Our fledgling information network had started working. A beggar near the museum. A janitor who liked to gamble at the tavern where museum staff drank. A rare book dealer who had regular visits from the curator. These scattered bits of information flowed in, forming an unflattering picture of Professor Agas Favir. He was a brilliant academic, respected in his field, but according to the data, he was a fanatical collector of extremely rare and expensive pre-Cracked Moon porcelain figurines. And he had just gone deep into debt with a notorious local loan shark to acquire his latest piece.
...
The next day at Milverton's headquarters.
"Now we have the hook," I said to Milverton. The whiteboard behind us was filled with diagrams linking Agas Favir, the Royal Museum, Madame Grivana, and his debt. "It's time to fish."
That night, I shed my identity as Welt Rothes the businessman and James the strategist. I became Motley the Jester. I wore my full costume, a tight black and white suit with tiny bells on the collar, though I did not bother with makeup. I put on a cheap clown mask that covered my entire face and that was more than enough. I waited in a dark alley near the upscale apartment complex where Professor Agas lived. The scent of jasmine from a nearby garden mixed with the stench of trash from the alley.
When he passed by, walking home from the museum, I stepped out of the shadows.
He was startled, but as a man used to strange artifacts, he was not afraid. He just looked annoyed. "What do you want, clown?" he snapped, his voice sharp and arrogant.
"I only have a message for the esteemed Professor," I said in a light, cheerful voice I had practiced, one that carried no weight or threat. "From someone who greatly admires your porcelain collection. Especially the 'Crying Shepherd Girl' from the Fourth Dynasty. Such a beautiful piece. It's a pity its price forced you to deal with Mister George the loan shark."
Agas went pale under the gas lamp. He understood instantly. "Who are you? Bastard!"
"Think of me as an accidental broker," I replied, ignoring his insult. "Here's the thing. Mister George is not a patient man. He will collect his debt tomorrow night. With interest. From what I hear, his collection methods often involve carpentry tools not used for building. That would make it difficult for you to handle the museum's fragile artifacts, wouldn't it? With broken fingers."
"I... I will get the money," he stammered, his arrogance gone, replaced by clear fear in his voice.
"I know you won't," I said, my smile not reaching my eyes. I could feel the lie in him, his desperation. The Motley Fool's perception made other people's emotions feel like a sharp scent in the air. "But I have a solution. A discreet benefactor deeply interested in natural history is willing to settle your entire debt with George. No interest, no questions asked. He only wants one small token of gratitude."
"A token... what is it?" he asked, eyes full of suspicion.
"He needs a replica," I said. "A very good replica of one of the artifacts in your department. You know, the griffon. A feather from its left wing. My benefactor is a hopeless romantic. He wants to give a unique gift to his sick lover. He doesn't need the real one of course because that would be a crime. He just needs something that looks real. Something you, as head curator with access to materials and archives, can craft convincingly using a goose feather from Whitebarrow Hill and a bit of alchemical dye. You can even produce a fake certificate of authenticity with the museum's seal. Who would ever know? The species has been extinct for a hundred years."
Agas stared at me, his mind surely in panic now, completely tangled. I could see the conflict in his eyes. On one side, his professional ethics and reputation as a scholar. On the other, the primal instinct for survival. I never gave him a choice between right and wrong. Not at all.
"Why?" he finally asked, his voice hoarse. "Why do all this for a fake feather?"
"Because my benefactor believes that hope, even if false, is sometimes the most powerful remedy," I said, using words dripping with sentimentality. "You have until tomorrow noon to decide. If you agree, leave your office curtain open at the museum. If you don't, leave it closed and good luck with Mister George."
I bowed theatrically, then slipped back into the alley shadows before he could say anything else.
I didn't head back immediately. I went to a nearby tavern, ordered a cheap mug of ale, and sat in a dark corner, watching Agas's apartment from afar. I waited for an hour. No unusual movement. No calls to the City Guard and no attempts to run away.
He had bitten the bait. Now I only had to wait for him to swallow it.
The next afternoon, I stood across the street from the Royal Museum, hidden among the crowd. I looked up at the third floor, at Professor Agas Favir's office window.
The curtain was wide open.
I smiled faintly behind my mask. The fish was hooked.
I sent a short message to Milverton: "Phase two. Prepare the delivery for Madame Grivana."
The next step was to ensure the product was good. I couldn't just trust Agas. I still needed to keep an eye on him and that night, as 'W', I slipped into the Royal Museum. Its security was tight, but their focus was on the main exhibition halls. The conservation lab in the basement, where Agas was likely to craft the replica, wasn't guarded so heavily.
I found him there, working alone under the bright Essence lamps. He looked like a different man. His fear had been replaced by the focus of an obsessive craftsman. He held a large goose feather, carefully applying thin layers of alchemical solution with a tiny brush, transforming its dull white into a shimmering bronze-gold, exactly as described in old texts about griffons. He was clearly a master of his craft.
I watched him for an hour through the air vent, making sure he wasn't trying anything funny. I could tell he worked with the precision of an artist, mixing pigments, heating them with a small alchemical flame, shaping the tip of the feather to mimic the original. He even made a small display box from old wood and velvet, complete with a brass plaque reading "Feather from the Left Wing of the Last Golden Griffon." An outstanding masterpiece.
The next day, Milverton, using one of his agents disguised as a courier, collected the package from Agas at a neutral drop point. Agas's debt to Mister George was paid off anonymously at the same time. The transaction was done.
Now I had a fake griffon feather crafted by the leading expert in the field, complete with a forged certificate from the Royal Museum. It was almost perfect.
The next step was the handoff. I wouldn't give it directly to Madame Grivana because that would be too risky and rushed. I needed to craft a narrative, a performance that would raise the gift's value and, more importantly, blur its origin.
I gave Milverton his instructions. He would hire an old, destitute actor from the Entertainment District. The actor would be dressed in worn-out noble clothes and given a tragic cliché backstory, a fallen prince from a tiny kingdom who came to Clockthon to sell his family's last treasure to save his dying lover.
The actor, with a convincing performance, would approach Madame Grivana at one of her high-class social gatherings. He would "accidentally" overhear Grivana's need for a griffon feather and, with crocodile tears, offer his own for a steep price, claiming it was his family's last heirloom.
Grivana, clever as she was and well-used to noble drama, would likely be suspicious. But she would also be desperate. She would ask to examine the item. That was when Professor Agas's certificate would do its work. In the face of proof from the Royal Museum's head curator, her doubt would crack. Urged on by her important client's demand, she would likely take the risk and buy it.
This was a real performance. Every story line carefully woven, each character scripted with no unnecessary exposition, creating something beautiful and promising. It would be perfect soon. I was truly looking forward to it. This was one small piece of the Grand Plan of Hundreds.
"This... this is very complicated, James," Milverton said when I explained the plan to him. "Why not just give her the feather and say it's from an anonymous collector?"
"Because that's boring," I replied. "And it leaves too many questions. This way, the feather's origin has a clear narrative, even if it's fake. Grivana gets what she wants, the actor gets a life-changing payout, Professor Agas survives the loan shark, and we get what we need, her gratitude and debt, without her ever realizing who truly holds it."
The plan was executed flawlessly. A week later, Milverton reported that the actor had successfully "sold" the feather to Madame Grivana for six hundred gold gryn, one hundred more than she had offered Milverton. Desperate as she was, she didn't negotiate.
I now had an indirect connection to one of the most influential women in Clockthon's underworld. She probably believed she had dealt with a pitiful prince.
I sat in my office, reading Milverton's report. I felt satisfied that my plan had worked so smoothly, but I also felt a tinge of regret at manipulating a desperate old man and hiring an actor just to gain a connection to a brothel.
My thoughts drifted back to memories of my father. He too was a manipulator who used words and power to get what he wanted. Was I becoming like him?
I brushed the thought aside. There was a difference. He did it for greed and status. I did it for a greater purpose. Or at least, that's what I kept telling myself.
I took the Chronos Salvation from my drawer. The pocket watch felt cold in my hand. I still could not fully understand it. Every time I tried, I felt like I was staring into an endless abyss.
Maybe to understand this artifact, I shouldn't force it but reach for something higher. But was that even possible? To ascend to a higher Order, I needed to feed my Dao with more Aberrations. Maybe the Aberration where the Mechanical Heart once was could help, but I could not be reckless about that.
I had a new idea. An idea crazier than anything before.
I sent a message to Milverton. "Find out everything you can about the Church of Grugnir and the Channel called 'The Deep Current.' I want to know their rituals, their holy texts, and most importantly, the locations of their most heavily guarded artifacts."
Milverton replied with one word: "Why?"
I smiled. "Because I'm thinking of making a pilgrimage."