Mysteries of Deram

Something about the church has been bugging him for a while.

Specifically, it’s that it’s marked with the Whitewood crest. In all the other towns he’s visited, he’s seen churches with no emblems, and churches with emblems of house Asphodel, but never one marked with the symbol of a regional lord. So does that make the Whitewoods deified benefactors of Deram, bold enough to tag their mark on ostensibly holy ground, or is it a signal?

Morning service has ended, so Raum can just rock up. He tells the priest that he’s Raum Whitewood and he wants in to the backrooms. The priest both doesn’t believe his identity claim and doesn’t indicate the backrooms hold anything beyond church paperwork.

Raum switches to hand signals, upon which the priest confesses there is something down back. But he remains unconvinced of Raum’s identity. If Raum is actually a Whitewood, he should know the passwords and processes. Raum flashes his signet ring — a forgery! He notes his high-class attire — stolen! He has the bodyguard vouch for him — an accomplice! Well, fine, but doesn’t he at least look like a Whitewood? Reminiscent of one, maybe, but certainly no spitting image.

Raum abruptly finds himself stumped. How does he prove he’s the son of his father?

…He could always dig around the Whitewood Manor for clues and come back later… This is hardly urgent…

But fuck, it’s bothering him now. Raum decides to show his connection in the most obvious way — by imitating his dad.

He mimics Mason Whitewood’s mannerisms and speech as the rambles on for fifteen minutes straight about all the ways the world’s done him wrong. Raum’s spent how many years cooped up in Ordanz only to get treated like this? Even the glue-huffing idiots there at least know the meaning of respect. Oh, you’re going to tell him to waste nine days of his life twiddling back and forth from Ferendaux because you think you know who’s who and what’s what? You’re gonna be real fucking embarrassed come the end of the month, fella. I can wipe you out — snap! — like that. Hope you like dirt ‘cause it’s all you’ll be eating after your job goes to smoke. Gonna make your wife and kids penniless. Y’damn eggs-for-eyes, melon-sucking, harebrained goosefooted loon coot.

The priest holds his flat stare.

...No? Raum tries.

Doubt shades the priest’s expression. He can’t deny Raum knew Mason Whitewood — and considering how young Raum is, the reasons why Raum might know Mason are very limited — but if he doesn’t know the password, he doesn’t know the password.

Though not the result he wanted, the fact the guy acknowledges the link satisfies Raum. He feels no great reluctance about dropping the whole matter here and returning to Deram as a regular tourist.

But Raum tilts his head. Is there nothing his dad ever told him, taught him, or said, that ever seemed oddly significant? His father taught him to read, write, do basic math, decode basic cyphers, speak basic Asphodelean, and encouraged his interest in the language by introducing him to native radio dramas. Though he stopped interacting with Raum by the time he was ten, at least in those formative years, he did seem eagerly invested in keeping Raum tied to Asphodel. By reminding Raum he was an Asphodelean, smarter than Ordanz, nobler than Ordanz, and better than Ordanz, Mason had laid the bedrock for Raum to dream that options except Ordanz even existed, and that his inability to fit in was simply because he belonged elsewhere.

Not that Raum had ever seriously taken it as much of anything, except his father yearning for reconnection with Asphodel. If he had taken it seriously, and listened more to him than to Reyl, his caregivers, and his own heart, it would’ve likely turned him into an unbearable prick.

Still. When all that attention just stopped, in retrospect, it did so with less with the sentiment that Mason had grown disgusted and given up, than the sentiment he’d taught Raum everything he needed to know. If Mason wanted to escape his exile vicariously through Raum, or at least hope and pretend Raum would one day understand his legacy, would he omit this password as part of this inheritance?

Raum should know. But when was he told?

A memory dredges itself to the fore. His dad, a touch drunk, laughing. You’ll thank me for that name someday.

An odd curiosity fills his chest. He experiments: you know, my name is actually Lethi.

The priest’s expression cools, as if he’s waiting to hear just a little more.

When you run ‘Lethi’ through his dad’s most basic training cypher, the resulting word is Sight.

Though this is likely part of a longer phrase, it satisfies the priest. He gestures Raum to follow, leaving the bodyguard behind, and leads him down a hidden passage through a stone tunnel carved in the earth. Meanwhile Raum marvels fuzzily at the thought that probably, his father did actually love him.

Their footsteps echo through the long, cold tunnel. Raum, remembering this whole thing is tied to a band of criminals, forces himself calm. A mugger’s den is the last place to sally around like an idiot.

But that calm disappears instantly beneath a wave of awe, as the tunnel opens up into a chamber beyond anything Raum could’ve imagined.

The chamber is enormous. Raum questions for a second if he hasn’t teleported back to Ordanz.

He stands on an outcropping halfway up the wall, from which he can see the whole panorama. The ‘ground level’ is consumed with sections the size of city blocks, stuffed with endless, orderly lines of bookshelves and filing cabinets. The corridors between the shelves buzz with uniformed people, who look to be shelving documents, checking documents, retrieving documents, or travelling in trams to transport documents to their place. Upon spotting a reference desk at the threshold into the grid of shelves, Raum’s impression is solidified. It’s a library.

But it’s not just a library. Armed, uniformed guardsmen patrol the corridors and stand at every entryway, always in pairs. Up the flights of carved stone steps, on larger outcroppings, Raum double-takes at the sight of a tavern, a postman’s, a bank, a store. Seedy-looking individuals in everyday clothes mill about in these upper levels, obviously permitted to be here, but corralled away from the ground levels by the vigilant guards.

What the fuck is this.

Carved into the vast stone wall, overlooking the library, is the word E.C.Q.O.I., and the crow sigil of Whitewood.

The priest returns to the church, leaving Raum alone. Unsure where else to get answers, Raum goes to the reference desk and introduces himself as Lethi Whitewood, son of Mason. The librarian accepts this with absolute nonchalance, as if the entire family isn’t meant to be dead, and asks what Raum is looking for.

Good question.

Information on Sebilles, he supposes. Or a map, which would be useful for directing his courier. The librarian nods and summons an assistant to help Raum find the right section.

The vastness of the media stuffing the bookshelves baffles Raum as they pass. Endless recordings from every radio frequency, countless books both fiction and not, copies of documents from both federal and regional ministries, every copy of every newspaper, flyers, letters, journals, brochures, stamps, logos, a museum of product packaging, an entire wing of notes jotted on napkins, receipts, secrets told in confessionals, records of bank transactions…

…an intelligence network, an intelligence archive. One massive enough to dwarf the Thorns into a microbe. That is, apparently, the real strength of house Whitewood, and what all those rent profits are funding.

Raum hops off the tram at the designated stop, to find a man already in the Sebilles section. He looks gruff, seedy, and has a sword on his back wrapped in linens. He snorts at Raum’s arrival, shoves the book he’s reading back into its shelf, and stomps over explicitly to elbow Raum into a bookshelf before leaving. Raum, more baffled than hurt, looks to his assistant for an explanation on what the fuck that was about.

The assistant is cagey. He seems to know something, but as Raum swiftly intuits, isn’t in the habit of spilling easy beans as a librarian of this mysterious archive ‘Ecqoi’. Information divulged here is likely transactional.

As Raum wrangles the assistant, who seems unbothered that his employer just got manhandled, he checks the book the gruff man was reading. Grande Mason Work of thee Greate Royale Citie: a journeyman’s almanac to comprehend the secret stone art of the Cardinal House and Lacren’s other fine structures. Hrm…

Raum divulges that the Ordish houses Seacrest and Amracht have been feuding over house Amracht’s ambitions to introduce a paper ‘fiat’ currency. This has been massively unnerving to Seacrest as Amracht owns the lumber and paper mills. The assistant accepts this and divulges in turn that the ruffian who just left is an agent of the Crown, who has been dropping in and out of Ecqoi quite a lot this past month.

A chill tingles Raum’s spine as he puts the book back in place. Aquila’s agent. …likely, one he had tasked with investigating Reyl’s whereabouts, and is now using to comb Sebilles…

…He’s so going to spill that Raum is meddling, with this courier business, in places Aquila doesn’t want him to. Shit shit shit this is actually bad.

Of course, Aquila knew Raum was going to Deram, and didn’t stop him from that — but that itself may have been a test to confirm that, even with Sebilles in reach, Raum wouldn’t do anything shady. Or to be cruelly pessimistic, it may have been a pissed-off Aquila giving Raum grounds to fuck up and justify future restrictions or bullying. Well!

Raum jogs — sprints, chasing after the agent. He arrives at the reference desk breathless, and the librarian informs him (after Raum’s blurtings of personal trivia) the agent has left Ecqoi through the church entrance.

Raum clamours up the steps, asks his bodyguard where the agent went, asks shopkeepers and passersby on the street the same. Though the town is small, the agent isn’t anywhere in Raum’s immediate vicinity, and with the noonday sun hanging high in the sky, time presses in on Raum’s rendezvous with potential couriers.

If he can’t get to the agent first, then dismissing the prospective couriers now, begging the agent not to tattle on the basis he has dismissed the couriers, and secretly organising a real courier after the agent’s left for Sebilles may be the wisest option.

Raum enters the tavern, ready to announce his pick from a gaggle of capable-looking men and women — among which Raum spots, in the corner with his arms gruffly crossed, the unimpressed agent, observing this all.

Raum pastes on a smile. After lightly questioning his applicants, he announces he has chosen Aquila’s agent as his courier, then leads him to his motel to speak privately about the job.

The agent grunts that the walls of these shantytown buildings are paper and tells Raum to relocate a little ways out of town. Raum asks confirmation the agent actually is one of Aquila’s guys, upon which the agent presents one of Aquila’s feathers. Satisfied, Raum instructs his bodyguard to move the carriage out of town a couple minutes, into the lip of the desert.

Finally, he posts his bodyguard outside the carriage while himself and the agent talk inside. The bodyguard is uneasy about this, but since this legitimately is one of Aquila’s men, accepts that Raum isn’t in danger.

The second Raum’s bodyguard is safely outside, and Raum turns to face the agent, he is yanked forward by the hair, pinned to the ground under a powerful knee, and twisted into a painful hold with his arms wrenched behind his back. Struggling just makes it hurt more, and when he goes to yelp, a hand swiftly clamps his throat silent. The agent’s gravelly voice growls in his ear, warning him not to even peep. Obediently, Raum strangles his wail into a quiet, thin note.

You have been one fucking pain in the ass, kid.

The agent’s cruel bullying continues. He twists Raum’s limbs at agonising angles, yanks his joints, prods his sensitive spots with ruthless efficiency. This man is experienced at tormenting others in ways that are plainly antagonistic, and extraordinarily painful, but leave no marks. Dully, Raum senses these techniques have been trained.

Raum writhes underneath him, flinching away from each jab of pain as mindlessly as a bug from a finger.

Soon satiated, the agent releases Raum and reclines himself on the sable cushions of the carriage’s seating, legs wide, arms draped over the adjacent headrests, as if he owns the whole damn vehicle. Raum, still choking and sputtering, weakly heaves himself into the seats opposite.

The agent accuses Raum of meddling.

Though Raum has put out a call for a courier, he has not once specified yet that he wants that courier to go to Sebilles. If he wants to play a semantic game, and dumbly feign doing nothing, plausible deniability is still on his side.

Finding his voice, Raum instead asks if the agent has reported anything to Aquila.

So that’s it. Looking to shine my boots with your tongue before your shenanigans get ratted to the Majesty, the agent laughs. Well too bad. Aquila already knows about the courier call, and even an incarcerated half-wit can tell the only place any package’s going is Sebilles. If you wanna call Aquila a half-wit, and pretend that this is anything else, just know, whatever honey he’s feeding you now, guy turns to a demon when you piss him off.

A demon, the agent repeats, laughing with a familiarity reserved only for someone who has seen Aquila do quite heartless things, and not been on the receiving end.

Raum wets his pursed lips, frantically thinking.

Aquila should’ve just stopped me, Raum internally grouses. And communicated better that I shouldn’t do this, given me something else to do...

Or Raum just shouldn’t have tried to do shit he knew he would have to hide later.

—Aquila’s not the present problem. Trying to dissect his motives or preempt his reactions is a trap to rouse not just paranoia, but insanity. Whether consciously trained to counter politicians or just an innate part of his legitimately nonhuman character, no matter what flecks of understanding he captures, Aquila does not think in ways Raum can truly grasp. Aquila will do what Aquila will do. Raum can bandy excuses and explain himself after.

The man in front of him right now is the agent. What is Raum looking to gain?

Delivery of the note. …No, rather, it’s movement on Reyl’s situation in general. And even that may be something he’s simply pursuing for peace of mind, to fight this creeping feeling of inertia. This note specifically may not be the smartest plan to achieve anything; but what effective alternatives might there be?

Raum asks what the situation’s been like in Sebilles.

The agent frowns, plainly put-off. That sounds like something Raum should be filled in on through Aquila. What, don’t trust him?

It’s not that, Raum insists, clicking his tongue in frustration. Raum wants Reyl found soon. He can figure, so does the agent. Raum doesn’t doubt Aquila’s methods, or competence, but he isn’t a totally omnipotent mastermind, and there are still plays he’ll overlook. Raum thinks he’s found one of those and wants to augment the current search effort with it.

Trying to wheedle me in! The agent laughs. Muddying me with your dirt to force me against Aquila!

We all want the same thing, Raum explains. It’s actually a massive boon to everyone that the agent has intercepted him. Since you know the situation on the ground better than me, if you take this plan as a proposal, you can judge yourself whether it is or is not a useful idea you’d want to implement.

The agent flatly asks for Raum’s plan, since (as predicted) he does need to report it anyway.

Raum couches it. This plan is absolutely going to piss off Aquila. Whether the agent takes up Raum’s offer or not, he is going to need to lie to Aquila.

Hedging hard bets on my lack of loyalty, eh? The agent smirks, resting his cheek on his fist.

More on your lack of discipline. From the way you’ve been talking, your view of Aquila is way too over-familiar, Raum thinks, presenting the note. I know this is a crazy idea, Raum says, but let’s be clear, I’m desperate. If it doesn’t work, just junk it — and leave it at that.

As the agent’s gaze flicks over each line of the note, his amused expression slowly sobers into dreadful, flat cold. Raum’s throat freezes behind his plastered smile, and he forces the tension in his shoulders down to straighten his spine.

The note crinkles in the agent’s grip. He snarls, this is blackmail enough to put you in the ground.

What does that matter to you? Guy who says hello by wrestling my arm near out of its socket.

The agent stuffs the note in his back pocket, face twisted in disgust and frustration. The fact Raum isn’t cowering from his threats, or from Aquila’s implied favouritism of this man, or even at the thought of Aquila’s retribution, is troubling him. Though he wants to terrorise Raum for whatever reason, he seems privy enough to Aquila’s plans to know he cannot actually bother Raum much, at risk of disturbing those plans.

Fucking brazen of you to do that to the guy who’s gonna be heir, Raum continues.

The agent cricks his neck.

Then smirks, as if Raum is some clumsy schoolgirl, boasting she dropped out to become a dancer. Yeah, yeah, reach for the stars, meat. It’s not just snickering behind Raum’s back that things won’t be as dreamy as he thinks. It’s laughing, uproariously, in his face, that he thinks he won’t be an exception among hundreds of battered prostitutes.

It’s the kind of black humour that’s only this funny when you know someone is absolutely fucked. Raum’s seen it a thousand times in the Thorns.

He knows exactly what Aquila’s plans are. And their ending for Raum is not good.

It’s more than just arrogance. He actually knows.

W-what’s so f-fuh, Raum sputters, but fear constricts his throat before he can finish. He pinches the bridge of his nose, holding his free hand open flat as if asking the surge of heat and looming tears to stop, turn around, and please not bother him for just a moment.

But the agent offers no distractions, snickering silently as he lets the pressure build of its own accord. Raum lacks the mind to even think, Fuck! He found my button already, as he struggles to rein his hard, quick breaths away from proper hyperventilation. Calm down, calm down, calm down, he repeats to himself like a mantra, steadily losing everything but those two syllables: calm down! But his heart only tha-thumps, faster, faster…

“Alright, let’s hear your spin, kid."

H-huh?, Raum gasps, as if yanked out of deep water.

Let’s hear it, the agent repeats, grinning as he picks at his nails. Raum’s right, this whole letter business is an option the agent can take now. And more critically, it is not something he can report to Aquila. He’ll lose his shit and go ballistic. So, let’s hear it.

Only halfway collecting himself, Raum blurts: y-you think it’s not stupid?

The plan? Eh, manpower’s manpower. Aquila gives me four aces, I’ll pocket a fifth. The agent bites his thumb begrudgingly, but grins and raises his brows as if to say: c’mon kid, here’s your shot.

Amazed, Raum urgently stammers. The letter can be a letter to Reyl, and Raum sent it because he missed her and was getting sentimental, you know, how he does, and wanted to appeal her to come home to him. Really embarrassing stuff. Then, a good place to deposit it would be near the spire adjacent to the west wing bedrooms, since, as Raum doesn’t add, Phoenix would typically go there for his sunsets. The stonework there is badly scorched.

The agent knows where Raum means. The old King’s chambers.

Raum questions if the agent has investigated that area yet. The agent dismissively says it’s on the list, then peers out the carriage’s window to the sweltering sun above. It’s about time for him to leave for Sebilles, and so time to wrap this chat up. Raum instructs his bodyguard to lead the carriage back into town.

As the carriage moves, Raum and the agent arrange one last thing. Aquila will want this confiscated ‘letter to Reyl’ once the agent returns to Ferendaux. So, Raum better bust his ass writing an actual letter to Reyl for him to hand over. While the agent’s in Sebilles, Raum can write the letter, and the agent will pick it up tomorrow morning before Raum leaves for Ferendaux.

Feeling this is a good plan, Raum wishes the agent luck in Sebilles as he alights outside Raum’s inn. The agent snorts and clicks his knuckles, primed to wring Raum through another game of twister. But, with work to do, he boards his own dinky carriage and just leaves instead.

As dust kicks up in the wake of that rickety carriage, which bounces and creaks over every pebble like a ship in a hurricane, Raum can’t help but think: wow.

For being a hand of the Crown, you sure got saddled with one mean little bronco.