It transpired that the two accomplices hiding in the bushes were not avoiding unfriendly eyes but on the contrary, were keeping their distance to spy on the detective as he was conversing with Elena. When they finally reunited, the newcomer glared at Sigerson with a pair of not-too-friendly eyes.
"So you're the one that wants to hire me?" he asked, almost growling at Sigerson.
More and more pressure piled on top of the detective as the boy's harsh hawk-like eyes burned into him. It may have been his impressive silence or simply his seemingly stoic personality, but Sigerson, who returned the unpleasant gaze with a calm smile, felt no worse as he spent his time observing the candidate in front of him.
"May I have your name first… sir?" questioned Sigerson, slightly leaning to the side to get a better view of the boy's clothing and accessories. A pair of unusually knobbly shoes stuck onto his feet, while a dusty jacket was thrown on his shoulders, with a silver pocket watch dangling out on a chain. Though it was unbuttoned, the grey jacket was still wrapped tightly enough to hide anything its owner wished. A checkered flat cap was pushed over his thick auburn hair, giving him the appearance of a young school boy.
"I'm Harvey Ramorez, turning sixteen this year, and I would like to know more about this job you are offering."
He stuck his hand politely enough for Sigerson to reach out and shake without any uneasy feelings.
"This is Harvey's first time at a hired job," explained Turner, whose voice was drowned out by Harvey's vociferous exclamation.
"I told ya, Turner, not to call me 'Harvey'!" he yelled, slapping the older man's back unforcefully.
"I assume you two are already acquainted with each other?" asked Sigerson slightly coldly to the laughing man and the disgruntled boy.
"Yeah. I met Turner a couple of years ago when he caught me picking his lock," returned Harvey casually. "Since then, he's taught me pretty much everything I know about pickpocketing."
"We can drop all the formalities then," said Sigerson, clapping his hands together. "Shall we head to the pub to discuss our plans?"
Here they were, sitting around a round wooden table, a mug of frothing beer in each of their hands.
"Drink up, drink up," said Turner jovially, draining his own mug at an impressive speed. Harvey was looking down at his own mug uncertainly.
"You're never drunk alcohol before, have you?" questioned Sigerson lightly, taking a small calm sip.
"No, I haven't," replied the boy emotionlessly.
There was certainly no fuel for conversation here.
"If you're not gonna drink that, can I have it?"
Turner had finished his mug and was now gesturing to Harvey's while still holding his own empty one.
"Sure, take it; I don't want it."
As they all continued to sit in silence, Harvey, the youngest of the three, broke the silence like a whip.
"Who was the girl talking with you earlier?"
Suspicion lingered on every word in his sentence. Sigerson, rather taken aback at this aggressive but not entirely unanticipated question, replied, "She's only a friend of mine who works with the police."
Instantly, although only for a millisecond, a wave of distrust and anger seized the boy in front of him. Turner, of course recognising none of the faint signs of stress in the boy's composure, asked, "Are you sure that's wise? I thought you were supposed to be on the run from the law instead of collaborating with them."
Silence again. Finally, after proclaiming to himself in his mind that he was satisfied with this result, Sigerson sighed, put on a brave face and apologised to them both.
"I'm sorry; I lied. She actually has nothing to do with the police."
This did not clear the boy's suspicions; if anything, it caused him to grow even more distrustful than ever. "Please forget whatever I just said."
Seeing that he had somewhat aroused the boy's irritable temper, he continued, "May I assume you've had a problem with the police before?"
Turner quickly jumped into the conversation, unintentionally interrupting Harvey as the words were leaving his mouth.
"Of course," said Turner woozily, after the tenth mug had evaporated into thin air, causing his face to flush. "Some people have started to dub him as 'The Bane of Sodor', you know. The police won't turn a blind eye to that."
"I'm not talking about fear," the detective said, staring right into Harvey's eyes. "I mean have they done anything to you personally? You don't have any grudges against them at all?"
These words hit the boy like a cannonball. A fat bead of sweat dripped down his face and fell onto his arm as he answered in a shaky voice, "H–How did you know? Nobody's ever known before…"
After giving Harvey a hard stare for no reason at all, he dropped his gaze and said, "I'll understand if you wish for me to stop asking. Anyways—"
Here he paused, taking a deep breath.
"—we're here to talk about a deal so I might as well give you the entire explanation now."
Sigerson set aside his mug, suddenly appearing all business-like and professional; Harvey, seeing that they were finally getting started, sat up and paid special attention to the speaker.
"I'm here today because there's someone I need to arrest. Now before you ask any questions—"
Since there was no interruption or question, he continued.
"—I'll say it plainly: this man I am seeking is particularly dangerous and will endanger your life if you mess up, so it's best if you don't hear the full story for your own safety. As for the price, how does a thousand sovereigns sound?"
An answer came slowly to Harvey's lips, though he was not tempted by this amount of money.
"A thousand?" repeated Harvey. "A thousand for a job that might end my life? No thank you, good sir; nothing can persuade me to take it up, unless…"
He sneaked a sly glance at Sigerson, holding back his request for an intended effect.
"Is it true that your cousin is Evelyn Whitlock, the famous actress?"
"Yes, why do you ask?"
"Well…" said Harvey hesitantly. "Since she's retired from the stage, I kinda wanna see her in person."
"Mind you, she's terribly ugly without the makeup," said Sigerson jokingly, although Harvey took it a lot more seriously than he'd expected.
"Doesn't bother me," replied the determined boy brazenly. "It's not everyday you get to meet a celebrity, is it?"
"You have a point," huffed Sigerson resignedly. "Fine, I'll take you along with me after you help me accomplish my task."
Harvey nodded, straightened his back and sat quietly like a trained hound ready to obey orders from its master.
"I guess even the 'Bane of Sodor' has some pretty unusual wishes," whispered the amused detective quietly to himself.
Pulling out a tiny pouch of coins, he slid it to Harvey covertly away from prying eyes and beckoned Turner to move in closer to listen up on the plan he had formulated.
"I need you two to go to this location—"
He scribbled down an address.
"—and find a man named Patrick Hartland. Go in disguised as a pair of pedlars or something of the sort. This money can be used to pay off any expenses required to attain the merchandise required to sell. When you attempt to sell him the product, offer to deliver it to his home. If he refuses, do not pressure him; we need him to be as unsuspecting as possible to make our work easier later on. Offer something more valuable; even if he hides his address from you, it's highly likely that he'll return straight home with it.
As soon as we have the address, go and extract everything of value within his home and make it seem like a genuine robbery. This shouldn't be difficult considering the amount of break-in cases that have been happening lately. Once everything is done, report back to me and don't forget to hide the stolen goods somewhere unnoticeable; you'll be able to retrieve it later, I'm sure. Does that work for you two?"
"So… All we have to do is track down this person and rob their home?" asked Harvey slowly as if expecting a task requiring much more skill than this.
"Yes, but don't let him even suspect you."
Both of them nodded in unison then after shaking each other's hands to form some kind of invisible contract, Sigerson paid their tab and the three of them headed for Turner's 'run-down shack', where they agreed to stay for the night.
—
Early the next morning, while the sun was still down and the people all in their slumber, unwilling to get up and face the freezing autumn morning, the three outlaws snuck out from their ancient hideout to silently manoeuvre their way around the countless buildings before reaching the city's main bank in record time.
In this magnificent building, the entire floor was made with pearly white marble, covered with crimson carpet, while the counters glistened from the bright light coming down from the elegant glass chandeliers above. The moment they arrived at the golden-framed doors, Sigerson turned back to go through everything one last time with his accomplices, yet he couldn't help but feel uncomfortably suspicious from the lack of Enforcers in the city.
"Even though Hartland is stupid enough to fool, don't lower your guard around him. The last thing we want is to have the mastermind behind him figure out what we're trying to do."
"Roger that."
The young thief gave him a hearty salute before entering the grand building to commence his search for Hartland, while Turner stayed back, holding their specially prepared merchandise in hand.
In the meantime, the worried detective decided to linger around to pick up on any useful information inadvertently spilled. Though nobody in the city knew him by face, save for Grock and a handful of others, Sigerson nevertheless lowered his head at an angle whenever passing by someone.
The effect of the war had already struck the city much harder than anybody would have expected. A few days of relentless fighting in the enemy country's territory had already caused the costs of basic resources such as food and water to skyrocket, causing countless citizens to starve or be forcibly removed from their homes.
Visible effects sprouted up around the city like mould; shops began to close, streets were filled with more people nowadays, and robberies became common. Indeed, not even the Custodians nor the wealthy were unaffected, for as the other poorer citizens began to cry out to them, they were swiftly pressured by Grock to distribute the resources they had on hand.
This, thought Grock while he adamantly persuaded the stubborn Custodians to give a fraction of their wealth, was vital to winning the war, since nations often collapsed from internal factors, not external enemies. During this time, Blight had already set up several new factories and built more tenement blocks, supporting the people selflessly and receiving Gorck's approval.
—
Minutes passed by, then an hour; no news had returned to Sigerson yet. He stopped reminiscing. Waiting around without taking action himself was exceptionally painful for his never-stopping brain. Instead of waiting for his two accomplices to return, he decided to stroll away from the bank, looking for something that could help stimulate his mind before it sank into the realm of inactivity.
No useful information could be gathered from his immediate surroundings in his opinion, so he left the entrance and found himself wandering around the streets behind the bank. Presently, a familiar voice wafted over into his ears from within a nearby tavern.
"Good to see you again," said that voice.
"Fancy seeing you here, Patrick," said a bouncy unfamiliar voice.
"Same here, Alastor. Who would've thought you'd travel across half the country just to come here for a drink?"
As the conversation dragged on, their voices became muffled and gradually faded away, blending in with the crowd's incomprehensible mixture of noises. It was clear that eavesdropping from the outside would not suffice; Sigerson entered the tavern himself, sat down on a chair as close to Hartland as he could get, and accepted a drink from a passing barman. Here, he could make out every word that was spoken. Leaning against the window and pretending to gaze out in a dream-like trance, he pricked up his ears and listened carefully, making sure to take a sip from his mug every few seconds.
"So you've moved places again? Brighton, wasn't it?"
"That's right," yawned Hartland, yet appearing quite cheerful. "I had some unfinished business to attend to this morning, hence my haggard disposition."
"There you are, Hartland!" exclaimed another one of the bank's employees who had just stumbled upon their conversation. "Did you think you could go on these little excursions without me knowing it? Anyways, here's what was promised but don't forget to come back quickly; there's a mountain of work for you back there."
He slipped to Hartland a cheque. Although he couldn't see the number, Sigerson presumed it was a rather large figure, for Hartland's face lit up greedily as he received it. He looked warily at the giver, who was eyeing the cheque woefully as if he had lost his entire fortune in the one slip of paper.
"Don't worry," he said, pushing his glasses back up his nose. "I'll treat you both for lunch this afternoon."
He stuck the cheque into his wallet then shoved the wallet deep into his pocket.
A sense of uneasiness filled Sigerson's body. Someone was watching him, but it didn't take long for him to find out who it was. Harvey and Turner were both loitering around outside the tavern, also listening to the conversation with much effort.