Carver Woodrat ordered breakfast in the dining room of an inn simply known as "The Lodge," on the outskirts of Plist. It was a place frequented by hunters, trappers, and woodcutters, as well as the occasional guests who liked to pretend to be the sort of people who lived such a lifestyle. Quite frankly, Carver considered even most folks who made a living from the woods to be a bit more civilized than he was generally comfortable with. Or at least, anyone who had need of such a temporary lodging as this was not really his type; he figured serious outdoorsmen of any sort would have their own residences in the woods, and not need to be spending time in inns. Then again, even those who did have their own cabins in the woods were a bit more civilized than Carver Woodrat. Or at any rate, that was what he preferred anyone who knew of him to believe. True, his own home was more out of the way than... well, probably than the homes of anyone else on the Land. But no one had ever seen his home, inside or out, so they couldn't possibly know how he lived, away from prying eyes. For all anyone knew, the interior of his well-hidden home, deep in First River Forest, could be as refined as the king's palace. Not that Carver himself had any real knowledge of what the king's palace was like; still, he liked to think that his living space was of a higher class than his reputation would suggest. Yes, he tried very hard to ensure that people saw him as being of a lower class; though again, to be honest, it's not like his personal tastes weren't to some extent in keeping with the assumed persona he presented to the world. Well-rounded, that's how he liked to think of himself, with tastes both high and low, even if he preferred strangers and casual acquaintances to see only the low.

Immediately after ordering, he got up from his table and went to a public t-mail booth. He put a bit coin in the slot, and when a bubble rolled out of the dispenser, he activated it, saying, "Carver Woodrat for the office of Don Chieftain. Audio only." Of course, not just anyone could place a call to a known gangster and expect it to go through. The caller had to be known to the person he or she was calling, and their voice had to be on record with the recipient's voice recognition bubble recording system, and the voice had to match the name given by the caller. Carver's voice was one of those on file in Don Chieftain's system, despite his being well known (by those who didn't know him well) for never using t-mail. This belief, of course, was not strictly accurate. If he didn't use t-mail to call ahead, he'd just have to show up unannounced, at any place he might have business. He'd had no choice but to do this before the Coming, and back then it had not exactly been considered ill-mannered; after all, what choice had one? But since transcommunication mail had become so damned commonplace, it had become almost entirely unacceptable not to make an appointment in advance. Luckily, there were such public booths as this, which meant he didn't have to bother carrying his own t-mail bubbles, thus allowing him to maintain a reputation for hating t-mail. Truth told, he actually appreciated the fact that the advent of t-mail had provided one more means of perpetuating his anti-social appearance.

The answer came after a few moments, "Don Chieftain's office. May I ask the nature of your business?"

"Got a message fer Mr. Chieftain, from Xander Breakhead of Tonad. Matter of some urgency, is what I was told, though personally I ain't in no hurry. I can stop by whenever's best fer yer boss. An' before ya even ask, no, I can't just pass th' message on ta you. I am required by th' terms o' my contract ta deliver th' message in person."

"Please hold," said the secretary.

"Sure," said Carver; but he realized he'd already been put on hold before he even finished saying the word.

Almost a centhour later (quicker than he would've expected), the secretary returned to the line and said, "The don will have time for you at precisely Second Three and Fifteen. Your window will last until Second Three and Thirty. Don't be late." And before he could say anything in reply, the connection closed, and the bubble he'd been using vanished.

Damn gangster secretaries are getting ruder all the time, he thought to himself. With a sigh, he got up and returned to his table, to await his food. He hoped it'd get there in time for him to eat- he wouldn't dream of rushing, regardless of how long it took to arrive- and still walk to the office of the don, before the 'window' closed. But if not... well, he'd already been paid. As he'd indicated to the secretary, he had no great concern for whether he delivered the message today, tomorrow, or whenever.

Luckily, the service was prompt, and he had ample time to savor his meal and then stroll at an almost casual pace toward his appointment. As he walked, he mused that the secretary hadn't even asked if he needed directions; but then, he supposed she wouldn't have been so foolish as to just tell anyone who called how to find her employer's base of criminal operations. Besides which, she must know that if his call reached her in the first place, he must have been there before. Maybe he'd even met her on one of his rare visits, though he hadn't recognized her voice; not that he was much good at remembering voices he didn't know well. And unlike some people, he never utilized t-mail's visual capabilities, so voices were all he had to go on, when dealing with representatives of people (whose names he'd have no reason to know), rather than with the people themselves (whose names he generally did). He hoped that if he had met the secretary, he'd at least remember her face when he saw it.

Checking his pocket watch as he arrived outside the headquarters of the Plist branch of LandOrder, he saw that it was Second Three and Seventeen. "Two centhours late," he said to himself. "Well, no matter. It won't take a full fifteen centhours to deliver the message." He opened the door and strode up to the front desk. The receptionist (actually an enforcer) looked up, and Carver said "Carver Woodrat. I'm expected."

"Yes, go right ahead, Mr. Woodrat." With that, the receptionist went back to reading a book, though Carver was sure that if he made any sudden, unexpected moves, the man would not be slow to react.

Carver glanced at the tall floor clock standing against the wall to the left of the desk, which said Second Three and Fifteen. That's right, he suddenly recalled. My watch always did run a couple centhours faster than the clocks in this place. Well, so much the better. He started walking down the hallway that extended past the desk on the right side, passing several closed doors on either side of the hall as he went. He reached the far end of the hall in less than a centhour, and gave a quick rap on the final door before opening it.

The don's secretary looked up and said, "Ah, Mr. Woodrat." She looked as if she'd been about to say something more, but instead fell silent, and simply looked at him, apparently waiting for him to speak.

She looked vaguely familiar to him, so he supposed he must've seen her before on at least one of the occasions he'd had business here, though he couldn't really remember. It had been awhile, and he rarely paid much heed to such people. He supposed she could have picked up on that, and taken offense at it, which would explain her rudeness. He wondered idly if she acted this way towards anyone who showed such little interest in her, or just the people she considered beneath her. He knew he couldn't blame her for thinking a 'rat to be beneath her, and of course he was more or less a 'rat, both by his name and by the reputation he worked so diligently to cultivate. So... he suddenly found himself disposed to forgive her. Taking off his hat, he bowed his head for just a moment before smiling in what he hoped would seem a cordial manner, and said (in what he hoped would seem a sincere tone), "Sorry if I'm late."

"A centhour, perhaps. Hardly the least punctual visitor the don has ever received," she admitted. "Well, go on in. And you needn't knock on his door."

"Much obliged," said the messenger, as he put his hat back on.

He opened the door, nodded to Chieftain, and closed the door behind him. "Hi. May I sit?"

"Please do," said the don, with a wave of his hand. "I must say, I've been eager to see you, though I'm afraid I've already a fair idea about what you're going to say."

As he seated himself on a chair facing the don's desk, Carver replied simply, "Oh?"

"Yes. Actually, yesterday morning, my chief spy was contacted by one of don Breakhead's spies, concerning the matter about which you were sent here."

"That so? It was just two nights ago... no, sorry, I should say three nights ago, I meant it was just two days... Anyway, I was approached by this cute little Tonadian spy, who conveyed to me a message from don Breakhead, which she said I was to deliver to you personally. She said it was urgent, but that they couldn't use t-mail to contact you. In fact, that was part of the message: the fact that they were afraid their transcommunication may have been compromised by InterGang, somehow."

"Yes, I think it was likely the same spy who talked with my spy, yesterday. She told him about the concerns with t-mail, but that their chief Sorreter had done a thorough check of their communications, and he was convinced there was nothing to worry about on that account. However, she also said that, unless I felt the need to contact her don immediately, he was content to wait for you to arrive with your message. She didn't say what it was, but it was easy enough to guess. Obviously the t-mail issue was one part of it, but I believe the other part won't surprise me, either. Still... well, let's hear it."

"Right. Aside from the t-mail thing, there was also... well, as I understand it, the very reason they were worried about t-mail was because InterGang had known of your interest in certain persons, and had taken an interest themselves. Even assuming their knowledge was not an indication that your communications had been listened in on, it was still troubling that your rivals were suddenly involving themselves with these people. I gather the people in question weren't of any serious interest to you; that is, to LandOrder. To you, personally, perhaps, but not to your organization. And so, assuming there was cause for concern about t-mail, you could send a message back with me, for Breakhead, about what to do next. Though since that seems not to be the case, what Breakhead would like is for you, or preferably you and your capo... or even just your capo. One, the other, or both. Whatever, the point is, someone should get in touch with Breakhead, and let him know what to do. As of now, his own chief spy is traveling with the group in question, and awaiting Breakhead's orders. But until he hears anything official, there's nothing he can tell his man. And I do believe- this wasn't specifically said to me, but it's a feeling I got from the way the girl who gave me the message was acting- that Breakhead would prefer to get his spy back to Tonad as soon as possible. Failing that, at the very least he wants to know what to tell the man. Again, as soon as possible."

Chieftain nodded. "Yes, that's all pretty much as I imagined. Though if he's so eager to get his spy back, I would think he would've contacted me or the capo as soon as he was sure t-mail was safe."

"Well, as to that... my guess is that he thought his spy could do with a bit of a vacation. Lotta people who live in Tonad appreciate a chance to get away for awhile. Even if it's just a couple of days."

"Could be. Though I'd expect him to know the mindset of spies better than that. Every spy I know is most comfortable in familiar surroundings. Easier to keep an eye on things, if you already know where to look. In any event, I thank you for your service. I'm afraid I don't have any more business for you at the moment, since the t-mail is apparently as secure as ever."

"No worries. I don't know about spies, but I can always do with some down time, myself."

"Heh. Oh, would that I could find the time to take a few days off. Don't get me wrong, I love my job, but it can be mighty stressful."

With that, Chieftain rose, and Woodrat followed suit. They walked to the door together, and after exiting the don's office, Chieftain said, "Always a pleasure, Carver. Hope to see you again soon."

Chieftain offered a hand, which Woodrat shook, saying, "Likewise, I'm sure, Don. Welp, I reckon I gotta be headin' out, now. Have yerself a good 'un." Turning to the secretary, he tipped his hat and said, "You take 'er easy, darlin'."

The secretary didn't respond, but rather just looked away. Chieftain rolled his eyes and tried his best to suppress a grin. He knew full well that he was one of the few people for whom Carver Woodrat dropped his affected accent and manner of speaking, which was designed to make people think him low class. Certainly his true style of speech- assuming the one he used around people like Chieftain wasn't just a different affectation- wasn't exactly high class, but the don always found it amusing to hear the man talk this way around others. Actually, he mostly found it ridiculous. Especially considering how many wealthy and well educated ranchers and such spoke just the same way. But the funniest thing, to Chieftain's way of thinking, was that people like his secretary could hear a man like Carver talk that way and have it reinforce their low opinion of him, and still hear certain members of the upper class talk that way, and be charmed by it. No doubt his secretary would be thrilled to marry a rich rancher and know full well he was worthy of respect- not just because of his money, either, but because of his mind and his taste- and continue to disdain a person like Carver. Not once would it occur to her, possibly even if you pointed it out, that there was any commonality in the way the two types spoke. He was fairly sure Carver was aware of that very mindset, and found it every bit as ironically amusing as he did.

As Woodrat exited the outer office, Chieftain forced the grin off his face, turned to his secretary and said, "Please hold any calls until further notice. I'll be in a t-mail conference. If I'm not done by the time any of my appointments show up, convey my apologies, and let them know I'll be with them as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you kindly."

The don returned to his office, closed the door, and sighed. Let's see, he said to himself. I suppose I should start by calling the capo. I do hope he'll let me join in the conversation with Xander. After all, none of this would be happening if not for my silly hobby of following the careers of adventurers. I probably shouldn't use company personnel for such things, especially from other branches. But dammit, how was I to know that fool Seth Manager would cause such trouble...?

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