A grandfather clock, ancient as a fossil, rang out somewhere in the mansion. Its deep echoing tolls bounced around the corridor, alerting the entire household of the time. Blight glanced up from the music sheet he was composing but paid no attention to the time. There was still plenty of time until the meeting… Finishing up on the last note in his composition, he blew out the candle that was glowing warmly next to the sheet, shrouding the room in black, put on his travelling clothes and left his home, heading to the town.
A stocky pistol was hidden in his cloak; Blight knew it would rarely be used but kept it anyway as a precaution. Lights could be seen, shimmering dimly in the dark, calm night. Even though it was a few minutes past midnight, many of the townsfolk were staying up, partying and drinking, as was their custom every weekend night. Blight strolled on leisurely, peering at the happy faces through the windows with a curious expression, which he often had while studying people's behaviour.
The revelers in the house appeared to be bright and cheerful, excessively noisely, and half drunk. He looked at them impassively for a while, then turned away, continuing on his way with a face devoid of emotion and expression. How foolish they were, drinking and enjoying themselves as they pleased… They were all sorely deceived that tomorrow would be just another regular day… Easily placated by the Custodians, who wore the mask of civility daily but were cruel monsters hidden behind it… Everyone saw the mask; none questioned it. All masks had to be removed; it was only a matter of time…
Beyond the cluster of buildings lay his destination and the town's most prized establishment: the inn. When he entered, it was just as he had anticipated. Most of the people present had no idea what restraint and quiet meant; it was a chaotic mess of noise inside. After receiving a warm greeting and a mug of beer from the barman, Blight settled down on a chair, silently waiting for someone to come. His associate: a Revaltian politician. This was the third conversation he had with him; during their talks, Blight had been silently profiling him, finding every strength to turn into a weakness to exploit: loyalty, moral uprightness, and a strong sense of justice.
"He's three minutes late," he thought, checking the time.
A hooded figure came gliding through the entrance; Blight, seeing the man, motioned for him to take a seat with him.
"So, Knightley, what brings you here?"
"I–I'm here—"
"Take this. I haven't touched it yet. Take your time."
Blight handed him his mug, and waited for Knightley to finish drinking. With occasional glances at the inn's door, Knightley drank slowly and seemed to be a little more at ease. Blight smiled back at him encouragingly after noticing the change in his composure.
"Now that you're feeling a bit better, Mr Knightley, what are you here for?"
"I want help. No… I need help. Ever since, you've shown me the truth, I've been thinking and I need guidance."
"Very well. Tell me everything."
Knightley took a deep breath and closed his eyes, contemplating on what information to give and what to withhold.
"It's fine if you're unsure, Mr Knightley. Just tell me when you're ready."
Knightley gradually opened his eyes again, but this time, instead of uncertainty, his face shone with determination.
"I've come to the conclusion that the problem between our countries lies within the Custodians."
Blight looked at him with raised eyebrows and asked, "What makes you think our government is the cause of dissension between our nations?"
"According to the data you've pointed out, Revalty's economy has crippled ever since Avarice Crowne and the Custodians took over Ecclesia. Although our president signed treaties with Crowne, the Custodians have continued to take advantage of our businesses and use them for their own selfish benefits."
Knightley's carefully controlled voice started to crack; anger seeped out and crawled into his calm words. Blight continued to watch the man in front of him struggle with his thoughts.
"You are right, of course," he murmured, "but can you do anything to stop them? That remains the most important question we have to answer."
Knightley stopped. His eyes, which were lit by a flame of anger, flickered and darted down, facing the table.
"I'm not— I don't know," he faltered.
"You're a politician, aren't you, Mr Knightley?" You'll be meeting with the Custodians on Monday, am I right?"
"That's right, on the train."
Those men… They're the ones you've been talking about, aren't they? The people responsible for your country's downfall?"
Silence fell among them; the noises around seemed insignificant and buzzed dully in the background, as Knightley continued to sit noiselessly, his mind uncomfortably ringing with the multitude of information subtly fed to him during his conversations with Blight. The tense stillness in between them was gently broken by Blight's light voice.
"Will you try to reason with them during your meeting? Have the Custodians ever dealt honestly? You said it yourself, haven't you? They've never treated your people fair before…"
"Y–You're right… What can I do then?"
Picking up another mug, Blight drank serenely from it, his eyes piercing into the politician struggling in front of him.
"I cannot tell you what to do," said Blight, shaking his head slowly. "But let me ask you this: do you think such men should be permitted to roam about freely? After your thoughtful negotiation fails, what will happen next? When the Custodians take over Revalty, what will become of the country? Starvation, poverty, and death will arise; freedom will be stripped away. Your government will fall, leaving everyone living in the country under Crowne's control. Families will be torn apart, property forcibly stolen from their owners, and life turned into daily suffering. Can you carry the weight of all these lives?"
"So you're suggesting… That I should kill the Custodians in the train?" asked Knightley hesitantly, cautiously choosing his words.
"I do not suggest. I am merely warning you what could happen in the near future. If you deal with the situation wisely, your country will be restored. Fail, and the consequences will be disastrous."
There was a tone in his voice that made Knightley understand that this was his final word. With his mind resolute, he got up, thanked Blight for the drink, and hurried out of the inn, covering himself with the hood once again. Blight, now one of the last few stragglers left in the bar, finished his drink and paid the barman. Very soon, he was back on the road, this time, walking back to his home. He chuckled to himself.
He was evidently not telling me everything. The way he kept glancing at the door, the mud on his cloak from a deserted alley; those were the signs that he was avoiding attention. He's afraid of the government. If he doesn't do it, I'll still have another plan, just in case…
The board was set. The pieces were in place. Now all that was left to do was wait for the attack to begin.
—
Night passed by without a trace of the events of the previous day being noticed. After Blight, who was always the earliest riser in the household, saw that the sun had risen enough to cast a meagre light upon the town, he went to his downstairs study and picked up his work from the day before. An unfinished sheet of music lay before him. He grabbed his pen and by the light of an oil lamp next to the sheet, continued to fill in the empty staves.
With the Enforcers hunting them down, they will be forced to leave Sodor and into the open with less resources at hand in exchange for more freedom of movement… The problem is where they are now… Even the Enforcers have caught onto their little ruse… Those two were last seen three days ago in the inn; no less than ten eyewitnesses saw them, so it is near certain that they had been in the inn. If that is true, they must have stayed for the night and left at the break of dawn. Sigerson knew they didn't have much time to leave… That leaves the transportation method…
If he knew they had a short amount of time to get away, he would pick the fastest way of travelling; this eliminates walking and cabs, since the latter is unavailable so early in the morning… There are only two options left: trains and local support. Now, local support wouldn't be able to get them far from Eden due to the rocky terrain, not to mention the high chance of being seen if they travelled by cart or anything else; therefore, it's most likely they took a train.
After all, when before the police realised the absence of those two, there had been no guards at the station until today, providing them with an excellent opportunity to escape. The time they could have departed was between midnight and six in the morning… There weren't too many trains on that day; the only one that could take them far enough from Sodor was the morning sleeper train… That's the one… They'll be travelling on that train to Alms… I'll wait until they reach there then…
Blight wrote and planned at the same time, muttering to himself every few minutes, sometimes about which notes to add, sometimes which key resource to target next. With each plan he formulated in his mind, several more branched out from them, predicting and countering every move that could be used against him. Soon, with his mind filled with many trees of plans, each one layered with several backup ones, he decided to rest for a while, relaxing his brain into a state of tranquil unconsciousness. Greaves, on the other side of the door, whispered, "Mr Hartland is here to see you, sir."
"Ask him to come in, Greaves."
Not a moment passed, as the butler tottered away and returned with Patrick Hartland, a bespectacled, pudgy man of fifty.
"I hope you are doing well after all the work you have been doing?"
"Yes, sir, very much so," Hartland replied, taking off his top hat and seating himself into a plush armchair next to the fireplace.
"I meant to ask you, Blight, what in the world did you write in that letter? The city and the towns are all filled with constables roaming around."
"The letter? Why, all I did was show Crowne that his scandals have been discovered. This alone was able to trigger the reaction you've witnessed."
"But how and what did you find?"
"Do you remember back when the previous monarchy fell and an investigation was carried out to catch the culprit of the murders?"
"Yes, that was around… Forty years ago? I remember the investigation lasted for nearly a decade with no results."
"Quite right. That was enough to make me suspect Crowne. How could the entire Constabulary, led by Crowne at that time, fail to catch the culprit with so much information in their hands? No— the more I thought about it, the more suspicious I got. Even though I was about twenty years too late, I managed to find and expose a minor incident. I used it to test my hypothesis, and judging from their reaction, I was correct in thinking that they had covered up their regicide. I have kept that knowledge up until a few days ago when I sent the letter to Mr Grock of the Enforcers."
"Won't they come after you if you wrote that letter to them?
"I sent the letter to one of the rebels's hideouts in Mr Sigerson's handwriting; they won't be able to distinguish the difference between the real detective's hand and mine."
Blight rose, stretching out his arm to grab the poker.
"Besides," he said, giving the wooden logs in the fireplace a hard thrust, making the flames roar and flicker. "Very soon, there'll be no reason to fear the government or the Enforcers anymore."