The warm southern breeze, the refreshing smell of dawn, the gentle hues of the city called out. The spring is here.
Ten days before the glorious celebration of the new Agricole year. Again, the morning's first light greeted the sky. In the endlessly repeated circles of life. Two different persons walked two different roads. Designed, under the benediction of fate to not meet today, but very soon.
Savannah sneaked her way to the guest house previously occupied by Mr. Hendrickson. The note he had left her was the center of a scrupulous reading.
Claiming he had found five locations that could be what she was searching for. However, he didn't disclose the exact whereabouts of those said locations.
What he wanted, from her, was extremely evident, something akin to a reassurance, a tangible guarantee for his valuable service.
The thin edge of the paper swiped above her lips as a wicked thought delved into her mind. eyes upwards, an excessive amount of ideas twisted together.
Mr. Hendrickson's urgent needs turned him less grisly as he used to be. Visiting him, dealing with him will be easier than having a heart to heart conversation with her mother.
Not far from her location, Clément patrolled the shadow to his workplace. In the opposite direction. Carrying a heavy mind and a list of resolutions. On its top: He should fire his helper. For he turned into a toy at the hands of the moon stone hostess.
The second one, the most important and probably the most difficult. In the end, how could he examine the honesty behind Nayara's words without casualties?
The purpose of her unpredictable invitation, the little chat, didn't just end with Nayara's declaration about what she encountered on her trip, neither it was her exact objective to divulge.
Actually, their talk lasted the night. The play of his colorful indifference and the dance of interrogation led by her continued without exhaustion, till the moment when all the cards were laid open.
He purposely provoked her when he asked: "Then, my lady, where could I meet this said person who happens to look exactly like I do?" he could feel the penetrating stars, the darting rage arrows. The repressed aversion sealed between her lips. He somehow enjoyed it up to the moment she opened them.
"He is now held prisoner at the city gates, his life and death are all in my hand."
"Ahh, what terrible luck?" He said, one eyelid half opened, watching her. Patrolling the possibilities, her words held.
The wide grin shaping her mouth troubled his judgment: "It's not a matter of him being related to you, it's a matter of him being related to the Crocotta."
Ah, that's it, Clément began to get the guise of what she had planned. Carefully, keeping the cheerful attitude:
"You must have an irrefutable proof to assert this forbidden relationship."
Let's sum it up: An alleged individual who happened to look like him has a presumed connection with the Crocotta. Given the escalating tension between Ashur and Babel, the doubtful, distrustful nature of the Viceroy of the city. The latter will certainly assimilate it to a form of treachery.
A loose string Nayara could play with. She will be able to entangle Clément breath and toss it wherever it benefits her. Only by faking the connection between him and this unknown individual. If he showed a slight resistance, she could render all of his past diligent work to approach Babel Viceroy into a withered flower.
"Of course, I do." A smirk was explicitly expressed as she placed the dessert in front of him.
Maybe, unlike most other men who fell into her seductive web, he was immune to her charm. Still, no one was immune to the scheme of blackmailing if it's used right.
The traditional dessert melted into his mouth. The sugary taste diluted the impact of his dejection, preventing his sunk in emotions to reach his face. He mellowed... Such a wiliness stood above her level.
Clèment had appraised her, weeded the depth of her persona, stripped bare her character. Her fears, her ambitions completely known to him. She relies so much on her seduction to trap men, thus she is inept when facing those who are immune to her charm. Who could be the mastermind instructing her behind the sideline?
The sugary taste faded, a restrained chuckle took its place: "You win." He lowered his eyelids towards her: "What do you want?" He could see the satisfaction spreading, lightening her complexion. The joy of success drizzled her eyes.
"Do you remember that Crocotta you had sent to my entertainment house?"
"Of course." The picture of Savannah popped up into Clément's head. How much he wished they wouldn't meet again.
"For me, how rare to get acquainted with such a powerful entity, thus I decided to propose an oath between us."
Clément, listening attentively, perceiving Nayara's deep yearning. He can't blame her. The majority tend to flicker around power and authority. Isn't he the same in such regard?
"Hmm, sill, I can't find my place in this equation?"
A tiny sip of tea pleased her thirst, "well..." She took a brief breath: "It happened that I got bitten up to this goal by a high prestige problem."
"Very natural,” Clément interrupted: “do you expect such a powerful entity as you said won't get approached by other powerful entities?” an intended provocation: “Power attracts power." aspired to discourage her by referring to her low place in the pyramid of superiority.
The teacup hit the table, wrinkles of displeasure disfigured the skin around her eyes. It was a subtle, faint reaction, nevertheless perceived under Clément's watchful gaze: “In exchange,” as if she didn’t prop the intended meaning, she resumed: “I want you to distract him."
Aha...
With this demand, this woman trace-paced the threshold of sanity sooner than he calculated.
“Naya? Where are you living?” a mixed tone, a second attack: “Ashur people and their allies are banned from entering Babel.”
The flash of the well-veiled discontent blared into a fit of apparent anger. She shrieked: “Do not worry yourself about this small detail. Just do your part.”
Albeit, this time, cynical words weren’t enough to suppress her, A Bunch of input could get deduced based on this reply.
Clèment presumption reached a satisfying destination:
The Crocottas are in Babel.
More accurately, Savannah Crocotta is in Babel.
This heated dance of syntax cooled into an erupted discovery. Clément left the stone moon entertainment house bundled with questions. Wondering…
How much truth sailed in Nayara's words?
To what an extent expanded her sincerity? Is she planning to betray Babel Viceroy?
Or was this a ploy from Irshusin to test his loyalty? Again...
If so, then what an unimaginative story about someone who looked like him?
At the gateway of the slums, thoughtful yet soundless strides abridged distance. Stream of suppositions, a spiral of speculations spattered over Clèment's mind.
This ambiguous zone that separated two different worlds, two distinct realities, is the same, no matter where he goes.
Between the narrow alleys, amidst the putrid fog, the piles of the trash in corners. For those who are forsaken or those who get spared, fate never stopped flowing. This time, it wished for Clément, for his questions to be answered, fully, sooner than he thought.
The corpse before his workplace had no trace of blood, no sign of breath, no hint of life.
In his line of work, such a view, not unusual, neither was rare. But what are these dreadful feelings seeping inside, gnawing a hole into his chest?
The early morning, bit by bit, unmasked the slumber of a long night. The corpse was forced into Clèment's place.
A little short after, successive, strong knocks hammered the door. As if wanting to uproot the very foundation of the building. Sharp, odd-colored eyes narrowed, alert.
The corpse was tucked into an invisible spot.
While he observed the door frame, solemn temperament gushed his visage, blending caution, readiness, surprise, nostalgia all in together.
This barbarian way of knocking, he knew it.
***
Standing outside, the black cat yawned, stretched, then snuggled between Savannah's feet.
"You sure won't come with me?"
Hendrickson's paper note was ripped apart, its weightless fragments waltzed with the breeze.
Seconds later, the gate to a modest guest house opened.
Here, in front of this place, was the pointed location in the note. The new accommodation of Mr. Hendrickson.
Savannah already scanned the region, its buildings, its roads, its residents. Less extravagant, less popular, rather sinister, and impoverished. A distant, desolated area, out of the prying eyes and gossipy mouths, at least for the time being.
Another surveying look brushed over the individual who welcomed her. Villainy, filth yelled out of his bearing. This secluded place must be a refuge for outlaws.
Again, she glanced at the black cat, smelling the nervousness out of him while he stood near the gate, reluctant to go in. The statement: I don't want to meet Hendrickson, go meet him by yourself. Written clear in his eyes.
Puzzled, she wondered: What did Lord Shiva do to Hendrickson to be afraid of meeting him and the latter to relocate to this kind of place.
Never mind…
She forcefully secured the struggling, scared cat and made her way inside. Following the guidance of the so looking felon.
The smell of liquor, the view of trash accompanied her till she arrived at Mr. Hendrickson's room. Hopefully, the state of cleanness was better around this part.
The struggling cat became more violent as if fighting for his last breath.
The old wooden door slid open from the inside. Dark, oppressed sensation stemmed through. The familiar fainted Jasmine scent, the uneasiness.
One step in, the black cat finally broke free of her embrace.
