Thanks everyone, and for your patience. I'm just about in one piece. In other news, I haven't forgotten about the character sheet. Well, I have, up until this moment of writing, but now I've remembered I will get it to you. Stay tuned! Meanwhile, here's a shortish chapter.
Chapter 16 - Heavy The Head
"Sculptor," Dubrik says, raising the phone to his ear. "I have some information for you - concerning one Anthony Sommers. Listen carefully, please, and do not interrupt. This may well change everything."
He smiles, alone in the darkness.
*
"The da-ance of the puppets,
The rusted chains of prison moons,
Shattered by the su-u-u-n.
I walk a road, horizons change,
The tournament's begun,
Purple piper plays his fuckin' tune,
The choir softly sing,
Three lullabies in some ancient tongue,
In the court of the crimson k-i-i-i-n-g..."
You gaze down at your cards. They're a lot weaker than you'd care to admit.
Fellowes, who you've always suspected is too theatrical to ever truly excel at poker, has his feet up across the table.
You feel a little strange; light-headed, almost giddy. You rub furiously at your brow for a moment and try to focus on the game. Behind the door of the saferoom, Oscar's music is blaring out;
"...I wait outside the pilgrim's door,
With insufficient schemes..."
"Wonder where Jamieson is now," Fellowes mutters. He raises the stake. "Think he's made contact?"
Something isn't right.
"The pattern juggler lifts his hand,
The orchestra begins,
As slowly turns the grinding wheel,
In the court of the crimson king..."
You drop the cards, in silence. They spill across the table. A thought is burrowing in through your mind, through the layers of fog and fuzz that threaten to overwhelm you. Forcing its way in, like a body-worm.
He isn't singing.
Waving a hand at Fellowes, who's giving you a puzzled look, you rise from your chair, and stalk across the room towards the door.
"The yellow jester does not play,
But gentle pulls the strings..."
You push open the door. In front of his new, hastily constructed computer console, Oscar is whispering into a microphone, his hideous body bowed. You cannot hear what he's saying over the blaring speakers.
The song cuts out. And you distinctly hear Oscar hissing, into the microphone,
"-'ll keep an eye on him."
He seems to notice the music's come to an end, because he freezes for a second before turning, slowly, around in his seat. His guilty eyes meet yours.
"Patty!" he says, fast, and pretends to be pleased to see you. "Was just keeping in touch with our boys. To hear if, y'know...anything about Jamieson."
"Have you heard anything?" you ask him.
"Nah," he says, with a little nervous chuckle. "Nah, it's all quiet. Last time we saw him, he was headed over the river south, hour and a half ago. He'll be deep into Sabbat territory by now, barring fuck-ups."
"All right," you reply, and turning, you step back into the saferoom. Behind you, Oscar is putting on a new track.
You take your seat again.
"Oscar's spying on us," you tell Fellowes calmly, taking your seat.
He nods, and raises the stake once again.
"Sorry, Patrician," he says, after a moment. "I thought he might be useful to us, you understand, when I mentioned him to Eames. I didn't think he'd...that Eames would..."
"It's all right," you reply, and you match his bluff.
Eames, you think, must now be aware of Rannigan coming to your door.
*
Eames returns to the safehouse about an hour later, with a stackful of books that she dumps casually down on the floor.
"Poker?" she says. "Oh, Edgar, darling...would you mind if I play a hand or two against Anthony? I think Oscar's probably had enough time playing his obnoxious modern stuff - I'm sure if you went to see him, you could persuade him to put on something half-decent."
Fellowes glances at you, then nods, and rises.
Eames takes his place at the table, and waits for him to leave.
"So," she tells you, her fingers playing across Fellowes' cards. "The Sabbat are launching counter-attacks across the city. Five of ours are dead. Three kine were caught in the crossfire. And there are going to be more. It's becoming ever clearer, sweetheart, that Kirkbeck has made a colossal error of judgement - that he's endangered the Masquerade for no good cause."
She sighs.
"Funny to think, isn't it," she murmurs, "that we gave him the city because we thought he was the stable option?"
"He does seem to have become a little...volatile in recent weeks," you venture.
Eames lays the cards down again.
"If we should pull this off, darling," she says, "I'd like this to be your success. Your little triumph. If we can even keep you dead for a little longer and find a few more success stories, that's all to the better. I thought we should probably get that out in the open. Make it the story of the Kindred - a war hero - who fakes his own death, and with the backing of elements in the Camarilla and the unspoken support of the Americans - helps to topple the Sabbat leadership. The sort of story they'll laugh about for decades to come. I'm happy to remain a background figure for this one, Anthony. I want to make that quite clear."
"Very charitable of you," you reply. "And in return?"
She simply smiles.
"Once the mission's over," she tells you, "one way or another, the barons and I are going to meet with Kirkbeck. We have a proposition that his role be reduced drastically - an entirely ceremonial position. We'll also expect him to apologise publicly for his recklessness in putting the Masquerade under threat, and to retire outside the city walls. Du Marchais will be fully hung out to dry. The Sheriff will have to go as well, I'm afraid - she's been useful in this affair, yes, but you'll have noticed yourself that she's thinking far too much about policy - she's starting to think the decision-making is her concern. Besides which, she's been heavily involved in this war so far...and dear Turcov has a new candidate in mind. You, of course, will get the barony of Westminster; you've proven your suitability for the position, and really, in spite of your youth, you're miles above du Marchais."
"A Magna Carta and mea culpa," you drawl. "Yes, all right. But my question remains - what do you want from me in return?"
"You support us," she says. "The hero who brought down the dreaded Sculptor Angelos makes it publicly known that the war was a mistake and that the Prince's decisions - you were there when it began, weren't you, this Rannigan business? - have suggested that he's no longer quite in his right mind. Some sort of Malkavian disease, perhaps. We'll hire the best people to do some tests and try to have him cured. Goodness, we could even play it up to appeal to the Anarchs; young, successful Ventrue Anthony Sommers takes a stand against the unmeritocratic stagnancy of Kirkbeck's rule. A revolution in Camarilla politics, sweeping out the incompetent old guard and bringing in the Kindred who truly deserve their positions."
You feel a little woozy. It's a curious sensation.
"This is purely speculative, of course," Eames adds. "It all depends on whether or not we succeed here...but even if it doesn't, I'm sure we can find ourselves another, more modest public-relations triumph. You get your barony, you get the full support of the rest of the elders, and you're lauded as a hero amongst the ordinary Kindred. What do you think, darling? Isn't it the best of all worlds?"
A) Agree to Eames' proposition.
B) Refuse Eames' proposition.
C) "The Prince will still be dangerous even if he's 'retired'. He needs to die."
D) Agree to Eames' proposition (LIE).