by JD Byrne
~~~~~
Strefer arrived at the Daily Register office the next morning with a very rough first draft of the article in her pouch. Her overnight accommodations had been barely adequate to the task. To her shock, the lodging she rented was smaller than her room on the ship had been, big enough only to accommodate a rough approximation of a bed and one chair. She had to use her notebook as a hard surface on which to write. The evening spent in that chair, hunched over the end of the bed where she had spread her things, caught up with her when she awoke. Her back was tight and was prone to the occasional spasm of pain. Nonetheless, she was here when she needed to be.
The Daily Register was housed in a large building perched on a bluff near the coast that offered spectacular views of both the sea and the city below. The building was home to the paper’s business office and printing presses, as well as the local correspondent’s bureau. It was accessible only by a road that wound its way up the hill, hugging close to the edge of the bluff. It was too early for a hire cab to take Strefer up the hill. Besides, after paying for her modest lodging, she could not afford such luxury. Bad back or no, she chugged up the hill in hopes of meeting Olrey when he first arrived, before the routine work of the day began.
Olrey was something of a legend in the newspaper business, as well as in his own mind. In a society that was largely stratified, where a person’s life story was determined more upon who your father or grandfathers were than on personal merit, Olrey defied those expectations. As the bastard son of a Telebrian noble, he was cut out of the upper level of society due to the scandalous nature of his birth. Instead of being raised in Sermont among the wealthy, he was shuffled off to Groshke, a small town on the northern coast near the Badlands, along with his mother. By nine years old he was out on the street trying to support her and his siblings. He did odd jobs and, when necessary, engaged in petty thefts in order to buy food. Along the way, he discovered a knack for mechanical skill and problem-solving.
One day while he was going door to door looking for work in the town square, Olrey came to the office of the local newspaper, the Examiner, a weekly with a very limited circulation. They were in the process of printing that week’s edition but the press had jammed. None of the employees had any idea how to fix it. Olrey asked if he could take a look at the problem. He had never seen a printing press before, much less had any idea how it worked. He took a few moments to walk around the massive machine, poking his head underneath various bits to explore them more closely. Then, with the kind of confidence only found in those young enough not to know any better, he took a wrench and jumped underneath the press.
The old man who owned the Examiner looked on with a confused look on his face, but he did not object. Nor did anyone else. A few minutes later, Olrey popped up from the floor, his forehead smudged with grease where he had absentmindedly wiped the back of his hand. “I think that might do the trick,” he said. “Give it a try.” One of the workers went to the press and began to operate it. Not only did it work, but it was more efficient and smoother than it had been. The owner offered Olrey a job on the spot.
With a foot in the door at the Examiner, Olrey never looked back. He began by doing whatever the old man and his assistants asked him to do, until he became one of them. As the others either died or moved on to more lucrative work, Olrey moved up the ladder until he was the editor. He was given free rein by the old man and made great changes to the paper. He revised the layout and format, then changed the publication schedule from once a week to three. Under his guidance, the Examiner went from a small paper that struggled to sell more than a few dozen copies, to the leading newspaper in northeast Telebria.
It was a small accomplishment. Northeast Telebria is nothing more than a few scattered small towns bracing for the next round of raids out of the Badlands. Regardless, the turnaround at the Examiner earned Olrey the notice of others in the field. One of those who took note was Bodwe Naum, the owner of the Daily Register in Sermont. At the time, the Daily Register was the smallest of the several daily newspapers published in the kingdom’s capitol. Naum had three sons, all of whom had taken a turn trying to run the paper, with poor results. Fed up with their incompetence, Naum hired Olrey and brought him to Sermont. He did not intend for it to be a long-term solution. In fact, all Naum wanted to do was to scare his sons into taking the family business seriously, so that he could leave it in good hands when he died.
Olrey’s early tenure at the Daily Register mirrored his success at the Examiner. He radically changed the layout to make it stand out from its competitors as much as possible. To add to that distinction, he opened up the bureau office in Tolenor, a first from a Sermont paper. Naum was pleased beyond words with Olrey’s success, even if his sons were not. By all the traditions of Telebrian society, one of them should have inherited the Daily Register when their father died, or at least have it shared equally by the three of them. Instead, Naum sold Olrey a controlling interest in the paper so he could run it as he saw fit. The sons became silent partners, which was still too much involvement from Olrey’s perspective, but it proved a workable compromise. The terms of the deal sent ripples and rumors all through the tight-knit upper classes of Sermont.
Strefer had met Olrey only once before, when she first came to Sermont to take the job at the Daily Register. He was part of the final interview, along with Tevis, who had done most of the talking. She assumed she must have made a good impression, or she would not have gotten the job. Most Telebrian newspapers would never think of hiring a woman as a reporter. Strefer assumed that Olrey’s background gave him some sympathy towards others who were locked out of society. Whatever impression she had left at that time, Strefer hoped it had only been bolstered over the past three years. If not, Olrey may not even meet with her, much less read her story.
Although it was barely past dawn when Strefer reached the top of the bluff where the paper’s building sat, it was already humming with life. The main office building, a low, long, two-story building of red brick, was alight, inside and out, from lanterns. From the print house just behind it, a massive three-story cube built of black stone torn from the seaside cliffs, she could hear the multiple printing presses cranking out the morning edition.
A young man came out of the front door of the office building. Strefer watched as he began making the rounds of the gas lamps that ringed the property, snapping each one off with a well-practiced flick of his wrist. She set out towards the front door in hopes of intercepting him before he returned inside. She made it just ahead of him.
“Can I help you?” he asked with labored politeness.
“Is Mister Olrey in this morning? It’s very important that I see him,” Strefer said.
The young man looked at her with contempt and suspicion. “And who would you be?”
“My name is Strefer Quants,” she said, pausing to let the name linger for a moment. “I work in the Tolenor bureau.”
That did not allay the young man’s suspicions. “What are you, some kind of errand girl?”
Strefer stood as tall as she could and blazed directly into his eyes. “I am the Associate Tolenor Correspondent, thank you very much.”
“Then you should not be wasting my time in Sermont then, should you?” He made a move to slip past her into the building. Strefer blocked him.
“You’re the one wasting your time. I asked a simple question, with a simple answer: is Mister Olrey in today? It’s vital that I see him.”
The young man backed away from the door and cocked his head at her. “See, that is where you have a problem, then. I am Mister Olrey’s assistant. Therefore, it is part of my job to waste my time in order to ensure that Mister Olrey does not waste his. Understand?”
Strefer did, all too well. This was not the best start to a conversation. “I’m sorry that we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. Could you please tell Mister Olrey that one of his Tolenor correspondents is here and she has a very important story that she must discuss with him personally?”
>
The young man rolled back on his heels and crossed his arms in front of him. “What is this all about, anyway?”
She wondered if word of the murder had reached Sermont yet. Probably not, at least so far as most people knew. Sentinel mind walkers had probably sent the news all the way across Altreria, but she doubted they had made that news public. She was the first correspondent out of the city, she thought proudly. Even if Tevis had written up something quickly and given it to a courier, she likely beat the news here. “I would really rather discuss it with him in person. It is of a very sensitive nature.”
“Sensitive? What does that mean, exactly?” He did not sound convinced, but he was at least intrigued.
“It means that I would rather not discuss it with anyone but Mister Olrey. Would I convince you if I told you it would be the biggest story this newspaper ever printed? That it could shake the very foundation of our world?”
The young man stood silently for a moment, thinking. “Why should I believe you? What if I get you a meeting with Mister Olrey and it turns out you are just some kind of deranged lunatic?”
“Hold on,” she said, digging into her pouch. She pulled out her Daily Register identification and handed it to him. “See? That proves that I work for the paper, that I work at the Tolenor bureau.”
The young man nodded in agreement reluctantly.
“Why would I take a ship from Tolenor, sail all the way to Sermont, then chug up this hill on foot at the break of dawn if I didn’t have something exceptionally important to discuss with Mister Olrey?” He had no answer to this, so she kept going. “Look, either this is some elaborate hoax or I’m telling you the truth. What seems more likely to you?”
He handed her back her identification card and visibly relaxed. “All right. Come on, we can go inside and get out of the chill.” He walked around her, opened the door, and showed her inside. Then he led her down a long hallway towards what she assumed was Olrey’s office. “As it happens, Mister Olrey is in this morning. But his schedule is very tight today. Wait here.” He pointed to a small hard-looking couch that sat across from what appeared to be the young man’s desk. He walked over to the desk, took off his coat, and hung it on a rack behind him. “I will tell him what you have told me. No promises.”
“Fair enough,” Strefer said as she sat down on the couch. It was the most uncomfortable piece of furniture she had ever experienced.
The young man went to the thick wooden door at the end of the hall, knocked on it three times, then let himself in and closed the door behind him. Strefer tried to hear some of the conversation that was going on inside the office, but the door was thick enough that no voices crept out. To pass the time, she pulled the draft of her story out of her pouch and started reading it over, editing it in her head. She was trying to wrestle with a particularly ungainly sentence when the young man came out of the office, closing the door behind him.
“Good news, Miss Quants,” he said, with an air of pleasant calm. “Mister Olrey says he is familiar with your work and would be happy to meet with you…”
“Great!” Strefer said, cutting him off as she jumped off the couch. “Thank you so much for…”
Before she could finish, he returned the favor and cut her off. “Tomorrow,” he said. “He will be happy to meet with you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Strefer asked as she felt all the energy drain from her body.
“Tomorrow,” the young man repeated. “If that is not satisfactory, you can leave any materials you have with me, and Mister Olrey might be able to look over them today.”
“No, no, that’s all right,” Strefer said, slumping back onto the hard couch. “Mind if I rest up here for a minute? It was a long haul up that hill.”
The young man walked over to his desk and sat down behind it. “You may stay there as long as you like,” he said, his wide grin doing a poor job of masking the disdain in his voice.
~~~~~
Strefer was back the next morning, at the same time and place, once again intercepting the young man as he made his circuit around the gaslights. At first, the delay in actually talking with Olrey infuriated her. But she was determined to make the most of the time and used it to polish her story. She had written it and rewritten it at least half a dozen times, taking breaks to destroy the previous draft in the small brazier that warmed her room. In the end, she had a finely crafted piece of writing. It laid out the facts of the murder, the revelations in the red notebook that presumably provided the motivation for the killer, and the implications of the whole event, weaving them together seamlessly. She was proud of herself.
“Mister Olrey is not in yet,” the young man told her as they walked together outside. “But you are his first priority when he does arrive, I assure you.” They went inside and Strefer reacquainted herself with the overly firm couch. She sat and waited, as patiently as possible, for Olrey to arrive. Over the moments she sat there, Strefer began to wonder if she was being toyed with.
She had nearly lost track of the time when an older man, heavyset with broad shoulders, arrived in the office. He shared a few words with the young man at his desk before turning to her. “Strefer Quants,” he said in a thick, congested voice. “So you are the young lady with the biggest news story in history, eh?”
“Yes, sir, Mister Olrey,” she said, getting up off the couch.
“All right. Well, I do not have a lot of time, but I admire the fact that you came all the way from Tolenor by yourself just to talk to me. Plus, I know you have been doing good work down there. Step into my office.” He opened the door and waved her inside. “I always have a cup of tea in the morning to start my day. Would you care to join me?” he asked as Strefer walked into his office.
“Certainly, sir,” she said.
Olrey ordered the young man outside to get two cups of tea, then closed the door behind him.
A warm flame crackled in the fireplace of the office, which was dominated by several large windows that looked out over the ocean. The arrangement surprised Strefer. She had assumed yesterday that the office looked down on the city, where the news that made up the paper was being made. She stood and absorbed the scene.
“Like the view, do you?” Olrey asked.
“Yes, sir. It’s stunning.”
“But you figured I would have an office overlooking the city, right?”
“No, sir,” Strefer said, the lie not even convincing herself. “I…”
He cut her off. “You figured that, since I run a daily newspaper, I would want to look out over where the news happens, right?”
“That would make some sense, sir,” she said, trying to backtrack a bit.
“Not if you think about it a little more,” he said. “Since I own this newspaper, that also means I own a corps of reporters like you who are running around down there. It is their job to tell me what is happening in Sermont. There is no need for me to see it personally, much less from such a great height. I prefer to look at the ocean and see what none of my correspondents can tell me about. It relaxes me. It makes me step back sometimes when I get bogged down in the little things, the aggravations of the business, and remember the big picture. Make sense?”
Strefer nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“So tell me,” he said, easing himself down into an overstuffed chair behind his desk, “what is happening across the sea that is so important, Strefer?” He motioned for her to sit down in the comfortable, but noticeably less ornate, chair across from him.
She sat down, wondering where to begin. “Well, sir,” she said, pausing to clear her throat before continuing. “Several days ago, a man named Alban, who was the Clerk of the Grand Council of the Triumvirate, was beaten to death in his office. I don’t know if you have heard about any of this, sir.”
Olrey shook his head slowly. “No, not a word. Beaten to death, you say?”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Had his skull crushed in with his own pikti.” With that, she saw the old man’s face flush with confusion. S
he digressed into a bit about Alban’s history and his past service as a Sentinel. He seemed to pause and chew over a few details, but overall did not seem too interested in what she was saying.
When she paused for a moment, Olrey jumped it. “That does sound like a juicy story,” he said. “And it sounds right up your alley, from what I know of your work. But what makes this story so important? Why come all the way here yourself? Have you talked with Tevis about this?”
“No, sir,” she said, stalling while she came up with a plausible reason why she hadn’t. “I thought this story was so important that working through Tevis would delay its publication too much.” Olrey nodded his head and said nothing about it, so Strefer assumed he accepted that reason. “What makes the story so important, sir, is not just the murder itself, but the reason why it was committed.”
“Oh?” Olrey said, with an arched eyebrow. “And what would that be?”
Strefer dug into her pouch and pulled out the latest draft of her story. She handed it to him across the massive wooden desk. “It might be easier just to let you read this draft, sir. It would be quicker.”
“Yes, fine,” he said, leaning forward in his seat and snatching the papers from her. They sat in silence for a few minutes while he flipped through the pages, quickly scanning the words. When he was finished, he placed it on the desk in front of him. “You certainly were not overselling this story, Strefer. That counts for something,” he said, his face turning deadly serious. “What, or who, is your source for this?”
Strefer decided this was not a time to indulge in false modesty. “I was able to talk my way into the crime scene, sir,” she said. “I was in the office itself, albeit after Alban’s body had been removed.” He sat motionless, giving no indication of what he thought about this. “Sir, I’ve spent three years on the streets of Tolenor with the Sentinels who keep the peace there. I know them. They know me. I cultivated those relationships precisely so if something like this happened, something that was being hushed up behind closed doors, I could get inside.”
