Legend of Ransera

Ash 76, 123


Almost fifty years prior, Alexander Valentin had made history by returning alive from the dark heart of Ecith. The mighty explorer had brought with him many metaphorical treasures; tales of strange magic, descriptions of vast and impossible beasts, fossils which had revolutionized the Imperial College of Natural History. Altogether enough to win himself a place in the journals of a dozen fields of science and history.

He had also, crucially, brought home actual treasure. Precious metals, pried off obscene Orkish totems, gemstones and unknown dragonshards, carefully auctioned off to those who could use them for the Imperium’s betterment, and ancient wonders far predating the present savages who occupied the Commonwealth far to the south. Those treasures had been carefully liquidated over the decades, buying his children and grandchildren education, prized commissions, and the very estate in which Valentin Valentin now resided.

The official in question sat now in his study, surrounded by the rapidly-dwindling remnants of his grandfather’s legacy. In front of him was a desk carved of some strange jungle wood–not mahogany, but a nameless cousin–and the frustratingly unsolvable puzzle-cube which had been the last gift of the dying Alexander. Four tapestries hung on the walls, carefully spaced to cover up the fact that the room had been built with eight in mind, and a handful of statuettes were painstakingly isolated on display stands throughout.

It wasn’t empty, not yet, but Valentin could recall the room as a child, when there were ten times as many strange and wonderful curiosities. They’d been sold off, one by one, at anonymous auctions, for his father was too proud to admit the family’s state of decline. He couldn’t fathom why, really. Anyone with half a mind could look at their lack of income and put the pieces together.

"It’s a bad state of affairs" Valentin confided to the grandfather clock, one of the rare items in the room he had added rather than seen subtracted, "and it’s only getting worse."

Time did not answer him. The pendulum swung unphased, as if he’d never spoken a word. It was a conscious insult, he felt, but certainly he was far from the greatest man which Velar had snubbed in like manner. He tried not to take the slight personally.

Instead, the attorney refocused his attention on another thing he’d added to the room; a small leather-bound ledger. It was technically a crime to take the archive books home to read, though Valentin knew that the practice was common. This one wasn’t the original, anyway- he’d copied that over the course of three nights and reshelved it, on the off-chance that the disappearance would be noted during one of the irregular shelf audits.

As with any book, the contents were much more important than the substance. And the contents inside this one had been enough to set Valentin’s mind abuzz with possibilities for the last week straight.

He pushed it aside. Every task had to be handled in pieces, bit-by-bit, or one risked making terrible mistakes.

Instead, he gestured with one hand, manipulating space above his desk and creating a miniscule portal. From this, he withdrew a roll of parchment, snatching it quickly from the air before pressing it smooth against the table. With his other hand, he withdrew a fountain pen from the silver stand in which it rested.



He wrote,



Valentin began to fold the missive up, then paused, realizing he’d nearly forgotten the most important part of the message. He fished around within his jacket until he found an inner pocket, and produced the rather spiffy bank note he’d been handed two weeks prior by the Financial Crimes Investigation department’s ombudsman. He folded the note up into the message, then sealed it closed with a daub of wax and a featureless stamp.




Three days later, Valentin sat at a small table outside Willkommen Kaffeehaus, enjoying an exquisite drink of dark black coffee, powdered sugar and whipped cream. He hated the drink, of course, but there was something delightfully perverse about the moment the bitter and sugar both hit the tongue, each individually enough to make one retch.

Sometimes, it seemed, two vile things were better together than either one could be alone.

Portions for Foxes had legitimate interests in the Gelerian Imperium now, and as impresario of the Golden Peacock Theater, Aurin Kavafis had legitimate cultural and humanitarian immunity to reaching out to other artistic and cultural venues even among those nations whose relations with Kalzasi were strained. He was finally in a position that felt more comfortable: a spider in a growing, more diversified web.

If Kalzasi were obliterated on the morrow, he and his could retreat to a remote valley in the Astralars and recuperate. Or he could bring his people to Zaichaer either with the goodwill of the covens or the civilian leader pro tempore. He had options.

He had contacts.

A letter came to him with an invitation, more nuance coded into it than would be immediately apparent to the average man.

When the sender arrived at the Kaffeehaus, Aurin was already there. Rather, he was inconspicuous across the street watching. When he didn't semble an ambush, he approached. He wasn't wearing a disguise, but rather his glamours were applied in a subtle way to make the eye slide off of him. People wouldn't notice him unless they were looking for him. If they noticed him, his face wouldn't remain in their memory for long unless they made a conscious effort to do so.

One of his contacts had hired someone to cash the bank note and move the capital around so it would not be traceable back to Aurin, to Portions for Foxes, or to the Golden Peacock Theater, and he had done some investigation of his own into the sender.

An Admirer was difficult to track, but there were ways.

The fox-faced man looked both ways before crossing the street - the damned automobiles! - and pulled out a chair opposite the man. He sat decisively and smiled.

"Ich entschuldige mich für meine Verspätung, guter Herr."

"Nein, nein!" Valentin responded, waving his empty hand airily, other hand grasping the terrible sugary coffee, "It's fashionable to arrive just so, or weren't you aware? And we must all mind the fads of the city, yes?"

The lawyer gestured at the empty chair, turning a palm to to the sky as if to subtly indicate that he was unarmed. He was unarmed, though perhaps a man with Traversion was never truly without weapons to hand. He took another swig of the awful drink, throat working momentarily as he forced himself to swallow more of the stuff. He wondered if it wasn't actually some sort of plot to force him to order some of their spongey cake, to help salve his throat. Well, they'd find him made of sterner stuff than that.

"Well, thank you for meeting with me. Certainly my letter must have come as a somewhat unpleasant surprise."

The Office of Imperial Revenue kept tabs on all enterprises in the city, criminal or otherwise. Not so much for the benefit of law enforcement, though nobody really believed the OIR's claims that tax information was not shared with the Inquisition (and rightfully so), but because the Palace had long ago made the calculation that it was better to permit some level of organized crime to exist. The Families were given a great deal of leeway if they looked the other way and paid the right fees for various criminal enterprises.

Within this grey zone, Aurin Kavafis occupied an even greyer zone of sorts. Not approved of by the Families, at least explicitly; the sort of small-time enterprise which the OIR or Inquisition or less notable government groups might occasionally hunt for sport in their spare time. Except... they couldn't, exactly.

Oh, sure, by law nothing was stopping them, but Aurin Kavafis was a known mover in Kalzasaern circles, and sending the police barging into his affairs risked sparking a diplomatic incident with the nation over which the Palace of Spires had assumed the most absolute direction and secrecy. If Valentin ordered the police to pick Aurin up and toss him in a holding cell, he could very plausibly find himself in a much less pleasant room the week after, answering the questions of some stone-faced bishop of the Divines. Better to mind your own business with a man like this, which was precisely why Valentin was confident that nobody had yet tried to entangle him in any of their schemes.

"Well, let us acquaint ourselves, eh? My name--I'll set aside pretension towards espionage, if you don't mind--is Herr Valentin, of His Imperial Majesty's Office of Revenue. I hope you'll take my compliment on your artwork in the proper light, given how often I've observed the genuine articles."

In fact, Valentin couldn't have spotted the counterfeits qua counterfeits, really. Perhaps to an expert's eye, the details were distinguishable, but he had to rely on the clever codes which had been built into the numbers on each coin, which counterfeiters could only guess at. Only once the auditors had noted the false currency could his own work commence in proper form.

"As I'm sure you must have guessed, I'm not really here about the matter of art, though. Nor do I mean to make any sort of veiled threats in that regard; you must believe me when I say that I am a somewhat langweilig character. No, the fact of the matter is that I would like to sound you out about a somewhat more involved enterprise. Would you like some coffee, by the way? Just a moment-"

Valentin waved at the counter, signaling one of the prim and carefully-dressed waitstaff to approach.

"I have only been called fashionable in jest," he assured him. "And your letter didn't upset me. Ganz im Gegenteil!"

There hadn't been a raid on the small office that housed official records for Portions for Foxes' dealings in the Imperium. Unofficial records were only kept in the mind, which could be burgled, but required specific skills. Dealing with people in varying degrees of authority was old hats to Aurin now. If anything, he suspected they would be negotiating ere long. His investigations had turned up fertile earth for collaboration, and everyone had their price. Everyone had desires that law or society said they oughtn't to have.

"Hardly, Herr Valentin. Not so langweilig as to dissuade me from meeting. I am, as I presume you know, Herr Kavafis of... well, I keep my interests mobile. And I'm hardly an artist myself, though I have employed them and invested in them." When the waiter came to take his order, he considered, then, "Sade kahve, Bitte."

When the man disappeared, Aurin took a much more comfortable sprawl in his chair. His gaze swept their environs before focusing once more upon his Gelerian counterpart. He smiled, though it hinted at a smirk. Aurin was an asshole. But he could be a clever asshole. Carina was trustworthy, of course, but she was often a bit of a mess and he would rather have a more stable person in Gel'Grandal. So far, he had been able to keep the Kalzasern theater in the black while also vaulting about the world on his various gallivants, but he didn't want to stretch himself too thin and have his house of cards come tumbling down around his ears.

Then he would have to skip town and find a new place to start over just for the embarrassment of it all.

"Now, how can we help each other?"

"Mmm. Yes." Valentin raised the cup to his lips for another sip, then lost his nerve. The dark liquid swished about, coming near the sides but never quite sloshing over as the functionary considered his words. "As a man of finance, I expect you're aware of something most people are not- the flow of money tells a lot of stories. The expenditures recorded within the Office's ledgers are, after a fashion, the whole tale of the Imperium's history, to a degree of detail that no man alive really knows. It is my humble office to observe the flows of coin from city to village, from field to palace, endlessly circling within the Imperium. I observe the minutiae of the transaction as an internist observes the humors of a patient. Or perhaps it's more like some ancient Alinorian seer, pulling the guts from animals and hallucinating the future."

Valentin smiled, but there wasn't a lot of humor in it. This joviality was part of a character, heavy with self-deprecation and little jibes to keep conversation light and airy; the stuff of polite society within the Northside, where every family lived in abject fear of discovery. Sometimes they feared others would learn of their diminished wealth; others, diminished stature, or some petty internal scandal which threatened their vaunted lineage. As though any of the noble houses of the Imperium could claim more than two or three generations of real power.

He loathed every second of it. The records of the OIR revealed the rot behind every one of the gilt facades, which was exactly why what he was doing right now was criminal.

"Now, it is my custom to read these logs, find little discrepancies here and there and address them according to Imperial Law. Unlicensed gambling, tariff evasion, excise irregularities, withheld dues, arms smuggling- all of these things have concise evaluations under the law, and I follow each procedure precisely. Cross the t's, dot the i's, all by the book. As I'm sure you have learned yourself, here in Gelerand we are all quite civilized, and our system of law--as guided by the Imperial Mandate and the interpretations of the Inquisition--is comprehensive."

Valentin forced himself to take a sip this time, letting the awful concoction scar his throat. It felt almost good, like it was burning away the bile gathering there.

The lawyer was not, in any sense, an earnest believer in the project of the Imperium. If he was devoted to the Emperor, it was only because there was no alternative. If he kept precisely to the letter of the law, it was only because he, of all men, knew the price of its defiance. But he was a comfortable conspirator, of sorts. His family's manor might be falling into ruin and his career prospects were uninspiring, but he was in no danger of losing house and home. If he stopped here, simply left, went home, he could live out a blissful life sliding slowly into irrelevance. Perhaps he would even manage to die before old Alexander's last scrap of treasure was finally sold to pay his family's debts.

He put down the cup and leaned forward towards Aurin. All the jest was gone from him.

"Law we have, but not for everything." the lawyer said, softly, "There are those whom are privileged; the very word, you know, it means 'private law'. And for what the law does not cover, there is no recourse. We have no other justice- I suppose that's why we tried to steal him."

It had the sound of a barbed joke, but Valentin looked entirely serious. "So when I discover an irregularity, and that irregularity is caused by one the law does not touch, I suppose I am expected to shut the books, to lament the fallen state of the world in silence."

"But I would like to try a different tack, in this case. When money is ill-gotten, it should be subject to disgorgement, yes? And if the court is without power to do so..."

Valentin sat back in his chair, straightening the lapel on his jacket. Where there had been a bitter intensity just a moment hence, he now seemed entirely composed again.

"It is a fact that someone beyond my office's jurisdiction has acquired a substantial fortune through illicit means. I would like you to help me divest them of it."

Aurin was an attentive listener, although to anyone watching - and able to focus on him for any length of time - he seemed to be enjoying a casual conversation. But while he was paying attention with deadly seriousness, he was also keeping his feelers out for eavesdroppers, thieves, and the like. The man was a past master at seeming to be doing one thing while doing several others.

"Avenna's favorites are seers of a sort," he interjected quietly with a foxfire smile. Indeed, those who understood macroeconomics on a spiritual level were certainly able to read the flow of energy - as represented by coins stamped by the Guild - throughout the continents.

Aurin was glad he paid good money for a creative genius to get creative with his books. Portions for Foxes looked like an upstanding foreign investment keiretsu, and certainly, as much as possible was done aboveboard and to the letter of the law. But it exploited loopholes, and decisions were often made based on insider information. A man like Valentin might be able to form a case against it, and Aurin Kavafis, if he had access to the right documents, if he had a vendetta against the man, and a great deal of time on his hands. The adopted Kalzasern didn't think that was the case here, and as Valentin expounded, he was assured that he did not.

It was difficult not to let a slow, knowing, and wicked smile curl his lips into their native smirk.

Aurin was a self-proclaimed bad man, but he was also a complicated one. Thumbing his nose at the pampered elite without them realizing he was doing it - well, that was just fun.

"You, I think, are the artist, Herr Valentin," he said after a moment. He was allowed another few moments to consider when the water brought his drink. The fellow set a saucer down and then a diminutive porcelain cup only half-full of dark, bitter drink. From a little long-stemmed copper pot, he poured more, topping off the well-frothed coffee with more at the boiling point. Next to that, he set down a small plate with a few confections covered in powdered sugar. "Danke."

"Bitte."

When they were alone once more - as alone as possible in the open air portion of the Kaffeehaus - he smiled.

"I must admit, I am intrigued by your proposition of remedy. Will this divestment become a foreign investment?"

"Ja, ja." conceded Valentin, "Well, there's no alternative, really. Certainly if the money remains within Gelerand, the man in question and his... associates... well, they would inevitably find it. And there is, after all, no defense in the nation which suffices against Kathar."

That was the strongest indication the man had given yet about the heights at which he aimed; for the only person in the nation who could command the winged Legion was the Emperor himself, and as such only those who enjoyed his highest favor could presume to wield their might in any capacity.

"You bring up Avenna, and rightly so. Whatever insights she gleans from trade the world over, she is jealous with them. If the divestment is a fait accompli and the money were to exit the national borders, turn up only in some place much opposed to pressure from His Majesty's government... well, I fear that would be the end of any official inquest. So yes, the money would require foreign investment. That, of course, is half of the reason I wrote you."

It wasn't exactly a secret that Aurin was running an international scheme of sorts, though the details were fuzzy. He had been arranging shows between nations and managing a Kalzasaern theater, and so the spymasters of Gel'Grandal naturally suspected him of some role in their games. Probably they would even note that Valentin had met with him here; the bureaucrat had made no attempts at disguise or magical skullduggery. When compared with an Inquisitor's skills, his own bumbling with costumes and dead drops would only serve to highlight his desire to hide something.

(Thankfully, there was more than one level on which a scheme could be hidden.)

Anyway, when Valentin had finished his investigation into the counterfeiter, he'd realized immediately that he'd been handed a golden opportunity. The OIR wasn't sure what the extent of Aurin's network was, but there was no doubt it was extensive. This was a man who could make a lot of money disappear across national borders, never to be seen again. But... it was only half the reason.

"The other half, of course- well, I have already admitted that the man in question is beyond the purview of my humble office. Even an open investigation could see me put to the question."

He'd never actually seen the Inquisition torture anyone--after all, Gel'Grandal preferred a bright veneer of respectability over the iron fist--but he had known his fair share of Inquisitors, some of whom he guessed could probably pull the scheme from his mind directly. No, the less he had to personally present of himself, the better.

"In one of the old operas, there would be a daring raid into the manor, some chase scenes, perhaps a swordfight, all in aid of the recovery of some great mound of treasure kept in a hidden vault. Alas, now all the money is figures and words. But if the right person says the right words, the figures change. I need someone who can get into this man's confidences. From there, I can ensure his ruin."

"If you can arrange that and a path out of the country for it, I think you'll find there's a lot of money to be made."

If Aurin could find confidence in Valentin's plan, then Valentin had found the right confidence man. His sembling caught some of Valentin's thoughts; at least, those on the surface, so he certainly caught his nuances and knew when they understood each other. Aurin would only delve deeply into someone's mind if he deemed them dangerous. But it was probably wise that Valentin wouldn't properly remember his face if an Inquisitor tried to pull it from his memory. And while he did sense undue interest in them, one of the people watching them was wondering if they were on a date. The other was trying very hard to keep their thoughts in order, which made Aurin suspect they were, in fact, a spy.

Thankfully, they weren't close enough to directly overhear over the chatter, didn't have the magical wherewithal to remember Aurin's face, and hadn't been tipped off to the fact that Aurin was carefully turning away or "incidentally" blocking his mouth when speaking. Lip readers were fucking cheaters, after all.

"Aye, well, there's a market for Kathar if one knows where to look," he said with a bit of a smirk. But his investigation into Herr Valentin hadn't yielded anything to make him believe that the man might aid and abet an underground railroad for disillusioned Avialae in the Imperium.

"Well and good," he said quickly, blowing past the little nugget he had planted. "I know the slipspace well if you catch my meaning, mein Herr. I can make things disappear to the Atraxian Desert if you so desire, but wherever you wish to launder your cut of the profits, I can avail you. We ought to discuss the target, the timeframe, and the tawdry topic of coin. What you expect, what I can expect, and the like. I like a bit of flair as much as the next man, but I value my hide rather more, and I can make it so funds flow through happy channels to your family's coffers. You can have receipts from a collector in Haqs or... well, you're commissioning the art. You give me the specs and I will deliver."

Valentin reached towards the unnoticed little plate on his side of the table and slowly retrieved a digestive, raising it to his mouth and taking a small bite. He chewed it thoroughly, his eyes looking just a little bit distant as he considered Aurin's statement. Obviously he'd known that he would have to discuss the details of the actual operation next, but it still felt like... well, like a sort of irreversible step forward. If he stopped now, simply left, never spoke to Kavafis again he would still be in technical violation of the standing orders about diplomatic contacts with Kalzasi, but that's about all. A slap on the wrist matter, nothing more. Once the information he'd worked through evenings the past month to acquire was out there, he was no longer wholly in control of his own fate.

But then again, who was? There were powers in the world which could crush him on a whim, or by accident, whether he went forward or no. Why not at least try to get rich in the process?

The lawyer swallowed the last of the biscuit and laid his hands on the table, one atop the other. "The details are a bit complex, but the short answer is that I don't quite know who the target is. Rather, what I know is that someone in the household of Grand Duke Beaumont has stolen a great deal of money. A fortune; to be precise, a king's ransom. And they acquired it through murder within the last year, which ought to narrow down the candidates for victim."

That wasn't all the information he had, not quite, but he wasn't willing to divulge quite everything while lounging at a coffeeshop, no matter how bad its coffee or how good its biscuits might be.

"When the necessary arrangements are made, I intend to travel to the Duchy and look into the matter; I expect it will take no more than a month to discern the identity of the killer." He was still hopeful that the murderer was some guest of the Grand Duke--hangers-on at court, or a rogue courtesan, perhaps--someone whom, when robbed, would be unable to turn to any higher authority for fear of their own crime being discovered. If it chanced to be a member of the Duchal household directly...? He preferred not to think about that, just yet.

"Once I know who it is, it will be trivial to determine the nature of the accounts in which the money is hidden. From there, I was thinking perhaps transferring it into a going concern, and from there to... well, whatever business you can wrangle up. Ataraxia..." Valentin barked a laugh, clearly assuming Aurin's statement was in jest. "Actually, the desert-dwellers are probably even safer from Imperial spies than Kalzasi itself. The Palace still has agents as far north and east as the Kathalan towns which once fed Zaichaer. The Commonwealth sinks every ship we send within a thousand miles of their shores."

The magically nondescript foreigner sipped his bitter brew thoughtfully. The dance had begun, and he was determined to be the partner who led, but he could have a soft touch when he needed to.

"Would you like me to investigate this crime?" he asked. Sussing out secrets was one of his gifts. "Ah..." Rather than make further assumptions, Kavafis let the man say his piece. Then, "So. You go to the court of the Grand Duke Beaumont, ascertain the mark. I come in and con them, gain their trust, and then, betwixt the two of us, we nudge Avenna's hand, arrange it so the accounts become more liquid, and then see that it flows out of the Imperium for safekeeping and redistribution."

Kavafis considered. There was something to be said for going in together, making the investigation a joint venture as well. Of course, if they were seen together, their mark might later cast aspersions upon Herr Valentin's character, but his soon-to-be accomplice was a past master at glamours and aura inversions. He could be, well, anybody.

One of his tiny treats went right into his mouth whole. He savored the sweet, lightly floral confection: ah, rosewater. After dusting the powdered sugar from his hands, he looked frankly at the man.

"You have my attention and my interest, Herr Valentin. I understand that there are things you don't know, and details you are unwilling to share as yet. What are the next steps for us, then?"

Some clients wanted a demonstration of what he—or his keiretsu—could do. Mists, the Menagerie had demanded he assassinate a Seeker of the Order of Reconciliation before they would treat properly with him. He wondered if this lawyer and taxman was a mere beaurocrat or a truly infernal creature.