The morning tide had allowed Emma and the crew to tie off at the dock without too much of an issue. As was the custom and procedure, the dockside officials greeted them and asked quite tricky questions. When a small bag was passed to them, and after a quick inspection of the contents, the questions stopped, as did any further hindrance.

Emma, Mr. Wolf, Amelia, and Hutchens disembarked the ship. Making their way through the dock and workers with nary a sideways glance. Dock work was dangerous between the steam cranes, the cargo rollers, and workers with little training. Still, with a strong back, this was a way up from the bottom and out into the city. In such an environment, blood was on the ground daily from people working too often for too long. But, accidents were more common if certain heavies weren't given their due.

Everyone makes money in a port town. One way or another.

* * *

Emma and the group found it easy to get a cab once they were on the other side of the high-wort iron gates. The driver knew their trade and took them directly to the address. The building, in all its glory, was built from the most expensive Oamaru stone mined, cut, and shipped from the deep south, all the way to Auckland.

Emma considered herself a freedom-loving businesswoman. Such as her particular type of work goes. But walking into this room in this building was the most dangerous thing she had done in a very long time. The lobby of the Steamspire Royal Trading Syndicate was empty of people save for one lone clerk, the noise of the pen scratching on paper filled the chamber with sound. The clicking of Emma's cane on the marble floor was deafening the reverberation of the high dome ceiling bouncing off the walls and floor all covered in marble directly from Europe. The wealth of the Steamspire Royal was not without taste but maybe without limits.

Walking through the lobby, Emma's red skirt hem swept around her ankles; Hutchens and Amelia hovered just behind Emma. Mr. Wolf walked past Emma to the center of the room. Standing atop the Steamspire emblem, carefully and expertly inset into the floor with gold gilding to each shape and word. He raised his right foot, twisting his heel from side to side on the emblem in a visible effort to erase and damage the inlay. Emma walked past him, slapping him on the back of the head.

"We are the sheep in the lion's den," Emma said in a low, warning voice.

Mr. Wolf looked at Emma and the clerk sitting behind an ornate oak desk with delicate silver inlay scrollwork balancing against elaborate, opulent inlays of wood and metalwork shaped into modern reliefs of steamships, trains, and airships.

The scenes depicted the trading company applying the various aspects of shipping and trade worldwide, but no sight of the business manner. There was a reason for the sword in their emblem. What the syndicate thought anything was theirs eventually became theirs by trade or by plunder.

The blue eyes of the clerk were visible beneath the green peak of his visor. He was a clean-shaven man, but his face was not strong in the jaw. His weak chin, along with his other features, gave him a weasel-like appearance. See Mr. Wolf and his little dance, the clerk made an audible hrmph, echoing in the chamber with an overly dramatic shaking of his head.

"Good day to you, Sir. My name is Emma Rollins," Emma said, standing before the clerk.

"What is your business here today?" the man replied in a clipped tone, flipping up two of several lenses attached to this green visor. Emma looked down at the desk and noticed the name Richard Watts inlaid in blonde wood on the mahogany nameplate.

"Well, Mr. Watts, I have been informed that my brother may have been, shall we say, collected by your organization. And, I, in turn, am here to collect him." Emma said, peering at the man's magnified eyeballs flitting right to the left, up to down.

"Your writ," Watts required, holding out his hand while he flipped several pages back in his ledger with the other.

"My writ?" questioned Emma.

"Any communication with the prisoners must be organized and approved of by the Justice, a w-r-i-t." Mr. Watts replied, slowing the cadence of speech to enunciate the word writ.

"No, no. You don't understand. My brother was taken in error. And I am quite sure he is not a prisoner," Emma replied, her eyebrows moving closer in frustration and becoming a scowl.

Turning to Mr. Wolf, Emma gave him a look that ensured the other party knew this was the most frustrating conversation. Mr. Wolf was standing some distance away in front of a noticeboard. He smiled, pointing to and tapping his image on a wanted poster.

"Everyone in our custody is automatically a criminal by Royal Law and the official assessment of a Justice appointed by Steamspire," replied Mr. Watts snidely.

"Sir, please, you have to let me see my fiancé," cried Amelia, stepping forward.

"You see, he is an honorable man and could not possibly be a, a, a,…criminal," as Amelia's voice faltered, finishing, Hutchens placed a hand on her shoulder for support.

"Mr. Watts, we do not, at this moment, have a writ. Should you see your way clear to providing access to my brother, Kincade, it would be possible to provide you with recompense for your time and effort," Emma pulled two five-pound notes from the back of a white lace glove and held them forward.

At that trigger, Mr. Watts got up from his seated position chair, placed his palms on his desk, and leaned forward.

"Madame, I am an honorable man. This is the Steamspire Royal Trading Syndicate, an organization charged with keeping order in the South Pacific. Bribery is not something that we will abide by. Unless you get a Writ from Justice Paris himself, you will not see anyone," Mr. Watts stated.

At this retort, the calm, polite demeanor that Emma had been projecting fell away. The polite smile and warmness behind her eyes were replaced with a cold visage. The fingers of her right hand slowly pulled up the hem of her skirt, revealing first the sheath, then the handle, of an ornately carved knife strapped to her boot.

If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

After noticing the change in her nature, Hutchens intervened, "Quite right, Sir. And, where shall we find this Justice Paris?" He asked, placing his hand on Emma's left wrist.

"His offices are across the street, on the first floor," replied Mr. Watts.

"Thank you, Sir. You have been most kind," he started to walk away, pulling Emma with him. She struggled slightly, but he got her to walk towards the door.

* * *

The sun was high in the mid-morning sky. The street was reasonably safe for the few people entering and leaving the haberdashers below Justice's offices. The local street hawkers, whose calls could be heard as they attempted to attract business, painted a prosperous city. As with most Auckland Autumn days, the humid heat was oppressing. But that did not match the fury that Emma was still feeling.

Before Hutchens could explain his actions to Emma, held her finger in his face, and seemed to grow several centimeters, she said, "I will have that man's nethers on a well-rusted anchor. And if you ever touch me again, I will have yours," Emma finished.

"That's what I wanted to avoid," said Hutchens calmly.

"I would not have harmed the poor man," replied Emma. Hutchens raised his eyebrows, lowered his chin, and stared silently at Emma.

"Well, not too much," Emma said, staring back. "Definitely no more than minor cuts," she amended.

Hutchens broke the stare, turning his head.

Amelia humphed and said, "This is not getting us closer to Kincade," interrupting them both, stamping her foot, and slapping her thighs with her fists.

"Could we please attempt to contact this Justice Paris? He will be sympathetic to our cause." Amelia asked.

"Yes. We can. Of course," replied Emma.

They crossed the road and entered a building, unlike the Steamspire Royal Trading Syndicate chambers. This was a drab building, simple, wooden-sided, three stories high. Hutchens opened the door for Amelia and followed her through. As Emma stepped over the threshold, she stopped in the doorway. She looked at the long, thin hallway and noticed that the walls did not end at the ceiling but on two opposing mezzanine floors.

"A shooting gallery," said Mr. Wolf as he stood at Emma's shoulder.

"Agreed," replied Emma.

"I am a brigand, you know?" smiled Mr. Wolf.

"I have been aware of that for some time," Emma replied.

"No. There was a poster across the road," said Mr. Wolf. "The Streamspire idiots have realized that I am a bigger pain than they have previously painted me. I wanted you to know before we go through that hall," he clarified.

"Congratulations, my friend. It's wonderful to tick something off your list of life goals," said Emma, who turned a little and patted Mr. Wolf on the shoulder.

Then she stepped through the doorway into the hall. At the end of the hall was a simple brass plate. And read the offices of Justice Archibald Paris. Presumably, Justice Paris himself could be waiting behind the door.

Hutchens reached out and tapped the door three times. The others focused on Hutchens as he puffed out his chest and comported himself.

"Hm-MM_HR," Hutchens spoke up. "I seek an audience with Justice Paris. May I enter?" he inquired of the door. No response was given.

"Noone would seem to be home," Emma said in response to his inquiry. She looked at Mr. Wolf and nodded. He moved back down the hall and away.

"And, a reconnoiter of the chamber within may provide information that could prove useful," said Emma.

"And if the occupant should return?" asked Amelia.

"Mr. Wolf will let us know," replied Emma as she pulled a small brass and iron rod from her bag. Along its length were several raised sections. The head of the key was ornately carved into the shape of a skull with opals for eyes. She placed it into the lock, twisted the end with four complete rotations, and then let go. The key clicked, and then it turned of its own volition. It moved to the left and then made an audible clang. Emma turned the handle of the door, and it opened. She then removed the rod for the lock.

"Adelante, amigos," encouraged Emma.

"French?" asked Hutchens.

"Castillian Spanish. And I shall enter," interjected Amelia, going into the room, followed by Hutchens, then Emma, who closed the door behind her.

Emma stood in the office and looked from one wall to the other. The handpainted wallpaper displayed images of Themis, the Greek god of natural law and Justice; the picture showed a scene of Zeus and her deliberating. Others depicted Zeus passing judgment on someone with

Themis in the background. A bookcase on the left wall housed several leather-bound books; the titles identified the subjects as covering torts and criminal law. On the wall behind her were two cabinets with three deep drawers each, and the door's left and right. In the middle of the room, a large desk. Hutchens entered quickly, sat down, and turned pages in a ledger. Several documents were piled in two trays on the desk.

"Amelia, can you review the documents in that tray? I shall take this one," directed Emma.

"What are we looking for?" Amelia wondered.

"Anything that would indicate that Kincade has been in contact with Paris or Steamspires bully boys," Emma said as she reviewed the first document from the tray. The other two set about their tasks.

"I have something," said Hutchens. "This entry here. Three days ago. Talks about a proceeding held at the railway with a group of prisoners. It talks about a prisoner with the deportment and elocution of a gentleman," he read.

"Is it Kincade?" interrupted Amelia.

"One moment," Hutchens replied. He muttered the rest of the words as he continued to read.

"Yes. A man claimed to be Kincade Rollins," Hutchens said.

"Oh, that is wonderful. So, he was released? And, sent home?" stated and questioned Amelia.

"One moment, Hutchens said, silently reading the document. "It would seem there was a fight," he said.

"Was he hurt?." Amelia said as she grabbed at his shoulder.

"Errr... no, he was not," Hutchens assured her.

"So, what has happened to him?" encouraged Amelia.

"He has been sentenced to onboard service one of the Steamspire Royal Trading Syndicate ships - The Raven's Claws.'".

* * *

Emma was the last to leave the building. Hutchens and Amelia were already waiting on the street. Emma was watching the door of the Steamspire Royal Trading Syndicate across the street. Several of the steam-powered cabs passed by on the road.

The three of them crowded together once again. Amelia recapped and asked Emma, "It's getting late. We know the name of the ship. Why did we have to leave? I mean, before we talked to Paris?"

"We know the name of the ship. That's all we need," replied Emma.

"But we needed a writ to release him," corrected Amelia.

"We did. But not now," Emma said, patting Amelia's gloved hand in a calming gesture.

"What do you mean?" Amelia asked her, looking perplexed.

"Kincade is a prisoner. The Steamspire Royal Trading Syndicate doesn't hold prisoners for long. It's not an efficient use of their resources. After they pronounced the sentence, binding Kincade to service was nice and legal. He would have been put on a ship within a day or two.

Then the ship would have filed a travel plan with the Steamspire Royal Trading Syndicate central bureaucracy," indicating the Steamspire Royal Trading Syndicate office doors across from her, with her hand.

"Then, they would have left with the utmost expedience," Emma concluded, dropping her chin to her chest.

"What does this all mean? Can we still get him released?" questioned Amelia.

"It means he's on an airship and that they have left the dominion of New Zealand's laws and social graces," offered Hutchens. He reached an arm out and around Amelia's shoulders to provide support as she started to shake visibly.

"Yes," confirmed Emma.

"We must stay the course and get him back," Hutchens added.

"Then patience will be our companion for this time being. We must get back to my ship and wait for Mr. Wolf to return," Emma continued. Hutchens looked left and right in an exaggerated attempt to locate Mr. Wolf.

"I didn't even notice that he was missing," Hutchens said.

"Quite. It's one of his better traits," Emma stepped into the street, holding out a hand, and hailed a cab. "Shall we go?"