‘I’ve spoken to Delish merchants on the issue of shortages, and they explained that it wasn’t just our project that has caused supply problems. Praeteritum has cut back trade with the Delish merchants, which I assume is a product of their strategy to consolidate power in Reinheit. On that end, even the sale of Channeler’s weapons have been reduced, let alone grain sales.’

‘I asked them why they were selling their clothing abroad, exacerbating the shortages, when they know that the Delish population is suffering enough. See, clothing prices have gone up as well, only a few cents, but every little increase adds up against the worker’s finances. They responded that it’s more profitable to sell their products abroad while the people of Citadel can't afford their prices. So they themselves are creating a shortage where one wasn't necessary.’

‘However, with my shallow acquaintance with Isaac Brunt, I should know better.’ - Excerpt from a letter Toran Rhosyn sent to Lucien Blodyn informing him of the conditions of Citadel, January 1263.

———

A wagon came to a stop outside of a brick terrace house, painted white, with half-timbered designs painted black. The pitched roof hung overhead, silhouetting a man as he stepped down from the driver’s box. His boots plunged deep into the sewage ridden streets, covering his stained gaiters once again in excrement. He sniffed once, withholding a gag, then took a shovel from the carriage behind and set to work.

Sloshing and splattering were the only sounds heard in this street as gong farmer went to work, piling the sewage into the loaded back of his wagon. The gong farmer was fortunate that it was still winter, else his skin would’ve had rashes from the flies that plagued his work. He released a stifled groan as he launched another pile of waste over his shoulder, onto the wooden wagon, bending over once more to cover his shovel.

Between the silent pauses of the man’s groans and the sloshing of sewage, was a new sound which came from the distance. The gentle whirring of wagon wheels and horseshoes clopping drifted into the gong farmer’s hearing, but he did not show any signs of response. It went as slowly as it came, though between the whirring and clopping were sharp cracks as the odd pebbles and stones were caught in between the spokes of the wheel.

With the sewage cleared from this part of the trenched streets, the gong farmer climbed back up into the driver’s box, placing his shovel behind him, then flicked the reins of his horse. He kept his eyes facing straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the shadow of a man that passed by the corner of his eye. He continued onwards to clean the next segment of the streets.

The man flicked off the sparse straw that spoiled a leather bag, which contained what felt like a book or a large wad of papers that was wrapped up inside. He went to the door of one of the terraced houses, stepping onto a relatively hardened patch of mud now that it had been cleaned, and opened it with a key.

He was greeted by a waft of warm air that rushed out to escape through the open door. There was a burning fire in the corner of the room, pitted in a fireplace with its smoke climbing out of the chimney. Hanging above of it was an iron kettle boiling water, held between a rod that passed through its handle, which straddled a set of crossed sticks.

“Lord Lucien wants to speak to you, Gwyth. I imagine it’s important, he had that expression on his face.” A woman’s voice resounded from a study desk that was positioned towards the other side of the room. Her head bobbed up over a stack of papers, a quill was held in her small hand.

“Thank you, Fadyn.” Gwyth smiled cheekily at her. He had grown attached to her of recent, he was hoping it would turn into something more. Though, he wasn’t sure how long that could last once Lucien got a whiff of it. But he hoped it was long enough that he could bed her before he knew, and put an end to it.

Gwyth strode to the door opposite Fadyn, nearest to the fire, and exited into a different room where chatter erupted from within. There were five people inside, three women and two men, that worked busily over two conjoined tables with a terrible number of sheets of paper strewn over it.

They were working on cracking a code from a letter they had intercepted from a woman crossing from Praeteritum into Cymorth by their custom searches. None had yet to solve it, but once they had, they would return it to its recipient with minor alterations if necessary. However, from their interrogations of the messenger, she was not to see both the sender and the recipient, instead she received it from a merchant’s stock, and she was to place it in a specific book in the Cathedral’s library.

He gave his colleagues a basic greeting as he slipped through a door on the farthest wall, then continued his journey through the awkward maze-like terrace building. The Intelligence Service owned the whole row of terrace houses on the Wild Grove Street, though most rooms were occupied by lower servants of the Blodyn family.

For precautionary measures, they could not enter the rooms designated for the Intelligence Service, as they could only be opened one way. For the intelligence workers to leave the building, they had set doors that would loop to a different exit than what they would enter the building with. Either way, the terrace building was a maze designed by a paranoid man for a paranoid man.

Lucien heard the footsteps walking towards his office door before the man could knock. Installed within the walls of each room were Channeler’s Instruments that warded the building, but also spied upon its occupants. In this case, it enhanced the sound of the man’s footsteps to alert him before he got too close.

While his workers may think that he was too paranoid of safety breaches, generally it was more useful as it gave him time to rid himself of any sensitive documents that he had on hand. He picked up a folder from his desk that contained documents and letters on the situation in Citadel and placed it into a tray that was attached on the underside of the table.

The knock came, stabbing into the room.

“Enter.” Lucien spoke, pushing himself up in his chair to set himself down comfortably.

The door opened outwards, and a man dressed in a navy-blue doublet, white linen shirt with lace sleeves, and blue breeches with knee high boots, entered his study. Under his arm, he held a leather bag, that because of his pressure, moulded around the rectangular shape of what was inside. At his waist was a scabbarded backsword and the floral scrolled hilt protruded out beneath the rumbled leather.

“Take a seat, Gwyth.” Lucien ordered.

The man sat at a chair beyond his desk, carefully placing the bag at its side, while never turning his head from Lucien’s face. Lucien broke the stare and looked down at the spread of papers on top of the table. He carefully arranged them once more in the order of importance, but also how and what he was to relay to his chief of staff. He picked up a letter and began.

“It has been long enough, we shall respond to the Pontiff’s letter.” Lucien said airily.

“I still believe that it wasn’t wise for you to wait so long. You risk offending them more than you already have.” Gwyth spoke with a heavy expression.

“It is not me that should worry over whether I have risked offence of the other party. They forget their standing, Gwyth. They do not have the power to demand as much as they want, and have, even if they’ve attempted to apply pressure of late.” Lucien responded.

“How would you like to respond?” Gywth asked.

“Say that we acknowledge their concern over the issue, but that it is misplaced for it is not our doing… Suggest that if further issues are raised over our involvement in the late Cardinal Peace’s death, they risk to draw further embarrassment to themselves to those in the know. Similarly, inform them that we are pleased, on their behalf, that the judicial process has already taken place, and that the true killers have met a just end. Finish with a comment that I provide lenience to them for they sent the letter before this became the standardised truth that was published and recorded, and how fortunate we are that we no longer have to worry about my family’s suspected involvement in this matter. We have been cleared lawfully so.” Lucien said after a moment of contemplation.

“What about their demands?” Gywth asked between taking notes in a minute book.

“That Duke Lucien Blodyn rejects their demands on behalf of the Blodyn family. That he forgives their transgressions in offering an unequal treaty, and equitably offers the peace as specified, but rather in charitable terms.” Lucien nodded to himself.

“Write the response so as to be read aloud before a crowd. Do not let the Pontiff receive the letter privately, he’ll squirrel it away somewhere, hiding his embarrassment from the masses. Let him remember his place in the hierarchy.” Lucien added after a pause.

“It shall be done.” Gwyth nodded, shifting his weight slightly so as to rise.

Lucien stopped him from leaving with a wave of his hand, his face a mask of calmness. He reached towards the desk, pulling out a second sheet of paper and eyes looked over it.

“You have taken a liking to Fadyn Lafant?” Lucien asked. Gwyth rocked back against the chair as his muscles dropped his weight.

“N… She requires training, but she’s hard working and grasps the job fast.” Gwyth slipped up slightly, though recovered quickly.

“Rein in your venality, Gwyth Thien. I let this one slide as it suits my purposes well. If you take any more bribes, especially from House Lafant, you’ll find yourself stripped and sent on a boat to Citadel to gather intelligence there for me. I expected better of you.” Lucien said heavily, his expression dark.

“Of course, Lord Lucien,” Gwyth nodded like a baby chicken, though Lucien wasn’t certain if he took it to heart.

“Just because it suits my purposes for Isten, and our family, doesn’t mean that I trust her. I want her to be placed under careful watch, but not enough for her to notice. Even what intelligence she receives needs to be limited so as she cannot feed it back to the Lafant family.” Lucien ordered.

“Would it be best for Fadyn to receive a ceremonial role? She won’t be able to access important information, nor will she be able to participate in inquiries any longer.” Gwyth suggested, tugging at his lace sleeves slightly.

“No, that will be too noticeable, and she will feel the change. I am going to place this burden on you and your team, and I require you do it effectively. Even if you must alter the information you give her, diluting the truth with lies, and create staged investigations on top of real ones, she is not to receive a proper understanding of the Intelligence Service. You must do this on top of your regular duties. I will not tolerate any tardiness for results, nor you slacking from your real obligations.” Lucien said sternly, hunching forwards in his chair, elbows placed on the table.

“Of course, my Lord.” Gwyth said with deference. A silence permeated the room, between them, though it was broken by Lucien.

“Hand me the letters.” Lucien gestured to the bag that snug between the chair leg and Gwyth’s calf.