Chapter 13: Blitz ----------------- His eyes peered down one corridor, then slowly slid to gaze down another. Both seemed endless... "Oh bugger," Seb muttered, eyebrows knitted together. He was going to be late for his very first meeting with the head of the Espionage Department of the Empire; not exactly a way to win friends and influence people. Worse yet, they'd even delayed it until the afternoon. He grumbled to himself. He had even saved the chocolate cake from the night before. His stomach churned suddenly, reminding him of where the vanilla cake had disappeared to. Seb turned his head around, searching for someone who might be able to give him directions to the Espionage office. His eyes passed over person after person: too dull, to busy, glazed eyes, I'm not asking HER; his mind worked over possibility after possibility until finally, someone caught his eye. A woman with sharply cut red hair, striding down the hall. Seb waved to her. "Hey! Ummm, I mean, excuse me. Uh, hi," he said, finally remembering his manners. The woman noted his little display, and walked over, smiling warmly. "Hi. Is there something I can help you with?" she said, her voice like velvet, spread across the air. Seb swallowed hard. He was rather amazed at how relaxed, composed she looked. "Uh, yes there is, in fact. I'm kinda new here, so I was wondering: do you know where the Espionage offices are? I've been looking all over, but this castle's like a maze, and I can't smell the cheese." The woman chuckled slightly, then returned to her smiling. Seb tried to join her, but found the corners of his mouth conspicuously heavy. "Sure. It's just down this hall. Come on." The woman escorted Seb down a long, rather shadowy hallway, not bothering to point out the scenery, nor make much small talk. They simply walked in silence, the young man following her every move. "So, you've been admitted into the Black Hand, have you?" said the woman. "The what?" She glanced back. "The Black Hand. The Imperial espionage department. I must say that I'm a little surprised that someone so... green, no offense, was admitted." "No offense taken. I'm new at this, and I'd fail if I tried to hide it. And what's so difficult about getting into the Black Hand?" "Forget it. Never mind." Seb, of course, found it rather impossible to forget it, but trudged on nonetheless, not willing to push the issue. The corridor suddenly took a downward spiral, and slowly degenerated into a staircase, leading in an abyss-like chasm. He whistled low, and grinned as the echo rolled down to the murky depths of the well. "That was pretty childish, you know," commented the woman. Seb grinned even wider. "I know." *************************** The two finally stopped abruptly before a large, solid-looking iron door. Seb looked up the length of it, and somehow felt that he would rather be back in Jidoor. The woman turned to him, glaring at him sternly. "You're not planning on bringing *that* in, are you?" Seb shrugged sheepishly. "What?" he asked. The woman motioned to the cake in his hand. "The cake. General Garek isn't such a bad guy once you get to know him, but there's nothing he hates more than when someone eats during a mission brief." "Oh. Hell." Seb looked down at the cake, then at the door, once more at the cake, and finally rested a hopeful gaze on the woman's face. "Would you like it, then? I'd rather not get him mad at me." She smiled once again, not a touch of sarcasm in it, much to his relief. "Sure. And thank you, mister..." "Alltaire. Seb Alltaire." "Very well. Thank you very much for the gift, Lieutenant Alltaire." "But I don't have a rank yet." "You do now." Seb was about to probe further, but the woman pushed open the door before his mouth opened. She stalked into the dimly lit chamber beyond, and Seb followed closely after. He hadn't anything better to do. When he arrived inside, he found a middle-aged man standing start upright, saluting the red-haired woman, his eyes facing dead forward. The woman merely stood before his desk, tapping on it with her index finger. One eyebrow was arched on Seb's face. "Lady DelAubre! I had no idea that you were coming!" barked out the soldier at the desk, looking amazingly uncomfortable. The woman beamed. Seb felt as though he'd just choked on an airship-sized chicken bone. "Oh, do sit down, Garek. No need for formalities. Now then, this is Lieutenant Alltaire. He's only been with us a short time, but I do want you to make him feel at home. Alright?" She glanced over at Seb, who was still leaning heavily against the doorframe, mouth gaping open. She waved him inside, a touch annoyed. "Oh, for god's sake, get in here. Now, that's better. Now then - Garek, would you sit down already? I feel like I'm surrounded by huge tin soldiers." "L-lady DelAubre? As in Empress?" gasped Seb. "Well, certainly not as in Imperial Toilet Cleaner," Sascha responded curtly. She grinned a sadistic smile. "That would be Mr. Brokengulf." Sascha then, feeling quite pleased with herself, walked over, plucked the cake out from Seb's nerveless fingers, and then walked calmly to the door, leaving the two men, still frozen in place. She turned back after a while, smiling primly. "At ease, men," she laughed, then turned and left. Her chuckles echoed in through the open door for some time. *************************** Garek was, in a word, annoying. Annoying in a rather discomforting, nasty way, but nonetheless irritating as hell. Seb found himself disliking the man intensely. The man had just hidden his impeccably clean teeth behind a deep frown, when he reached into his vest pocket, and tossed a piece of paper to Seb. Seb snatched it from the air, then looked more closely at it... "Repulsive, isn't it?" said Garek. Seb continued reading. "Just appalling that the Impresario thinks that he can just make fun of anybody whenever he pleases." "Since when did the Black Hand become censors?" asked Seb curtly, not looking up from the paper. "Since that atrocity came out. I want you to fly down to Jidoor, unless you can walk on water of course, and see this play. If it's as bad as it sounds, shut it down for good. If not, shut it down anyway." "Aren't we being just a tad overzealous here?" "No. Those are your orders, Mr. Alltaire. I want you gone within the hour. Dismissed." That pearly smile revealed itself once again, and Seb barely controlled the urge to wince. God, Garek was annoying. *************************** Seb finally lay down in his seat, and let out a sigh of relief. This was SO much more comfortable than the bucket seats in the Spitfire, he thought to himself. He glanced out over the audience, in the ever-futile hope that he would see someone he knew. Of course, there was none, but he felt much better for looking. It was only theatre etiquette, of course. Finally, however, the lights dimmed. The audience hushed itself, and slowly, with little jerks and spurts, they drew to the sides, revealing the play. Seb sat back, throwing his feet onto the footstool he had been provided with. He'd never sat in one of the box seats at the Opera before. And he rather liked it. He rested his hands on his chest, and observed the action as it unfolded... Such as it was. Seb soon left the room, his mouth filled with the taste of bile. Her couldn't believe it. Was no one safe? Was nothing sacred? These questions raged through his mind as he wandered to the rear of his box, trying to drown out the sounds of the poor jokes, and the scattered laughter. There was something wrong. The Impresario was never known to be much of an art critic, true, but this... this was appalling. What was he thinking? Seb peered out from his box, to the upper level, far above the stage. His eyes passed over a group of well-dressed clientele, right past guards, and to - to nothing. The Impresario wasn't there. The Impresario *never* skipped a performance, and yet, he was gone. Seb tapped the railing of the box. Something here was not quite right.