Vern frowned at the implications of what Beaumont just said.
Did Ari mistake the administrator's name? Or does Beaumont not know enough about this topic?
The butler looked back at him with a quizzical look, waiting for a response.
"Are you sure, Beaumont? My sister told me administrator Yharl and Ascendant Council were in the newspaper just a few weeks ago."
He nodded, "You are right that Ascendant Council was all over the newspapers in the second week of this month, but it had nothing about this Yharl Ballin you keep mentioning."
"I can grab you the exact publications of that day if you'd like."
"That would be very kind of you."
So the butler nodded and stooped under the counter, before he began piling newspapers from different agencies one after another in front of Vern. All of them were dated for the tenth of this month. Seventeen days ago.
Vern began rifling through them with one hand as he continued to chow down the rest of his meal.
Everything indeed mentioned an Administrator Hoist, not Administrator Yharl. But the news was a bunch of political nonsense along with flowery words that didn't explain what was happening at all. It was just a lot of meandering arguments and opinions of 'experts.'
.
.
.
"Hmm, it says they became…radical out of nowhere. Could you elaborate more on that? I don't really know much about Ascendant Council at all, and there's too much censoring going on in here."
The butler continued to portion drinks from one bottle to another as he started, "As you wish, Mr. Vern, I will give you a little more background. Ascendant Council is a group of people that failed to become fundamentalists. Administrator Hoist was one such person himself."
"Apparently, there was a time when he invited a few coven leaders to mentor him. But it wasn't meant to be. He was as untalented as they come, scraping the bottom of the barrel when it came to peering into the fundamentals of his own volition. I still don't understand half of what peering into anything has to do with talent. But my daughter always tried to explain it to me, yet I—" At the end there, the man suddenly halted as he looked down at the ground.
However, before Vern could ask about it, he continued again, "So administrator Hoist created a club for people like himself that couldn't peer into fundamentals. Their goal was to look at the history of our society to learn more about Lady Lennix herself. To learn the source of it all. To figure out where the fundamentals came from. Their club gained more and more traction as more people joined in, frustrated by the lack of their own talent or to get closer to the relative of a duke. The perks of being in that club which became a council in no time weren't too shabby either."
"They always loathed any and all fundamentalists, but it was never to the point of what happened this time. Since the start of this month, the newspaper has always had at least one column about the death of a fundamentalist. Some died in their houses, while the rest were found dead out on the streets. This became a big mystery until someone from Symposium came out with proof that these killings were orchestrated by the Ascendant Council."
That's…
A chill crept up his spine when he connected the dots and considered his own experiences after entering the city.
Could I have been one of the targets in this chain of deaths?
Vern continued his inquiry, "Was there any resolution to this whole situation?"
Beaumont shook his head, "Not that I know of. Administrator Hoist does what he pleases. As you can see in the news itself, no one dared to clearly write that the murders had anything to do with Ascendant Council. The killings didn't stop even until the day everything went to hell. Not many could stop that man in this city. Not before he became the head of the Ascendant Council, much less after that."
There was a trace of bitterness in those last words. Vern didn't know what that meant in this situation, so he tactfully asked, "If you're comfortable discussing it, did you also suffer at the hands of that man?"
Beaumont continued staring at the ground for a while before he just shook his head and answered, "Nothing of matter anymore. We've all lost too much, and I'd rather not talk about it."
Vern nodded and kept his mouth shut as he ate in silence, reading different news papers in more detail.
.
.
.
When he was done, he asked, "So, Beaumont, how much more do I have to pay for the rent?"
The butler, who was busy stocking items, didn't even look at him and replied, "Five Sovereigns and 18 Crowns."
"And how much does it go up if I want a box of rounds for a third-generation Ironsong?"
"That would be another Sovereign and seventy-five Crowns per box," came the response without any hesitation.
Vern had seen a similar transaction take place on this counter before, and he was flabbergasted. He wouldn't even have guessed that was something one could buy in Hotels. At least hotels back at Nvoria didn't sell bullet rounds on a drink's counter.
Hmm, if I remember correctly, 175 Crowns isn't too bad compared to the market price of bullets back in Nvoria. However, Elmhurst was supposed to have much lower costs for weapons and ammunition in general. But then, a lot has happened.
He didn't argue much about it and pulled out seven Sovereign notes from the inner pocket of his coat. Sliding them across the counter, he said, "I will take one box for now."
Beaumont grabbed the notes from the counter and went back into the kitchen. When he came back out, he had a small box in his hands which he placed on the counter alongside seven crowns. "Anything else, Mr. Vern?"
Vern had more questions, but a lot of it didn't make any sense. Asking too much would just confuse both of them, so he refrained from talking about the council for now.
He also wanted to ask about last night. But his query upstairs was already risky enough. What if those two men were still somewhere in the hotel? It wouldn't be funny if they got wind of him not having lost his memories just because he was being unnecessarily nosy.
That would be foolish of him.
So he instead asked, "Yes, one last question. Do you know where the base of operations for Ascendant Council is located?"
"That would be in Westerleigh Borough, right across the estate of Duke Armen."
Damn! That's one of the boroughs under Kingsmen's protection.
Vern still replied, getting up from the stool, "Thank you."
"Then, I'll take my leave."
Beaumont left with a shallow bow and headed towards the reception.
He was only waiting here for me. Or the rent.
Well, that didn't matter. There was a lot more going on here. Why was Ascendant Council killing the fundamentalists? Was he also one of the targets of those killings as well, but had managed to survive due to some criteria? That note given by the man in black didn't seem to show any contempt for the Fundamentalists like Beaumont mentioned.
And then there was the biggest incongruity of all. Who was Administrator Yharl Ballin? All the newspapers only had one name linked to Ascendant Council, and that was Hoist Thornfield. There was not even a trace of someone named Yharl.
Did Ari really get it wrong? I could always ask again when I meet later. But that didn't seem right. She liked to fool around, but never on such serious matters.
Ughh, he sighed.
Every answer came with fifteen strings attached, each ending in a question of its own.
I guess it's about time I try and find a way in the inner districts.
Opening the box in front of him, he pulled out two cartridges from the assortment of fifty. Looking around and finding nobody paying him attention, he swiftly loaded the bullets into the chamber of the Ironsong. It was the most simple six-bullet chamber with none of the goodness of steam or newer mechanical arts. But it's better than nothing.
Leaving the newspapers and cutlery alone on the counter, he shoved the ammo box into his coat, placed back his top hat and made for the exit.
As Vern got close to the door, another member of the hotel staff ran towards him and then looked out the peephole before unlocking the complicated lock and pulling open the heavy door just a tad. "Have a safe day out, sir."
Vern thanked the man and exited out onto the streets of the Fulham borough. The towering clocktower stood tall among the dwarves that were all these establishments. It was gloomy outside. Clouds obscured the sky, banishing the sun's shine while dry air nipped at the skin, escorted by a chilly wind.
However, the streets had a few new additions today.
A large group of around twenty people in clean clothes were following a carriage in some formation which seemed to be loaded with grains. In front of all that was a man in a clean gray robe, and everyone else seemed to look at him reverently.
After a while, the procession stopped in front of a building. The moment it did, a few people came running out of the building and prostrated in front of the man. He then waved his hand as two from the formation moved and unloaded a bag from the carriage, placing it within the building.
Religions leaders actually have a conscience?
But other than this procession, the long stretching Timekeeper Lane was mostly deserted, giving the illusion that no one resided in all these buildings of great beauty that lined the edges of the road.
Vern shook his head and started moving westwards. He was going to survey the bridge which connected this borough to Mosaic Miles—the same place where Miss Cera had narrated her experience of the Duskfall from.
But as Vern quickened his strides, a man turned onto the Timekeeper lane from the next intersection, trudging forward with his back stooped, carrying a heavy stone tablet in his hands and an axe tucked under his arm. Vern looked at him intently as the man muddled his way through the walkway, still littered with ragged knickknacks, trinkets, and clothes.
After a while, the man stopped on the walkway in front of a bench and laid down the heavy slab with a thud. Grabbing the pickaxe from under his arms, he started swinging at the cobblestone footpath. With each powerful strike, bricks were loosened, their edges chipping away rapidly.
As Vern got closer to the bench, dirt and broken bricks were piled around a small hole. Then the man hoisted the slab a little off the ground and planted it into the cavity.
After staring at it for a little while, he shoveled back some of that mud and debris, stabilizing the slab. As Vern passed him by, he caught a glimpse of some words that looked like a name. A name he couldn't read, for the man placed his forehead on the gravestone and began shaking violently.
Muffled sobs echoed in Vern's ears as he continued his westward march.
Before Vern even got close to the bridge, he could make a few details. He had been asked himself—just how did the Kingsman manage to keep people locked outside of the inner districts? And the answer was simpler than he'd thought.
They just blockaded the bridge and stood guard.
The bridge curved upward over the not-so-wide river. At intervals, rust-claimed lampposts stretched out like skeletal arms, their glassy eyes vacant. Upturned carriages lay scattered at its mouth, their wooden bones splintered and entwined. The ground was a canvas of chaos, painted with the scattered remains of abandoned wares.
But more to the point, the restrictions were as strict and brutal as he had thought. The only Kingsman on the bridge was picking up a body that had its head sliced off neatly, carrying it over to the edge of the bridge. Who knew how many such corpses were already sinking beneath that stream of water.
However, just as all this was happening, a man ran out of an alleyway and broke into a dash toward the bridge. He crossed half of it before that Kingsman even managed to drop the corpse down the river.
But the moment a body plopped in the gushing water, two strings of metal, barely visible from so far away, launched out of the Kingsman's Ropecaster. They stuck to the other end of the bridge, pulling the Kingsman towards the running men with great momentum as he unsheathed the steaming blades from his back in a swift motion.
Then before Vern could even blink, another head flew off in the air as the tall man in a black hunter outfit flicked his blade, and any blood that hadn't evaporated off its seething edge flew away in a grim trail.
Well, this wasn't looking very hopeful.
Vern frowned at the implications of what Beaumont just said.
Did Ari mistake the administrator's name? Or does Beaumont not know enough about this topic?
The butler looked back at him with a quizzical look, waiting for a response.
"Are you sure, Beaumont? My sister told me administrator Yharl and Ascendant Council were in the newspaper just a few weeks ago."
He nodded, "You are right that Ascendant Council was all over the newspapers in the second week of this month, but it had nothing about this Yharl Ballin you keep mentioning."
"I can grab you the exact publications of that day if you'd like."
"That would be very kind of you."
So the butler nodded and stooped under the counter, before he began piling newspapers from different agencies one after another in front of Vern. All of them were dated for the tenth of this month. Seventeen days ago.
Vern began rifling through them with one hand as he continued to chow down the rest of his meal.
Everything indeed mentioned an Administrator Hoist, not Administrator Yharl. But the news was a bunch of political nonsense along with flowery words that didn't explain what was happening at all. It was just a lot of meandering arguments and opinions of 'experts.'
.
.
.
"Hmm, it says they became…radical out of nowhere. Could you elaborate more on that? I don't really know much about Ascendant Council at all, and there's too much censoring going on in here."
The butler continued to portion drinks from one bottle to another as he started, "As you wish, Mr. Vern, I will give you a little more background. Ascendant Council is a group of people that failed to become fundamentalists. Administrator Hoist was one such person himself."
"Apparently, there was a time when he invited a few coven leaders to mentor him. But it wasn't meant to be. He was as untalented as they come, scraping the bottom of the barrel when it came to peering into the fundamentals of his own volition. I still don't understand half of what peering into anything has to do with talent. But my daughter always tried to explain it to me, yet I—" At the end there, the man suddenly halted as he looked down at the ground.
However, before Vern could ask about it, he continued again, "So administrator Hoist created a club for people like himself that couldn't peer into fundamentals. Their goal was to look at the history of our society to learn more about Lady Lennix herself. To learn the source of it all. To figure out where the fundamentals came from. Their club gained more and more traction as more people joined in, frustrated by the lack of their own talent or to get closer to the relative of a duke. The perks of being in that club which became a council in no time weren't too shabby either."
"They always loathed any and all fundamentalists, but it was never to the point of what happened this time. Since the start of this month, the newspaper has always had at least one column about the death of a fundamentalist. Some died in their houses, while the rest were found dead out on the streets. This became a big mystery until someone from Symposium came out with proof that these killings were orchestrated by the Ascendant Council."
That's…
A chill crept up his spine when he connected the dots and considered his own experiences after entering the city.
Could I have been one of the targets in this chain of deaths?
Vern continued his inquiry, "Was there any resolution to this whole situation?"
Beaumont shook his head, "Not that I know of. Administrator Hoist does what he pleases. As you can see in the news itself, no one dared to clearly write that the murders had anything to do with Ascendant Council. The killings didn't stop even until the day everything went to hell. Not many could stop that man in this city. Not before he became the head of the Ascendant Council, much less after that."
There was a trace of bitterness in those last words. Vern didn't know what that meant in this situation, so he tactfully asked, "If you're comfortable discussing it, did you also suffer at the hands of that man?"
Beaumont continued staring at the ground for a while before he just shook his head and answered, "Nothing of matter anymore. We've all lost too much, and I'd rather not talk about it."
Vern nodded and kept his mouth shut as he ate in silence, reading different news papers in more detail.
.
.
.
When he was done, he asked, "So, Beaumont, how much more do I have to pay for the rent?"
The butler, who was busy stocking items, didn't even look at him and replied, "Five Sovereigns and 18 Crowns."
"And how much does it go up if I want a box of rounds for a third-generation Ironsong?"
"That would be another Sovereign and seventy-five Crowns per box," came the response without any hesitation.
Vern had seen a similar transaction take place on this counter before, and he was flabbergasted. He wouldn't even have guessed that was something one could buy in Hotels. At least hotels back at Nvoria didn't sell bullet rounds on a drink's counter.
Hmm, if I remember correctly, 175 Crowns isn't too bad compared to the market price of bullets back in Nvoria. However, Elmhurst was supposed to have much lower costs for weapons and ammunition in general. But then, a lot has happened.
He didn't argue much about it and pulled out seven Sovereign notes from the inner pocket of his coat. Sliding them across the counter, he said, "I will take one box for now."
Beaumont grabbed the notes from the counter and went back into the kitchen. When he came back out, he had a small box in his hands which he placed on the counter alongside seven crowns. "Anything else, Mr. Vern?"
Vern had more questions, but a lot of it didn't make any sense. Asking too much would just confuse both of them, so he refrained from talking about the council for now.
He also wanted to ask about last night. But his query upstairs was already risky enough. What if those two men were still somewhere in the hotel? It wouldn't be funny if they got wind of him not having lost his memories just because he was being unnecessarily nosy.
That would be foolish of him.
So he instead asked, "Yes, one last question. Do you know where the base of operations for Ascendant Council is located?"
"That would be in Westerleigh Borough, right across the estate of Duke Armen."
Damn! That's one of the boroughs under Kingsmen's protection.
Vern still replied, getting up from the stool, "Thank you."
"Then, I'll take my leave."
Beaumont left with a shallow bow and headed towards the reception.
He was only waiting here for me. Or the rent.
Well, that didn't matter. There was a lot more going on here. Why was Ascendant Council killing the fundamentalists? Was he also one of the targets of those killings as well, but had managed to survive due to some criteria? That note given by the man in black didn't seem to show any contempt for the Fundamentalists like Beaumont mentioned.
And then there was the biggest incongruity of all. Who was Administrator Yharl Ballin? All the newspapers only had one name linked to Ascendant Council, and that was Hoist Thornfield. There was not even a trace of someone named Yharl.
Did Ari really get it wrong? I could always ask again when I meet later. But that didn't seem right. She liked to fool around, but never on such serious matters.
Ughh, he sighed.
Every answer came with fifteen strings attached, each ending in a question of its own.
I guess it's about time I try and find a way in the inner districts.
Opening the box in front of him, he pulled out two cartridges from the assortment of fifty. Looking around and finding nobody paying him attention, he swiftly loaded the bullets into the chamber of the Ironsong. It was the most simple six-bullet chamber with none of the goodness of steam or newer mechanical arts. But it's better than nothing.
Leaving the newspapers and cutlery alone on the counter, he shoved the ammo box into his coat, placed back his top hat and made for the exit.
As Vern got close to the door, another member of the hotel staff ran towards him and then looked out the peephole before unlocking the complicated lock and pulling open the heavy door just a tad. "Have a safe day out, sir."
Vern thanked the man and exited out onto the streets of the Fulham borough. The towering clocktower stood tall among the dwarves that were all these establishments. It was gloomy outside. Clouds obscured the sky, banishing the sun's shine while dry air nipped at the skin, escorted by a chilly wind.
However, the streets had a few new additions today.
A large group of around twenty people in clean clothes were following a carriage in some formation which seemed to be loaded with grains. In front of all that was a man in a clean gray robe, and everyone else seemed to look at him reverently.
After a while, the procession stopped in front of a building. The moment it did, a few people came running out of the building and prostrated in front of the man. He then waved his hand as two from the formation moved and unloaded a bag from the carriage, placing it within the building.
Religions leaders actually have a conscience?
But other than this procession, the long stretching Timekeeper Lane was mostly deserted, giving the illusion that no one resided in all these buildings of great beauty that lined the edges of the road.
Vern shook his head and started moving westwards. He was going to survey the bridge which connected this borough to Mosaic Miles—the same place where Miss Cera had narrated her experience of the Duskfall from.
But as Vern quickened his strides, a man turned onto the Timekeeper lane from the next intersection, trudging forward with his back stooped, carrying a heavy stone tablet in his hands and an axe tucked under his arm. Vern looked at him intently as the man muddled his way through the walkway, still littered with ragged knickknacks, trinkets, and clothes.
After a while, the man stopped on the walkway in front of a bench and laid down the heavy slab with a thud. Grabbing the pickaxe from under his arms, he started swinging at the cobblestone footpath. With each powerful strike, bricks were loosened, their edges chipping away rapidly.
As Vern got closer to the bench, dirt and broken bricks were piled around a small hole. Then the man hoisted the slab a little off the ground and planted it into the cavity.
After staring at it for a little while, he shoveled back some of that mud and debris, stabilizing the slab. As Vern passed him by, he caught a glimpse of some words that looked like a name. A name he couldn't read, for the man placed his forehead on the gravestone and began shaking violently.
Muffled sobs echoed in Vern's ears as he continued his westward march.
Before Vern even got close to the bridge, he could make a few details. He had been asked himself—just how did the Kingsman manage to keep people locked outside of the inner districts? And the answer was simpler than he'd thought.
They just blockaded the bridge and stood guard.
The bridge curved upward over the not-so-wide river. At intervals, rust-claimed lampposts stretched out like skeletal arms, their glassy eyes vacant. Upturned carriages lay scattered at its mouth, their wooden bones splintered and entwined. The ground was a canvas of chaos, painted with the scattered remains of abandoned wares.
But more to the point, the restrictions were as strict and brutal as he had thought. The only Kingsman on the bridge was picking up a body that had its head sliced off neatly, carrying it over to the edge of the bridge. Who knew how many such corpses were already sinking beneath that stream of water.
However, just as all this was happening, a man ran out of an alleyway and broke into a dash toward the bridge. He crossed half of it before that Kingsman even managed to drop the corpse down the river.
But the moment a body plopped in the gushing water, two strings of metal, barely visible from so far away, launched out of the Kingsman's Ropecaster. They stuck to the other end of the bridge, pulling the Kingsman towards the running men with great momentum as he unsheathed the steaming blades from his back in a swift motion.
Then before Vern could even blink, another head flew off in the air as the tall man in a black hunter outfit flicked his blade, and any blood that hadn't evaporated off its seething edge flew away in a grim trail.
Well, this wasn't looking very hopeful.
