The clerk did not appreciate Elora’s implication, which was precisely why it landed. His jaw tightened just enough to show the hit, though his voice stayed polished. “Brass Lantern does not release vehicles irresponsibly,” he said. “Mr. Bell paid for privacy, after hours service, and the waiver for self return. That is unusual, but not forbidden.”

“Unusual,” Gears echoed. “Like a brick through a wedding cake.”

Marcus pressed before the man could recover his balance. The question drew a pause. A real one this time.

“No,” the clerk admitted. “There were two with him at pickup. One drove. One remained inside the carriage. At return, only the driver was seen.” He hesitated again, eyes flicking once toward the counter staff. “Mr. Bell himself was described as tall, pale gloves, dark coat, hat low over the face. Deliberately forgettable.”

Elora’s suggestion of internal help hung over the polished lobby like a draft. The clerk disliked it, but not enough to deny it outright. “The coach was returned late. Inspected in dim light. If someone was careless, I will discover who.”

Hwicce, meanwhile, took stock of the room. Two front guards outside, one heavier man pretending to sort ledgers behind the far desk, and another near the inner hall who stood too straight to be ordinary staff. Brass Lantern’s muscle wore vests instead of coats, but it was muscle all the same. Not a war party. Enough to make trouble costly.

Then, from somewhere deeper in the building, a raised voice snapped through the calm.

“What do you mean fourteen is being discussed in the lobby?”

Piero’s smile returned at once.

“Well,” he murmured, “that sounds promising.”

Elora didn't have a visible reaction to the raised voice, but it was certainly something that could work in their favour. "If someone wishes to discuss the situation so loudly, perhaps we should oblige them. Clearly they have some investment in the matter, which seems strange if the only thing that happened was a bit of damage." Elora eyed the clerk knowingly, this was one part of noble society she did grow tired of on occasion. Everyone knew there was more to the story, and everyone knew that everyone knew as well. But you can't just come out and say it, as that would be improper. You had to coax it out, like a small child who knew they did something wrong but wasn't willing to admit it.

Marcus's eye twitched as he listened to the clerk. It took all his focus to maintain his pleasant smile. The employee had answered every question they'd asked but had seemingly gone to great lengths to make sure those answers were useless. For a second he wondered if the man actually knew more if the Brass Lantern policies were designed specifically for situations like this. With an internal sigh Marcus realized it didn't matter. He could only hope the Haunters would get more information.

Perhaps the only thing they'd learned was that this Bell had accomplices. Which wasn't a big surprise. Stealing Comet felt too big for one person to do.

Before the spirit medium could ask more questions he heard voices from deeper in the building. Marcus internally sighed again, the time for questioning might soon be at an end. The employees might have been civil with Calabrese poking around, he wondered if the people in charge though would extend the courtesy.

Since Elora had spoken up Marcus held his tongue for now and waited to see what would happen.

Titles: Prime, Prime - Mundane - ed1c24

"Oh, look at that, seems like someone wants to have a little chat. Call them over, will you?" Hwicce told the clerk, taking one step back with a shit-eating grin splattered across his face. And, while his hazel eyes were kept trained on the clerk, he made sure to keep an eye on the four he had identified through his peripheral vision. The hand on his back never leaving the handle of the concealed dagger.

The clerk’s expression pinched at Elora’s words, then curdled further when Hwicce invited the voice forward like a tavern entertainer. For a moment, he looked less like a company man and more like someone who had just watched a lit match drift toward spilled oil.

From the inner hall came the sharp strike of shoes on polished floor.

The woman who appeared was dressed in dark plum silk beneath a tailored riding coat, with silver at her throat and a ledger tucked under one arm like a weapon she had learned to use long ago. She was not armed in any obvious way. She did not need to be. The clerks straightened when they saw her. The guards became still.

Piero’s smile cooled.

“Madam Velora Cask,” he said. “Brass Lantern’s managing director. How unfortunate.”

“Mr. Lanza,” she replied, eyes sliding over him with surgical disinterest. “I was about to say the same.”

Gears leaned toward Marcus, voice low. “That means they hate each other politely.”

Madam Cask’s attention settled on Elora next, then the faceplate. “Carriage fourteen is company property. If it was found damaged, Brass Lantern appreciates its return. If you are here on behalf of Don Calabrese, then I assume this is not about scratches in brass.”

The clerk looked as though he wanted to disappear into his own collar.

Cask noticed. “Mr. Orven has answered enough in public.”

Her gaze moved to Hwicce’s smile, lingered just long enough to acknowledge the danger behind it, then returned to the group as a whole.

“You may ask three more questions before I decide this conversation requires attorneys, invoices, or men with less patience than mine.”

Piero’s jaw tightened.

Gears grinned.

“Three questions,” she murmured. “How generous. I was hoping for three teeth.”

Marcus had done his best to keep up his friendly appearance, someone in the group had to. When Gears shared the info however not even the friendly spirit medium could help himself. He let out a deep sign before he muttered, "that's just great". The cop shows hadn't prepared him for how frustrating interrogations could be.

His annoyance now clear Marcus tried to figure out what question he could ask that this manager might even try to answer. "Fine. Was there anything left in the carriage by the client, or anything unusual about the carriage when they dropped it off?"

He also glanced between Gears and the guards he'd seen early. It was possible the Haunters would get some info, but he wasn't sure the Calabrese members would walk out without something more concrete. Marcus really hoped it wouldn't come to blows.

Actions:
1. Use the ability: Let's be Friends: [Persuasion] F, [Insight] F - Grade F - Cooldown 0

Titles: Prime, Prime - Mundane - ed1c24

"Three more questions, eh? Ain't you really generous?" Hwicce raised a single eyebrow, his attention fully focused on Madam Velora Cask. He would approach the counter, one arm splayed over it for support as he leaned forward towards the woman. "Since my colleague over there asked the first question, let me ask the second one."

His gaze wandered towards 'Mr. Oven' as he spoke next. "We would like to know more about this Mr. Bell..." His attention slowly drifted towards the woman once more, the smirk on his lips never disappearing. "... without the bullshit that pencil pusher of yours fed us when we asked the first time. Think you can do that, miss..." He stopped for a moment, snapping his fingers as if trying to remember something: her name. "... lady Cask?"

Madam Cask’s eyes settled on Marcus first, and for a moment she seemed to weigh whether his politeness was more irritating than Hwicce’s insolence. Politeness won by a hair.

“Carriage fourteen was returned with no declared belongings left inside,” she said. “Unofficially, there were irregularities. The rear floor mat was missing. The curtains had been wiped down. One inner latch was scratched, and there was pale clay packed into the wheel rim. Not street mud. Service-road clay.”

Piero’s gaze sharpened. “Undertrack roads.”

Cask did not deny it.

Then Hwicce leaned in, all grin and deliberate disrespect. The clerk flinched slightly at “pencil pusher,”.

Her attention returned to Hwicce. “As for Mr. Bell, there is very little to give you. Which is the point. Tall. Dark coat. Pale gloves. Hat low. Voice roughened, perhaps intentionally. He paid cash and knew exactly which paperwork to request. He did not behave like a first-time client.”

Gears’ gauntlet gave a soft click.

“So he knew your house rules.”

“He knew enough,” Cask replied.

Piero smiled thinly. “And the third companion?”

For the first time, Madam Cask’s poise shifted. Barely, but enough.

“The person who remained inside the carriage was veiled. Smaller build. Did not speak. Mr. Bell insisted they were unwell and not to be disturbed.”

Gears exhaled through her teeth. “Convenient.”

Cask folded her hands over the ledger.

“You have one question left. I suggest making it more useful than clever.”

Elora stayed silent as her companions asked the first two questions. The answers were less than satisfactory, but if this Madam Cask was willing to be forthcoming with what they needed they wouldn't be playing this game. It seemed they had all the physical details they'd be getting, as much as she'd like to know more about Mr. Bell she doubted another question about him would prove fruitful. What they needed now was a new angle to investigate. And at that thought, the question came to her, "Who inspected and signed off on the carriage when it returned. Mr. Orven implied he didn't know, but I'm sure a woman such as yourself is already aware of who would have been working that late."

This line of questioning would force Madam Cask to give them something actionable. Either that, or she would hide the answer, which was an answer in its own way.

Madam Cask looked at Elora for a long, still moment.

There it was. The one that put a name on the board.

The ledger under her arm shifted slightly as her fingers tightened around it. Mr. Orven looked at the polished floor as if suddenly fascinated by the grain.

“Carriage fourteen was received at the late return desk by Milo Wick,” Cask said at last. “Night clerk. Licensed handler. Three years with Brass Lantern.”

Piero’s smile crept back by a fraction. “And where is dear Milo now?”

“That,” Cask replied, voice cool, “was not the question.”

Gears made a sound halfway between a laugh and a growl.

Madam Cask opened the ledger, turned one page, then another. “But since I would hate for Mr. Lanza to accuse my company of obstruction, I will add this. Mr. Wick failed to report for his morning shift. His room above the south carriage house was empty when checked. His work coat was gone. His personal effects were not.”

The lobby seemed to grow quieter around that.

Orven swallowed.

Cask closed the ledger with a soft snap. “So either my employee has embarrassed this company in connection with your employer’s problem, or someone has gone to considerable effort to make it appear so.”

Piero adjusted his tie. “See? That was painless.”

“It was not,” Cask said.

Gears cracked her gauntleted knuckles once. “South carriage house?”

Cask’s eyes narrowed. “You may inspect his room with one of my men present. You will not harass my staff, damage my property, or turn my business into a Calabrese circus.”

Piero gave her a pleasant smile. “No promises about the circus.”

Madam Cask did not lead them herself. That would have been too generous. Instead, she summoned the broad man from near the inner hall, a square-jawed employee with the dead-eyed patience of professional security.

“Havel,” she said. “South carriage house. Mr. Wick’s room. They look. They do not take souvenirs.”

Gears smiled at that.

“No promises if the souvenir confesses.”

---

The south carriage house sat behind the main office, past a gated yard where polished coaches rested in neat rows beneath hanging lamps. Brass Lantern’s wealth continued here too, but it had a working face now. Oil stains. Wheel tracks. Harness racks. The warm smell of horses, waxed leather, and varnished wood. Several employees watched the group pass and then suddenly discovered urgent reasons to look elsewhere.

Milo Wick’s room was up a narrow stair over the carriage bays. Small. Plain. Too tidy at first glance.

A narrow bed sat against one wall, blanket folded with clerkish precision. A washbasin stood beneath the window, its water faintly cloudy. A cheap shaving mirror hung above it. Beside the bed was a small writing desk with an inkpot, two dull pens, and a stack of copied carriage forms. One drawer had been left half-open. Inside were stockings, loose buttons, and a little pouch of copper coins that had not been taken.

The room did not look ransacked.

It looked interrupted.

A hook near the door was empty except for one torn black thread caught on the wood. A work schedule had been pinned to the wall, with Milo Wick’s name marked for the late return desk the previous night. On the floor beneath the basin, pale dried clay clung in small flakes to the boards. Near the stove, a twist of half-burned paper sat among the ashes, its edge darkened but not destroyed.

On the desk, one copied form had been pressed hard enough that the sheet beneath it still carried faint grooves from the writing above.

Havel folded his arms by the door.

“You have your look,” he said. “Try not to make me regret giving it.”

The spirit medium's eyes widened as he listened to Madam Cask. That sounded like actual information, actual good information! Marcus merely nodded along as not only did they get a name but permission to investigate. He was somewhat relieved Cask had chosen not to accompany them. If anyone had something of importance to mutter unknowingly, she seemed the best target.

"That was a good question," he whispered to Elora once they were escorted out of the room.

Marcus squeezed into the small bedroom, along with the others on the investigation. With their 'escort' there was little room to manuver. For a second he thought to complain before he realized it wouldn't amount to anything. Instead he focused on the room to discover anything of value quickly.

"What are the odds that clay matches the stuff found on the wheel of the carriage?" He mused aloud as he noted the dried substance on the boards.

He dunked his hand into the washbasin on the off chance the cloudy liquid hid anything.

Afterwards, his attention was drawn to the form on the desk. Marcus recalled stuff like this from crime novels. He looked around the room for some sort of lead or charcoal. If he found any he rubbed it across the sheet so that the message imprinted on it might be legible.

Elora had a slight smile at Marcus complimenting her question, "thank you, it was the only lead we had to go on. I'm more happy she let us see his room." As they got to the room the first thing Elora noticed was that this did not look like the room of someone who was taken against his will, it was too tidy, no signs of a struggle.

"I would say quite high," Elora said in reply to Marcus' comment. The bag of coins was strange, "well I don't think he was planning on leaving if he left this coin pouch." Elora grabbed the bag and checked it, seeing how much was inside. Not that the amount would tell them much, more for her own curiosity. Marcus had identified the key item, the pad with the previous note indented.

Elora made her way to the stove to see the not completely burned paper on it, checking how much was left of it for anything useful. "If you can't find a writing implement the charcoal from this paper could work."

Titles: Prime, Prime - Mundane - ed1c24

"That was some progress. Quite a bit of it, in fact. Nice work." Hwicce believed in giving credit where it was due. Inside Milo's room, his eyes darted around quickly to the state of it. He let out a long hum, catching the lonely black thread stuck behind the door. "I guess he could have been yanked outta the room and forced somewhere else." The mercenary grabbed the thread, bringing it right in front of his eyes.

"Even in desperation, those who work for a living don't go around 'forgetting' their coins." Agreeing with Elora, he looked at the paper Marcus had found. "So, what does it say?" He wondered.

The room gave up its secrets reluctantly, but it gave them.

The pouch held only a modest handful of coins. Not enough to matter to Brass Lantern, but enough that a clerk who meant to flee would likely have taken it. Havel watched Elora check it with narrowed eyes, but said nothing when it was put back.

The basin proved fouler than it first looked. When Marcus dipped his hand into the cloudy water, his fingers brushed the bottom and came up with pale grit clinging to the skin. Clay. The same color as the flakes on the floor. Beneath it, caught against the drain, was a small sliver of dark wax stamped with the edge of a broken seal.

Piero leaned closer. “Not company wax.”

At the stove, Elora recovered what remained of the burned paper. Most of it was ash, but a few words survived along the folded edge.

...fourteen returned...
...mat disposed...
...Wick paid after...

Gears let out a low whistle. “That’s ugly.”

Hwicce’s black thread, once held to the light, showed a faint sheen. Not wool. Finer. Torn from some expensive coat or veil, perhaps the same sort worn by people who paid extra to leave no name behind.

Then Marcus worked charcoal over the indented form. Slowly, crookedly, the pressure marks surfaced.

No questions. No clerk talk. South service route. Bell pays second half at Cinder Arch.

For the first time, Havel’s professional stillness cracked.

“Milo, you idiot,” he muttered.

Piero smiled without warmth.

“Cinder Arch,” he said. “That is undertrack territory. Service roads, old race tunnels, private doors, bad lighting.”

Gears flexed her gauntlets.

“Finally,” she said. “A place with manners I understand.”

Marcus rubbed the small bit of wax on his hand that he'd uncovered between his fingers. It wasn't a big clue, obviously this Milo had received messages from someone, but it did imply there was something official about who he'd been recruited by.

The thread also seemed small although why it was here puzzled him. "Surely Bell didn't come here personally? That would have drawn attention. Maybe this Milo was given a uniform?" He mused aloud, unsure himself of his own theory.

The burned note and the message uncovered with charcoal however were anything but small though. Marcus' eyes widened as he read theam. This was undeniable proof that this Milo guy had not only worked with Bell, but intended to go see him again.

The spirit medium glanced at the guard that had accompanied them. "It's obvious this person took a bribe. Can you give us a description of Milo Wick? We are going to need to talk to him about his actions."

After Marcus got his answers he looked around. "Sounds like we know where to go next. We might be able to find this Milo guy if we hurry." When the others were ready to leave the subtle glow returned to the spirit medium's eyes. If the spirit medium spotted any haunter along the way he ordered them to follow him. Marcus wasn't sure how long it had been but he doubted the others would wait long. With luck some of his haunters would have finished their task and he'd be able to get any information once they were somewhere private.

Actions:
1. Let's be Friends: [Persuasion] F, [Insight] F - Grade F - Cooldown 0 - Convince Havel to give us a description of Milo
2. I See Dead People: [Telepathy] F, [Sixth Sense: See Spirits] F - Grade F - Cooldown 0 - Look for the Haunters and motion for them to follow Marcus.

Titles: Prime, Prime - Mundane - ed1c24

"I doubt that it was Bell himself. Those who pay don't get their hands dirty." Hwicce murmured, looking at the fine material a bit closer, before motioning towards all of them. "An uniform so he can enter somewhere where he otherwise wouldn't be able to. Maybe that it was..."

He then waited for a moment longer, hoping that the grunt who followed them wouldn't be so thick as to not give them the description of his missing fellow worker before being ready to tread on to the next place.

Havel stared at the notes for a long moment, then at the wax, then at the coins left behind on the desk. Whatever loyalty he had to Brass Lantern seemed to be fighting a losing battle against the obvious.

“Milo Wick,” he said at last, voice low. “Thin. Brown hair. Sharp nose. Usually clean shaven. Walks with his left shoulder a little higher than the right. Old carriage injury. He wears spectacles when writing, but not on the floor. Nervous man. Talks too fast when cornered.”

Gears snorted. “Sounds like he’s gonna talk plenty, then.”

Havel’s jaw tightened, but he did not argue.

As they moved back down through the carriage house, Marcus caught the first flicker of familiar movement near the wall. One Haunter drifted after him, then another, then two more, all returning from their scattered errands with the solemn urgency of children reporting a fire they only half understood.

Their reports came in pieces. One had found the coach with the missing faceplate. It smelled “like flowers, wet dirt, and angry kicking.” Another had listened to stablehands whispering that carriage fourteen was “the one with the sick passenger who cursed through the curtains.” A third insisted someone inside had said “Bell went under the arch where the red lantern is broken.” The last proudly reported that “the quiet clerk was not quiet after all,” and that Milo had been seen heading for Cinder Arch before dawn.

Outside, the polished calm of Brass Lantern gave way to the district’s colder service streets. Ahead, beneath the glittering race avenues, the road sloped toward the old undertrack passages of Cinder Arch.

---

The road down toward Cinder Arch sloped beneath the brighter avenues of the racing district, leaving behind polished storefronts and lantern-lit marquees for damp stone, soot-dark brick, and the echo of distant wheels overhead. The city above celebrated speed. The city below existed to make that celebration possible without being seen.

Old service tunnels opened beneath the streets in broad arched passages, once used to move feed, tack, coaches, and injured racers between track grounds without clogging the public roads. Now half of them had been bought, rented, forgotten, or quietly claimed by people who preferred their business one level beneath respectable notice.

The arch itself was easy enough to recognize. A massive curve of blackened stone bridged the road ahead, its name carved into the lintel in worn letters. Beneath it, one red lantern still burned dimly. The other hung shattered and crooked, its remaining panes catching the light like bloodied teeth.

Beyond the arch lay a small pocket of service yards and shuttered storehouses. Most doors were closed. One old betting office had its windows boarded. A coach shed leaned against the tunnel wall, its painted sign peeled down to ghosts of lettering. Fresh wheel marks scored the pale clay near the road’s edge, turning sharply toward a narrow side lane half-hidden behind stacked crates.

There were other signs too. A scrap of expensive black fabric snagged against one crate corner. A boot print overlapping the carriage tracks, narrower than Havel’s description of Milo would suggest. A faint smear of blue silk thread caught on a splinter near a side door. And, somewhere deeper within the lane, muffled but unmistakable, came the sound of raised voices.

One was nervous, quick, and male.

The other was sharper, angrier, and very much not afraid.

To the outside observer Marcus might have looked odd, if a bit insane. The spirit medium seemed to be engrossed in a conversation with himself. He nodded and said a few words in one direction only to turn and discuss another topic with no one visible around him. After several moments he waved his hand in dismissal and cleared his throat.

"My friends mostly confirmed what we discovered. Milo and Bell were apparently the hot topic of the office." After that Marcus repeated everything the haunters had told him.

As they exited the tunnels into the lower parts of the city Marcus could feel the shift in the city. Relatively new the area the difference was unexpected and he placed a hand on the handle of his axe to reassure himself. The spirit medium was somewhat surprised how easy it had been to find their target. It no doubt helped that they had guides that knew the city so well. Marcus had noted the broken lantern first but soon noticed the other clues.

Once they were close enough to hear voices he slowly pulled his axe out from it's case. He looked around and turned to Gears. "Do you think you could find another street and get to the other side? They might bolt when we approach. Better to cut off any escape route now," Marcus whispered to the Calabrese muscle. He reasoned that if anyone were to try to navigate the city she'd be the best choice, she most likely knew the streets better.

His eyes glowed as he looked at a Haunter. 'If one tries to escape into the buildings tail them. Once they stop moving just find a street and wait for me,' he mentally instructed.

His bases thoroughly covered Marcus nodded to the others as he slowly approached. He hoped to hear as much of their conversation as he could before the voices noticed their presence.

Actions:
1. Ask Gears if she'll try to go around to flank the voices.
2. I See Dead People: [Telepathy] F, [Sixth Sense: See Spirits] F - Grade F - Cooldown 0 - Instruct a Haunter to tail anyone who flees.
3. Sneak up: [Stealth] F - Grade F - Cooldown 0 - Sneak up on whoever is talking.

"Your friends seem quite useful," Elora noted when Marcus was finished relaying their information, "when this job is done you'll have to tell me how you found them." Elora was used to having others around to assist her, but to have a cohort of invisible lackeys would be very useful in many situations.

As they made their way to Cinder Arch it was clear this was an area intended for workers and not the people the city made their money off of. Marcus had a good plan, Elora just wanted to add a small tweak to it. "Perhaps I should join miss Gears? Not that I doubt your abilities, I'm just thinking we shouldn't concentrate all our numbers in one place. Having three approach them and two flank seems better to me than a four-one split."

Titles: Prime, Prime - Mundane - ed1c24

"Oh... so you aren't crazy and was just talking to yourself back there?" Hwicce asked Marcus, one eyebrow raising slightly, even as his lips settled in a rare, thin, serious line. "I guess greed ended up biting Milo in the ass afterall." The mercenary murmured, quietly listening to the ongoing discussion at a distance.

"That seems like a good idea. Blocking the exit paths means that whoever tries to bolt can't... or at least not without too much problem." With his palm wrapping around the hilt of his longsword, Hwicce drew the blade with a rasp against the scabbard. "So, is it possible, 'arms'?" He asked Gears with a smirk.