“You want me to meet Admiral Rooke’s maid?” Martin asked. “Isn’t she a bit above my social standing?”

  Admiral Rooke was one of the top admirals in the Imperial Navy. Known as the Great Reformer, he had done much in recent years to improve the quality and standards of the navy, and his tightening of Naval policy certainly would have ensured the real Martin’s discharge.

  “She’s just a maid, and the last thing I want you to do is walk up to the Admiral’s front door and announce yourself. Under no circumstances are you to enter that house or make contact with any other members of the Admiral’s staff, nor should you be seen handing over the letter to the maid.”

  Jacques continued to hold the envelope in his hand, not ready to hand it over just yet.

  “Okay. Meet the maid, hand over the letter unseen, and get out of there. How will I find her?”

  “She’ll approach you. In the confusion of the public house, wait for a suitable moment and slip the letter to her, and then when you have a chance to break away smoothly, do so. We’ll have you go to a safe house closer to the public house for a bit to ensure you haven’t been followed. If all goes well, you’ll be sound asleep in your bed before midnight.”

  “Sounds easy enough. Do I want to know what’s in the envelope?”

  “I’m sure you do, but trust me when I say it’s better that you don’t.”

  At last, Jacques handed out the envelope. Martin took it with just a glance and slipped it into his inner jacket pocket.

  “She finishes her shift at seven, which means she’ll leave the house by seven thirty,” Jacques said, taking a weathered pocket watch from inside his robe. Martin could feel the faint hint of something Cosmic from it. Jacques checked the watch carefully before saying, “You should leave in the next five minutes.”

  “Nice watch. A gift from the Faceless God?”

  “No. It’s an artifact of the Weaver God, actually. I won’t say too much more on the subject, but Martin, be careful. Admiral Rooke is a powerful man, and his means of protection are well beyond your abilities to deal with. If discovered, even Aelar or I would be hard-pressed to escape. We’re borrowing the strength of the Weaver God to get you through at the opportune time, but you must not waver. Keep your eyes open, and act when appropriate.”

  “Understood. I’ll see you on the other side.”

  After a quick look at the map, Martin wasted no more time and hurried to the public house. He was given an exact route to follow from the Chapel, and that route would lead him directly past Admiral Rooke’s manor. As Martin rounded the corner, he kept Jacques’ warnings in mind.

  Admiral Rooke lived in a large manor in a wealthy neighborhood. Alderbridge law limited the height of walls permitted around private residences, but Martin guessed the walls around Rooke’s house were over the limits. A large iron gate allowed entrance to the compound, but to get through the gate meant passing through not just one but two Syagrian bodyguards. Admiral Rooke kept two visibly on duty at all times, their close-cut hairstyle and signature short sword exuding the power of their reputation to dissuade anyone from causing trouble for the admiral.

  As Martin drew nearer to the compound, however, he could feel that those physical barriers were not the ones Jacques was truly worried about. Although Martin passed on the far side of the street, he could feel a gradually mounting pressure, not unlike the one he had felt in front of the confessional before. Something inside the manor was keeping watch over the neighborhood. Martin felt deep inside that if he stopped to look too long, it was only a matter of time before whatever it was would see through his every secret.

  He forced a casual glance at the Admiral’s manor as he passed, as if he were any other commoner walking past a display of wealth he could never hope to obtain. After a sufficient look and what he hoped was a passable expression of envy on his face, he let his head turn to the manor across the street, treating it with equal fascination. As he put some distance between himself and the manor, he realized why Jacques had asked him about his training and practice with his identity. He wondered how far back this had been planned and how mixed up in the Weaver God’s web he had truly become.

  Martin did not have long to muse on the issue before arriving at the Queen’s Head. The Queen’s Head was a public house located not far from the wealthy district in which Admiral Rooke’s manor was located, and as such, it catered mostly to the various servants and staff needed to keep such extravagant living running smoothly. Jacques had helped Martin swap his usual jacket for a fancier one commonly worn by carriage drivers in Alderbridge, but he still felt out of place as he entered the bustling establishment.

  Martin did his best to look natural as he entered. He quickly located the bar and began to weave his way among the servants and staff drinking. The public house consisted of several circular tables near the front entrance, and then a set of four long, rectangular tables large enough to seat a few dozen men each. These were stretched out in front of the long bar that ran the length of the hall before finishing at a large open area. The area was kept clear except for a small space in the corner reserved for a well-used pump organ and a few chairs for accompanying musicians.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Martin ordered his customary pint, trying not to let his eyes bulge out at the exorbitant price compared to Moe’s rates. He thought about looking for a noble to cozy up to and find himself a new employer as he turned around to survey the people. Jacques had given him a name, Rosaline, and a brief description, but there were more than a few people still in their maid uniform lingering about the public house. Whereas most people in Martin’s usual haunts came to drink and forget about who they were during the day, most of the people here seemed to delight in their status as servants of the wealthy and powerful. Those not still in their uniform often still bore some marking or badge showing which house they belonged to. Martin’s unadorned jacket caused several to give him a quick once over before turning away.

  He decided to take his time locating Rosaline and went to find a seat in an unoccupied chair at one of the long tables. As luck would have it, a woman reached for the chair at exactly the same moment. Martin looked up at her, seeing a young woman in a maid’s uniform. She was short, the top of her head coming just up to Martin’s shoulders, with short curly brown hair that fell messily around her ears, exactly as Jacques had described Rosaline.

  “Ah, I’m sorry, ma’am,” Martin said, “please go ahead.”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t. Only if you take this chair right here.” The maid giggled lightly as she waved toward an adjacent empty seat.

  “Well, I won’t say no to an offer like that.”

  Wondering again at how ingrained in this plot he had become, Martin eased himself into a chair and clinked glasses with the young maid. She was surprisingly drinking a dark stout, and took a long drink with a practiced ease.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before,” she said. “Are you a new hire?”

  “No, just a carriage driver who happened to be passing through.”

  “Oh?” the woman said, gently taking his hands to run her fingers over his calluses. “Do you come round these parts often?”

  “I’m doing mostly deliveries these days. Ran my mouth off a bit to be honest, and the boss thought it best to minimize my contact directly with customers.”

  “That explains the hands. Perfect for unloading something heavy.”

  Martin took a drink to give himself a chance to think. He hadn’t expected an inquisition into his hastily constructed alibi.

  “I may have done more than just run my mouth off. A few hands might have been thrown here and there.”

  The maid leaned in closer.

  “Owning up to that over a first drink? You are possibly the worst carriage driver I’ve ever seen.”

  “Well, I can’t say I’ve had any complaints about my driving.”

  Rosaline laughed at that.

  “Somehow I believe you.”

  At that moment, a man approached a pump organ placed in the open area of the public house. He sat down and began to pump the pedals with his legs. A few of the regulars noticed and conversation slowly died down as the man played his first few notes, adjusting the stops to get the sound he wanted. He paused for a moment to gratefully accept a drink from a patron, which he sipped gingerly before placing it well away from the organ. He cracked his fingers once and then launched into his first song of the evening.

  “Dance with me,” Rosaline cried, downing the rest of her drink and grabbing Martin by the hand. His first instinct was to refuse, but remembering Jacques’ orders to follow along and wait for the proper moment, he let himself be led to the dance floor.

  They were not the only ones drawn to the dance floor as around them flocked an array of couples draped in the colorful liveries of different houses and factions. Martin rarely went to establishments with formal dancing, but gave thanks that as he joined Rosaline on the floor, some muscle memory from his past life seemed to have lingered beyond death.

  “You’re not bad on your feet,” Rosaline said, spinning around gracefully with the rhythm. Martin brought her in and when they were at their closest, she whispered, “Where’s the letter?”

  Martin’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, but he avoided breaking rhythm. Making eye contact with Rosaline, he let his eyes move down to his jacket pocket before looking up to observe the room. Although the crowded dance floor was surrounded by people watching, no one seemed to be paying any particular attention to Martin or his partner. Most seemed to be lost in the sound of the organ or to be looking around for their own partner so they might join in.

  The music continued for a moment, and when it was time for the next spin, Rosaline came in close again. If it weren’t for Martin’s alertness, he would have never felt the slight pressure of a small hand entering between his shirt and jacket and smoothly removing the letter stashed within. By the time they broke apart, it was already gone. The song finished soon after and Rosaline beamed at him joyously.

  The two made their way back toward their table, but Rosaline broke away to get another round. Martin returned to the table to find others had taken up their seats, and whichever beer had been Martin’s was long mixed up with the newcomers. Struck by a moment’s inspiration, he made his way to the toilet. He could hear the organ player strike up the first notes of his next song from the small outhouse behind the building.

  When he returned, he scanned the bar but could not find Rosaline. After a moment of searching, he spotted her back out on the floor, this time partnered with a man in a butler’s uniform bearing the marking of a local lord. Martin made a show of shrugging his shoulders in defeat and slowly made his way out of the bar. He absentmindedly kicked a stone out of the street as he made his way through the night, meandering his way towards the safe house Jacques had directed him to.

  As he fished the key out from behind the bush, he couldn’t help but feel like a worm at the end of a long string. He resisted the urge to turn around and check if he had been followed, and instead turned the key in the lock and entered the house as if he were just a normal, ageing carriage driver who had struck out yet again. The door closed behind him, and he settled into an aged rocking chair, waiting for someone to relieve him or for the mystery he had gotten himself involved in to be resolved.