Chapter 4: Forgeries and Friends

  Two nights later, Adon was reviewing manifests concerning trade through the Veil towards the Province of Allurna – a route becoming increasingly important as traditional sea lanes faced Thureman interference. Recovered from her first night’s panic she had been able to take the ring off and on with relative ease. The pact still bound her whether or not she wore it but she had fiercely grown used to the idea. It was an exchange of goods and services like every other deal she had ever done. Like all deals, it was binding, and there would be consequences for breaking it. Binding and permanent were not, however, the same. This pact would serve her for now and so she would serve in return. Adon would never be powerless again.

  Elf approached her, adjusted a flickering oil lamp on the reading table, his movements economical. "Lady Adon," he murmured, his voice low, ensuring they were alone amidst the towering shelves of books. "An opportunity has arisen to address Sterling & Sons' recent… aggressive acquisitions. Specifically, their new contracts impacting the Allurnan timber and grain trade, which directly undercut Resha interests." His gaze was steady. "Intelligence suggests key documents related to these contracts, possibly demonstrating impropriety, are secured in Sterling Sr.'s private office. Retrieving them would be… advantageous." He produced a small, folded piece of parchment – updated floor plans, guard rotations. “Infiltration and retrieval. Minimal engagement preferred."

  Adon recognized the command beneath the polite phrasing. This wasn't just about business; it was about reasserting dominance, perhaps serving the Patron's interests by disrupting a rival. "Inform Jack and Tark," she replied coolly. "We move tonight." A familiar thrill, the adrenaline of impending action, coursed through Adon, now underscored by the humming potential of her new power and the sapphire ring warm against her skin.

  Under the cloak of a new moon, the familiar trio gathered in the shadows near the Merchant Quarter. Jack, vibrating with anticipation, checked the tools tucked into his belt several times over. Tark, spectacles perched on his nose, reviewed the small, hand-drawn map provided by Elf, cross-referencing it with his own knowledge of the district’s architecture. Adon, cloaked and cowled, felt the city’s familiar nighttime embrace, but it was different now. The shadows felt deeper, more concealing, the silence pregnant with possibilities she hadn’t sensed before.

  Reaching the Sterling & Sons building – a respectable, solid edifice of stone and dark timber – Jack went to work. He shimmied up a drainpipe with practiced ease, securing a rope before descending just as quickly. While Tark took up an observation post on an adjacent rooftop, scanning the street and nearby windows, Adon ascended the rope. Her movements felt lighter, more assured, the ring a small point of warmth against the cool night air. She felt the faint thrum of the sigil on her wrist, a silent promise of power held in reserve.

  Jack bypassed the sturdy lock on a third-floor window with a series of delicate clicks and whispers of metal on metal. The trio eased onto a hallway and looked around for indications to confirm their map was accurate. Suddenly, turning a corner, a man in clerk’s clothing came upon them. A monocle fell from his eye as they widened in alarm. Adon quickly lifted her hand, revealing the sapphire gem gleaming in the lamplight of the hallway. The Clerk’s eyes darted towards the ring, looking for a threat, but then grew distant as he took in the gem. “Don’t you remember how tired you are and how much you wish you were asleep?” Adon cooed at the man. “Maybe you should go back to your desk for a nap.”

  “A nap,” he muttered to himself. “That sounds nice.” He stumbled away from them back down the hall. Tark and Jack gave each other uneasy glances. “You haven't used that on us, have you? And you won't ever?” Tark asked.

  “Of course not darling,” Adon blew him a kiss, adopting her vapid heiress persona they all knew was a front. “Now, let's go find this office before I have to send anyone else to bed, or worse.”

  Their map quickly led them to the sumptuously appointed office. Rich carpets muffled their footsteps; the air smelled faintly of expensive pipe tobacco, aged wood, and beeswax polish. A large mahogany desk dominated the room, facing a high-backed leather chair. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with leather-bound tomes.

  "Safe's likely behind that tapestry," Jack whispered, pointing to a large, elaborate weaving depicting a naval battle. Tark nodded, already examining the desk, likely searching for wards or alarms. Adon moved silently around the room, her senses straining for any sign of alarm or discovery.

  Jack confirmed the safe's location and set to work on its complex mechanism, his touch light, his concentration absolute. Tark, meanwhile, discovered a subtle pressure plate beneath the rug near the desk drawer and carefully disarmed it. He then began expertly picking the drawer's lock. Adon stood watch by the window, peering through a crack in the heavy velvet curtains. The street below was quiet, save for the distant clang of a Watchman’s bell.

  Minutes stretched in the silence, broken only by Jack's soft clicks and Tark's occasional grunt of effort. Finally, Jack gave a low hiss of triumph. The heavy safe door swung open on silent hinges. Inside were neat stacks of ledgers, shipping manifests, bundles of letters. Jack began efficiently transferring them into his satchel.

  Simultaneously, Tark eased open the desk drawer. "Correspondence, contracts… wait." He reached deeper into the drawer. "False bottom." A moment later, he slid out a slim, unassuming portfolio bound in dark leather and tied with a simple black ribbon. It looked out of place amidst the more official papers.

  Adon took it from him as Jack finished emptying the safe. Untying the ribbon, she opened the portfolio. She spread the contents on the nearby desk under the narrow beam of Tark’s hooded lantern. Deeds, permits, letters of credit, appointments – all bearing official seals, all looking authentic at first glance. But these were the documents Elf suspected existed.

  "Check these," Adon instructed, her voice low. Jack and Tark leaned closer.

  "This deed," Tark pointed, adjusting his spectacles, "transfers ownership of the Old Salt Wharf – prime Resha territory – to a holding company… registered in Fillsarda, the capital of Allurna."

  "And this permit," Jack added, his eyes sharp despite the gloom, "authorizes Sterling & Sons unlimited timber harvesting rights in the southern Greenbelt of Allurna – that's Orc territory, strictly regulated by treaty!" He indicated the signature. "That's Councilman Lowe's seal, but the signature… sloppy. Not his."

  Adon picked up another. A letter, seemingly from a high-ranking Riverlands trade minister to Sterling, approving the use of Resha warehouses (falsely claimed as Sterling property via another forged deed within the portfolio) for the storage of 'agricultural equipment' imported from Allurna. "Agricultural equipment?" Adon scoffed softly. "More likely smuggled Orcish red weed or worse, given the secrecy." She ran a finger over the minister’s seal. "Wax is wrong. Too brittle. And if memory serves, the date conflicts with the minister's trip to Astarn last fall."

  "Forgeries," Tark remarked, his voice grim. "Expertly crafted to appear legitimate upon cursory inspection. Designed to grant Sterling illicit advantages, particularly regarding Allurna, and potentially frame Resha interests if discovered."

  "Someone is playing a very dangerous game," Adon mused, carefully gathering the documents. "And Sterling is either the architect or a pawn." This was far more significant than stolen contracts. This was high-level manipulation with international implications, rooted surprisingly far east in Allurna. “Let's move,” Adon commanded. They worked swiftly, collecting the documents before retracing their steps out of the building, melting back into the Fischholme night. In the secure confines of Tark’s workshop, the forged Allurna documents lay spread under the bright, unwavering light of the crystal lamp.

  "Fillsarda," Tark mused, examining the holding company's registration. "Allurna is grasslands with the capital Fillsarda, and orcs to the south mostly. What interest do they have in Fischholme wharves, unless it's a front?"

  The pieces clicked into place in Adon's mind with cold clarity. The forgeries weren't just about Allurna; they originated there, crafted by a specific, highly skilled individual. This wasn't just Sterling being opportunistic; it was part of a larger scheme, orchestrated or at least facilitated by someone far to the east, deliberately manipulating Fischholme's trade and politics. Controlling Fischholme trade meant controlling global trade. Certainly a prize worth having. The very prize Adon was after, control.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  "So the rot starts in Allurna," Adon muttered. She looked at the documents spread before them – tangible proof of a conspiracy reaching across the continent.

  "This changes everything," Jack muttered, looking unnerved. "Dealing with a local rival is one thing. Tangling with whatever powers are at play in Allurna would…”

  "Precisely," Adon cut him off, her mind already calculating angles. "These documents are dangerous. But the real power lies with the source." She tapped a forged deed. "Finding the forger means uncovering who commissioned these. It means gaining leverage over everyone involved, here and in Allurna. It means potentially controlling the flow of these forgeries, or stopping them entirely before they damage Resha interests beyond repair, or worse, implicate us."

  Her course was suddenly clear. The whispers of ambition, the desire for control, the demands of her Patron – they all pointed east. The docks, the local gangs, even Sterling & Sons… they were small steps. The real game, the path to the power she craved, now seemed to lie across the jungle nation called the Veil, into the grasslands of Allurna.

  "Someone," Adon stated, her voice hardening with resolve, looking from Jack to Tark, "needs to go to Fillsarda. Someone needs to find this forger." The journey would be long, dangerous, requiring resources and skills beyond her current small crew. She would need allies. Powerful, skilled, perhaps desperate allies. Jack, Tark and Elf were all essential to operations in Fischholme, so it would need to be new people. A new crew. Adon didn’t even know where to start, until an old friend came to mind.

  The following afternoon, Adon sat waiting in one of the Resha Shipping Company’s lesser-used conference rooms. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows overlooking the bustling Central Wharves, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air above the large, polished table. Spread across it were nautical charts and overland maps showing routes towards the Veil and beyond, a plausible reason for summoning the man she awaited. Requesting a meeting with Cedric was simple enough; as a long-standing associate of her father's and a key broker for Resha interests, discussing potential eastward expansion fell well within their usual interactions. Adon recalled his presence throughout her adopted life – the impeccably dressed halfling with the startling white hair who seemed part absent-minded uncle and part business genius. He had amassed wealth and influence in human-dominated Fischholme through sheer acumen and, Adon suspected, a healthy dose of well-concealed ruthlessness. Altin trusted his business sense implicitly, often praising his insights, but Adon always felt a layer of careful performance in Cedric’s interactions, a sense that the affable, knowledgeable broker was a meticulously crafted facade.

  He arrived precisely on schedule, announced by a soft knock. Elf, maintaining his butler duties, opened the door, and Cedric entered with his characteristic, unhurried grace. His cloud of fine white hair was perfectly combed, framing a face lined more by age. He wore a waistcoat of deep plum velvet, intricately embroidered with silver thread, over a crisp white linen shirt – the height of sophisticated fashion. In his hand was the familiar long-stemmed pipe carved from dark Eulatrian heartwood, its bowl already emitting thin tendrils of fragrant smoke that smelled faintly of cherries and old secrets. He moved with a quiet confidence, his sharp eyes taking in the room, the maps, and Adon herself in a single, comprehensive glance.

  "Lady Adon," he greeted smoothly, his voice soft but carrying easily. He inclined his head, a gesture that conveyed respect without subservience. "Ceddy!!" Adon exclaimed, jumping up from her seat, and wrapping Cedric in a big hug. "How are you?" she gushed with her voice rising to match that of the little girl he had known for so many years.

  Grimacing gently to the nickname, Cedric returned the hug. "Fine fine young lady. Considering the vastness of the world, are we?" He gestured towards the maps with his pipe stem. "Or perhaps the specific challenges of routes east of the Veil?"

  "The future requires foresight, Cedric," Adon replied, her eyes sparkling with tease. She motioned to the plush chair by the desk. "And the eastern routes, particularly overland to Allurna, present unique difficulties beyond Thureman interference or the dangers of the Veil jungles.” She leaned forward slightly, adopting a confidential tone. "Your experience touches so many facets of trans-continental logistics. I value your perspective. If one were planning… let's say, a difficult overland expedition, perhaps establishing a new trading post deep within Allurna... what sort of specialized personnel would you consider essential? Beyond standard caravan guards, naturally."

  Cedric settled into the chair, crossing one leg elegantly over the other. He took a slow, deliberate puff from his pipe, smoke wreathing his head like an enigmatic cloud. "Hypothetically," he echoed, a subtle twinkle in his eye suggesting he knew there was more beneath her question. "A wise consideration. A truly challenging undertaking indeed." He tapped ash from his pipe into a small ceramic dish on the table. "Standard guards… yes, insufficient for such distances. For a venture into truly wild or unknown territory, especially one requiring discretion..." He paused, his gaze unfocusing slightly as he looked past Adon towards the window. "...discretion and facing uncertain… uncertain…" He blinked, seeming to momentarily lose his train of thought. He gave a tiny shake of his head. "Apologies, Lady Adon. Woolgathering. Uncertain dangers... yes." He refocused, his sharpness returning instantly.

  "First," he continued seamlessly. "You would require a dedicated shield-arm. Not merely a hired blade, but someone utterly reliable, disciplined, capable of holding the line when chaos erupts. Someone whose loyalty, or at least professionalism, is beyond question in the heat of battle."

  Adon nodded, absorbing the description, filing away the required traits.

  "Equally vital," Cedric went on, swirling the smoke in his mouth before exhaling slowly. "Is preservation. Long journeys inevitably bring hardship. Injury is commonplace, illness can cripple an entire venture, and strange local afflictions… well, the less said the better. You absolutely need a skilled healer. Someone capable not just of patching wounds, but of diagnosing ailments, neutralizing poisons, and generally keeping the company physically sound. Their presence often means the difference between success and disaster."

  Again, Adon noted the necessity, picturing the kind of resilience required.

  He took another puff, considering. "Then comes ingenuity. The road presents unforeseen challenges. Equipment fails – axles break, ropes fray, vital tools are lost. Obstacles arise – impassable terrain, locked gates, perhaps even minor magical impediments left by careless wizards or wary locals. You need resourcefulness. Someone who thinks… thinks around corners." He paused again, frowning slightly at his pipe as if it had displeased him. "Around corners… yes. A problem-solver. A craftsman, perhaps, or someone with a knack for mechanics, artifice… someone who can fix the unfixable or devise clever ways… clever ways to bypass…" He trailed off, looking perplexed. He tapped his temple lightly and then looked out the window, smiling at the view. "Ah, yes. Lovely day, isn't it, Adon?"

  These lapses in thought were a regular part of conversation with Cedric. Something must have happened long ago to cause his mind to forget so easily and quickly. His knowledge made up for the challenge of talking with him, but sometimes it grew exasperating.

  "Cedric," Adon smiled, hiding her frustration, "we were just discussing how ordinary guards wouldn't be enough for a long trip to say, Allurna. You recommended having a healer, a shield-arm, and some sort of craftsman? Any other suggestions?"

  "Oh, quite right," Cedric leaned back slightly, observing Adon through the fragrant haze. After a brief pause he continued, "Depending on the true purpose – navigating complex foreign societies like those in Allurna, dealing with Orc tribes or suspicious grassland settlers, perhaps needing to unearth specific information or evaluate opportunities discreetly – you might require a knowledge specialist. Someone adept at research, fluent in local dialects and customs, skilled in negotiation, or possessing an investigator's knack for discerning truth and uncovering secrets."

  He tapped his pipe again, thoughtfully this time. "And underpinning all of this, Lady Adon," he concluded, his tone becoming purely practical, "is the mundane but inescapable foundation: logistics and funding. Secure routes, reliable supplies, sufficient coin to smooth ruffled feathers or purchase passage through difficult territories. Without that foundation, even the most skilled team is merely… potential, waiting to starve or be captured." He smiled faintly, a brief flash of teeth. "Never underestimate the power of meticulous planning and a well-managed purse."

  He fell silent, puffing contentedly on his pipe, his gaze resting on Adon, sharp and assessing once more, the brief moments of confusion seemingly forgotten.

  "Your insights are invaluable, Ceddy. As always," Adon said, her voice smooth, revealing nothing of the furious mental activity his words had sparked. She made a show of rolling up one of the charts. "You've given me much to consider regarding future Resha strategies and the personnel required for... ambitious horizons."

  "The future," Cedric replied cryptically, rising fluidly from his chair, "is built by those bold enough to reach for it, Lady Adon." A sad pallor colored his face and he said, “Your father used to reach for the future, before all that nasty business. Nevertheless, Should your considerations solidify…" He gave a slight bow, the picture of helpful deference, though his eyes held an unreadable depth, perhaps amusement, perhaps something else entirely. "…the Resha Company knows where to find me." He turned and let himself out, leaving the scent of cherry-laced smoke and a clear blueprint of needs in his wake.

  Adon remained standing by the table long after he left, the maps spread out before her like a challenge. Shield-arm. Healer. Crafter. Knowledge Specialist. Logistics & Funding. The roles were clear now, defined by Cedric’s experienced, if occasionally fragmented, perspective. Her mind began to churn, moving past the abstract requirements to the specific individuals she knew within Fischholme's intricate web of connections, people who might possess the necessary skills, the potential motivations, the required desperation or ambition.

  The time for hypothetical planning was over. The need was urgent, the destination clear. Allurna. She needed a team. During the whole conversation with Cedric several names and faces came to mind. Grabbing stationery, Adon began hastily scratching out notes. She would need a meeting place to gather these people. Of course the Wandering Mule felt like the right place to have a private meeting and gather a new kind of crew, an adventuring party.