Time felt like it moved differently within the dirt-crusted confines of the immigrant camp. It did not move faster, for the sun’s progress across the sky was mercilessly ponderous. It did not move slower, for the minutes ticked by with the sharp certainty of looming consequence. Yet the feeling remained that time was not itself. Skewed. Like trying to drive a car with a damaged steering column. This sorry place was filled with people whose lives had been lurched violently to the side before being deposited into a literal and metaphorical ditch.
The plan that Oliver and the command team had put together was simple enough. They would take advantage of the squad’s lack of local knowledge and mannerisms in order to join the ranks of the weary and, hopefully, be approached by the disguised troublemakers. This tactic had already been attempted a couple of times by the local authorities, however the infiltrating agents had quickly been discovered and called out. The commanders would blame their voices, their posture, or the way they so keenly pried into the feelings of those around them for their immediate discovery. But it didn’t take much of a leap of logic to determine that those men had been marked from the moment they stepped out of the barracks door.
Six of the eight squad members had been selected for the groundwork, with Boats and Pavejack taking up concealed positions on the city wall in order to keep overwatch and track any identified targets. As the late morning saw their briefing concluded, the ground team donned the ragged and muck-stained clothes of weatherbeaten travellers. The process of this transformation was profoundly uncomfortable, at least the smell being emitted by their new wardrobes would help prepare them for the squalid camp conditions. Once suitably dirtied up they were provided with a rickety handcart, loaded with tools and necessities, and shown to a hidden doorway that blended near seamlessly into the wall. From there they cut a long loop back around to the south before rejoining the road and plodding into the camp in time to catch a late lunch. Watery porridge with exciting ‘mystery lumps’ and bread sliced so thinly it might as well have been 2D. Glorious.
Alter fought the urge to take a deep breath as he unfolded himself from the wooden bench, adding his bowl and spoon to the intimidating pile at the end of the table. With a gentle nod to his friends sitting nearby he gave the order to disperse before striking out towards the ever present crowd near the gate. As he struggled his way forward the cover story he’d been given played over in his mind. He was Aster Cuttersson, the name was deliberately similar in order to minimise the impact of any conversational slip-ups. A logging crew leader who, like so many others, had led his team across the country in the hopes of a better life. He and his boys had spent more than three weeks on the road only to discover the treacherous nature of that false hope just as the shadow of the walls of Jestriff passed over them. He was confused, frustrated, and wanting answers to the myriad questions that had bubbled up within him since their arrival.
“Eyes on One, tracking.” Boats’ voice crackled softly in his ear. His earpiece had been concealed beneath the earflaps of a thick woollen hat and an equally prickly scarf. As if scratching an itch, a questing finger sent a blip over the radio as confirmation.
He made no move to interact with the people he passed, instead choosing to sweep his eyes across the huddled groups. From their hushed conversations and depressed expressions he could assume these individuals were not being targeted. The gate-blocking crowd, however, was another matter entirely. The air was thick with indignation and repressed rage, taut and strained voices cut across the murmuring din, demanding answers and concessions. To come sauntering up to this unmerry band and start asking questions would result in near guaranteed suspicion. Instead, Alter stopped a few paces behind the group before folding his arms and listening intently to their protestations. Like picking out the individual instruments in a song, he homed in on the different voices one by one, noting tones and patterns. As expected, the majority could be discounted for now. It wasn’t until a ripple of expectant murmuring caused by the sound of the portcullis beginning to shift that a pair of urging tones caught his attention.
Two men, separated by about ten metres but shifting apart, were quietly spreading rumours from cluster to cluster. The exact wording was too faint for him to pick up, but the changes in the men and women they spoke to were clear. Anger began to seep through the cracks. Hostility wrapped its invisible fingers around the throats of the most desperate. The crowd had been keeping a small but reasonable distance from the six guards at the gate but now inroads were being made into that gap. Alter lost the voices and one of the men amongst the rising volume so he instead began to shift around the rear to keep the second possible rouser in sight. A middle aged man with long, straggly brown hair and a beard with patches of grey. The portcullis continued to rise, passing the customary head-high stopping point of a guard change which only caused the crowd to grow more incessant. Finally, it ground to a halt and the familiar shape of a horse-drawn wagon began to emerge, flanked by additional guards moving on either side in close escort. There was a wave of apprehension that quickly passed through the assembled people at the sight of the extra men, the memory of yesterday’s skirmish still fresh in their minds.
“Look at that. See how desperate they are to keep us out in the cold? It’s only a matter of time before these bastards start driving us out into the wilderness. Will your family survive the winter? They would reduce us to animals!” The man he’d been following questioned, looking to capitalise on that germinating seed of fear.
Alter let his mouth contort, his satisfied smile twisting into a sneer as he eyed the approaching guards. The wagon emerged fully from the gate, causing an unexpected pause as the crowd registered its contents. Food, blankets and freshly made clothes were piled up inside.
“Extra rations and clothing have been generously donated by the Lord Oliver Masserlind! These supplies shall be given to the elderly and infirm as a priority, with more promised in the coming days! Please stand aside!” One of the escorting guards called out, holding out an open hand as a placating gesture.
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Alter raised an eyebrow, Oliver sure worked fast. The crowd’s animosity began to rapidly dwindle as the wagon continued its advance, parting them like the pages of a book. Seemingly frustrated, the brown haired man scowled as the mood lifted and a solid half of the people began following the cart back into the camp. He stalked over to a small group of men that had been more receptive to his earlier rage-mongering, beckoning them into a huddle that prevented any further eavesdropping. As he contemplated how close he could get before they might notice, the radio sprung to life again. A pair of quick blips signalled that Riptide was needing attention.
“Eyes on Two.” Pavejack responded. “I see three tents, first grey, second brown, third open-door.”
Another two blips.
“Brown tent to your front-right. Place of interest?”
A single confirming blip.
“Marked.”
The radio fell silent again. It was good to hear that his friends were making some progress too. Alter’s attention had been divided as he listened to the conversation, as he focused on the movement around him he was surprised to see the huddle had broken up and that the majority of its members were coming right towards him. At the lead was the brown haired man and, much to Alter’s dismay, he was looking right at him.
“I’d be careful showing that around the guards, friend.” The man spoke, nodding towards Alter’s waistline. “I’ve seen men dragged inside and beaten bloody for less.”
On reflex Alter looked down to see that the man was pointing out the woodcutter’s hatchet slung casually through a belt loop. Being of similar size, weight, and position to his usual pistol holster, he had completely forgotten its existence.
“They’d do that for this thing?” Alter asked, keeping his voice cautious and allowing his hand to rest protectively atop its dark iron head.
The aggravator nodded. “They make out that they’re lookin’ out for us but in reality … well … you’ll see if you hang around here long enough.”
Alter allowed his worried look to grow in strength as he glanced back towards the camp. “This a new thing they’re doing then?” He nodded towards the wagon.
“A peace offering to keep us complacent, it won’t last.” The man responded grimly before looking him straight in the eye. “You're a little fresh-faced, aren’t ya? When did you roll up?” There was scrutiny in his voice, but no hint of accusation as of yet.
“Got here just after midday. Brought my boys up all the way from Cannazelt, hoping things would be easier here.” Alter gave an exasperated shrug and hoped no further questions would be asked about the place name he’d been told to mention.
“There’s a lot of folks from your way here already. That Duke of yours sounds like a right bastard.”
“Well, he was a rotten, merciless taskmaster but at least he kept a roof over your head.” Alter growled.
“We’ll get what we need, brother. Even if we have to force our way through. Keep your eyes open, eh?” The aggravator smiled and resumed his progress toward the camp, his eager compatriots in tow. Alter again mimed scratching his phantom itch and signalled his observer.
“I’ve got eyes on the four men you were just talking to. Got something?” Boats asked in his ear.
Alter sent another blip to confirm.
“I see one with blonde hair, one with brown, one with a red hat and one with no hair.”
Two blips.
“Marked. Want me to stick to you or keep following the person of interest?”
Alter signalled him to follow the aggravator. He spent another ten minutes moving amidst the greatly reduced crowd but could find no further evidence of trouble makers. Having exhausted this option, he meandered his way back into the camp and made for the place they had left the handcart. Walross and Vangroover stood idle guard next to their borrowed belongings, talking quietly and keeping wary eyes on the passing immigrants.
“Any news?” Alter asked as he joined them, leaning nonchalantly against a protesting wheel.
“A few things.” Walross nodded. “The two of us took a wander over to the daywork tables and we think we can confirm that they’re being targeted.”
The Daywork tables were an initiative Oliver had set up before leaving for the Adderbites. Workers from the camp could volunteer to do a day's work at participating businesses in the city, with the hope being that these prospective employers would agree to take on those that signed up. However, a series of suspicious acts of sabotage had caused many of the city’s industries to abandon the project. This had led to long, and frequently angry, queues for the chance of work and a foothold across the wall.
“Also.” Walross leaned in. “Rip’ and the rest stumbled upon something nasty. A weapons shipment, enough to outfit a dozen men. I’m sure you heard him report it over the radio, they’ve set up a watch around it for now. Do you reckon we’ve got enough to call it a day?” His discomfort was plain to see. Even Vangroover’s normally passive expression had been swapped for something profoundly miserable.
“Not just yet. If what Oliver told us is true then these rabble-rousers are getting into and out of the city without causing suspicion. I want to get an idea of how they’re doing it first.”
Walross made a face but gave no further protest. At that moment, the quiet mood within the camp was broken by shrieking and shouting from nearby. The men glanced at each other as fearful figures scurried away from the noise just as curious faces edged closer.
“I suppose we should go and see what that’s all about. Are you happy to stay here, Six?” Alter asked.
“Sure.” Walross shrugged.
“Alright then. Eight, come with me. Let's hope it’s not another micro-uprising.”