After those mostly-failures at intelligence gathering, I consoled myself by targeting a much more manipulatable mark. In a pre-arranged dead drop, Sigmund had left a letter of introduction to Odrienne Keel, along with a note saying that he’d already mentioned my (fake) name to her. He’d also taken it upon himself to provide a summary of her habits, including the address of her favorite Silkshore café, where she could be found most days, writing teetering-on-the-edge-but-just-barely-not-seditious pamphlets and supporting the coffee bean import business.

I wasn’t sure whether to feel offended that Sigmund didn’t trust me to do my own spying – or touched that he cared.

As I glided along one of the canals in northern Silkshore on my way to the café, I glimpsed Ash bounding off a gondola and striding into a restaurant. Judging from the tasteful décor and the relatively modest wait staff uniforms, it catered to businesspeople who were actually there mostly for business. Although I stopped my gondolier and slipped in after Ash, he made a beeline for one of the private back rooms and shut the door before I could see whom he was meeting. For a moment I wavered, wondering whether I should stake out the place, but presumably it was about that fragment of the Gates of Death, and the procurer’s identity was neither useful nor interesting. Shrugging to myself, I returned to my boat.

As Sigmund’s notes informed me, Sweetwater Coffee Shop, Odrienne Keel’s preferred workplace, constituted a clubhouse for the Doskvolian intelligentsia. This was a state of affairs encouraged by both the proprietor (who appreciated being able to sell mildly-addictive beverages at exorbitant prices) and the local Bluecoats (who appreciated being able to monitor potential traitors while lounging at a table with a complimentary pastry in one hand and an equally complimentary cup of coffee in the other).

Before my gondola even docked, I’d already scanned the patrons and identified a pair of undercover agents. The senior partner sprawled in a booth inside the café, nodding off over the Doskvol Times while casting the occasional lazy glance over a crowd of student-philosophers. The junior Bluecoat, on the other hand, was huddled at one of the small, round tables on the patio, nursing a single cup of coffee and scrutinizing passersby. Seemingly unconcerned by – or perhaps simply accustomed to – the surveillance, Odrienne Keel herself occupied a table overlooking the canal. A barricade of loose papers, half-read magazines, stacks of books, and annotated pamphlets, not to mention a miniature forest of empty coffee cups, shielded her writing from unfriendly eyes and kept unfriendly ears at a distance.

After ordering a cup of coffee and a slice of cake, I tiptoed up to the writer and proffered Sigmund’s letter with a nervous bow. “Um, excuse me, Lady Keel? I’m Syra Hakar.”

If anyone investigated my cover identity, they would find that the Hakars were an U’Duashan spice merchant clan, fairly prosperous and hence reasonably important, but not noble and hence not prominent enough to threaten, well, anyone.

At the interruption, Odrienne jerked up from her book, startled and disoriented. “Ah, Miss Hakar.” She groped around for a bookmark and snapped shut the book, a recently published volume of Severosian folk tales. “You wished to meet with me.”

As if overwhelmed by her presence, I murmured, “Thank you for your time.”

“Of course! Of course!” She swept aside some papers to make room for my plate and cup. “What can I do for you?”

On the gondola ride over, I’d already calculated how a spice merchant’s daughter would approach the foremost thinker of our time, a Akorosian noblewoman who had devoted her life to countering Imperial excesses. Fumbling out an empty chair, I faked a little trip and half-fell into my seat. Then, with more than a hint of trepidation, I explained that I, too, was interested in the devolution of power to the isles. In a timid voice that gradually increased in volume and authority as “Syra” grew more confident, I asked for a clarification on her most famous pamphlet, A Treatise on the Rights of Man, and offered my own thoughts from an Iruvian perspective.

Accustomed to tongue-tied admirers, Odrienne forgave my initial stammering and leaped into political philosophy with a passion that sparked an answering excitement in me. As much as I enjoyed the company of my scoundrel friends, none of them – not even Mylera – reveled in intellectual discourse. How could I have forgotten how much I missed my family dinners, where my parents would pose declassified, age-appropriate versions of current events for Sigmund and me to analyze? My brother’s plaintive question – Was it really so bad at home? – drifted across my mind, and for the first time, I had no real answer. Yes? No? Yes intertwined inextricably with no?

The memory recalled me as to my true purpose here, and I subtly worked the topic around to Iruvia’s semi-autonomy. “Ah, yes, that should be the model, right?” Odrienne exclaimed. Jittery from all the caffeine, she gesticulated and babbled, “Iruvia maintains its cultural identity and a local government that understands the needs of the people – ” a grand wave that nearly sent a stack of notebooks swooshing into the canal – “but at the same time, it’s part of the larger Imperial infrastructure. It’s really the best solution for everyone!” Speaking faster and faster in her excitement, she thumped the book she’d been reading and practically tripped over her words: “Severos has that too! They just pretend they don’t. I don’t understand why every isle doesn’t use that model!”

Leaning forward, I planted my elbows on the table. “I absolutely agree! I don’t understand, though – I’ve noticed so much the unrest in the city lately, and it seems like popular sentiment opposes that model.”

“That’s nonsense!” she snapped, loudly enough that the Bluecoat on the patio swiveled around to fix us with a suspicious scowl. Deflating, she lamented, “I thought everybody would have learned from Skovlan.”

Here was my chance. Opening my eyes in a show of only-partly-feigned distress, I whispered, “I’ve heard talk – I hope it’s wrong – but…there seem to be people pushing for war with Iruvia?”

Her answer confirmed it (not that I’d doubted Sigmund’s intelligence, of course): “It’s the last thing anyone needs, really.”

“I agree. We just finished a thirty-some-year war with Skovlan. We can direct our resources towards much better uses, such as – ” visions rose before my eyes of potholed streets, crumbling flophouses, ragged urchins running wild instead of attending school, young men and women who joined gangs for lack of any other career options – “such as social programs for the poor,” I finished.

“Exactly!” Odrienne’s head bobbed up and down. “I don’t know what they’re thinking!”

Brows knit in deep thought, I inquired in a hushed, disapproving tone, “Do you know who these people might be?”

A heavy, defeated sigh whooshed out of her. “I’ve heard rumors. This – ” she glanced over at the Bluecoat and swallowed an uncomplimentary term – “this push for war centers on the nobility, because they’re not the ones who have to fight.”

The corners of my lips twisted down. “That figures.”

Lowering her voice still further, she confided, “I also get the impression it’s coming from the Church.”

“The Church!” I cried before I could stop myself.

Flapping a hand to shush me, she continued, “I’m not particularly observant myself, but some of my friends say that it’s come up several times in sermons lately.”

“What does the Church have against Iruvia?” Tapping my fingers against my coffee cup, I tried and failed to come up with a list of grudges. After all, we didn’t ban or discriminate against it in any way. To be honest, we didn’t care enough to bother banning or discriminating against it. Mere apathy couldn’t possibly justify a crusade, right?

However, Odrienne evidently believed that the clergy took belief, or the lack thereof, much more seriously than I did. “One assumes that the Church hopes that Iruvia will become more observant.”

“But it’s not like we’ve suppressed it at all. They’re completely free to practice!”

“Yeeees,” she drew out the word. “But certain members of the Church – zealots, really – feel that freedom to practice doesn’t go far enough…. But it’s nonsense, right? You don’t even have a ghost problem in U’Duasha!”

No, no, we really didn’t. “We have one Spirit Warden, and he’s the most bored person you can imagine.”

The image of a depressed Spirit Warden, pining away for lack of meaningful work, surprised a little chuckle out of her before her face turned sober again. “But I suppose they feel that that’s not enough. I guess? I don’t know. I never understand anything the Church does.” Sipping her now-cold coffee and scowling absently at the bitterness, she stared into the canal and mulled over the issue. “Perhaps I should make that the subject of my next pamphlet.”

“I think that’s a brilliant idea!” It really was – and the best part was that I hadn’t even had to suggest it (directly). “Your pamphlets are all so influential.”

Humbly, she replied, “Among certain circles, yes.”

I dismissed her modesty with an impatient shake of my head. “It will help calm this…whatever-this-is, before we get into another massive civil war that won’t benefit anyone except maybe a few generals who desperately want medals.”

Odrienne barely heard me. More to herself than to me, she mused, “Yes, yes, I think that is what I should discuss next.”

Rummaging through her papers until she excavated a pen and a mostly blank sheet of paper, she started scribbling out an outline. Forgotten, I sat back, savored my coffee (it really was quite good), and nudged her occasionally to steer her along the correct lines. At dusk, as the black canal waters reflected the sullen glow of the sky and the moon edged over the rooftops, Odrienne finally threw down her pen, flexed her fingers, and stretched out her back. “All right!” she proclaimed, satisfied with the afternoon’s work. “I think I’m ready to start writing!”

“Nice!” I chirped. “I’ll stop bothering you so you can work then!”

Although she made the obligatory polite noises about how my presence was no bother at all, how she found my conversation most stimulating, and so on, her fingers crept back towards her pen.

Before I left her to her draft, though, I had one final question: “Do you know what happened to Ian Templeton?”

“Ian?” She looked startled, as if she hadn’t thought at all about the playwright. Obviously they weren’t best friends – but I didn’t need them to be. I only needed them to be sufficiently acquainted for her to provide me with a letter of introduction. “Oh, I think Ian just got out of the Hook. I haven’t spoken to him.”

In a hushed, funerary tone, I asked, “How is he doing? I mean – Ironhook.” I imbued the word with layers of insinuations about all the tortures and privations a delicate artist must have endured, locked up with the roughest, crudest, least educated members of society.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “We’ve never been that close. We just move in some of the same circles. I think he’s enjoying being at home again.”

From her curtness, I feared that she was picturing herself locked up in Ironhook on charges of sedition, and I hastened to shift the topic. “That’s entirely understandable. I just love his plays. They’re all so beautiful!”

Thank all the forgotten gods that Odrienne was easily distracted. She promptly plunged into a reverie as she recalled the performances she’d attended. “Aren’t they just?” she asked wistfully. “Oh, A Requiem for Aldric! I wish we’d seen the second act!”

As did I – even though it was my and my crewmates’ fault that we hadn’t.

I hinted, “I’d love to call on him sometime, when he feels up to receiving visitors, of course. Who knows – maybe we’ll get a new play out of it!”

Cracking a rueful grin at her outline, the product of an afternoon with me, Odrienne promised, “I know people who know him, and I’ll pass along word that you’re interested in meeting him…. You know, I think a new project would be good for him. Although possibly he’s been writing while in prison…I don’t know. Like I said, I haven’t really spoken to him.”

“Thank you so much! I’ll see if I can convince him to have A Requiem for Aldric printed.”

“Oh, that’d be lovely! But now – ” she picked up her pen and flourished it comically – “duty calls!”

I grinned at her, feeling a surge of genuine fondness. “Would you like me to grab you another slice of cake?”

“Yes, please!”

On my way out, I ordered her a slice of coffee-flavored cake slathered with coffee-flavored frosting and topped with chocolate-covered coffee beans. A little extra caffeine never hurt anyone, right?