A Constable Calls.

A Constable Calls.

Postby Cinnabar » Mon Apr 23, 2007 1:34 am

It is a pleasant morning when Cinnabar Calomel knocks at the back door of Altias Bromn's bakery, evidently aiming to avoid undue attention from any customers who might be in the front of the shop. He carries a satchel slung over one shoulder, and lifts his hat with an amiable smile as the door is opened.

"Good day. Sorry to bother you, but I wonder if I might be able to see Miss Ariane - I believe she is staying here at present?"

Impeccable manners as ever, the very model of proper behaviour. Technically he would be perfectly within his rights to simply flash the contents of the leather wallet tucked inside his doublet and demand entry, but he's well aware that such uncouth behaviour would not earn him any friends. So he asks nicely. Very nicely indeed.

"My name is Cinnabar, I think she should be expecting me."
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Mon Apr 23, 2007 1:53 am

And people do notice such things as uniforms and insignia, don't they? And faces as well, particularly when a man's colouring is as unusual as Cinnabar Calomel's. But this earns him no particular attention this morning: it is a bakery, after all, and invariably does its most hectic business during these morning hours, so that what Cinnabar has happened upon is a scene of carefully-contained chaos. Outside, the street is modestly quiet; inside, a belled door chimes with patron after patron, and bodies are moving with haste and purpose, one with trays upon its arms, the other with two great baskets of steaming rolls; a third near-colliding with both of them, as she hurries to admit Calomel himself.

"Of course," she smiles, all braids and flour-speckled cheeks and distraction. "Here are the stairs, and you may knock on the door, and if you cause any damage, my lord, you will be terribly hurt and promptly evicted."

It is very nearly a word-for-word replica of the speech she'd given Syl Duquesne before his visit, and Agnieszka Kaczmarek before hers, and even to pretty Jarod Nightingale; this is a very carefully-trained young thing. But a hand smeared with frosting is pointing him towards a short and narrow staircase, and she is moving away almost immediately after.
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Postby Cinnabar » Mon Apr 23, 2007 2:03 am

"Thank you kindly." He can't help but grin wider at the pleasantly-explained consequences of damage, its incongruous mixture of polite request and quite matter-of-fact threat. Heh.

Nonetheless he ducks through the door, closing it conscientiously behind him and quickly moving to place himself out of the way of the bakery staff. Up the stairs, then, boards creaking beneath his boots, and he takes a brief moment to remove his hat and absently straighten his cuffs before clearing his throat and knocking on the door, a brisk three-strike of knuckles to wood.

"Ariane?"

He tilts his head slightly, as if to listen for movement from behind the door - or at least, any that might not be drowned out by the bustle from downstairs.
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Mon Apr 23, 2007 2:19 am

There comes a giggling nod over the shoulder for Cinnabar's gratitude, but she is away almost immediately after it, a swirl of violet ribbons and lavendar skirts that vanishes into the maelstrom that is the business section. Calomel is fortunately spared that chaos, for the staircase is quiet and shadowed, and utterly unmanned.

Above, this very plain door, this simple knock, and a voice that emerges with slightly muffled tones; perhaps he'll realise that his own is similarly disguised, for:

"He's not here," it replies to that greeting. "He might not be for some time, it is morning. I am here -- "

And a moment's pause. Another. Another.

"Have you a password?"

Blame a certain scholar for this, who'd mentioned one only in jest, but set her slight imagination alight with it regardless.
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Postby Cinnabar » Mon Apr 23, 2007 2:32 am

Well, that's one question that has his amiable grin faltering slightly, perplexity creasing his brow. Password? What? He glances down at the door handle, briefly toying with the idea of just shoving the door open. But no, knowing Ariane it's probably latched and locked all to blazes, and breaking the door down would only result in the promised terrible hurt and prompt eviction.

"No. Have you?" He shifts his satchel strap with perhaps a touch of impatience, though it's quickly dismissed. He's allowed himself plenty of time for this meeting, so no great rush just yet. "Traditionally, the idea of the password is that you give it to people before they need to pass." A soft sigh, almost certainly imperceptible through the wood. "It's Cinnabar. You know, white hair, grey eyes, only just learning to hold a sword by the blunt end. Can I come in?"
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Mon Apr 23, 2007 2:42 am

And that's the interesting thing about questions -- or the interesting thing that Ariane's discovered about them lately, at least. In a traditional sense, they're useful only for the exchange of information, but it has slowly dawned upon the woman that sometimes, sometimes...

It's interesting say a thing just to see how the person will react to it.

So that, in memory of Syl Duquesne's passwords -- which had been his idea, and so elaborate and so detailed that she'd close to choked on her own laughter -- Ariane has presented a question to this poor man in hopes of something similar, and that he has no ready answer to it is no-one's fault at all. Indeed, she is relenting almost immediately, and with only the slightest edge of disappointment to her tone:

"Of course. And close it behind you, mn?"

Either the locks have been neglected this morning, or other visitors had also been anticipated. And meantime, some string of subtle thuds from within, some rearranging of furniture, or bodies, or both.
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Postby Cinnabar » Mon Apr 23, 2007 2:56 am

Ah. So, not locked after all. Oh well. He lets himself in, in that case, with a quick nod of greeting before closing the door firmly behind himself once more. Yes, it is most assuredly Cinnabar, from tousled hair - silver as advertised - to well-made boots. He takes the time to make sure that the door is latched before returning his attention to the swordswoman with a bemused grin.

"...so what is the password? You didn't mention it before."

Grey eyes take in the room, probably looking for somewhere it would be acceptable to sit which allows space to set out his writing-things. Genial as always, though there is perhaps a sense of business about him this morning, a slight edge of reserve to indicate that this is no social visit, but a meeting.
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Mon Apr 23, 2007 3:07 am

Not locked after all, not even a squeak of hinges impeding his progress; Altias Bromn sees very well to the upkeep of his business, it seems. As for the swordswoman herself, however...

Well, it is a much-improved thing which awaits Calomel's presence: she had greeted her previous visitors in rumpled pyjamas and tangled hair, but even the handful of days between Then and Now have seen her recovery continue quite well. There are real clothes today, to begin with, fetched from her tavern room in a fit of stubborness, several evenings ago; there is hair brushed to glossy sleekness, to curtain the bruised grotesquerie of her cheek. There is a glitter of silver and glass and iridiscent feather at her throat, and she has sat herself upon a window seat, instead of the bed's edge, this time --

But still, those bruises: she is blackened and scabbed across one side of the face, from hairline to jaw. Still those lingering injuries: a bandaged hand set carefully upon her lap, a leg extended at full length before her, its knee kept cautiously straight, for the bad hip's sake. And there is wine upon the small table by her, and there's a chair by the hearth which he may drag over, and the heavy velvet drapes are drawn, to illuminate the opulent loft in shades of morning cheer.

"There isn't one."

From this creature which cannot quite help a sliver of grin, as she nods towards one of those chairs: oh, do fetch it over. And who watches, meantime, to see what he will make of his surrounds -- for far from leaving behind him the ways of a Governor, Bromn has simply ... relocated them.
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Postby Cinnabar » Mon Apr 23, 2007 5:24 am

A blink at that answer, a possibly quite gratifying moment of confusion, followed by a grin of his own.

"I see."

He brings the chair over to sit beside the table, lifting carefully to avoid scuffing the carpet. He sits, resting the satchel in his lap as he unfastens the buckles holding it closed and retrieves paper, inkwell and an elegant pen. The writing materials are set down upon the table beside Ariane's wine, and left there for now.

His gaze wanders about the room again, quiet appreciation of the luxurious furnishings about the place - appreciation and perhaps approval, as if agreeing with the good taste of the room's owner. He does enjoy well-crafted things (one need only look upon that sword to know it), and there are plenty of those around this chamber. Certainly not what one might expect from an attic above a bakery.

"This is... nice." Sincere enough, a simple comment on the decor. And perhaps the merest hint of covetousness, as he compares this to his bare and unadorned room back at Starr's estate. Hm. His attention returns to Ariane eventually, with a somewhat self-conscious grin.

"And yourself? How do you fare today?" Hand waved to take in the leg stretched out on the window seat.
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Mon Apr 23, 2007 5:46 am

Oh, somewhat gratifying; it certainly brightens the edges of her grin, although that in turn does terrible things to the corrugated contours of her cheek, and -- Well. On the whole, it's easier on the eye if she doesn't much smile at all, really.

But in any case, Calomel is displaying an uncommon reverence for Bromn's rugs, and will discover room enough on the table for the accessories of his trade, once she's set her wine-bottle onto the windowsill. Some interest is paid this arrangement of paper and ink, and a great deal more in his impression of the place, for it had certainly startled her, when she'd woken in it. So that there comes an equable nod, at the man's comment, and after a time:

"It is. None of it mine, save for -- " And here she's tilting a blackened chin towards the slender piece of brass and glistening lens, set down upon the windowsill aside her knee. That, the clothes on her back, the small pile of books set upon the bed; ah, she will not take credit for Bromn's fine taste.

"I shall give the compliment, yes? And me, I am -- " Another gesture, another tilt of the hand, this time down towards the stretched-out length of her. It speaks well enough for her, really. "But .. you do not come this long way to write of such things, mn?"
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Postby Cinnabar » Mon Apr 23, 2007 6:02 am

Cinnabar shrugs. "No, but I needed to ask. I've been, uh, distracted of late, and not seeing much of people." No real need to elaborate further on that. The brass-and-lens construction gets a curious glance, but questions on that are saved for later. Business first. He adjusts the arrangement of paper and inkwell such that he can sit facing Ariane and write at the same time.

"So then. To other matters." He dips the pen and writes as he speaks, the nib fair dancing across the page. The day's date, and a title at the top of the page that he underlines with a smooth stroke of the pen. That done he glances up, suddenly all seriousness and keen grey gaze.

"What you know of the cult of the Baie. Preferably what you know of it from your own experience, what you have seen of it with your own eyes and heard with your own ears. The facts. Where is best to begin?"
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Mon Apr 23, 2007 6:16 am

'Needed'. It's an interesting choice of word, isn't it? Particularly when one considers that his business here is business, rather than friendship -- and a woman who's spent entirely too much time around politicians recognises this fact quite well. Other Matters, says he, and there's an easy nod in answer to it; back in her seat she eases a little, sips lightly at her wine, and awaits what will come.

It certainly does prompt a blink.

"I know," she begins -- perhaps a little taken aback by the thoroughness of this questioning, by the scope of it. "I know that it would go best with you if -- "

Ah. No. That is not where we begin at all. Ah, he asks a brute to put such things in order, asks a very small mind to bring order to the chaos that has been these last two years! He would have done better to speak with Bromn of it, and a wistful glance towards the door confesses this...

Bah. No help from that quarter. Not yet, at least.

"At the ... the beginning, yes? Would you know what I have of that cult's first days? Or is it better to start with how they had begun here? But these things, there is a condition to them, ser." And here she must lean slightly forward, here she must fix the man with eyes as grey as his own, and perhaps the scars at one of them lends a certain weight to these words.

"You do not make public your knowledge of the Baie -- no," she forestalls the very inevitable protest. "Not wholly. But if you must speak of that thing, you speak as if it were gone from here. You speak as if the threat were passed. The pretense, mm?"

Yes. You recall a little of this.
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Postby Cinnabar » Mon Apr 23, 2007 6:31 am

"How it started; who started it; how many members it has; details of their activities, their practices, their ceremonies, their hierarchy, their beliefs and teachings. Any of those would be a good place to begin."

Mouth indeed opened to protest against this condition, but then closed again as he considers for a moment, regarding the swordswoman thoughtfully.

"What you tell me here is for the Constabulary's files, first and foremost - for my files. For my use alone, in order that I might offer a useful report of the pertinent points -" An interesting choice of words. "- to the Governor. Perhaps also that I might brief my Constables on the dangers posed by members of the cult, in order to keep both them and the people of Myrkentown safe. How much of it will be made public - if any - I have not yet decided." A slight smile creases his businesslike demeanour, though his grey eyes remain steady upon her own.

"How about this: if you will tell me why this deceit is necessary, this pretence that the Baie is gone, then I will agree to it, for as long as it is necessary."
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Mon Apr 23, 2007 6:44 am

This is where it begins: an abrupt and impromptu education in the interrogation of might-be informants. He is a clever one, this Cinnabar, adept at discerning small changes in tone, in expression, and he will surely not miss noting this: that this mention of files performs such alchemy upon Ariane that features which had at first suggested willingness, now draw into new and startled formations. That mention of the Governor himself stifles this exchange as thoroughly as if she'd closed a door in his face.

There is a retort held ready behind the closed lips; the woman's gaze has wandered, has turned towards that window and the small view that it affords, as if she might read answers in the clouds, in the dusty street below. It searches things that do not exist beyond the boundaries of her own mind, it seeks a way ...

"That, yes." Having found none at all, she seizes his compromise instead. "This beast threatens. This beast wishes to be reckoned dead or fled. I know not why, except that I will not ignore this threat, and nor will I bow to it, so -- pretense, mn?"
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Postby Cinnabar » Mon Apr 23, 2007 7:13 am

On mentioning the Governor's name, he is already inwardly kicking himself. Foolish. The line between trust-gaining openness and giving out information which is unhelpful to his inquiries is a fine one, especially in this case. Well then. Let's try that again. He sets down his pen for the moment, leaning forward to speak quietly.

"I shall explain as plainly as I am able: When I make my report, it will include the details which are relevant to my task - that is, breaking up the cult of the Baie. My plain is that this will mainly involve identifying members of the cult, and arresting them, or otherwise removing them from the cult's grasp. Anything not directly connected to that aim is irrelevant, and I would not dare waste the Governor's time by including it in my report." Calm and reasonable tones, as if untangling some silly misunderstanding.

"From my point of view, I need to know all I can about the cult, and about the Baie, because it will help me understand the way they think, and the way they act, and how to catch them. Simple enough, no?" Brows raised inquiringly, checking to be sure she follows.

"From the Governor's point of view, the history of the cult, its beliefs and rituals and such do not matter, so there is no need for me to trouble him with such trivial details as long as the cult is eventually broken."

Meanwhile her explanation of the reasoning behind the "pretense" provokes a reaction in the questioner every bit as clear as Ariane's own, though different in nature.

"The beast itself wishes it?" A sudden keenness, perhaps like that of a hound that has caught a scent, or a falcon that has sighted some small morsel in the long grass. "I see. I shall agree to this pretense, but I must ask: How did this become known to you?"
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