#TRD: Hasan Al-Jazari

[theredhavendelegate]

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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[theredhavendelegate]

Iss. 10:

Field Workers on Strike! Picket Line or Firing Line?

Supplies of staple oats and root vegetables are expected in increase as efforts to revitalize agriculture in Redhaven’s countryside show promise. Farm workers speak hopefully regarding the new program and are more unified than ever, though some already complain of long hours and harsh management by Confederation overseers.

Scientific progress marches on at the estate of Lord Oswald Redhaven. Last week’s recruiting drive was a resounding success, and the bright minds up on the hill have already made a number of interesting discoveries, at least according to Head Researcher Earnest Bell.

The work is being carried out primarily in temporary science outposts on the edge of the Void Fields, where the fog meets the air. There was trouble at one of these outpost yesterday, however, as dissatisfied laborers and onsite medical staff rebelled due to repeated exposure to void-fog.

This stunning turn of events drew the eye of local police, Frontline Confederation officers and, eventually, occupying general Bradley Harrison himself.

The situation reached a fever pitch around midnight… ---

Eric lights a cigarette beneath a pitch black sky. It winks like a lone firefly, lighting the tip of his nose and his stubbled cheeks, flashing off his eyes beneath a pitch-black sky. He wears the jacket of a Frontline Confederation soldier, though the orange armband is torn off along with the rank patch. He leans against the tin wall of a temporary structure and glances to the north.

Lilac mist gathers about five hundred feet away, strange lights flowing behind it like syrupy will-o-wisps. Redhaven rises far to the south, a gathering of buildings with glowing windows and and street lamps, cyclopean eyes in the dark.

Something moves around on the edge of the city, many somethings, little lights and shadowy forms, first as a loose flood of hourglass sand, and then in termite formation. They come not within a mile, halting to surround the structure. They set up mobile lamps, more eyes to keep watch.

Eric tosses the butt of his cigarette into the wet grass and stomps it out. He turns and knocks once on the door to the building, calling, “Ingrid, they’re here.”

There is chatter from inside, the murmuring of a dozen voices, some small and worried, some cocky.

A rough woman with messy blonde hair steps outside and closes the door behind herself. She turns a freckled face towards the gathered horde and inhales sharply, “Shit. They aren’t playing around, are they?”

Eric nods. “Two companies, most likely. The 1st General infantry company, veterans of the civil war, the same people who occupied the city initially, and the 1st Redhaven auxiliary. Those are the locals who volunteered to fight for their own occupiers, mostly green opportunists.”

Ingrid squints between the formations, where they’ve created alleys for their lamps. There are small groups working within those alleys, maneuvering some kind of equipment. She asks, “What are those ones doing?”

Eric doesn’t answer initially. He pouts and wrings his hands, then finally relents, “Artillery. We—I mean, The 1st has an artillery corps. Six guns, mostly meant to counter tanks, but, well…a cannon is a cannon.”

Ingrid blanches.

Eric clears this throat after a moment and asks, “How’d it get like this? Weren’t the other unions supposed to back us up?”

“Well, they will. They haven’t gotten to meet yet though, that’s next week. The farm workers will have us for sure, Jens wouldn’t let us down, and if we keep taking losses and illnesses the way we have been this past week, there won’t be anyone left to go diving into the void for the eggheads. If we can get a meeting with someone tonight either way, we should be able to buy some time.”

Eric doesn’t respond, he just pulls out another cigarette and lights it.

Ingrid takes a shuddering breath and whispers, “Do you think they’ll actually use those guns.”

“I doubt it,” Eric answers, his voice flat and his throat dry. “Probably just a scare tactic, probably just a trick.”

A short man in a bowler hat and wire-rim glasses walks down an alley. Another man, this one tall, with olive skin and a large metal case, follows closely. They do not speak.

They work their way to the end of the alley. The man in the bower hat glances around the corner, and then the two cross the street at a trot. They continue like this for a minute more until they reach the base of an old stone tower with an iron door, the feather of Redhaven cast into its surface. The Valet produces a key and, with a gloved hand, inserts it into the door to reveal a dark interior, a rusting ladder at its center.

“After you, Hasan,” he whispers, the words piercing the silence like a needle through fabric.

The marksman nods and steps inside, loading the large case onto his shoulder via a canvas strap. Whatever is inside doesn’t make a sound as it’s upturned. He climbs the ladder, which whines with each step until Hasan reaches a square hole in the ceiling and clambers through.

The Valet joins him a moment later and both are gifted with a clear sight out over Redhaven’s countryside. A small army has assembled just beyond the city limits. The termites stand in even, slouching rows, and the aisles between them are lit with flickering lamps, candles on a table.

The hordes face off against a small, temporary building. The faint glow of a lit cigarette can be seen just before the door, emanating from the hand of a figure so far as to be faceless.

Ingrid Larsen mills about inside of the research outpost, which is damp and cramped. A dozen other figures are scattered around, bearing the worker’s uniform: calloused hands and wrinkled brows. A few glance up to her, three play cards without money, and the rest converse quietly or mill about.

The space is lit by gas lamp, dim bulbs hissing and flickering near the windows, makeshift funnels turning their soot to the outside, from which the clatter of the distant soldiery can just be caught.

“Ingrid,” Eric calls from outside. “Someone is coming this way!”

His voice is firm, a thin guise to his worry. Ingrid nods reassurances to the rest of the crew and exits, and she is greeted again by the moonless night of The Void.

The field between the science outpost and the soldiers is barren except for a single figure on horseback. He rides up with an air of simultaneous poise and impatience, clad in a great coat and the pointed hat of a general.

He comes to a stop less than five feet from Eric and Ingrid and they stare up at him. He looks down over a bushy black beard and moustache, assessing them like cuts of meat.

“Hello and well met,” he declares pompously. “You have the pleasure of parlaying with Bradley Harrison, general and commander of The Frontline Confederation’s 2nd northern assault army.”

The two continue to stare for a moment, until Ingrid answers simply, “Hello.”

He glares at her from his saddle and squints. “I have it on good account that you disgruntled laborers have taken the researchers of this outpost hostage. You are to release them immediately and surrender, so that you may be subject to the justice of Redhaven and The Frontline Confederation.”

Ingrid turns to Eric and frowns, then leans in to converse with him at a whisper. “Is this guy fucking nuts, Eric? I don’t even know where to start with this.”

The ex-soldier huffs and replies, “I might have an idea, just don’t piss him off.”

Eric turns to Harrison and lowers his head respectfully. He dons the tone of a simple worker and says, “Sorry about the confusion, Mister Harrison sir. There aren’t any researchers in the building, just us voidsmen. You can send a couple fellows inside to check if you like though, just to poke around. See, we just haven’t gotten the safety equipment we need, no hazard pay, and—”

Bradley cuts the man off. “My sources don’t lie, and I won’t stoop to negotiating with troublemakers. Release the hostages and surrender within ten minutes, or we will be forced to assault the outpost.”

Eric motions to respond, but the general has already begun to wheel his horse around. Harrison adds, “This will be your only warning,” before galloping off.

Eric goes wide-eyed. Ingrid watches the clouds of dust fade out behind the general’s horse and grumbles, “He must not be the type to respect common people. That was just another scare tactic though, right? Just trying to turn up the pressure on us?”

Eric doesn’t answer.

Hasan lays the metal case on the floor of the tower roof. “This is a cozy spot for a lookout,” he remarks.

The Valet, standing at attention by his side, responds, “The Carmine household is a patron of history. Towers and other such historical sites are littered throughout the city and maintained at their expense. Your own quarters beneath the town hall are also historic, a former dungeon from Redhaven’s earliest days.”

“Fitting,” The marksman comments playfully. He opens the case to reveal a long, ornate rifle. It’s stock and body are made of dark wood, ornately detailed with gold and silver inlay and colorful gemstones. The hexagonal barrel is polished to a shine, and there is a complex, multi-lensed scope affixed to the top.

He withdraws it from its perfectly-fitted, felt-lined home. His hands cradle it as if it was made of porcelain, and his fingers pass along its grip and mechanisms tenderly.

“Tell me again, servant of Carmine, why we are up here on such a dreary night.”

The Valet keeps his eyes fixed on the field. “The General is on rather thin ice. Negotiating with him is difficult, and he continues to make trouble on his own time that bleeds over into matters of state.”

Hasan opens the chamber of his rifle and inspects it, millimeter by millimeter. “I thought this was an over watch mission, not an assassination.”

“It isn’t,” The Valet replies coolly. “Unless, that is, General Harrison decides to cross the line.”

The marksman inserts a round into the chamber, a gleaming brass bullet with a dark, shining tip. “And where is that line? I wouldn’t want to make any trouble, the sort that might ‘bleed over into matters of state’.”

The Valet’s eyes flash, just subtly, and he fixes his glasses with two fingers. “Watch the big guns. If they fire even once, use their sound for cover. There is the potential here for collateral damage that we can scarcely afford.”

Hasan takes a step over to the tower’s edge and lays the barrel of his gun between two stone crenelations, then kneels down. He stairs through the lenses of his scope and sets their center-most dot on the head of a man on horseback. To The Valet, he replies, “That’s a good, clean line. I won’t have to think twice.”

The lines of massed soldiers have begun to droop. A few murmur here and there only to be silenced by their officers, and they increasingly unsling their weapons and set them stock-first on the ground.

A horse trots down the line and then back up. Its rider adjusts his pointed hat, checks his watch, then stops beside one of the mobile lamps. A senior officer nearby salutes and clears his throat. “The kidnappers haven’t made a move, general. What are your orders?”

Harrison’s permanently furrowed brow furrows more deeply, receding into itself, and he sighs. “They leave us no choice.”

The soldiers nearest tense up and their apprehension spreads through the ranks. A new wave of dissonant murmuring goes up and is hushed in short order, and the lines straighten out.

The faint light of a cigarette near the outpost extinguishes.

The general purses his lip and rides to a point at the head of the formation where the various artillery teams can see him. He calls out. “All artillery crews, to alert!” Their commanders hurry to position themselves and soon, the barking orders start to ring out over the field like bells.

“Targets are in the science outpost! Load and aim!”

A rattling, clanking, thunking chorus sings its grizzly promise to the sky and, each at their own time, the artillery teams call out, “Ready to fire at command!”

The general raises a fist. He breathes, and something catches his eye.

Someone is walking between the lines towards him. They are wearing some kind of rubber suit beneath a lab coat, and their face is concealed with a black filter-mask. They have a warning hand raised.

Harrison’s seriousness melts into something more resembling worry. He opens his fist to reveal his palm and shouts, “All crews, hold!”

The masked figure lowers their hand and nods gratefully.

Harrison grimaces and mutters, “What’s the matter now, Earnest. Sorry, Doctor Bell.”

The scientist adjusts his mask slightly and answers, voice all gravel, rust and haggard breathing, “There are…are…th—things in that outpost that…that we cannot easily…recreate, and the people are…v—valuable, in their own…right. It would set us back…q—quite badly to lose all…all that. Lord Redhaven would not…approve, and you know how the people love Lord Redhaven.”

The general sneers. “Really now? What do you propose then, should we just leave them alone in there with all your ‘irreplaceable’ research? And for what? Lord Redhaven’s altruism?”

Though Bell’s face is hidden, he seems to glower pitifully with his whole body. “You could…could simply…fire them. Th—they are…under your management, a thing which…which I recall you fought f—for quite determinedly…”

The scientist spreads his hands out in a placating gesture, and he turns his head around, seeming to look for something back in the city.

As General Harrison tries to track Doctor Bell’s gaze, a sourceless shudder runs up his spine.

His hands tighten around the reins of his horse and he swallows, then relents. “Fine. I…I need clearer directions in the future though, let Lord Redhaven know that comes from me personally. If these sites need to be guarded inside and out, then so be it. If something like this happens again, I won’t be deferring my authority.”

“I’ll b—bring it to…to him for…consideration.” The doctor adjusts his mask again and nods, then walks back down the line of soldiers.

The artillery commanders stare at Bradley for direction and, after a moment, he clears his throat. “All crews, stand down!”

Hasan raises his head. Far away and below, the soldiers of The Frontline Confederation part as a group of common laborers pass between them anxiously. “Is that it?” he asks aloud.

The Valet wipes his glasses with a kerchief. “I suppose so, and Miss Carmine will be most grateful for that.”

“What about Bradley?” Hasan asks, stepping away from the parapet and over to his gun case.

The Valet replaces his spectacles. “He’ll be quite angry, I’m sure. His authority is undermined, the outpost and its contents have been preserved, and the void workers that I’m sure he just fired have nowhere to go except into the arms of his enemies.”

Hasan wipes the fingerprints from his rifle and returns it to its felted home. “What kind of strategy is this, Valet? You agitate your allies, weave a web of uneasy alliances, manipulate the population, but never outright punish them, and, at great expense, furnish a personal marksman of the highest caliber, all so that he never actually pulls the trigger.”

The Valet glances at the marksman, then looks back out over Redhaven. He contemplates the question, then answers, “It’s a sort of fixed tension. If one side pulls too hard, the other sides react and compensate, bringing things back into balance. We agitate Harrison so that he clamps down on the laborers, who rush to the Blue Coalition for protection, who grow overconfident and overstep their bounds, and are in turn cut back by the Confederation. See?”

“That seems like a dandy way to keep your blood pressure high, but where do I fit in?”

The Valet laughs softly. “Well, even the best plan can fail.” He pushes up his glasses and flashes a grin. “You’re insurance.”

---

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