"So how did it go?" questioned Mira, wasting no time after her deployment of rebels returned to their temporary base in Sardis.
"You sure did adapt to the Sardicean terrain quite well," she added as a compliment.
They all looked at Chandler, who had prepared a report beforehand in his mind, so he replied, "Everything went according to your plan, Mira. Apart from a few scratches, I don't think anyone's hurt."
Mira nodded her head knowingly, then called Chandler out from the ragtag group.
"You can all go and rest. Chandler, you stay here."
Trundling boots trudged out of the room, while CHandler, his bulky arms folded tightly across his chest, waited for Mira to speak. For a moment, she said nothing, a frown stuck on her lips, but just as Chandler was about to excuse himself from this awkward situation to leave Mira in thoughtful reverie, she reached out and held his arm fastly.
"Don't go."
Stuck in place, Chandler had no choice but to remain where he was. When he got a glimpse of his leader's face, he was met with sorrowful eyes, shining like pearls.
"What's wrong?"
Rubbing her eyes quickly, she said, "Will you trust me no matter what?"
"S–Sorry?"
With her eyes squinting at him dead seriously, there wasn't much she could reply except for a wavering 'yes'. At this uncertain response, her countenance immediately changed; her face lit up brightly as nodded puzzlingly.
"I'll tell you the plan."
This was definitely unexpected.
"Don't you want to know what we've been doing this entire time?"
"Well, yes but…"
"But?"
"Would it really be alright for me to know?"
She looked at him incredulously as if he made a bad-timed joke.
"Why would there be a problem?" she questioned dismissively, waving off his concerns. "Anyways, you attacked this pot today, right?"
She placed a finger on the map she'd laid out on the table once again.
"That's right."
"Well, you might've been wondering why I sent you to attack such an impervious location. Surely there would be guards waiting for an assassination attempt on the Paulos brothers; isn't that what you thought?"
"Exactly. I don't understand why we would attack with so few men. If only we had a dozen more fighters, then we might have stood a chance."
Mira shook her head.
"Hiding too many of us here in this hideout would be impractical since our basic needs would increase to the point of suspicion. You must remember that nobody here knows where the additional extra food is going to when they deliver it to the owner of this store. And yet, mixing some of Blight's henchmen with ours would not grant us a guaranteed victory either.
"Then what were we supposed to do?"
"Think of it this way," smiled Mira encouragingly as if trying to allow him to think of the answer himself. "If we can't directly assassinate Paulos but Blight's men have the means to do so more efficiently than us, how do you think we should signal to them the target's location without appearing to be allies?"
Chandler's face showed nothing but sheer bewilderment. She sighed.
"The assassination attempt today was merely a blind; all the ruckus created by the attack is supposed to alert his spies around this region, who currently also have little clue of where Paulos' true location is, so they'll spread the word around quickly. By now, it shouldn't be so hard for Blight to cut him down."
Squinting his eyes in deep thought, there was just one thing missing in this explanation, but Chandler, being the not-so-bright dunce he was, failed to pinpoint exactly what the cause of unease was; consequently, he brushed it off without much aforethought.
"Tonight, let's have a well-deserved feast to commemorate today's attack. How about that?"
These cordial words swept any remaining doubts in his mind and when Mira tugged at his sleeve to rejoin the others, his mind became placated, leaving only the trivial matter of which foods to eat in his mind.
—
Stomping through the corridors of the Enforcers' headquarters never was a favourable thing to do amidst gangs of authoritarian officers in drab grey uniform, but in Grock's case, it became a sign to them of their director's thunderous displeasure. Upon reaching the ancient door of his office, Grock burst in, slammed the door shut, and collapsed into his trusty armchair. However, unlike his previous days of lonely smoking, this time, he was joined by Sigerson, who was silently pouring through multiple files at a time with a pipe firmly lodged in his mouth.
"So," said Grock, taking out his own and lighting it furiously, "have you found a connection between Blight and those murders?"
"Not yet," mumbled Sigerson, flipping over a page filled with humungous paragraphs of text. "I've gone through the entire decade's worth of crimes today, but there's been no signs of a link between Barrett and Arestor at all in these files."
Grock merely grunted in reply, his curved nose slightly crinkled, not because of the smoke but rather the dank odor of the papers.
"Could we rule out Annabelle Paulos' death as a coincidence then?"
"I wouldn't say so myself. Although not a prominent member of the family, her death will still influence the bond with Sardis a little. For now though, it seems like Blight is attempting to attack us from within. Have you sorted out the situation between the Custodians and the disgruntled workers yet, Mr Grock?"
His companion gave no reply but instead, his dark expression said it all.
"The rebels have done a remarkable job of stirring up the crowd," sniffed Grock angrily, almost spitting out the smoke from his pipe. "Still, I hope to at least score one point on them by the end of today."
Sigerson dropped the stash of paper in his hands immediately.
"Yes… If I'm not mistaken, they'll be betrayed by Blight, assuming they're allied."
As if to answer this reply from the detective, Percy Hale came sprinting down the dim corridor, a message on the tip of his tongue. Before he even got to open his mouth however, Grock held a withered hand and said, "Wait. Did Blight's men surrender to you when you interrupted their telegraph message?"
"How did you know, sir?"
Letting out a chuckle while also using this opportunity to show his new ally what he was capable of, Grock began speaking.
"When the rebels made their move against us during the funeral, that instantly made me suspect a trap set by them—why would they attack the strongest point when it was obvious that they'd fail with such few fighters?"
His eyes darted sideways at Sigerson, who showed every sign of undivided attention.
"They might've not known there were Enforcers among the attendees, sir."
"Unlikely. Even if they did, the rebels continued to fight a losing battle, which struck me as odd until I heard that a light had flashed before they retreated. What if this attack was merely to draw the attention of Blight's spies who could then spread the word around quickly where Paulos' location was? His spies must've spread out to reach a broader range of potential locations where the funeral would take place, yet they couldn't directly join the rebels in attacking us for fear of exposing their identities, rendering their secrecy useless. Their message had to travel around fast, otherwise Paulos' location would be swiftly changed, so what faster method than the telegraph? The telegraphs and telephones were all being watched, so I'm assuming we must've caught some of them off guard."
"B–But how did you know they'd surrender, sir?"
"We did announce quite publicly that all telegraphs and telephones would be temporarily occupied by us, didn't we?" said Grock with a puff of his pipe. "If the rebels still knew we'd catch the messengers, for what reason would they station them there if not for us to arrest them? At any rate, what is it that they had to say for themselves?"
"Well… Do you want to interrogate them yourself, sir?"
After a final cloud of smoke rose to the ceiling and vanished into thin air, Grock consented to do so, instructing Sigerson to stay put while he left to sort out the situation. Agreeing to this quite readily, he laid his head back on the cushion of his seat, the never ceasing thoughts flowing through his head like rivers. Surely Paulos' death was no coincidence; could the rebel attack also be connected to it?
This will no doubt be the deciding factor shaping the rest of the war. Anything, even the smallest clue, would help me at this point… Think… I've searched through the entire history of crimes recorded but the answer still evades me. Maybe…
Those shimmering emerald eyes slowly hid themselves behind walls of flesh, designed to keep all signs of emotion and recognition concealed while he waited patiently for Grock to return, still pondering on his next move.
—
Only half an hour had passed before a series of clunks made itself heard. Grock's heavy boots came into view the moment the door swung open again, though this time, every step seemed to be lighter than the first time he entered.
"Everything's gone well?"
"Better than well," returned Grock, who suddenly broke into a loud peal of raucous laughter. Taken aback at this, Sigerson tentatively approached the subject again.
"It's been a massive success; the spies that we caught have just informed me of the rebels' headquarters. You know the gambling den near Fallow's Row?"
"I believe it was named 'Fortune's Luck'?" asked Sigerson, reminiscing the good old days.
"Quite right. The rebels' current headquarters is situated rather close to the gambling den, according to the new intel from those captured spies."
"Are you planning to storm it?" questioned Sigerson, raising an eyebrow.
"Of course not," shot back Grock. "I am fully aware that this might be an excuse to lure us there to set an ambush on us. I'll prepare some Enforcers to get ready and investigate further; until we get a clearer result, I believe holding back would be the best option in order to prevent rash moves."
—
Within another half hour, the Enforcers' report returned. Nothing was out of place—their movements were regular, no extra preparations were being made, and the resources were flowing into the hideout readily, albeit in such a secret fashion that it was nearly undetectable.
"This must be it," muttered Grock, smoking furiously as he did when he was deep in thought. "The gambling den has been their source of income for these past few months which is why it was so hard to pinpoint exactly where their funds were coming from. Have a look at this financial report."
He pointed at a sentence in the report the messenger had given him.
"The owner of Fortune's Luck has been buying tobacco from multiple factories, even when his stocks were sky-high," mumbled Sigerson curiously. "You don't think…"
"Yes," agreed Grock contently, "I also believe the owner is in league with the rebels. Another letter should be arriving any time now—"
Then as if it had been perfectly timed, Percy marched in with a brown envelope in his hand.
"We've arrested the owner and he's confessed," announced Percy. "He admits to buying tobacco from those factories to support the rebels or something like that."
While Grock nodded his head in satisfaction, Sigerson was struck by a sudden thought.
"Why did you even arrest the owner in the first place, Percy?"
"Oh, he was acting all fidgety when we were staking out the place, so I thought it might be safe to just arrest him there on the spot."
"Don't worry, Sigerson," Grock said suddenly. "This is very unlikely to be a trap. The rebels used the owner to transfer his funds over to them via their tobacco factories. That reminds me of something now; Percy, go and investigate the factories in question."
With a gesture of acknowledgement, he disappeared once again among the twisted corridors of the brick building.
"As I was saying," continued Grock, "the rebels received their funds indirectly through the gambling den, making them virtually undetectable since nobody would check for connections between them—not until Blight's spies gave them away. This hideout of theirs… it must be the true heart of their operations; they wouldn't use all those resources as a trap…"
"Nevertheless, I would advise caution," prompted Sigerson, a gloomy look settling on his face. "I don't trust this, not one bit."
"Neither do I, but there's nothing to lose by trying."
Seeing that Grock's mind was made up resolutely, Sigerson merely sighed before turning back to his own problem. The rebels weren't his opponents for now but rather the intriguing tangle between the death of Annabelle Paulos and Blight, which he believed lay…
Right after the drab coat whipped out of sight, the detective shifted around the room like a busy bee gathering pollen; with a note written to explain his absence as well as his personal belongings gathered in his oversized coat pocket, Sigerson snuck out of the office, unfortunately running smack dab into Percy Hale, who held him and asked, a drop of suspicion lingering in his voice, "Where are you going, Will?"
"Just a quick investigation," breathed Sigerson covertly. "Are you available right now? If you'd like, you can join me. What say you?"
Percy grinned. This was going to be fun.