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James lives deep within the downtown area, somewhere between the business district and the slums. To be frank, the building is on the edge of the slums; for the area was once prosperous, but has fallen on hard times. He owns a flat on the top floor of a condominium, which was originally built by the Hammers to be sort of a monastery for acolytes. But then they built that new place over by their new main cathedral, in the central town square, so it was given to the man they deemed most worthy. Well it seems even a high ranking Hammer isn’t always the best judge of character, and this individual sold it to the highest bidder, and he happened to be the third wealthiest landlord in town. How James managed to actually buy the top floor is a mystery to most, except of course for James, the man who sold it, and me, the guy who paid for it.
I moved through the city, for all intents and purposes, totally unseen. True, many, in fact most all, people I passed saw my person as I strolled casually through the crowded streets and highways, but none knew that the tall man dressed in a black formal cloak was anyone more then a wealthy landowner. I had the wide brim of my hat pulled down low, so the majority of my face was shrouded in darkness, just in case. I arrived at the building just as late afternoon was creeping up on me. The first thing that came to mind is the first thing that always comes to mind when I look at the place. What a ghastly piece of rock. The building was built by the Hammers, and thus looked like a fortress. However, unlike the perfectly clean and polished Hammer fortresses, this place was a towering symbol of rot and deterioration. I always wondered why James refused my offers of a fine estate in the uptown area. He claimed that he needed to be close to his agents. I could have easily chosen to argue the matter, but I humored him, and so this is where he lives. I arrived at James’s front door shortly after making my way up a deteriorated set of stairs, which wasn’t without several smelly bodies sleeping on it. I recognized that the door had been locked from the outside, so I knew he was out. Following standard procedure, I passed my hand over the deadbolts, and they magically opened for me. A nice little gadget, courtesy of a mage, who most likely really misses it. Stepping inside was like stepping into another world. Gone was the cracked stucco walls of the condo, the rotting wooden floor, and the stone ceiling. Actually, they weren’t gone, per se, you just couldn’t see them.
James and his wife, Corinne, do not appreciate others saying their home is messy. They contend that they know where everything is: "Underlying Order in Superficial Chaos". And indeed the first impression of any visitor must necessarily be of chaos. Books, scrolls, and half-finished dissertations cover the tables; and they cover much of the floor as well. Massive filing cabinets overflow with papers and books are stacked two ranks deep on the wall-to-wall bookshelves. They live a simple life overall, happy to consume peasant fare day in and day out. But they spare few expenses in the pursuit of their mutual passion, Knowledge. Which, of course, is why I hired him to run the Intelligence Section.
Stepping over some new volumes on an eclectic assortment of topics, apparently received shortly before their departure - they had not yet disposed of the packaging, though one of the books ("Principia Mathematica") had clearly been skimmed - I found, sitting in the middle of a clear spot, a letter addressed to me. I soon discovered that James and Corinne were indulging one of their subjects of particular fascination, military history, during a short holiday. The letter was written in James' typical ugly, blocky, but very easy to read print (one of his eccentricities: he only uses script for languages other than his native tongue.)
An old friend has come visiting. We are examining battle-sites, are traveling in the South for this week and the next. For the first week our location is predictable and I can be reached via Drop Box 74f. I regret to say that the second week will be less predictable and communications will probably be temporarily interrupted, but I shall post my movements as they occur so you can reach me in the event of emergency.
-- James 09.06 23.3
You know of Jyre, of course. Attached to this letter are copies of several of her letters to me. Please read them. Did you read them? No? Go read them! Did you read them? Yes? Okay, good. Now, I’d like to get some additional information on Jyre. This is not to say that I do not trust her, I do, oddly enough, but I’d like to make sure there are not any details that I don’t know about that should be useful. That should be simple enough for your spies and telepaths. The second task should be all the more enjoyable. I want information on this Lady. All of it. I want to know the layout of her castle. I want to know her past, history, heritage, how many skeletons she has in the closet, the breed of her pet cat, what she serves her servants for breakfast, how many times she blinked last year, and most importantly, her NAME. You get the idea? I understand you are on vacation, so to speak (don’t deny it, I know you enjoy doing that stuff), but that doesn’t mean that you can’t get one of your many henchmen to pull this off for you. Oh yes, and as always, thank you greatly in advance.
Sincerely,
"Ohh, heelew Massteer Nitfell." He spat his words out as if he was hacking up phlegm, which by the way, he was.
I didn’t waste time with pleasantries or small talk. "Take this to drop box 74f," I ordered him.
"Aye ssser!" he spat, and then suddenly bolted off down the ally as if he was no more then eighteen.
My jaw did not drop, but my eyes did widen. "Hmmm.." I thought to myself. "James employs strange ones." In intelligence, one needs a cold mind and a warm heart, James always claimed. And he noted that with a bit of careful vetting, an investment of basic human decency - often as little as a regular cup of tea and a sympathetic ear - towards society's unloved outcasts can reap a great return in dedication and loyalty. Shrugging, I made an about-face, and walked back to the main avenue. It was now evening, and soon it would be nightfall. So rather then going home, I decided to
Daniel:
The letter was dated today, meaning that he left this morning, which actually was not much of a problem. I was slightly disturbed by the fact that had to reach James through a drop box. I prefer a valuable document to not be left unattended like that. A drop-box is a location which the recipient certainly will not personally be present any time the courier is. The courier leaves the message in the pre-arranged location and then leaves a mark at a pre-arranged location to indicate that the box has mail. The courier leaves. The recipient checks the marker site every so often, and when the mark is spotted, will erase the mark and proceed to the drop site. After observation to ensure the site is not watched, and that the agent is not being followed, the agent gets the message. It often helps to place the drop box in places where it can be easily and unobtrusively grabbed even if in plain view. I pulled a chair up to his desk (I first had to find a chair, and then find a desk), and wrote him a short letter.
James,
"Now, where does he keep that…" I muttered to myself, trailing off into thought. Then I saw it, perched on top of a stack of economic reports, his automatic copy device. Another one of the Hammer’s wonderful inventions, this remarkable machine will copy any book or document quickly and accurately. I put Jyre’s letters into the "in" slot, and waited while it did its work. Now, either the Hammer’s craftsmanship is overrated, or James had just worked this thing halfway into its grave, I cannot say. What I did know is that I had to coax the machine to keep working several times, through some rather unscientific means. Judging by the tools that a Hammerite keeps on his person at all times, I’d venture to say that this was a feature, rather then a bug. About ten minutes later I had a set of perfect copies, and a rather sore fist. Packing my letter and the copies together, I left the room as close to what I found it as possible, and let the door automatically lock behind me. I went to the back of the building and waited. An old man emerged from the shadows, a man whom I recognized as one of James’s agents. He was an extremely thin old fellow, skinnier then Jossimer, which I found quite shocking, and slightly grotesque. He walked up to me slowly, limping badly, as if his left leg was nothing more then carrion. I admit, I was a little more then slightly skeptical that this man could be any sort of courier. As soon as he was within striking distance of my walking stick, he spoke.
Daniel