marcus! In this dastard world where one’s hair can’t thin out fast enough, where worry and pressure make a straight spine disappear in no time, and where urgent reports are best used as loo paper, I refuse to jump at your command! Loo paper, heh.
That’s really abt. By now you should have enough to open up a notable store. With all honesty and love, look for another bloody idiot to fuck sideways–––I am out.
…now be so kind as to calm down and give me a proper report, won’t you? For this time only, because it’s you, a speech will do. Remember, yapping and yelling are the tasks of my superiors, not yours. The protocols–
are dead, I still live. For now. Ignoring me–––or my warnings for that matter–––does you no good at all, old fart. Additionally, whatever I have to say, I’m sure you have it in paper format somewhere strewn around in your gold-laced, silver-rimmed study.
Take those library’s worth of reports I’ve sent you over the years, pile them up high in your splendid garden or something, and burn them. Thoroughly.
Laugh for me, because I am sadly unable to watch my discredited life’s work burn to cinders.
I am then relieved to know that dust-eating waste of resources and time was at long last used for something good and that any suspicions on my part can no longer be validated.
I believe I was very clear about what I wanted from you today, Agent Malen. A proper report, worthy of your many awards without the unnecessary, misplaced, witless rant! If it reaches the council, I fear your regrets will be too late.
If that is what you want, I am sorry to disappoint you. Satisfaction is not on the menu today. Take your time, it could be spent on something worthwhile as opposed to being wasted on ridiculous pastimes. See my twitching blister-covered hands? You do? Fine.
What about that hoarse voice of mine? Sounds like a grater, doesn’t it? When you command mercenaries and make peasants line up for registration and inspection, that’s your pay.
Look me right in the face from over there where your arse warms the comfortable couch best. Do I look the part of 60? Splendid. Now get this: I hit 44 last week.
Agent Malen! Your receding hairline has nothing to do with reques–
Now fuck your report, fuck that hellhole I wade through daily, fuck those mercenaries with brains that are less functional than their decrepit balls, fuck you state clerks slimier than a newborn–––and above all, don’t dare forget to fuck that whole agent business.
The one thing you’re right about is that my hairline is done for. Now, you better unwind that little gear still in pristine condition and listen to me for a change, old coot.
Maybe with lots of luck and proper prayer, I will be able to offer you a whole bunch of thanks for that marvellously rancid taste working for you always leaves behind in my mouth. Good?
…
Fine. No, splendid! No answer is the ideal answer. It’s unimaginably beautiful to finally have someone to deal with who listens to the concerns of a mere commoner. Someone who doesn’t immediately question my qualifications.
A beautiful and all-encompassing expression of proper attention to human beings, not just in one ear and out the other. And, oh... You look like you could use a decanter of gin and a polished sword.
And whose fault is this? Why do you keep recording, you retarded colleague? Stop. This. Instant! Or do you wish to explain the impossible to that rotten assembly of insipid desecrators above?
I tell you, that’s why you were left in the boonies to gather information from barbarians. Your work ethic is admirable, but it won’t get you anywhere. If word gets out, I’ll have your hide. Before they have mine, promise.
As for you, Malen Emmers. You would do well to keep all the fuss to an absolute minimum before I report you for suspicious behaviour or straight up insubordination.
Hehe. Stick it up your arse if you must, but not before you remind the moron that there are secondary protocols running in the background. Those must be disabled within four seconds if he does not want to dangle from the next tree accompanied by his family.
Security shenanigans and all that to prevent abuse of the Intelligence Division’s new toy. Pages and pages of poetic but useless language make up a classified description found in the archives.
The security details and methods employed there guard against aristocrats. As if agents are so du– fuck! Clerk, the frame is blinking red, do something! ...why knock him out? Is your assistant that nasty? A dick?
…you have no idea, Malen. At times I wonder if the fool was sent as a mole. Until he opens his foul mouth, that is. By then, I am simply wondering what species he belongs to.
He is undoubtedly not spy material. At least it seems less likely than him cheating his way up here with that kind of brain. Honestly, he’s a competent enough scribe, but for the rest... well.
Give the key to the imperial archives to a farmer, and he’ll feed the horse or burn it for warmth. Give this key to that man, and he’ll still praise the ancestors on the day of annual categorisation.
I haven’t yet figured him out. The one thing I know for sure is that one secret he knows is exactly one too many. We are all better off if the sod passes out, so yes, it is the most beneficial thing that can happen to us all. My earlier talk was also to lull his possibly nonexistent sense of danger.
Sigh. That’s what mainstream reinforcement looks like these days. A would-be judge who has just learned to read and doodle in slow motion. Their only skill is adding beautiful-sounding words to scratch paper we agents have to interpret.
For reasons of confidentiality and all that, most have traded in a spare weapon for a dictionary. I don’t have to tell you how this tends to end, do I? It seems to me that the scribes traded their brains for literary masterpieces.
This raises the question of what standards remain among the three divisions. Moreover, your problem is found in nine out of ten cases, so they should have discovered the unsatisfactory turn of events by now.
Another thing you should know to understand why I’m so deluded is this: The long-range communication device was stolen from a commoner who applied for research capital in good faith.
The worldly innocent got what he asked for. He’s been promptly relieved of his genius. Then the research apparatus went to work. Despite months of reverse engineering, it’s still easy to bypass the verification and supervision modules.
Today, they still start registering content with the catchphrase ‘name, agent in’ and end it with ‘name, agent out’. It even used to be harder in the past, but now... Incompetent snotty-nosed little upstarts. What kind of intelligence division is this?
...could you please repeat that for proper documentation? There was some additional... noise rumbling on in the background that the Division’s masterpiece should have trouble with.
Hey, I did not mention my name, so we are fine. The recording has yet to start.
...fuck you. Do you have any idea how many people are after my political head? One can never be careful enough.
…you have it rough too, huh? Not as much as I do of course. You’re part of the aristocracy after all. The worst you have to fear is social death. Unfortunately, that’s the only icing on the cake.
If you want more controversial news, get yourself an aide who’s a qualified double-agent. But remember... no suspicion is too great a suspicion, got what I mean?
...it seems so.
Let me tell you something else: Seven years ago, there was a sudden spike in reported undercover activity. For half a year, I acted as a street urchin, infiltrated most underground lairs under different disguises, and abandoned all forms of protection as I put my life at risk each day.
My herculean efforts culminated in a comprehensive, beautiful stack of papers that I turned in. Nothing but an uncivilised reprimand followed my truthful report.
It’s not something I’d get my nose into unless I was absolutely required to do so. However, you can’t make a living as a City Lord if the dark side of society has ten times the amount of capital you control.
As I chased answers in the slums, my right-hand man kept up appearances, essentially doing all my duties and then some more. However, I failed to uncover all secrets as many remain a mystery.
Where does the money come from? Why? How will it be used? Who are the backers? A family? A clan? Sect? Or maybe an individual? And so on and so forth. Alas, one day, someone did find something peculiar.
In short, tension rose and I had to hire bodyguards for everyone–––including the dog–––a grumpy group that grew along with my receding hairline! I did ask for reinforcement from the headquarters, but they literally told me to throw them all in the garbage can myself since I’m already a true bigshot.
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In no uncertain terms, no less, mind you. It didn’t take me long to discover that there are some privileged pigs after my achievements. So, they leave me alone and hope the petty commoner croaks his last.
I cannot clone myself, can I? As you know, using water conceptualisation for body doubles among other tricks is certainly useful, but they will never be as good as the original. Not even close.
It was about five years ago, correct? Understaffed departments were everywhere, and the Council just gaoled most of our good people without any apparent reason while pushing for unnecessary reforms.
Although I shouldn’t tell you the details–––restricted information and all–––I still do. Otherwise, you’d mistake me for a pig and no human with brains. I know you all too well, Malen.
Other regions were lost and had to be reconnected later, the agents butchered or worse–––trust me, any sane person with a family doesn’t want to hear a tenth of that sickening casualty report.
And don’t get me started on our working conditions, ridiculous policies or dark politics, which kill more employees in a week than your average mass murderer in a lifetime.
You speak as if things have improved. But hey, there was an improvement. Only for the worse, not for the better. But do note my use of the present tense. This should tell you all you need to know.
You mention warming your chair not out of nepotism, but out of truly hard work. I know about your dirty tactics. You try to appear mediocre so that your superiors will not get funny ideas, but not so much that you lose your comfortable job on some well-lit, strictly guarded main street.
Certainly admirable. Do you really think that you are the only one capable of reading between the lines, and that field agents are naively glossing over the presence of that murder of crows you call people who we suddenly had to respectfully call our nannies?
As you did for me, I will not bore you with everyday details, but you should know this: Intelligence officers are dying, but not from the machinations of dear enemy.
In this kingdom’s brittle confines, more evil runs rampant than in foreign lands. And not everyone who appears dead really is. Between us, this doesn’t just sound great, it’s magnificent.
Report nothing, and you will be disgraced and lose your job. If you submit incorrect information, you won’t see the crack of dawn again.
Disclose gruesome sightings and the authorities perceive you as a villain, an evil instigator. ...there is only one solution, no? Viscount Clerk, I extend a sincere invitation.
Agent Malen Emmers, you do know what this is called? Dissertation! And the verdict? Capital punishment extending to all family members within five generations, no judgement required. Do you plan on jeopardising everything you hold dear? Fool!
Not really, Marcus. In my line of work, we do a lot of digging. It starts, among other things, with rumours, then we remember the faces, go on stage loosening tightly shut lips just well enough they even croon about their wife’s three sizes if required.
We research some more, pool everything together, and only then do we reach out to the likes of you, with half a page of summarised reports in hand. You get what?
Long enough in this cursed profession, your brain’s a smorgasbord of horror stories. Trust me, whatever you can think of now pales in comparison. Because there is no beast uglier than humans out there. None! By the way, I read this nauseating casualty report. It isn’t much, mind you.
I bet you did. Nevertheless, don’t pile garbage on my desk. Instead, choose someone else with more charm if you want to let lose that vicious tongue of yours for a while.
I live in a different world here, I admit that much. But it is also as easy to overcome problems here as swimming in a swamp is. To give you a practical example: In compliance with the protocol, we must compile only truthful reports and forward them to the next, more competent department.
As opposed to what you might believe, this goes beyond mere rumours you rely on when making decisions, or worse, gut feeling–––it is factual evidence we turn to when deciding what to include and what to cut. As such, we will be able to govern this blessed kingdom with efficiency and effectiveness.
Of course you will. Maybe in more normal times, my friend. But no matter what we find, what you zealously compile and then forward, what ultimately lands on the dusty, gold-laced escritoire inlaid with jewels that are the proud possessions of our dear decision-makers, nothing happens.
And know what makes me absolutely nuts? Even though we warned the fools first, it is our fault if things worsen because of retrospectively easily substantiated negligence!
Let’s think about my former colleagues, how they ended up in prison, and what transpired at the time and why. When things don’t work out as planned or they pitifully fail to use their brains, they need scapegoats to blame and no bright folk.
With all the problems this kingdom suffers from, additional blemishes to the name of notable noblehouses must be prevented at all costs. Now answer me this: Who has it worse between the two of us?
You are mistaken. These convicts have committed major crimes over the span of many years in our service. Coercion, murder, death threats, torture, falsification of official documents, deception, fraud, evil practices, bribery, theft, a truckload of abhorrent abuses and at least as many dishonest dealings–––and that’s only what I have at hand here.
Infiltrate the archives and you shall see the fourth row entirely dedicated to your agent business. That’s more than 700,000 reports compiled into books. If that’s what dutybound agents look like, why the hell do we even need you?
In theory? You are correct, and it is better to kick the bucket sooner rather than later for all past, present, and future offences. In practice? Unfortunately, the truly evil guys we are protecting you from don’t care about any rules.
Fearing aristocracy, living with humility and upholding higher values don’t exist in their books. All we can do is scare the living daylights out of them in whatever way works to that end–––physically or physiologically, it doesn’t matter.
Or do you think if we gently nudge them once caught, they will readily spill the beans since they weren’t good players and lost a game of ‘hide and seek’? Where do you live, please? In a fairy tale?! Even my baby daughter isn’t this naive.
The rules should be obeyed under all circumstances since this is the main reason they exist. The result is a situation in which they gain power the longer they are in circulation, protected by the collective they shield in return.
If it can be avoided, we don’t burden the populace with unnecessary gibberish. We consider and consult your grammatically incorrect reports before anything else in all we do and we bleed and burn the midnight oil to accomplish this on your behalf.
Your actions are what we seek to counter by law. All for the protection of the common man. When the time comes your profession is no longer bloody, we will have succeeded. It’s as simple as that.
Glorious ideal, fuzzy and warm. Sadly, reality is anything but. Would you really think you would say the same nonsense if faced with a bandit’s butcher knife? Now it seems I should really tell you more about my discoveries. Fine.
Let me bring your attention back to the five-year charade that almost cost me my daughter’s life, as well as my wife’s three fingers. After I was forbidden to mention any of that made-up stuff ever again and had to swear to always maintain honesty in all future reports, there was nothing I could do.
That’s not true either. I... well. I had to watch on while the bastards attacked my family, crippled my city economically, and took sadistic pride in doing so while plotting even more unspeakable atrocities all the while wagging the council’s seal of approval in my face.
Until the bunch either turned traitor to their cause in due time or disappeared. Elven rats, you know. Imperialists, to be exact. Full of themselves and the desire of resurrecting an empire long forgotten.
Can you see what I mean? Knowing I can prevent all the evil from happening, yet being forced to keep my mouth, eyes, ears and nostrils shut if my family’s wellbeing is worth anything.
Can you even imagine how I feel about it? Throughout my life, I have never lied in any report, saved who knows how many aristocrats and when I ask for help I get this response. But there is a silver lining. After that event, my mind became clear. Eventually, I learned to be pragmatic.
There was also another reason as to why I went undercover for a time. They are too organised, powerful, and on top of all that, far too wealthy to be dismissed as society’s multifaceted cancer. Also, if enemy countries are their bosses, it makes even less sense.
Just think about it. With that much influence, the kingdom would’ve already fallen long ago–––taken over with none the wiser under everyone’s snoring noses. The royal capital’s reaction speed is an open secret to all important people.
And over the years it only became worse. Someone is silently extending his hands everywhere the current kingdom is powerless to tussle against. He tightens the grip so much every passing day I can but hope the glass won’t shatter before I have the time to silently liquidate everything and cross the borders.
Tell me, has your city been taken over?
No, the Prefecture City Bugle hasn’t been taken over, it has been devoured whole. It’s not exactly news, you see. If not for the many incompetents in your chain of reporting, you should’ve learned about this much earlier.
Damn!!
Yes, damn. We’re not done yet. In the past seven months, a stupidly large number of woodcutters, all extraordinarily buff and with military experience according to their bearings, went into the woods to–––surprise!–––cut wood.
We haven’t heard from the hard-working lumbermen ever since. There was no sign of them here, in any other city or village I know of, or even in the underground. They simply vanished.
One wonders what they are up to... I did so too until I got the answer a month ago. While I perceived the tip of the iceberg, I smartly called it quits and started packing my things. Every settlement with ten or more souls living there along the edge of the Verdant Valley boiled over.
First, a beautiful picture of utter carnage and rebellion. Next, two reincarnators stepped out of smokey screens all of a sudden in the Governing City Russell, making the place a restricted zone! I quit!
I have no hope that my family will survive the repercussions of my unnecessary involvement with random peak powers without equivalent peak royal protection. Misfortune is silently brewing over the Prefecture City, and I refuse to end up as a lightning rod. Not this time around.
Distancing yourself from these events? Taking the chaos as an opportunity to wash your hands off everything you worked so hard to achieve? You, a commoner who rose to the position of a Prefecture City Lord?
Is this the monstrous dark horse that made countless aristocrats too ashamed to hold their proud heads up high outside their home just to get where you are? Please forgive me if I repeat myself, but I must. It is just for reassurance.
…indeed. Looks like I’ve come a long way, huh? But this has all happened in the past. In today’s political climate, even a man twice my calibre will not reach half my level of success.
As long as this kingdom oppresses its citizens left and right, squeezes their lifeblood, and plunges everyday life into carnage on a whim, the only accessible road leads down to hell.
The ghost king cares not, the rotten council is mired in power struggles, the military is arrogant but rusted. The powerful are divided into unreconcilable camps while outside forces ogle the fertile land with greed.
Do you know what’s funny? Neither you nor I can do anything about it. What we can do is call it a day and leave before it blows up.
What more do I need to know about your city that won’t cost me my head if my superiors find out before I get good backing and finish my preparations?
To avoid raising suspicion, you need only emphasise one thing, but be moderate. Merchant Alliance has some uncollected interests here that might be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.
As the Devil willed, there came a small group of notable merchants through here, followed by another party riding enhanced carriages no two days later! These things are filthy expensive, as you know.
The goal of their visit is to collect interest in the area and pursue contracts, or so I am told. Do everything you can to get another prefecture to oversee. Because even if lies shroud their appearance, you still won’t like what follows.
That would mean they joined whatever scuffle there was in the thrice-cursed woods. And I haven’t seen them since either. There’s more. The most competent of my subordinates found signs of a giant beast stampede brewing in the woods the world has yet to witness. The information, however, is unverified.
Merchant Alliance... what are they here for? Are their contacts still there? Are you familiar with the chambers of commerce they belong to and perhaps have an inkling of what to expect? Anything at all?
I don’t know, and I don’t intend to find out. The less I do, the safer it is for me. Particularly now that I'm surrounded by fence-sitters and bloody opportunists.
I don’t want to add unnecessary fuel to flames that already blaze ardently. My contact among the waitresses told me that when the first group checked out the next morning, some strange noises came from the normal carriages. Meaning–
it is either illegal goods or unauthorised slavery that they deal in. Malen, that useless fellow will wake up soon, and I’m not sure if that blinking dot will lead to anything regrettable.
We need to wrap this up in an official way. This is so I have something to show him and don’t get in trouble with my supervisors if he is really a spy. I will now reactivate the gadgets.
Don’t bother. A power line reconnection attempt must have occurred. As long as I don’t use the keywords, we are fine. Remember! If anyone asks, you can always blame the gadget; other departments have the same problem every now and then. ...wait! ...we still have a few moments.
What’s the matter? It’s definitively not normal for you to keep things you want to talk about. Out with it, but be swift.
Recently, I heard the Yellow Tower has been providing much-coveted trips around the continent. You’ll get to see every significant city there is–––just don’t forget to match their tight schedule when off-board. Although it’s a bit pricey, the comfort and protection the spellcasters provide are unparalleled.
…thank you, my friend. This really eases my mind. Your help was unnecessary, but I appreciate it nonetheless.
Snort. Suit yourself.
...my one and only true friend, thank you again. It seems this is really goodbye. May the stars shine upon you and my ancestors guide your path.
Don’t make me tear up! You’re welcome–––oh and… I wasn’t joking about burning the records. And be quick in telling me what you’d like to hear in my official report as soon as you can.
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End of Intermission