Off The Record No. 1: Carmine Letter
Here's a scoop you won't get anywhere else. They won't print stories like this in the paper, not even in rags like The Broad Street Negotiator.
If you want to know what's really going on in Redhaven, then you have to go off the record.
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A man in a bowler hat, a vest, and wire-rim glasses walks down a long hallway. The carpet is ornate, patterned with fibers of dark red, blue, and gold. The walls are papered with an equally ostentatious style, and wood trim covers them from the baseboards to a little over waist height. It is dim, lit just by gas lamps. The windows are all shuttered.
There are paintings hung along the way, well dressed figures standing alone, contrasted and framed by rolling landscapes, statues, and bowls of fruit. One portrait depicts a brown-furred foxhound so saggy and wrinkled that it appears to be melting.
The Valet stops in front of a pair of hand-carved wooden doors and knocks with an uneven cadence. The response is a single knock from somewhere on the other side, and The Valet enters.
The room is a study, walls lined with bookshelves and more paintings. There are side tables, a couch, a balcony, and a large, imposing wooden desk at the center, which has been etched on its front with the image of a large feather.
Behind the desk is a woman with long, reddish-brown hair and ice-blue eyes. She wears a small amount of makeup, something to sharpen her brows and, to the keen-eyed, foundation on the cheeks. Her clothing is practical, though flawlessly tailored from shoe to cuff.
She smiles coolly at The Valet and gestures with a hand as she says, “We’re on a wonderful little adventure now, meddling in the affairs of the lay folk so directly. I wonder, will it all play out in our favor? I worry that I’m beginning to lose my edge.”
The Valet closes the doors behind himself with a featherlight touch, and then walks over to the desk. Arms at his back, he replies, “One cannot make statements encapsulating a whole person, but your plans, at the very least, are as keen as those of any Carmine to come before you.”
The mayor leans back in her seat and steeples her fingers. “You would know better, wouldn’t you? I see vanishingly little of the effects of my decisions. The balcony provides a stunning view, but very little insight. Enlighten me.”
The servant nods and removes his cap to reveal a mostly vacant scalp which is interrupted by a neat row of thinning strands. “You’ve chosen wisely. All the laborers you’ve selected have agreed to the meeting, including today’s visit, Mister Dahl. He has more influence than he realizes, and his cool temper should prove a balm to that of The Blue Coalition’s agents. All that said, assuming this first meeting goes well, Redhaven’s laborers should be protected without upsetting General Harrison too badly.”
The mayor scoffs. “Nothing could prevent that man from getting his medals in a tangle.”
“Quite right,” The Valet agrees.
There is a knock at the door and the mayor comments, “Right on time. Let Lord Redhaven in and fetch us refreshments. You know what he likes.”
The serving man goes towards the door, his gait soft and prudent. He pulls open them open to reveal an old man with a white, well kept beard and a broad build. The Valet bows and gestures deeper into the room, and once Lord Redhaven has walked past him, closes the doors again. The valet exits through a side door.
“Oswald,” Mayor Carmine calls brightly. “Please, make yourself comfortable. My man will be back in a moment with tarts and Candamoran coffee, a good, coastal blend.”
The lord’s brow is furrowed and his lips are slightly pursed, but he forces a smile and nods, taking a seat before the desk. He slouches deeply into the maroon upholstery and clears his throat. “Well, Desdemona. It’s good to see you again.”
She beams fawningly. “My lord, the honor is all mine! It’s always a blessing that you’re willing to take time out of your busy day to talk about matters of such import with a lowly public servant.”
He rubs a temple. “Well, my schedule only gets busier with the passing days. Did you know that the Confederates conducted an inquest at my estate? They wanted to imprison half of my scientists and philosophers! Claimed they were operatives of The Covenant! I had to bargain directly with that upstart general just to keep those good people free, and I still had to lay a few of them off for his satisfaction.” Oswald has begun to rake his fingers through his beard and the strong impression that he’d been wearing sloughs off to reveal weariness.
The side door opens silently and The Valet returns. He carries a sterling silver platter, upon which rides a set of fine porcelain serving-ware: saucers, teacups, and a steaming carafe, along with a plate of fresh fruit pastries.
The server fills a cup with coffee so dark it seems to suck the light out of the air around it, and then passes it to Oswald. The lord takes a sip and another layer sloughs off of him, weariness giving way to calm. He mutters to the man, “Thank you good sir, thank you.”
Mayor Carmine serves herself a cup as well and turns to The Valet. “Thank you, that will be all.” He bows low, a hand on his bowler hat, rises, and takes his leave.
“Now,” Carmine begins, “It can’t all be bad news, can it? What have your learned men discovered?”
Oswald turns his chin up slightly and smiles. “Ah, yes. Progress. The fog, which had been making people quite fatally ill, can be filtered. Doctor Bell has already seen success with a round of prototype suits, which also mask his condition to his satisfaction while he searches for a cure. He’s rather a lot more confident with his face covered. Another thing: The complex is finally secure again. The entrances that formed during The Transit are all locked down and it’s no longer threatening to collapse, and we’ll be back at full capacity in another month or two.”
Desdemona nods and stirs her coffee, which must have four sugar cubes in it by now. She says, “That’s wonderful to hear. I’ll have you know that the civil side of things is stabilizing as well. Our friends in orange should have their hands full soon enough, and The Blue Coalition won’t be any bother. I’m working on giving them some…competition.”
Oswald nods with a furrowed brow, “I see,” he says, clearly lying. “This…competition, you said? It should see a little…uh…reduction in the population’s general anger, yes?”
The mayor nods decisively and stirs her coffee.
“Good, good then.” Oswald takes another sip from his cup, closing his eyes and sighing with contentment.
A grandfather clock by the window chimes and his eyes snap open. “Oh, goodness me! Is it that late already?” He rises, mildly aback, and sets his cup on the platter. “I’ve got to see Doctor Bell. He has a demonstration for me, something about these peculiar crystals he’s found in the ‘Void Fields’, as he’s taken to calling them, but it was a fine visit, very fine.”
Desdemona pushes the plate of pastries towards the lord and he takes a strawberry one from the stack as he turns to the door. “I really ought to arrange to swing by more often. I swear, our conversations are the only times that I get any rest. Take care and all that.” She nods and waves, and the lord hurries off without another word, pulling open the office doors with one hand while the other handles his tart.
Carmine stares at the doors as they shut and she keeps her eyes fixed on them as Lord Redhaven’s tread fades down the corridor. Once the sound has fully vanished, she sets her untouched drink back on the platter and claps once.
The Valet reemerges from the side door and strolls over to the desk, placing a notepad on the corner of the desk. A few pages are filled with large, neat handwriting, which mirrors the conversation that had just taken place. Carmine tucks it into a drawer as the serving man carries off the platter, and she sets to work writing her own notes after a moment.
She doesn’t write for long. There is a thunderous knock on the door, a sound that echoes throughout the room, and Carmine’s face rankles with displeased familiarity. “Enter,” she vociferates dispassionately.
A brusque man pushes through the doors and throws them closed again. He has rich, olive skin and black eyes that pierce the gloom. His clothing is robe-like, beige and maroon and tied off at the waist with yet more fabric. He carries himself to one of the chairs in front of they mayor’s desk, seats himself, and crosses his legs. “The seat’s still warm,” he remarks.
“Indeed,” Desdemona sneers, not bothering to look up from her note-taking. “The lord was just here a minute ago, and I doubt he’d be happy to see you out and about.”
The man pouts. “You consider this ‘out and about’? You really out to get more sunshine.”
Carmine sets down her pen and glances up, locking eyes with the man. “You are here under my service, Mister Jazari.”
“Please, call me Hasan,” he interjects.
She relaxes slightly and rolls her eyes. “I can tell that you’re bored, Mister Jazari, but I’ve got a bit of good news for once.”
The mercenary raises a dark brow.
The mayor explains, “We’re expecting some agitation at the northern science post not too long after public hiring begins. You’ll be on over-watch to make sure nothing gets too loud: we want to bring things to a simmer now, not a boil.”
Hasan cocks his head to the side and grins. “Over-watch,” he repeats, gnawing on the word slightly. “Sitting around and gazing about? Holding fire unless absolutely necessary? That means I get out of the kennel and I don’t have to waste ammunition. I like the sound of that.”
Carmine furrows her brow. “Regardless of how much ammunition you expect to waste. Make sure you and your rifle are ready. The Valet will give you more details on a need-to-know basis.”
The mayor goes back to writing, and Hasan stares at her for a moment. without looking up, she says, “There are fruit tarts in the pantry, help yourself, and don’t come back in here until I call for you.”
The mercenary grins and finally rises. He heads off through the side door and disappears, leaving Carmine alone in her office. She sets her pen down and strolls over to the glass balcony doors. The sky outside is a dim grey, and it grows dimmer by the minute.
“We’re on a wonderful little adventure now, aren’t we?” she whispers to no one in particular.
“A wonderful little adventure.”
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