“So, nothing—no events happening out of the ordinary?” asked Garrot. He fervently hoped his pleading demeanor and native Elman accent might convince the old woman to divulge some secret.
“No. Sorry I can’t help you, sir—My husband gets back from mining in the evenings. You could ask him.”
“I-I understand! You said that. I wasn’t just asking for him, I-…”
Garrot once again reconsidered being more forward with his inquiries—seeing whether the name Shaded Paw meant anything to her. He peered past her through the small crack she had opened in the door, into the small wooden hovel she lived in. Most homes had at least oil lamps, but from what he could see, even iceware windows were a luxury to the homes he had been knocking on. It had barely gotten dark, but already the interior felt shadowed and isolating.
Garrot sighed—deciding he had taken up too much of her time already. “You have a good day, ma’am.”
“You too. And...just a warning. You should avoid the man that lives two doors that way.”
She pointed to her left, along the row of tightly-knit houses.
“He has the Hellpox. I hear the coughing at night.”
Garrot nodded, thinking about how many doors he’d knocked on before receiving such a warning.
“Thank you. I will.”
Garrot unfolded a small notebook, and added to the scribbled marks of disappointment across his pencil-drawn map of Cheranol’s J’halan Quarter.
He’d hoped that perhaps another J'halan face might have been the perfect way to loosen lips about any juicy rumors, but each time he’d knocked on a door, the occupant had given only a cursory look to his smiling face before noting his uniform and musket over his shoulder.
On the first day, he’d brought his flask of blackbark with the intent of sharing, but had realized offering a drink out of his own taurmawood mug to families in their homes became more of an awkward proposition than a kind one. On the second day, he’d resolved to simply cover more ground rather than improve on his approach—but had realized late in his patrol he’d picked a time when most residents were out. Today was the third day, and he’d tried for a more haphazard approach, finding different regions of the district to find the most curious-looking house to ask at.
Sergeant Sternen had told him they’d be reporting in with the Lieutenant that evening, and he was afraid to admit he’d been coming up bunk for information. If this was his inroad to a career as a Queryman, it was going poorly. His legs aching, he decided to report in, and perhaps follow up on any leads any of the others had been finding.
When returning from the J’halan Quarter, the sudden shift in architecture of the surrounding buildings was dramatic. Many of the homes were still wooden, but were solidly carved and treated to survive decades rather than the hasty construction of a displaced community. The residents closest to the Quarter had even built a fence—an uncommon addition otherwise. Garrot arrived at the Canary Elevator and stepped inside, briefly wondered whether the Sergeant was going to berate him for returning early. His concerns faded upon noticing Private Adamel, who had quite comfortably settled herself sideways upon a barstool.
A fresh pitcher of water stood invitingly on the bar next to her. Garrot briefly considered doing something quite cold and cruel, before deciding that he would likely lose more than just a fight to a drunken lancer division member.
“Miss Adamel...?” he called to her. “Miss Adamel......? SAREI!”
“mmmWha? Do it again—I missed it-….oh.”
Her eyes spun about the room, her consciousness lost in some prior conversation, before noticing Garrot.
“Oh. Hey, Hathorne.”
“You going to try and tell me you just got here?” asked Garrot, tapping his foot.
“No. I’ve pretty much been here all day. We agreed we’d each cover our own ground.”
Garrot took a moment to count the glasses on the bar before the owner cleaned them up. A moment wasn’t long enough.
“Uhuh,” he stated plainly. “And your ground is the one with 20 different ciders to try out.”
“26. Yeah. And? If you’re looking to chew me out, that’s your boyfriend’s job.”
“Will you-!? We-...I’m not-!” started Garrot. “Look, it’s getting late-! Let’s just get to the telephone office already. Sergeant is going to be expecting us.”
“Fine. Let me just finish this mug.”
The telephone office was a simple set of rooms managed by a clerk. Only the more wealthy homes had their own telephones installed, but the local rate of one sen for a 5-minute call in the privacy booth seemed more than reasonable for their distance from the nearest city. As Sarei predicted, the two of them were early for the squadron’s first report meeting. Emil and Bran arrived some 20 minutes later, moving at a casual pace. Garrot came to realize he might have been the only one with an antsy, uncertain feeling about how their behavior in the last few days would be assessed.
Greeting the switchboard operator, Bran explained they were placing a military call. The operator produced an old speaker-phone from below an old cupboard, then withdrew a small pack of cigarettes from her purse and stepped outside.
“Just dial 4 for Imbral’s military office, and then give them the name of your recipient,” she droned, then closed the door to grant them privacy.
They waited patiently while the connection established, and then the familiar voice came on the line.
“Rangers! It’s a pleasure to hear from you. Already feels like it’s been a while.” said Lieutenant Ken, his voice arriving slightly muffled and tinny through the small loudspeaker.
“Evening, Nest.” announced Bran. “No trouble on arrival. We’ve already started our investigation.”
“Good, good. I don’t think I’ll need to micro-manage this little band, will I?”
Emil stepped forward. “You’re the General’s errand boy, then?”
The indignant sigh from the other end of the line was poorly disguised.
“...Well, I’d like to think I’m a little more than that. Private Petterson, I take it? I doubt that you’ll be speaking with the General himself much on this assignment, but I’ll be sure to keep him appraised.On that note - Would each of you care to discuss what you’ve found thus far?”
“Well, I suppose I’ll go first,” said Bran. “In terms of potential misconduct, I’ve elected to look over some of the shipping manifests. From what I can tell...it’s a bit of a mess. There’s very little in the way of record-keeping when the mine imports explosive material for excavating. I can’t point to anything suspicious or missing, but...I could imagine terrorists could take that as an opportunity to make small quantities go missing. That’s it for me.”
“Hmm.” said Ken. “Best we could do there is start putting the spurs on their shipping office to follow procedures, and see if anyone starts complaining. Who’s next?”
Garrot swiveled to Sarei, who’d been leaning against the wall behind them, resting her eyes.
“Oh...I think Ms. Adamel would like to go next.” he chided.
“Hm?” grunted Sarei, still partly asleep. “Sure. I’ve been pretty much at the bar.”
Garrot blinked at the unexpectedly forthright admission. She continued.
“There, I’ve made a few drinking buddies, and a name that keeps coming up is the new deacon at the local temple—guy named Jesh-...quayl Raymeer? Came from some rich J’halan immigrant family, and put a large chunk of his own fortune into renovating the temple. Apparently a while back, worship of Mhira had deadened to nothing in the area, and he bounced it back with a mid-size contingent.”
“Interesting...” said Ken. “I...admit, I don't actually have much familiarity with the nobleman families of J’halaga. I might have to look for that name.”
“I was gonna talk about that temple, too,” said Emil. “I elected to keep going with my usual watchtower spot to help the local Duty Sergeant a bit—but this time, brought some binoculars and watched the town instead of the treeline. Today was Umbersday, and the temple had morning sermons—but in the afternoon, they had another small gathering come in. I looked into it on the way here, and far as I can tell, it’s not even on their schedule. Made me curious.”
“That’s quite the lead.” said Ken. “A prominent J’halan having meetings out of his schedule...? I know it’s not a lot, but that’s more than I expected in three days.”
“Well, the people he was meeting with were snowskin,” admitted Emil. “I think it might not have been anything all that suspicious.”
“Right,” agreed Sarei, though her voice kept her usual intonation of sarcasm. “Snowskins, never suspicious. Klyskins, of course, would be a different story.”
“We’re after a klyskin terrorist cell.” growled Emil. “Rewrite that story, you…b-…ullheaded Lancer.”
Bran sighed, in vein hope that his team’s tensions wouldn’t become apparent to Nest. He nodded towards Garrot, who had made himself visibly eager to stop the altercation.
“Garrot…? You have anything to update us on?”
Garrot flinched, his demeanor upset by Sarei and Emil’s unexpectedly thorough reports. Compared to his own efforts, it felt like everyone else had had more luck than himself.
“Uh...w-well...I’ve been going to the J’halan Quarter to try to ask questions about anything unusual.”
“All right. But, Private, you haven’t been exposing details of the operation?” said Ken, probing. “Any signal from them that they’re being investigated may cause them to go into hiding.”
“N-nonono, sir, of course not!” said Garrot.
Except, that had been the problem. He’d been about to ask for permission to ask residents directly about the Shaded Paw, but the Lieutenant’s direct demeanor told him that wasn't likely to happen.
“So far, I-...well, I don’t know if people just don’t want to cooperate, or if they really don’t know anything, but...they haven’t said much to me. I’ve made friends with a local mascot named Trevor, who’s really-...uh...”
Garrot glanced about at the faces around him nervously. He sensed his current subject was of vanishing relevance.
“O-overall, I...haven’t found much, sir. Sorry.”
“I see.” said Ken. The brief pause implied a gently disapproving look from beyond the other end of the speaker. “Well, you haven’t been there long. I could recommend pursuing the lead based around this temple, perhaps.”
“Yes...sir.” sighed Garrot.
“That’s everything we have for you, Nest,” said Bran. “We’ll keep in contact for any developments.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. Oh, but...would you mind letting me have a few words with Private Hathorne before you go?”
Each of them exchanged a look of sympathetic alarm towards Garrot.
“Sorry, pal...” whispered Sarei.
“Nest has high expectations, it seems,” muttered Emil.
“Just, uh...tap that switch when you’re finished, Garrot,” explained Bran.
The three of them exited the small room, leaving Garrot alone with the small speaker.
“Sir-…" started Garrot. “I really must apologize. Even ahead of time, I wasn’t sure if I was-”
“Private, you’re doing fine,” said Ken. “I’m not singling you out for trouble or anything. You may be overestimating the impact of a few days’ work. I just sensed a, ah…a slight lack of confidence.”
Garrot breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m...really not familiar with this kind of work, sir.”
“Well, can I be honest?” said Ken, in a more social voice. “Neither am I! Nor is the General commissioning you four. That’s why it’s something of an experiment. But, on that regard...I still think that you’re a very important part of that experiment.”
“I still wonder if I should be helping to fight the Spawn, though. I just want to be sure I’m somewhere helpful.”
“Don’t be,” said Ken. “You’ll help plenty right where you are. I think it’s sad to say we haven’t truly given our J’halan service members a proper role, and I wouldn’t want you dying someplace it won’t mean anything. For that matter, do you feel safe where you are?”
“Safe?”
Garrot considered the word—safe. Normally, it was used in more ‘personal’ conversations. Perhaps he was still unused to the tendencies of the Imperial language.
“I’m perfectly fine, sir. The locals are all very friendly. The worst danger that might be out here is a small Hellpox outbreak in the J’halan Quarter.”
“Hellpox?” asked Ken. “Hm...we didn’t know about that. Do you have any idea on numbers of affected?”
“No, sir, but I could go back there tonight and try to find out-”
“No, Private.” said Ken flatly. “In fact, I think I'd like to ask you to stay out of that district if your reports are correct. One of the others can investigate the need for us to send a pharmacist out there.”
Garrot wanted to protest. True, Hellpox affected klyskins far more than snowskins, but that seemed like the kind of natural risk and danger that the Legion was prepared for - though, risk normally came in the form of knives and bullets rather than germs.
“Sir, I really don’t think-”
“Simple biology, Private. You’re klyskin, after all. And that’s an order I’ll have you relay to the Sergeant. I’ll let you risk your life for a worthy cause, but not for doing a silly medical census. Don’t forget, you’re part of a team. Your whole squad is there for you.”
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
Garrot could hear the sense of finality in his conclusion. He’d had a pent-up need to be useful to people, and here he was not just causing burdens but being protected. He decided to drop the matter.
“Yes, sir. I’ll let Bran know.”
“Hey, chin up, kid—it's better than your last posting, isn’t it?”
The following morning, Garrot found himself saddled with what would normally compose routine chores for living elsewhere—laundry, cleaning, and collecting food from the market. All of it was normal for a guard posting, but in the given context, it felt increasingly pedestrian—like they really were only a few marks off from the “vacation” Sarei had labelled it.
And yet, each of the others had been innovating their own discoveries over time in that small, unremarkable town—he tried to internalize the remarks of positivity and encouragement relayed to him by Bran and the Lieutenant, but still struggled to sort out his feelings of discomfort—of being out of place.
When he had learned Imperial, many job prospects opened to him. What had driven him to join the military, he’d realized, was the lack of decision-making. A good soldier could stand, salute, follow orders, and grit through the pain. Now that he was being given freedom to pursue a broad goal, however he saw fit, it felt overwhelming and baffling.
Returning to the storeroom that had become the Rangers’ barracks, he found Sarei sitting on her bunk, inspecting her lance. It was made from reinforced darkwood, with a long sword-like iceware blade affixed onto the end. Garrot had seen the lancers use the weapons in training—they were much faster to swing than a musket’s bayonet; up close, he imagined the odds going pretty heavily in her favor, and it was easy for combatants to underestimate their full reach.
“Hey, Hathorne. You’re on chore duty today, right?”
“Yeah, so it seems. Just here to grab the produce basket. Today’s Cheranol’s market day.”
“As long as you’re going out there, would you mind doing me a favor?” she said, standing from her bunk. “See if you can find me a good flint sharpening stone. I didn’t bring one with me.”
She was poking at the tip of the polearm, testing its sharpness.
“Will do,” said Garrot. “Glad to see you can at least take some responsibilities seriously.”
Sarei froze mid-motion. “Pardon?”
Garrot shrugged, not quite sure what could cause offense given Sarei’s brazen behavior in the days he’d known her.
“Ms. Adamel…Do you call spending all day at a bar an important responsibility? I just meant, I was starting to worry about how helpful you were going to be. Granted, I'm not doing well either, but at least with me, it’s not for lack of trying. Sorry if I…”
Sarei shrugged. “Oh, no offense taken—I'm lazy as fuck, won’t lie about that. But I’m not abandoning duties—just doing the absolute bare minimum of them. I’m not lifting a finger until I know that finger’s going to do something good. First time we came to the pub, I could tell: If this town has secrets, this’ll be the first spot I hear them.”
She shrugged, emphatically.
“So I stayed there. Got plastered, and overheard more info than you did. Lazy butts like me attract kindred souls.”
Garrot raised an eyebrow at her.
“You don’t think we could be doing more? Most of the Steel Legion is out there gearing for war. After sitting in a bar all day, do you think our efforts compare at all to theirs?”
She took a swig from a cup of water. “I don’t think our orders compare at all to theirs. In fact I didn’t expect we’d have anything to report. You do realize, this whole assignment seems to have received about the level of planning of a weekend pub crawl?”
“How do you mean? I thought Ken’s been very helpful...”
“If Nest wanted to learn about what’s going on out here, all they had to do was hire the damn Querymans’ Guild. The pros would already be reporting back by now.”
“Well, the Emperor and the Guild aren’t on the best of terms...” ventured Garrot. “It might...not be a good look for the army to hire from them.”
Sarei rolled her eyes. “Making our entire presence here superficial political posturing. Hence, my do-nothing attitude. Sorry to break it to you, kid. We’re not going to make a difference."
She set down her weapon, relaxing in her bunk. She was being blunt, but Garrot felt there was a degree of truth in her words.
“What about a sled problem, though?” he suggested. “If you WERE given an important decision like that...? You said earlier, you wouldn’t kick the sled. You’d let five people die. Is that really out of laziness?”
“Of course not,” mumbled Sarei from her laid back posture. “Even my inaction is calculated. You see six people, and you think you can prevent four deaths. But you’ll never know for sure. Maybe five people pushing back, together is enough to stop the sled before it runs anyone over. Maybe the sled’s second path actually has more people on it that you can’t see. Maybe you’ll be arrested for murder for kicking a sled at someone, and it’ll turn out that all six of the people you wanted to help are fucking jackasses that weren’t worth it.”
She rolled over to glare at him.
“And what’s more, I’m not the one letting five people die. That goes to the moron that left a cargo sled loaded on a hill without a brake.”
“So you’d get caught up in who’s to blame for it?”
“No. But someone would.”
She rolled back over to face away from him, presumably gearing up for a long nap.
“Don’t go looking for sled problems, Hathorne. It’s not worth it. Most people just want to chill out and have a beer. You can’t hurt anyone by doing the same.”
Garrot stood in thought as the lancer completely tuned him out from her presence.
“For someone so passive, Sarei...sometimes I wish you wouldn’t shut people down so much.”
The only reply that came was a feigned snore.
“I mean it!!” called Garrot. “Yesterday, Emil was trying to give his report and you just...scoffed at him! Yeah, I thought what he said was assumptive too, but do you know what that tells people? It says the best way to avoid your snide attitude is to just not say anything!”
“...Hm. True enough,” mumbled Sarei from the far side of her bunk.
“Is that what you want? A team where everyone’s speaking on tiptoes around you rather than saying their mind?”
Sarei rolled back, glaring down Garrot.
“If their mind is that klyskins are suspicious...it’s pretty fucked up that YOU didn’t say anything, Hathorne.”
Garrot reflexively stepped back as Sarei’s hand shot out past his shoulder to a nearby table. It calmly withdrew, once the Lancer had retrieved a pack of gumweed snacks she’d purchased from the general store.
“I get the picture you don’t want people speaking up for you,” mumbled Sarei between chews of her candy. “Saints know the Sergeant has spat that often enough. But I know I’ve met a dozen J'halans that have dealt with enough heartache back during the Charitors’ Act that they’d consider it their civic duty to remove a few teeth from PFC Petterson on his way back to the barracks.”
Garrot tensed unnaturally. The Charitors’ Act was an unspoken term on everyone’s lips any time the discussion of J’halan racial treatment arose. Sarei was far braver than most to put voice to the oft-unspoken topic.
But Garrot couldn’t claim to be a direct victim of that legal measure. He had immigrated in the year following its momentous repeal—when many Halens were aiming to distance themselves from the law and show fairer treatment to their immigrants.
Garrot kneaded his hands uneasily. “There are enough people in the world that fail to resolve their issues by getting into fights. That’s...not how I solve things, Sarei.”
“So tell me—how often has speaking passively to people ‘solved things’? Or do you just not care about your countrymen that were too lazy to join the Legion? Countrymen afraid to face the three square meals, soft bed, and all the dangers that accompany an Empire in its longest period of peace for centuries?”
Garrot’s eye twinged. Before speaking to Sarei, he’d had to pretend to be upset to make a forceful impression. Now, he was doing his best to hold back real fury. He heaved an agitated sigh.
“It sounds like we’re both bad at what we do, Adamel.”
Garrot left the lancer to her nap, proceeding to his next task of collecting groceries for the team. He spent a brief time searching the local markets. Cheranol had few farms nearby, but the freight trains frequently delivered a healthy spread of food before returning with their shipment of klysten ore.
After some brief searching, it seemed the better deals lay out within the cramped J’halan Quarter of the town. Garrot learned through some inquiries that several local J’halan vendors had been bullied out of the main market street by the local members of the Merchants’ Guild. Now, their prices had fallen, in a struggle to obtain what sales they could from their neighbors, as well as the rare passing snowskin.
Garrot returned in the direction of the barracks, the basket loaded with fruits and vegetables; his mind having gradually absorbed the layout of Cheranol’s streets.
As he came past a street that faced the drop-off point for the local mine, he heard a low rumble of commotion—venturing down the pathway, he could see a large crowd that had politely gathered beneath a raised wooden stage. Bran and Emil had already joined the crowd.
“Sergeant!” called Garrot.
Bran turned and casually waved. “Hey, you finished at the market?”
Garrot deposited the basket on a nearby barrel for a moment, looking around at the assembled crowd. “Did something happen?”
“Apparently, the miners got part of the day off so they could hear out some big announcement. No one here seems to know what’s coming.”
Ahead of them, a heavyset miner proceeded around the crowd, shaking hands and absorbing attention. Looking closer, Garrot realized he recognized the face.
“Isn’t that Foreman Tallow?” asked Garrot.
Garrot recalled the stout figure from the train they’d taken into town. After finishing a very brief greeting with another member of the crowd, the Foreman adjusted his spectacles, spotting the three of them.
“Ah, my fellow passengers! Welcome!” said Tallow. “Still waiting on the last dive team to come out of the mine, but we’ll be starting soon.”
“Good day to you, sir!” said Garrot warmly. “Sorry I haven’t stopped by to say hello.”
“You know him from somewhere, kid?” asked Emil.
“Like he said: Fellow passengers. But that’s all,” replied Bran, privately to Emil. “Garrot...forms lifelong connections pretty quickly.”
“I certainly hope our small town has been treating you three well! I-...Oh. There was a...barkskin woman with you, wasn’t there?”
“Sarei is...preoccupied,” said Garrot, envisioning her midday nap.
“Maybe for the best, too.” said Bran. “She was a bit annoyed to find your bar tab wasn’t good for your favor.”
“Eh?” Tallow looked confused. “I-I hav-...Oh. Well, y-yes, misunderstanding with the owner. Haven’t been back there since I returned. But please stick around! I’d like you in particular to hear this announcement!”
He pushed a friendly finger towards Garrot.
“Maybe you three could help spread the news and get some impressions, even.”
Tallow flashed them a dorky smile, and moved on before Garrot could ask any questions.
“What is that about? Did you ever catch up with him after our train ride?” asked Bran.
“Honestly, I haven’t the faintest,” admitted Garrot. “I did hear a town election is coming up. It sounded like he might be running for Mayor or something?”
“So what does that have to do with the kid?” asked Emil. None of them could divine an answer.
As the crowd filtered into the town square, each of them shared curious looks. A short stage had been arranged Joining the three of them, Sarei stumbled in, still only half-awake, together with several other denizens of the Canary Elevator. She rubbed her eyes.
“Anyone know what this is about?”
“Everyone’s just been taking guesses…” replied Bran. “Apparently something Garrot would be interested in?”
Garrot was unable to reply to Sarei’s quizzical stare with anything more than a shrug. Mercifully, not long after her arrival, Foreman Tallow clambered up to the stage.
“Good evening, CMC! Now, I’m sure you’d all like to know what we’ve assembled you here for,” announced the foreman, taking the stage. “Of course, the primary reason is to celebrate a half day of work, and go get a round at the Elevator.”
The opening joke caught a decent few chuckles.
“The secondary reason, for any of you who haven’t already scarpered, is to talk about the next candidate for Mayor. Mayor Ilwen has been doing an excellent job maintaining the peace in Cheranol for over a decade, but whether we like it or not, the winds of change are upon us. Halehearth Rail’s network now stretches into Solsend, and while klysten devices pervade the Egg’s markets, the price of the commodity we work for every day has inevitably fallen. As the town faces these modern challenges, as well as continuing to support our J’halan neighbors, the empire’s shifts in trade demands, and of course keeping the town alert for potential threats, we have been looking for a community leader to make that key difference.
“I…regret to say to you, my friends and colleagues, that I come to you dissatisfied with Mayor Ilwen’s unremarkable plan for modernizing the Cheranol region. Instead…I’d like to introduce a challenger to this upcoming election; a man familiar with the challenges of growth amidst social conflict.”
“...me,” whispered Emil as a joke.
“Introducing Pastor Jes’qel Remire!”
Confused looks were shared all around, as an elderly, bearded klyskin man in ceremonial robes ascended to the stage from a shaded hiding spot around the corner. His face was kindly, with endearing wrinkles and beard; but Garrot could sense that the religious attire didn’t strike an immediate chord with the miners around him.
“Ohhh, boy...” muttered Emil. “Here we go.”
“Thank you, Foreman,” announced the pastor. “I’m not sure how many of you know me—it's true that my family has, at times, lived somewhat reclusively here in your amazingly pleasant community. A few faces in the crowd are merchants, local patrolmen, community members who have attended some of my after-hours chats and tea gatherings. I also tend to be something of a liason with the J’halan Quarter here in Cheranol.”
“What do you mean, ‘here we go?” asked Bran quietly. He decided he could risk whispering—he wasn’t the only one muttering to their neighbors during the pastor’s speech.
Emil shook his head. “It won’t happen. I’ll admit, I misjudged this foreman—but a klyskin politician? This leap isn’t going to go well with them. Watch.”
The pastor continued. “To some, I believe my reputation, my sole role in this humble community, has been one of saving my people—that is a role I won’t deny, but of which I will deny the implication that saving anyone would come at the cost of our society at large.
“As one of many who survived through the turmoil caused by this Empire’s darker periods—the Charitors’ Act most of all—I see those divisions cause harm even to those not targeted by it. My vision for the future of all of the Westbell region is as a community that works together, helping each other in turn through strife. Even after the Act’s repeal, and violence between snowskin and klyskin has died down over the past decade, we still live separately—dividing our boroughs, never learning each other’s language. I want each of us to see what we can gain from each other—be it a doctor, a teacher, a new favorite customer, a friend.”
“He sounds so inspiring.” said Garrot. “What has you so riled up about him, Emil??”
Emil shook his head. “You’ve got it wrong, kid. To me? He seems like he honestly might be a good guy. But with everything these people deal with, the last thing they’re gonna want is a politician that puts klyskins first.”
“But that’s not what he-!”
Garrot quieted himself. He didn’t want to raise his voice to the point he was interrupting the speech.
“And so,” continued Jes’qel, “I accept Foreman Tallow’s nomination. We’ll be arranging debates between myself and the Mayor this week. At my temple, I’ll be sharing some draft proposals for community projects aimed at bonding the two communities in this town—and the surrounding villages we, directly or indirectly, are responsible for. And come the election at the end of this month, I would be honored by your considered support for the position of Mayor!”
Jes’qel bowed to the crowd of miners before him. Foreman Tallow emphatically began a lead of applause.
“And now we hear the wind whistle,” whispered Emil sympathetically.
The crowd erupted into applause.
A few of the miners closer to them were surprised by the general crowd’s reaction, but all around, men were enthusiastically cheering for the candidate. Garrot joined the clapping naturally, but Emil and Bran quickly felt pressured to join in.
From behind, a yelp of enthusiasm cried out—the Rangers turned back to see the crowd had even expanded behind them since the speech had started. Other passersby had come from their homes to wave small flags for the candidate.
“Thank you all, so much!” announced Jes'qel.
Garrot could see a twinge of pain on the man’s face—maybe he had worked hard for this moment, and they were only seeing the end of his efforts.
“I think I just heard the wind...” remarked Bran, in reply to Emil. “The wind of change.”
Emil was incredulous—his eyelid twinging.
“Wha-...they-...What the fuck just happened?”
“I will be away for a part of this month, but I will see you all on our election day!” the pastor concluded, turning to leave.
“Hold on just a moment,” hissed a sudden voice.
A middle-aged woman in a tie thrust her way through the crowd, and rose onto the stage.
“Foreman Tallow has somehow managed to arrange this audience without me knowing—or having a chance to respond. I’m sure somewhere in the Imperial ordnances, we will find it’s a breach of conduct to campaign for elections with a captive audience like that. Thankfully, I’m lucky enough to be present to respond to ridiculous accusations.”
The Rangers examined the pointed expression of their new host.
“I guess we never did meet the mayor, did we?” remarked Bran.
Mayor Ilwen adjusted her glasses, assuming a forceful command of the assembled workers.
“Let me assure you; while certain falls in klysten ore prices have taken a hit on towns like ours, these are merely as a part of the Egg-wide markets feeling their way into the new generation. Prices for klysten ore have already stabilized at 3 sen an once, and will inevitably return to normal. Moreover, I suspect Pastor Remire’s election bid has far more to do with forcing the integration of temporary J’halan residents into our community—dividing our town’s room for growth even further. I have enough to deal with these days without the people of Cheranol pointlessly considering a change in political track. I will address-“
“YOU’D RATHER THEY JUST STARVE AND DIE, WOULDN’T YOU?” came a violent, accented shout from the crowd. “WELL, I AT LEAST WON’T MAKE YOU STARVE!!”
Amidst the confusion of the crowd, no one could discern the exact origin of the voice, until it was too late; a hooded figure had thrown a bottle, wrapped in a ragged cloth, onto the stage.
“BACK, BACK!!” shouted Bran, pulling members of the crowd around him away from the throw.
Mayor Ilwen stumbled backwards as the bottle shattered onto the stage, spilling sapfluid across it. The stage’s wooden planks froze into brittle shards, splintering and shuddering violently. Ilwen panicked, crossing her arms over her body for fear any of the droplets might splash onto her.
Without thinking, Garrot leapt onto the stage, adrenaline prompting him to ignore any tinges of cold that one would feel if touched by the sub-frigid substance, and yanked Ilwen back by her collar, as the last few bursts of unsettled fluid erupted from the bottle. Garrot seized Ilwen’s boot, where sapfluid had already begun eating through the leather, and yanked it off, throwing it to empty ground.
“Are you all right?” asked Garrot.
“WHERE IS HE?!?” called Sarei.
In the midst of the panic, the hooded figure responsible for the throw had slunk through the crowd, and was now impossible to locate.
“I saw him!” called a member of the crowd. “He was a J’halan!”
Bran gritted his teeth.
“Pastor Remire…!” he called. “Can you-”
He trailed off. Jes’qel Remire was nowhere to be found.
“Fuck’s sake!” remarked Emil, his musket at hand. “You think a man who encourages stunts like THIS can become mayor?”
The others were about to respond to Emil, until they saw what he had indicated; the flopping rag that the bottle had been wrapped in, now frozen onto the stage by the spiked, icy mass created by the sapfluid splash. It was a doll; haphazardly put together, as a facsimile of Mayor Ilwen’s appearance. The doll’s chest bore a creed written in jagged letters with bright crimson ink.
EXILE WASN’T GOOD ENOUGH