Sareneth 22, afternoon

The scratch of quills and the intermingled scents of rose water and coffee clashed with distant, theatrical moaning. A crystal chandelier hung above, the everburning torch at its core illuminating the office. Pretty young men and women in black and yellow hunched at their desks, writing up interesting tidbits they’d learned from unguarded tongues, while their less lovely counterparts studiously transcribed and consolidated reports to send back to Central. The heart of the House of Amber Silk might have surprised it’s customers, but to Crimson Cogward, it felt like home.

“Should a more advanced agent be required,” he muttered as he finished off his report, “Harrigan’s aggressive recruitment policy should enable easy infiltration.”

Some would be surprised to find a devout Pharasmite in the Callistrian information network. That was the point in sending him; Cog’s faith in the goddess of death was completely genuine, but he did grow up spending most days at his mother’s place of work: The House of Stolen Kisses, the high temple of Callistria. He could slip onto Harrigan’s ship and keep an eye on him without much trouble by deliberately falling into a trap.

He put down his pen and covered his borrowed inkwell, shaking out his hand. A few desks down, a muscular young woman his age peered at him over her own work. She smiled, her green lips pulling back to reveal a mouth of pearly whites embellished by small fangs.

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“Are you done?” She called hopefully. “Finally! Can we go to the kitchens? I want to catch up.”

“Sorry Threva, I can’t yet.” Cog said, “I promised I’d look into something. Are the people of interest on the same shelf as in Quent?”

“Oh come on! You got a field position and you’re still boring!” She complained, “Yeah, they are still on the left. Who are you looking for?”

The orc girl abandoned her transcript, quickly tidying the desk as she led her old friend to the proper bookshelf.

“A guy I know is hoping for someone that can bring someone back from the dead.” Cog explained. “A Besmaran priestess he’s sweet on died in an accident. It’s a long shot but I said I’d ask around.”

“You didn’t blow your cover, right?” She asked, worry creeping into her voice. “If you fuck this up you’re going to end up in security too. Trust me; you don’t want that. It's boring shit even when something happens.”

“I don’t think so,” Cog said as he started carefully checking the files tagged as clerics, “The only guy that seems suspicious is the one I’m helping out. He doesn’t seem too loyal to Harrigan, what with the kidnapping, so I’m hoping a bit of back scratching will help him keep his mouth shut.”

The temple Archivist was currently working with a client, so they were on their own. Luckily, both Cog and Threva were bastards raised in a very similar temple, and knew how to systematically search the records for anything promising. When the clerics proved to be a bust, they started sorting by individual danger level. It wasn’t a precise measurement, but powerful people tended to pick up all sorts of unusual tricks. Any of them could potentially bring Sandara back, or take her body to someone that could.

Over an hour of searching yielded several promising disappointments. Dancing Darla was devout, but couldn’t keep powerful clerics on retainer because of a conflict with the clergy at Besmara’s Throne. Svartur the Black Titan could teleport and had a known altruistic streak, but it didn’t matter because he had moved to Port Peril to open a bar decades ago. They had just started on the arcanists shelf when they were interrupted by a call from across the room.

“Crimson!” A sweet voice trilled from the front of the room, “Where did you get to?”

The owner of the voice walked towards the duo with a measured, graceful step. As she approached, she let the spell she maintained while on display faded. Her tight green skin wrinkled slightly, her slender arms bulked up, and her enchanted black and gold dress expanded to accommodate her no longer waspish waist. By the time she reached Cog, she had traded “alluring young tart” for “dignified middle aged matron.”

“Hey mum,” Threva said as she rifled through the stack of abjurers, “what’s up?”

“A drow man came to see Crimson.” The older orc replied in a lower, duller tone, setting her sights on the man in question. “He wanted you to know that he has found the man that he was looking for. He was also somewhat put out about your chosen hunting grounds.”

“He what?” Cog spluttered, “Are you sure, Osgri? He was looking for someone capable of resurrection in Goatshead. There’s no way he found someone like that in just a few hours.”

“I believe he inquired with the Sea Shanty Clan, and they most likely directed him to Break Neck Jerry.” The older woman explained, “I noted your friend asking around quite furtively earlier today. Not much to do except people watching, and he does stick out.”

“Who’s Break Neck Jerry?” Cog asked curiously.

“A necromancer who operates inland.” Osgri answered, sighing when Cog’s face soured. “I sincerely doubt he raised anyone as an undead, Crimson. I’m sure Pharasma cares far less than you do about what Jerry does with his magic. He has a tidy little business providing resurrections and new faces to rich clients. We find it most prudent to track who is coming and going from his home, so we know approximately who is who.”

“So,” Threva said, “does that mean you’re off the hook?”

“No,” Cog sighed. “A prettyboy just showed me up completely at information gathering. He’s got ambitions to captain his own ship, actively networks for allies, and seems to have a weakness for pretty girls. I’m certain mother would kill me if I didn’t recommend him for recruitment.”

“Oh, Meno’s sting!” Threva cursed, “I’m getting us some bread and cheese or something. There’s no way they’re feeding you well on that boat. If you want to put off free lunch so you can write a damned dossier, be my guest.”

Cog flushed with embarrassment; he’d always flushed easily for just about any emotion, earning his given name time after time.

“Fine.” He relented, “We can eat, but it’s not going to be a long meal.”

“Why not, Crimson?” Osgri chided, “were you planning on returning to your ship before dark? We have spare beds, and building yourself a reputation as a lover of cheap company will serve you well in the future. Better than needing to find esoteric excuses to slip off to one of our establishments. We’ll send you off before dawn; I imagine your ship will leave with the tides.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll stay the night and finish the dossier after dinner.” He agreed, “I was hoping to avoid that reputation, but you’re right. It can’t be helped.”

“Let’s all go then,” Osgri proposed with a clap of her hands, “I’ve got twenty minutes before I need to get back to the patio. If it makes you feel productive, you can tell me about the drow boy.”