Dance of the Midnight Emissary- Chapter 2

Authors notes- Hey there! I've been attempting to keep these chapters short, so that's the cause of the rather abrupt ending here (I spent far too much time building the scene). You also may notice that the pacing is slow, and it may be that way for some time. So... bare with me. Oh, and of course-

Tear this to shreds.

Dozens of dirigibles hung over the city, great bronze clouds wrapped in silver balloons and bright tarps. They mingled with the stars, which were particularly dull tonight, rivalled by the shining lamps which hung over the city streets. The night of the Heron’s festival. The crowds of the street, whose usual impatient jostling was tonight translated into a good-natured bustle of laugh and cheer. The stalls of merchants were filled with a (comparatively with last year) meagre selection of flowing silks and glistening jewellery. Bird masks hung over the stalls, of every colour and shape. Within the crowds, hundreds of feathered faces mingled with the unmasked.

It was a moderately well off part of the city, deep within the Northern Quarter. While it was nothing to rival the houses of nobles, and only barely could stand amongst the houses of wealthy merchants, it was an infinite paradise in comparison to the slums. And so, the people were joyous during this night. The looming ebony church could be forgotten. As could the slums, and the queen, and all those affairs of the city that tonight seemed trivial. Although, no celebration could mask the worried glances at the wagons high with corpses that would roll in from the slums. Corpses, dead from the plague.

Ford strolled through the street, weaving through the crowds. He squinted slightly through the eye-holes of his mask, which he wore purely as another measure to maintain inconspicuousness. He grudgingly admitted he had quite enjoyed perusing through the stalls to find the mask. It was similar to a crow, yet dotted with bright blue feathers at the crest. The beak covered his nose, but left his mouth and chin uncovered. He also strained not to notice that his coin-purse was considerably less heavy after buying the item, as was to be expected for a good everyone in the city wanted tonight.

Slipping through another group of people (wealthy merchants, all laughing heartily, perhaps from a recent joke), he found himself at a rather unusual stall, selling trinkets such as pocket-watches and an assortment of cased antique weapons. Ford snorted derisively as he saw the seal of his regular swordsmith at the hilt of a blade which claimed to “Have belonged to James Quinton, a famed general in the Queens army”. As he reached the stall, a customer left, carrying a case that contained two pistols, a look of eagerness on their face as they left to boast to their companions, most likely about how the pistols were “said” to have belonged to a legend or war hero of some sort. The man seated at the stall looked quite foreign. He was dark-skinned, with hungry, sunken eyes, and cheekbones that looked like they could function quite well as crowbars. He was clothed in a linen shirt, wrapped in cheap yet colourful silks of red and black. As Ford reached him, he has halfway through an exaggerated farewell to his last customer. He, of course, cut off this polite goodbye as he saw a new customer approaching.

Ford concealed his reproach as the man practically licked his lips at his approach. The man addressed him first.

“Greetings, Sir! A hundred welcomes to you to Ji’han’s wares and antiques! How may I help you?”

Ford began with- “I-“

“Ah, you seem quite a wise man indeed, a wise man, sir. Can I interest you in perhaps some weapons for a man like yourself sir, only the best I have of course.” He leaned forward, whilst simultaneously grabbing a number of objects at his side, placing them in a chaotic mass on the rough table before them. Ignoring the assortment of goods, Ford leaned forward, assuming an expression of finely concentrated intimidation, directing it squarely at the man.

“Glorified knives don’t interest me”, he began dryly, pulling a small note from his pocket. A wax seal had been half-heartedly stamped on the front. He slid it over the desk, continuing. “I’ve been told that Charles is waiting in the back, correct?” During this time, he stared at him with the unwavering focus of a hawk.

The man picked up the letter. His eyes slid onto the seal, widening as he recognised the rat depicted on it. Without reading the note further, or replying, he hurriedly opened a curtain to his side, ushering Ford in with all the respect due to an emperor.

“B-begging your pardon, sir”.

Swinging the curtain closed, Ford found himself surrounded by tent walls, in a cramped office of sorts. Crates were stacked high, pushing against the canvas roof. A low table was set on the floor of paved stones, and a chair placed behind it. An oil lamp was burning steadily on the table, surrounded by an assortment of books- record books, judging by their size.

A man occupied the chair. He was of middling height, and had a rather thin frame. He was clothed in a shirt that was, in contrast with his surroundings- immaculate, as were the rest of his finely stitched clothes. The clothes seemed not to fit the man that wore them, a gaunt man with rough features and a fine stubble which threatened to become a beard. He had bright, wild eyes of a dark green, and black, unkempt hair. He grinned as he saw Ford enter, setting down a glass of wine.

“You’re far too hard on my people, Ford”, he said, leaning back in his chair.

“I’m beginning to think you go out of your way to hire people who will irritate me the most. Last time if was that clothier who insisted I buy something before she would even speak to me”.

Charles grinned in a mischievous way that seemed out of place both for someone of his age, and someone of his stature. Ford felt a hint of exasperation that this man, who could be compared with a boy caught in the act of stealing a biscuit, was one of the most influential men in the cities underworld. Perhaps it was just exasperation at the way the world itself was, rather than at the man.

Charles’ grin faded, as he took another sip of his wine, always a sign that the time for greetings was past, and that business was to take priority. He addressed Ford;

“So then, you visited him earlier? Tell me, Ford, because I don’t think I’d trust my own eyes over yours. Is it true what all my messengers keep saying?”

Ford considered, for a moment, allowing a shudder to wash over him as he recalled his meeting with the man- the immortal, they were calling him now. Chained, in that small cellar, he had seemed so insufferably high-headed. He recalled the shot that had been placed in the immortals chest. As the threads reformed, stitched as if in some horrific nightmare…

He recounted this to Charles, who appeared to be troubled. He began chewing his lip thoughtfully.

“So we don’t know how this fellow came to be immortal?” The unfamiliar word rolled off of his tongue awkwardly.

“Nothing, so far. Although, we haven’t yet tried any means of torture.”

Charles frowned at this. “You didn’t even prod him to evaluate what level of torture it would take?”

Ford sighed. “I did. When one of your people shot him to demonstrate his immortality. He didn’t even flinch, or blink. Not in the slightest. In fact, he smiled.”

Charles digested this. “Well, that’s just the way with madmen, isn’t it? You know I always hesitate to send in Darwin.”

Ford flinched at the mention of the infamously unmerciful torturer. There was no way of involving Darwin in a situation that aligned with good morals. No matter what this immortal had done, it could not compare to the “fun” Darwin would have with an immortal.

“Give him a few days,” Ford said, painfully aware of the doubt in his voice. “And double his guard. We can’t take any chances. And… make sure the men are trustworthy. This is something we cannot afford to allow slipping into the public”.

Charles nodded, but seemed distracted.

“What is it?” Ford inquired, despite knowing the question that had popped into his friends mind. The question he had been carefully skirting around in his thoughts.

“If this fellow is an immortal as you say, it stands to reason that there could be more than one. Either that, or we may be playing with something far, far bigger than ourselves. How do we know this isn’t some demon? Or a God?” Worry began to tinge his voice.

Ford allowed yet another sigh to escape him. “We don’t. For now, all we can do is search for answers. And hope.

Charles snorted. “Hope does little good. If you want proof, ask the fellows piled in the wagons out there. They were hopeful, indeed.”

Ford poured himself a glass of wine, hoping to wash away his doubt.