Wating up earlier than usual, the soft hum of a slow tempo Teagarden ballroom waltz fills the room as Frederick rises from his bed. Walking over to his water basin, he follows his usual routine of washing his face and trimming down his unkempt salt and pepper stubble. Pausing to look at himself in the mirror, he says aloud “Alright, Fred, today’s a big one. You’ve been on a hot streak lately, but don’t let that go to your head. You’re gonna track that bastard, find out who he’s workin’ with, and make damn sure you’re never seen in the process.” Gently slapping his face with both hands, he takes a deep breath and exhales.
Finished with his grooming and morning pep-talk, Frederick reviews the evidence board he’s made above his desk, meticulously adding new names and threads to connect them where appropriate. The board’s development had been slow in his first few weeks at the Celaeno House, but, following Councilor Highwater’s dinner party, has seen rather rapid growth. Along with the addition of the counselors colluding with Emmet Staten, Baldo Folcey and Wenn Mayci, the board also includes the recently elected councilor of Emmerfeld, Shan Harlequin, and Kallista Kaine, both seemingly unknown actors at this point in time. However, despite all these new names, two remain consistently at the heart of everything: Emmet Staten and Ronen Canderspall, a question mark sitting aloft the thread connecting them.
After adorning his usual unassuming clothes, Frederick quietly makes his way to the kitchen and begins packing a simple meal for his coming endeavor. However, while entering the room he is startled by the silhouette of a small creature precariously sneaking a few dozen fresh fruits into the larder who seems equally startled to see him there. Both parties tense up, giving each other a hard and calculated look. Several moments pass until the stare-down is broken, the small shadow of a creature rapidly offloading the remainder of their cargo before darting out of the kitchen. It isn’t until moments after that Frederick realizes the figure was none other than Plink. However, this realization does nothing to abate his bewilderment, leaving only more questions than answers.
Moving past the stupefaction of the encounter, Frederick mutters, “What the hell was that about?”, as he collects his meal and departs for the Docks. Once there, he finds a good stakeout spot in the form of the second floor of an abandoned warehouse overlooking the majority of Evershoal’s harbor. Taking only a few moments to pick the lock, Frederick makes his way inside under the shadow of the still early morning. Settling in, he watches as dawn begins to break over the cliff face of the city, bringing a winter tempest with it. As the storm begins to whip up, Frederick silently watches, waiting for his mark to arrive on the scene.
As the cold rain descends upon the rooftop, Frederick leans up against a wall inside the warehouse, peering out of a grimy window as his pipe rests between his lips. With one hand he strikes a match, bringing it up to light the packed tobacco, his other protecting the nascent flame from the draft being whipped up by the storm outside. Frederick snuffs out the match as he takes a drag, smoke flowing out from his broad nostrils as his yellow eyes stay fixed on a point outside. At the end of his gaze, shouting orders among a crowd of drenched dockworkers offloading inbound cargo is the tall, broad figure of none other than Captain Meles, having just started his shift. With the aasimar now in sight, there’s little for Frederick to do other than wait.
This is the part of detective work that Frederick enjoys the least. Spending hours upon grueling hours at a time trailing someone, keeping track of their every movement while staying out of sight yourself. The task requires patience he had lacked in his youth, but the weathering of time had given him a knack for it. And so, this is exactly what Frederick himself does until the mid afternoon, looking through that dingy window and watching Meles conduct his dirty transactions while extorting hard-working sailors and dockhands. Every moment of doing so only strengthens his own conviction and inflames the overflowing indignation that fills his heart.
As this mixture of emotions brews within him, however, Frederick notices Meles finish up his last rounds and start heading towards the Underhang. “Shit, he’s on the move”, he mutters as he hurries down from his warehouse perch, hitting the streets to stalk the half-plate enveloped Aasimar. Progressing about his unofficial duties, Meles constantly glances over his shoulder, his previous unconcerned swagger now replaced with beleaguered stress and desperate scrutiny. He’s clearly grown increasingly paranoid in weeks past in part due to Frederick’s own previous attempts at information gathering and the general tensions brewing in the city.
Darting from alley to alley and shadow to shadow, Frederick manages to follow Meles without exposing himself, tracking him to and from each dive bar, gambling den, and brothel that Meles conducts business at. Though there are a few moments where he nearly comes out of cover too early or is caught off guard by a sudden move from Meles, Frederick manages to stay obscured thanks in part to the passing storm. After hours of this game of cat and mouse, Meles reaches the destination that Frederick had been long awaiting, the Slatebearers garrison within the Terraces. Despite not being the official headquarters, this is the real heart and soul organization, and if Meles’ contact is going to be anywhere, it's here.
Thankfully, Meles doesn’t make his way into the very heart of the labyrinthine-like structure, instead heading to one of the small, outer buildings after checking in with his duty officer. Sticking to the shadows, the pounding of the rain dampens the sound of his movements as Frederick follows in kind, pressing up against a wall of the building. Glancing in through an adjacent window, he sees Meles enter a dingy, poorly lit office, coming to a rest in front of a desk at which a balding halfling in his early 30s sits. A small wave of sadness overcomes Frederick as he recognizes the man as Thorpe Goodbarrel, another colleague he knew from years prior. Now is not the time for sadness though, and pushing all thoughts from his mind, Frederick focuses on the conversation inside.
Dropping a grubby fistful of papers onto the desk, Meles grunts, “Gonna need six more stamps for tomorrow's route, an' I'm plannin' on skivin' off the next day, so may as well make it an even ten in case I need some spares", settling into a too-small rickety wooden chair that groans beneath his armored bulk.
A distressed expression on his face, Goodbarrel stutters back, “Mel, I. . . I don't know that I can pull off ten more in the same week. Making off with these isn't exactly going unnoti--"
Cutting him off, Meles interjects, “I didn't ask you how you felt about your job, worm. I told you to do it. Or should I tell Shingo to come collect on your debts tonight?”, giving the halfling a smug grin.
Shrinking into his chair, a defeated air overcomes Goodbarrel. “C'mon, Mel, th--you don't have to do that. I'm getting the money together for Shingo. Just need a bit more time, I promise."
His self-satisfaction growing, Meles leans in towards Goobarrel. "Well, then show me how grateful you are for the favor I'm doing you by keeping his knives out of your gut and get me ten. Nine hells, make it twelve; business is booming”, Meles bellows, giving a laugh and slamming his armored hand down on the desk.
Flinching from the motion and drawing back slightly to avoid Meles’ acrid breath, Goodbarrel mutters, "I'll make sure they're in your mailbox come morning. Just. . . no more this week, okay? I'm getting really nervous someone's gonna find us out. A bunch of old ledgers went missing from evidence recently and the brass are asking questions."
Already rising to leave, Meles grabs a decorative silver pen from a shelf near the door. “I’ll be lookin’ for ‘em in the morning, worm. Thanks for the pen”, Meles calls out as he exits, slamming the door on a crestfallen Goodbarrel.
That night, after returning to the Celaeno House late into the evening, Frederick sits in front of his desk, the names Thorpe Goodbarrel and Shingo now added to his evidence board. He stares at Goodbarrel’s name in particular, a thread connecting it to Meles’, with a feeling of conflict swelling in his heart. The Goodbarrel he had known years prior was a well-meaning, bright-eyed kid from a poor family in the Underhang. He barely scraped by the entrance exams, but he was always excited to be a Slatebearer, to be part of the solution to the city’s problems. Yet, there he was, clearly not excited to be helping Meles, but complicit nonetheless.
Fred eyed the forged ledger that Rolen had finished crafting only days earlier and chewed over what to do next, weighing the best course of action. He could easily bury both Meles and Goodbarrel if he got that ledger into the right hands. That would, however, make getting information about Ronen’s death that much harder while also destroying any chance of Goodbarrel redeeming himself. As this thought entered his mind, his eyes drifted over to the second new name on the board, Shingo. It was one he was familiar with.
Shingo had been a minor player back in the day, a small-time bookie always wrapped up in his dreams of grandeur. It made sense that he’d wind up in Meles’ protection racket. “Hell, if Meles could strong-arm Goodbarrel into helping him, who knows who else is under his thumb”, Frederick mutters to himself. “Maybe…it’d be best to go have a talk with Shingo and see exactly how much Goodbarrel owes him and why; more info never hurts. After all…I got a second chance, so why shouldn’t he?”
As that last thought crosses his mind, Frederick decides to turn in for the evening. After finishing his training with Arrant tomorrow afternoon, he’d make the trip over to Shingo’s old haunt and have a word or two with him.
Standing across the street from the Jolly Knave, a crisp winter breeze whips through the streets, blowing through Frederick’s coat as he stands in thought. Though he generally avoided the place when he was still a Slatebearer, the gambling den was a frequent stop during his years as a private eye. The only work he could find at that time was from the desperate and those down on their luck, so what better place to recruit clientele than here? “Well, time to see if anything’s changed in this cesspit” he mumbles to himself, breaking out of his nostalgia trip.
Entering, Frederick makes his way to the bar and orders two whiskeys. “Given the time of day, Shingo’ll probably have just woken up, so best to bring him a bit of hair of the dog”, Frederick thinks to himself. Carrying both drinks towards the backrooms, a tall goliath woman and a bugbear man step together, blocking his path. Hoping the passphrase hasn’t changed in the decade he’s been gone, Frederick cautiously says, “The house always wins.” Giving him a hard look, the two bouncers hold their posts for a few moments longer than is comfortable before stepping aside. Once through, Frederick lets out a soft sigh before wandering over to Shingo’s table.
From a hunched bundle of fine, albeit uniformly dark fabrics rasps a harsh voice. “Between Evershoal and my den, you seem to have developed a nasty habit of showing up where you aren’t wanted, lawman.” The figure lurches upward; a shining blue eye peering out from beneath the deep shadows of Shingo’s hood. “Why are you haunting my doorstep today, of all days?”
Frederick takes a seat across from Shingo and slides one of the two glasses towards him. “There do seem to be a lot of ghosts coming out of the woodwork these days, don’t there? Even heard that Farrival fella was back in town too”, he says, taking a sip from his own glass. “I figured it’d be worth stopping by to shoot the shit and share a drink. You always were a great conversationalist, and…I’ve always been an even better listener.” With that Frederick leans back in his chair, his face settling into a cool expression.
“You didn’t even spring for the quality wares, lawman — must be rough on your finances, being cut off from the Slatebearers. Still,” he paused briefly, taking a small sip from the glass through thin, pale lips, “the gesture is appreciated, nonetheless. You still haven’t really answered my question, however, and my patience will last exactly as long as this draught.”
Frederick chuckles at the pointed words for a moment before composing himself. “You know I haven’t been a lawman for some time now. What I am, though, is a…concerned citizen, and I’m particularly concerned about the relationship between a certain Captain Meles and Thorpe Goodbarrel. Word is that Meles is collecting debts from Goodbarrel on your behalf. Wouldn’t happen to have anything worth sharing so as to put my conscience at ease, would you?”
“Captain Meles, eh? Aye, he’s a friend of the Jolly Knave. Here at the crack of half past noon, every third day of the month. And Goodbarrel, hmm, not sure he rings a bell for me. Probably doesn’t tip his dealers well enough.” Shingo laughs to himself, a hoarse, small noise that holds no warmth to it. He lights a long, thin cigarette with a match produced from beneath the folds of his cloak; a trail of acrid smoke rises from it, violently blue.
After taking a moment to regard these words, Frederick swiftly knocks back the rest of his drink. “Look, Evershoal is changing a lot, and a lot of bad people are gonna be gettin’ acquainted with the inside of a cell or worse. We both know Meles is one of em’, and when he goes down, who do you think is goin’ with him?” Pausing for a moment to let the point sink in, he continues, “We both know that’s the kinda guy that’ll sell out everyone he knows to save his own ass. You do me a favor here, and I might be able to get a good word in to keep that bastard from takin’ you down with him. If you don’t help me though, I can’t promise if there’ll be anything I can do.”
“Don’t get me wrong, lawm—pardon me, citizen—I don’t have any love for that blundering bulette of a Slatebearer. If he were out of my hair by way of a cell or a sword, I’d be pleased as can be.” Shingo takes a long drag of the noxious-smelling cigarette he’s nursing, sending him into a long, wet-sounding coughing spell that he silences only by slamming down the final gulp of his whiskey. “So it seems like we can help each other, then. It sounds like Meles has been collecting payments in my name that he has no intention of transferring to my accounts; Mr. Goodbarrel’s debt was paid off months ago and he is more than welcome back in my den anytime he would so please. Though if he does, I wouldn’t recommend he bet the ponies anymore; he’s too damned softhearted for it. Always puts his chips down on those tragic charity cases you can’t help but feel sorry for.” Shingo peers at Frederick for a long moment at that.
“I’ll have my people get you a record of Mr. Goodbarrel’s account here. I expect Meles to be off my back about his damned protection money within the week. And if I hear anything about you from him, let me assure you that you will survive my agents’ tender mercies exactly long enough to fully regret the folly of your choices.”
Standing up from the table, Frederick gives Shingo a knowing look. “Trust me, I’ve just been waitin’ for someone to load the crossbow for me. Meles’ll have a lot more to worry about than collectin’ protection money after I’m done with him.” His deal concluded, Frederick takes his leave of the Jolly Knave, glad to be rid of Shingo’s noxious fumes as he returns to the Celaeno House for the evening.
The following day, after receiving the promised records from Shingo, Frederick drafts his first letter to Thorpe Goodbarrel, leaving it under the door of the halfling’s abode:
Dear Mr. Goobarrel,
I hope this letter finds you in good health, and if you haven’t taken a seat already, I would recommend that you do so now. I write this to inform you that I have in my possession two documents, one quite volatile, the other more pleasant. The first is a ledger outlining the ongoings of a racket being run by a certain aasimar Slatebearer, as well as the names of those involved. The second contains records of a certain halfling Slatebearer’s debts to a certain bookie, and more importantly, the fact that these debts were paid off in full some months back. I’m sure you understand the implication. With the knowledge of these documents now shared, I have this to say. I know that you have a good heart, so help me to help you. I can bury this Slatebearer captain with the information at my disposal, but before that, I need to know what hand he had in the death of Ronen Canderspall. Were someone close to him to find this information and share it with me, it could very well result in the disappearance of a name or two from the aforementioned ledger. Should this notion seem attractive, then leave your reply at the Celaeno House in the Underhang. And, I should add, I would highly recommend you choose to do so sooner rather than later.
An old colleague,
F.K.
P.S. If I were you, I’d find a better way to destress than betting on horses.