Emlyn glanced at Ian, lifted a hand to pinch the tip of his nose, and chuckled:
"Seems you don't get it. Fine — to put it more plainly: help me gather intelligence on foreigners from the Southern Continent, especially the ones from the Stellar Highlands and the Pas Valley."
"Intelligence about what exactly? There are plenty of pure-blooded Southerners in Backlund, and people of partial Southern descent you can spot every day." Ian wasn't offended by the contempt — he calmly raised his question.
Emlyn gave a short laugh:
"The sort who behave oddly. Furtive, shrouded in mystery — you should know what I mean."
"Plenty of Highland and Valley folk fit that description too. In Backlund they're either servants and labourers, or pickpockets, or members of the underworld — and that last lot all qualify as acting oddly, furtively and mysteriously." Ian sincerely pointed out how impractical Emlyn's request was.
Emlyn had been ready for that. With a faint smile and a small nod, he replied:
"Then this — give me everything that fits the criteria, I'll do the screening myself. Mm, fifty pounds up front on this contract, as the basic fee for preliminary inquiries; after that, we'll count by how many items of real value the intelligence turns out to contain — twenty pounds extra for each one."
"And who decides whether they're of value?" Ian thought for a few seconds, then asked.
On his end, fifty pounds up front was already enough to take the job — that kind of money could pay a dozen-odd men to comb the city from the East End to Cherwood from dawn till night for half a month.
He didn't particularly care how much of those fifty he'd pocket himself; quite a few people depended on him, and he had to throw paid work their way from time to time, or his information would dry up.
Emlyn sized Ian up, gave a brief "heh" and said:
"Me, of course. You should be plenty familiar with my reputation."
"Detective Moriarty never said a word to me about that..." Ian muttered, then sighed. "All right. Last collaboration went smoothly enough — I'll take a chance and trust you."
Emlyn nodded, satisfied, took out his wallet, and again counted out notes totalling fifty pounds.
Midway through, the thought that his savings were down to four hundred and seven pounds gave him, for a moment, an actual pang.
Now it was three hundred and fifty-seven... He drew his gaze back from the bills and handed the cash to Ian.
He didn't linger; he put on his top hat, walked out of the billiard room, and left the "Brave Man's" bar.
Once on the street, Emlyn let his fingers fall from his nose, looked up at the fire-lit clouds, and his expression slowly gathered. He spoke to himself without sound:
"This time that 'Resentful Soul' wasn't with him... where did it go?
"Hmph. Ian acted as though he'd never heard of the Rose School, but the quickening of his heartbeat gave him away...
"And this time he didn't even ask whether Sherlock Moriarty was already back in Backlund — not a hint of worry... Could it be that Sherlock has already returned and that the two have met?"
...........
The Rhosrede Islands, the "Generous City" of Bayam.
Outside a house lit by gas wall-lamps, close to the harbour, "Star Admiral" Cattleya, with Frank Lee — sleeves rolled up to bare brown-haired forearms — at her side, stepped into an empty corner and watched a figure rise out of the dimness.
This was "Bloodless" Heath Doyle, the one tasked with watching "Worker" Charlf — tall and lean, with skin so pale it bordered on translucent, looking as if a gust of wind would knock him down.
"Anything unusual during this stretch?" Cattleya pushed the gold-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose.
Heath Doyle gave a soft "mm":
"On the third day after you left, a stranger called on Charlf. He stayed about a quarter of an hour. I didn't get close — I was afraid I'd be made.
"As per your orders, Captain, I had my people tail the stranger, but they were shaken off."
"What did the stranger look like?" Cattleya nodded slightly.
Heath Doyle drew a piece of raw beef from the small leather pouch at his waist. The blood on it was still fresh, yet stained nothing it touched — as if it had become a pure solid.
An instant later the slab of beef melted in Heath Doyle's hand, dripping to the ground like water, and writhed as though alive to sketch out a portrait.
"This is exactly the effect I want!" Frank Lee, watching, expressed his enthusiasm with shining eyes.
Under his gaze, Heath Doyle showed a hint of avoidance — he tilted his body slightly, and pointing at the ground, said:
"Roughly looked like this."
By now a portrait in blood had taken shape: the central figure was a man with two strips of moustache and features close to those of the Pas Valley folk. His most striking detail was three earrings set in each ear.
"Gold earrings. Lean build, no extra fat, but in good health," Heath Doyle added.
Cattleya drew her eyes back from the ground:
"And then?"
Heath Doyle gave another "mm":
"After that, no one else came to call on Charlf, except the temporary servants and the cook he'd hired. I had my people look into them — they're clean.
"Every evening Charlf takes a walk at the same hour, picks up a streetwalker and takes her home, and only sends her off at dawn... I've followed him the whole time, and I haven't seen him meet anyone strange on the way."
"He's been behaving entirely normally this whole time?" Cattleya asked, brows slightly knit.
To her mind, the absence of any anomaly was the greatest anomaly!
After all, this involved a member of the Rose School, who worshipped the "Primordial Moon".
Heath Doyle nodded firmly:
"Yes."
Cattleya turned her head, looked at the front door of the house and was silent for a moment before saying:
"I had originally planned to slip in with Beyonder abilities, take Charlf under control as fast as possible and carry him off, to keep things from going sideways. But now it seems the best move is to simply knock on the door."
The unknown danger is the one that frightens people most.