Private The Trenches Hiraeth

[Callisto Bluemoon]

“Hmmmm, no, I don’t think this will fit after all.”
“The building or the area?”
“Building. Trenches seem as good a place as any, but we’re far too residential. Need easier access. We’ll only get complaints, you know how it is.”

Dutifully the little stoat Fearne scribbled down further notes as she trotted after Callisto, trying to keep pace with the new Minister of Commerce as he strode away from the sprawling building they had been inspecting. Since his return to Bully Harbour the wolverine had wasted little time with his schemes, mysterious as his intent still seemed to his aide. At the very least she knew this was the beast’s way of getting to better know the city now he was to live here, but it was no private residence he was searching for. He was planning something.

Still, she supposed he would tell all eventually: for now she resigned to push up her glasses and follow on with the day. Callisto checked his own pace to better accommodate the other mustelid, eyes roving over the imposing multi-level structures of the Trenches. Three times he’d stared at maps (twice getting lost prior to his meeting with Fearne, a detail he had elected to omit) attempting to pinpoint the most likely areas for larger structures to suit his plans. They had strayed severely off course with their latest option: cutting through towards the Portside would have to be their next move.

They weren’t to get very far. No sooner had the pair turned down another street, both paused momentarily at the sight which lay before them. “Is that a carriage?” Fearne blurted, “you don’t see those often. Must be around the rich.”
“Hm.” His nose twitched, scanning the transport and those tasked to pull it. On delay he realised Fearne was waiting for further instruction. “No, we don’t want a road like this.” Scribble scribble. “Fancy that, though, a big lump like that. These are the sorts Commerce makes plenty from: idiots too rich and too idle to do something like walk. Soft paws mean a loose grip on gilders. All you have to do is convince them they’re too good for what everybeast else is doing. They’re all the same, beasts like-…”

Words tailed off. It was a miracle they did not dissolve into a snarl. He had seen at least one of the beasts stepping onto the street, couldn’t fail to recognise the fur pattern. This has to be a joke. Can’t I have one damned success without him breathing down my neck?! He hesitated for a moment; remembered his aide and elected to seize the initiative whilst still possessed of it. “I think I’d better have a word with these ones, actually.”
“Sir?”
“Just a private business opportunity. We’ve been at this for some time, so why don’t you take a break?” He patted her carefully on the shoulder, smiling indulgently. “I’ll meet you at the docks.”

Fearne had several questions but suspected that she would receive no answers. Bobbing her head, inwardly grateful to put her paws up and have a breather from Callisto’s breakneck pace, the jill skittered off before he could change his mind.

Not that he would. Callisto turned his attention back on the carriage and increased his stride to catch up. “Aha!” He clapped his paws together, muzzle split in a grin which did not reach the spite still shining in amber eyes. “I thought I recognised that tail. It’s been too long, Nicolas!”

@Nicolas of Iron Pit @Irene Stickypaws

 

[Nicolas of Iron Pit]

Travelling to Bouillabaisse Harbour from Iron Pit over the last week was a kind respite for Nicolas from the usual chaos of his household. While he missed his kittens, leaving them at times with their tutors and nannies, giving them free paw to experiment and enjoy some freedom was ultimately a good thing for their psyche, but also for the Nicolas himself. He did after all spent a lot of time raising all four, working his best to provide them most optimal futures, be it by nurturing their growth in preferred fields, or working on polishing their less fortunate traits. Especially as his wife didn't put quarter of the effort into raising them, even if it was her idea to have them in the first place.

While a crew of eight strong beasts managed the carriage and luggage, (all of them being from militant wing of Ministry of Innovation to provide two of the most enlightened members of the Committee security) Nicolas sat in front of Irene, crunching the numbers on his most recent attempt to standardise the way elements were defined. He had an idea for a table of sorts, but he was yet to find an appropriate way to put the fifty-one known elements into it in a sensible way that would operate on scientific basis rather than preference.

For a greater part of the travel, he didn't share a word with Irene, they simply didn't have to. In public they played into their roles of model married pair perfectly. In private? Other than discussing things concerning ministry, science or future plans, the two had great respect for one another yet no love at all. Nicolas long ago had learnt that idle chatter with Irene was pointless, not that he liked it either.

There was however a reason to come to the Harbour together. They were visiting Irene's townhouse that could be found here, deciding if it would be appropriate place to move to. Something that might've been necessary now that after years of plotting, the word was that the Empress would finally give the title of the Minister to Nicolas, returning the control over the ministry from Duke Talinn Ryalor. Something that entire Committee was very satisfied with after series of unpopular, political decisions the Duke made.

But as he felt that the carriage had stopped, after a moment he closed the massive encyclopaedia of chemistry and elements he was writing in. It was just a copy and he wrote the whole thing himself after all so using it as a notebook was anything but efficient. That was when he stretched his tail and muscles and spoke to Irene for the first time since the morning breakfast they have shared at the hotel before reaching the city. "Irene, I believe we are at the address you gave. It is now your time to lead the way." He then put on the jacket of his suit and looked towards the small doors of the carriage.

Leaving through them wasn't easy for a massive wildcat, especially with a tail that was almost his size. Nevertheless, when he placed his hind paws on the cobbles and offered his paw to Irene to keep with his role, he looked around and noticed an issue. Based on the map he studied earlier, the townhouse should be close to the Ministry of Innovation. Instead, right now they were close to the sea. Yet before he could comment on it. A voice came that instantly caused Nicolas to turn his head around to the point of almost snapping his own neck.

"Callisto." The wildcat spoke, helping Irene out of the carriage and then finally turning his front to the wolverine. "I did not expect to see you." ever again. He added in his mind, keeping furrowed and stern expression, hiding his dismay. Deciding to be polite but ruthless he put his tail over Irene (something he never did) and moved his paw between the two. "Irene, this is Callisto, my former associate. Callisto, this is Irene, my wife."

 

[Irene Stickypaws]

Married life, to Irene, was one of those necessary inconveniences that life and high society foisted upon her. Much like eating, breathing, and sleeping, the constraints of cohabiting with Nicolas were an annoyance that enabled her survival, ones that she had not yet determined how to mitigate. Unlike these biological constraints, Nicolas, at least, could by and large be ignored and for the most part seemed to be content with it. She knew very well that for him, she was a necessary inconvenience as well. She'd considered a few times whether slipping a few of his rarer chemicals into his tea might make for a more tolerable situation, but she dismissed it as an unnecessary risk disproportionate to any potential reward. Besides, he at least was good at managing their offspring whenever Irene was too preoccupied to consider their existence, which, these days, was most of the time.

As they arrived, Irene closed her notebook and set it aside. Her life of espionage had instilled in her the habit of enciphering all of her work, a trick that proved just as useful in the scientific community as in the political sphere that existed alongside it. She couldn't help a small sigh of mild annoyance as her husband and his tail blocked the door. The thing was vanity, really; the minutes and hours he spent having it primped and groomed seemed like such a waste to her. Intellectually, she could accept that such displays were necessary to sway the minds of lesser beasts so they could maintain their influence and funding, but still, it was an inefficiency that could easily be removed, if only such feeble minds were similarly displaced. She clenched her paw around her pencil, allowing herself three seconds in which to fantasize about what such a world, liberated from the debilitating influence of stupidity, would look like. Then the time elapsed and she rose from her seat to follow her husband.

The debilitating influence of stupidity made itself known as Irene exited the carriage and looked around. Her nostrils flared, annoyance rising. This was 764 Brownstone Way, not 754 Brownstone Way. She looked down the road a stretch farther, counting the doors to where her townhouse stood, unassuming in its row of homes. She'd just opened her mouth to castigate the porters when another voice spoke.

The fur on Irene's neck rose, and she turned to glare at the interloper in their affairs. Callisto. She'd heard enough mutterings from her husband in the depths of the night to suspect what the beasts had meant to each other once. That, in full honesty, she held absolutely no ill will regarding at all. In truth, if companionship was necessary, achieving such without the possibility of unwanted offspring seemed an ideal arrangement to her mind. She'd even debated whether it would be more efficient, in her idealized society, to strictly forbid romantic interaction between the sexes except where regulated by the government for sanctioned acts of procreation. No, what irked her was the emotion she could hear in her husband's voice, the trepidation and stiffness of his voice. His tail draping over her shoulders was another annoyance that only served to confirm how ill-at-ease he was; he never did that except when he was panicking. A panicking beast was not a rational beast, and Irene loathed her husband when he became irrational.

She managed to school her expression into a shallow mask of polite affability, mimicking the porcelain masks her tutors had used, in conjunction with a mirror, to teach her to mimic certain displays of emotion. She offered her paw, wrist hanging limp like a marionette's tugged up by a string. "Charmed to make your acquaintance, Minister Bluemoon," she addressed her husband's new contemporary, her tone modulated with the rises and falls that provided a shallow facsimile of congeniality. "We did not expect to see you in the neighborhood, certainly not at such a distance from your offices." She'd rather hoped they could avoid having to mingle with the other ministries at all. Save for in Misanthropy, there was no one she remotely considered worth talking to, and even her old mentor and handler was beneath her notice and prowess now. What exactly Nicolas had ever seen in Callisto to instill this level of infatuation, she could not begin to say.