Back at the Black Hog, the tavern around the corner from the Armorian embassy, Clasq reviewed his new orders a second time. Directives came hand-written on embassy vellum, just like official communiques from the city, and were disguised as anodyne requests for scribal work. There was a science to the decoding of the things; despite the fact that this message appeared to be for one Celendaro Clasq to complete the copying of lines 120 through 568 of a document called the "Storage and Printing Protocols of the Exchange Street Complex," it actually meant that he (his indenture number was 568, so the messages always contained this number buried somewhere in their body) was intended to listen ("copy") and report on a storage or printing shop located on Exchange Street in Trantz. There was no Exchange Street Complex in Armoria for the simple fact that the city lacked an Exchange Street. The 120 could be the number of paces from the nearest corner, he supposed. He sighed. It would be better if the code was clearer... but that was the risk, wasn't it.
"So what is it, boss?" asked Azu, who was seated on the table, doodling in a puddle of sweet Blacklander maruvov. Imps normally didn't drink, Clasq was fairly sure, but his had taken up the habit. It was hard to say whether the imp was rubbing off on him, or he was rubbing off on the Infernal. "We're on a snoop job, eh?"
Clasq sipped the plum liquor and made a face. "Something like that. It has to do with the letters we sent out, I'm sure." He kept his voice low enough that only Azu could hear it. The imp was less voluble now, chastened as he was.
Azu nodded. "So we're supposed ta' be watching for developments over the border." Azu, like all devils, was particularly perceptive when it came to intrigues and politicking. That was why warlocks normally got the Republic's spying jobs. Clasq had come to rely on Azu's head for plots and conspiracies. After a moment, the imp added, "I bet it's for the copper."
"What?" Clasq picked his head up and looked down at his familiar. His thoughts, as they so often did these days, had been far away, on the comforts of home. He missed the warm sunny days of the lowlands. When was the last time he had been back to the city? Ages ago, it seemed. Before Trantz had been Burgoven, and before that... "Sorry, what?" he repeated himself.
"The copper. Leznyy has a lot of it in the mountains, on the other side of the border. Good red copper, comes straight up outta the infernal realms. Great stuff for enchanting. But, you know..." Azu waved vaguely at the things he supposed Clasq knew, "the Republic can't get any of it because the Leznians aren't part of the, whatsitcalled. The market."
It was true that the Blacklanders didn't deal much with outsiders except through the few trade hubs like Trantz. In the Republic, anyone could own anything. If you had the money, it didn't matter if you were Armorian, Carrandine, Provincial, whatever. Hell, you could be a hill tribesman from the Grand Massif and still own a whole firm on the Armorian Commerce. The same wasn't true up in the reaches of the Black Plain. Leznyy, Czarkravan, and Zamorzh, those three insular kingdoms up there, didn't permit the operation of firms. There were a handful of trading companies, but those were all controlled by the old noble families. All that meant that whatever goods they sold in Trantz, they sold them at prices they dictated and in quantities they allowed. That was historically a bad move when it came to the Republic.
"Someone wants to invest in infernal copper, so I have to scoot my ass around this burg. Makes sense," he said with a sigh.
Azu waggled his eyebrows. "Ya know, boss, there's a Leznian trading company on that street. Where we were. Right next to a printing house."
Clasq wanted to spit. Trust the little homunculus to decide it was time to do work. "Fine," he growled, "only this time, nothing showy."
"Oh no, boss," Azu said, his face a mask of mock-horror. "Not me."
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