A Cryptic Response
An excerpt from Shadow Game, by J.G. Arceneaux, still at large
Saturday, May 30th, 1868
Somewhere in Wales
0730 hrs, local time
A messenger arrived for me shortly after breakfast. The man wore the uniform of a telegraph operator and the horse wore a thin sheen of sweat and lather. I had been lingering over the breakfast with the others and at the sound of the approaching hoofbeats, I quickly excused myself and stepped out on the platform between cars. Pistol drawn and knife in hand, I peered cautiously around the wall of the car, took in the details, and jumped lightly to the ground. I made the knife disappear but I kept my gun ready as I scanned the treeline all around. There may yet be watchers.
Of course, there's no hiding this development, is there?
I ignored the telegrapher's white-eyed glance at my weapon as I accepted the message from his hand. I tore open the telegram form and read the coded message within, decrypting it as easily as I would read a newspaper.
MULTIPLE ACTIONS IN YORK AND LONDON. STOP. BLACK KNIGHT TAKES BISHOP AT COST OF SEVERAL PAWNS AND A ROOK. STOP. NO FURTHER OPPOSITION INTERFERENCE EXPECTED. STOP. SELENE'S MOON HAS RISEN AND CASTS A BALEFUL LIGHT. STOP. PROCEED AS PLANNED. EXPECT FULL DEBRIEF UPON RETURN.
Interesting.
"Will you be needing to send a reply, Miss?"
"No reply." I paid the man a half crown for his trouble. "Thank you. Take care riding back." I watched as the horse and rider retraced their path at a considerably more sedate speed, and I folded the message one-handed as I stood to cover their leave. The spy had said the Thule Society had wanted me dead in retribution for Rembecki's destruction and though I had learned some time ago what had happened to the castle at Lake Bled after I'd left for home, it hadn't sunk in until last night exactly how my reputation might have been made amongst certain clandestine circles. At the time I'd gone against Rembecki, I had been focused only on getting the job done. In retrospect, I had to acknowledge—for better or worse—what Hanny Saulnier's revenge would mean for my career.
To say nothing of my continued well-being. If you've had enough of making a target of yourself for the snipers in the trees, perhaps you should go inside and dissect the Colonel's message.
I boarded the car by a different door than I'd left it and sought the privacy of my compartment. I'd drawn the shades before leaving for breakfast to keep it from heating up in the strong morning sun, and I was grateful for the concealment it provided. Settling in bed with my back to the headboard, I smoothed the telegram flat across my knees and read it again.
Hmm. Black means the opposition. Knight means spy. Bishop means mage. Someone's moved on a mage of our acquaintance. Who? No codenames of specific agents were used. That meant unknown subjects on the opposition side and non-regulars on the home side. Given the recent turn of events and the publically advertised reason my party was here, I had a hunch that it would be a mage relevant to the Avalon/Atlantian business we pursued. The Colonel would never have divulged the news otherwise. Which means it was Throckmorton. Is he alive or dead? Likely dead. The Thule Society strikes me as the take-no-prisoners sort. God, I hope he'd hidden the manuscript before they killed him.
I made a mental note: Did B. lose bible?
Multiple actions at York and London. The Throckmorton business was likely in London, as I doubted the man could be convinced to go all the way to York. It was too far away from the metropolis and from Oxford. But what had happened at York? At the cost of several pawns and a rook. No further opposition interference expected.
Action at York. Several pawns and a rook. A battle, apparently. Against whom? I suffered a chill when I realized it could only mean the Colonel's manor outside Scarborough. What else did Yorkshire offer the opposition but the moors and sheep and cattle? On the Colonel's property, they had the Colonel himself—a major thorn in the opposition's side. They had Katherine and her unborn twins, and Selene with her unhatched dragon—all of them useful as sacrifices in blood magic or as offensive weapons. Of what sort of sacrifices and blood magic, I had no need to ponder. I'd seen enough in the last year to paint an accurate picture. As for the rest of it, I had no doubt that a dragon under the beck and call of a sufficiently forceful personality could wreak havoc and ghastly ruin on whomever it was commanded. I had deduced the military applications of Selene's dragon right off and knew that once word of such a creature got out, the same ideas would occur to others. A bio-thaumaturgical arms race was no longer a hypothetical argument but inevitable fact. A fact all but borne out in the next sentence.
Selene's moon has risen and casts a baleful light.
Another note: Moon controllable?
I allowed myself a moment to picture it—Selene's dragon rising with an unearthly cry, swooping down on the opposition and burning them to a crisp where they stood. In the background, the Colonel's manor lay deceptively quiescent, the household servants likely armed with pitchforks and mops and kitchen implements. Perhaps the Colonel and Katherine and Ezekiel would be ensconced in the upper floors, armed with rifles to shoot the advancing enemy from a distance. Hanny Saulnier and Selene would throw magic and mayhem into the mix. The opposition would have been organized but so would my employer and friends.
Rook means military man. Hence, organized. Pawns means just what it's always meant—cannon fodder.
Yet another note: ID of rook?
Proceed as planned. Expect full debrief on return.
And there, I knew that the conflict in Yorkshire had gone in the Colonel's favor. He would not have told me to proceed if he needed my assistance and the fact that he expected a full debrief on the conclusion of my current mission boded well for his continued liberty and existence. I examined the message again, looking for any clue that the message had been composed under opposition control. No, it looked as straightforward as I could expect.
Good.
I burned the message, holding it over a silver card tray until the flames singed my fingers. I dropped it and let it burn itself out on the metal. When the fire died, I crushed the sooty remains to a fine ashen powder and tipped it into a waiting envelope. From there it was a simple matter of thrusting the envelope into the cookstove in the kitchen car, staying to verify it had well and truly burned completely away. Having thus secured the information from hostile eyes, I rejoined my friends to discuss the next stage of the plan.
Since any campaign is a collaborative effort, Journal and RP entries by our other players can be read here.
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