The young man who frittered away his funds on gambling and brothels sulkily left Alaric's Chamber of Commerce headquarter to seek some occupation in another department, hoping to be seriously busy before the chairman's verdict on him was pronounced.
Meanwhile, his good pal Winter was reporting to his direct superior.
"...Considering the situation, I believe that..." our would-be sage was in the midst of presenting his conclusion.
"Bang!" The wooden table before Winter nearly hopped from the force of the slam that cut off his words mid-sentence.
"How many times do I have to tell you, Winter? I don't want to hear what you believe," fumed his overseer, visibly irate. He had cut Winter off three times in a matter of minutes. "If you were really that adept at 'believing', you'd be in this seat, not me. Stick to the facts; the higher-ups will do the 'believing' for you."
The lad's chief virtue had always been his compliance, but now it seemed he was even fumbling with that badge of honour.
The team leader had no clue what had happened to Winter in Rofca, but during their entire briefing today, Winter repeatedly followed his portion of the report with his own conjectures, squandering everyone's time. Despite being shut down twice, the pesky fellow showed no signs of reining it in, as if a whisper kept telling him, "You're right, carry on. You're right, carry on." Desperate not to make a fool of himself in front of his colleagues, he reprimanded Winter with a stern voice, which mercifully brought the debrief to a smooth close.
But the scribe, responsible for chronicling the report, didn't bother with such concerns. Shooting straight, just like Winter's reporting, and the scribe's note-taking—they submitted their eclectic collection of intelligence, speculation, and argument straight to Alaric, then washed their hands of it, leaving the chairman to worry over the contents alone.
Indeed, Alaric didn't stew over the report for long; dusk was approaching, and with evening came the end of the workday, the time when no one seemed to care where anyone else went.
---
Murphy looked bewildered as he faced Alaric, who was presenting a stack of parchment, "This soon? Everything settled already?"
"Progressing smoothly, just some intriguing bits of intel I thought you should see," Alaric stepped forward, unfolding the reports of the five spies he had sent to the West, along with Albert's documented adventures for Murphy to peruse.
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After a brief perusal, Murphy looked up from the parchments, "I knew something smelled fishy. Why did the Western Region start gathering troops?"
"Indeed, our intel indicates that the Western sector has left only a barebones force near the demons, enough for keeping order," Alaric explained, "The rest are amassing near Rofca. It’s just unclear who they plan to strike."
"And what do your analysts reckon?" Murphy asked with interest. Ever since learning that Alaric had a few shrewd types, exclusively for parsing raw data, he couldn't help but conjure images of a "Three Kingdoms" game board, often referring to Alaric's informants as strategists.
To Alaric, Murphy's questions came off as ironic—like the world's craftiest guy praising others for their craftiness. It always had a tinge of sarcasm and mockery.
But Alaric didn't mind, firstly because he fancied his relationship with Murphy was solid, and secondly, despite Murphy's arrogant demeanor, he'd never been refused help, so Alaric banked on his continued assistance.
"After much debate, they've settled on the unlikely scenario that the West might actually be plotting an assault on the capital over a campaign to the North," Alaric answered.
Murphy plucked out a sheet, "Then why does this report vehemently suggest they're targeting the North?" He held in his hands Winter's detailed missive.
Alaric chuckled ruefully, "That's exactly my confusion. Hence I seek your insight, Mr. Murphy. Who the West wishes to fight matters—a great deal–in deciding whether we trade with them."
Murphy, incredulous, replied, "I thought you were always fearless. What's with all the hemming and hawing?"
"Sir, this is crucial. If the West goes to war with the North, we can lend a hand and make a tidy profit. But if they declare war on the king, aiding them would make us traitors, and off go our heads."
I wasn't aware you still valued your head," Murphy retorted.
"We can't be too careful," Alaric hedged. "If just one person in the know reaches the capital, we're ruined. My head is one thing, but I fear my whole family being dragged to the gallows..."
Murphy clasped Alaric's shoulder, "Don't worry. Go big, I'll report to Lord Toras seeking his protection. Soon, not a soul in the Viscount's domain will move without his leave."
"Really?" Alaric brightened up. Though he hadn't seen the mysterious 'Lord' in ages, his presence loomed like a pervasive spectre, instilling both fear and reassurance.
"Absolutely," Murphy—or should we say, "Lord Toras"—promised, thumping his chest, "A man of your rare caliber, like me, Lord Toras affords extra care. Besides, expanding your enterprise only serves our plans."
Learning he had a place in Lord Toras' favor sent Alaric's spirits sky-high, "With the Lord’s protection, I'll seize this chance and make a killing."
"That's the spirit!" Murphy beamed. "Think about it. What was the old kingdom like? A stagnant pool. Now that there's a ripple, are we supposed to suppress it? We're the stirrers, no, the agitators of this kingdom—turning a ripple into a whirlpool!"
Murphy cast out his arms as if summoning a cyclone from thin air, envisioning his will shaping a roaring maelstrom.
Alaric, following Murphy's gaze, realized even a war capable of upending the kingdom's power dynamic was merely a pawn in their game.
In his mind, the might of Lord Toras and the forces at his back ballooned to unimaginable proportions, plunging Alaric into a stupor akin to megalophobia.
Murphy, chuckling, gave Alaric's shoulder a pat, "Draft a plan. We'll fine-tune the details together."