The Drunken Jester was larger than Redgenald expected… to say the least. Instead of a tavern with a shoddy sign depicting the picture of a colorful three-pointed floppy hat with bells, he got one that arched over an entrance as wide as some streets, boldly displaying the name. In fact, it was wider than the packed road he was on from a practical perspective.

While the street itself could let forty men march abreast with room to spare, the actual accessible walkway was far smaller. Carriages, horses, and hand-pulled rickshaws were everywhere along the sides of the avenue. The only saving grace was that the parking was organized into distinct groups, as it was clear that some of the carriages belonged to influential families trying to appear incognito. Putting aside their utter failure, the establishment was getting far more business than it had the capacity to handle, at least where parking was concerned.

Inside, Redgenald couldn't say if the capacity issue still held true, even as the patrons were packed into an enclosed open-air square, constantly bumping into each other. Some were standing around tall tables, while others stood around open braziers. All of them were either drinking from cups Redgenald assumed were filled with wine or eating.

Boisterous laughter filled the night, and shouts of appreciation followed the scantily clad women serving the food and drinks as they danced through the crowd carrying large trays. Not that the roar of voices was all there was to listen to, as the courtyard was filled with the twang of instruments and soft singing. All of which originated from the center of the square, where there was a five-foot-tall platform that dancers, singers, and musicians performed on.

Once Redgenald processed the center, his gaze naturally shifted to the edges of the enclosure as he looked under the overhang that covered the large elevated patio. While the common man gathered in the center, those of a higher birth lounged in isolated booths. Women draped themselves over the young men in those areas, who appeared to be in small groups as often as they were alone, feeding them and pouring them drinks while giggling or smiling shyly.

Scattered among the alcoves were hallways leading deeper into the complex of buildings, where Redgenald had no doubt that those who desired could partake of pleasures that either were not meant to occur under the public eye or were not entirely legal. Some straight laced individuals might not agree that the inquisitors should be in control of this market, but it was the same reasoning that led to him being a gang leader.

Someone was going to supply the less-than-legal demands, and if you controlled the market, you could put some limitations on them. That might not be an acceptable rationalization to some, but it was enough for the reaper. Not to mention, the inquisitors' purpose was to ferret out the hidden threats to the Republic. You can't do that without wading through some shit.

"Stay at the bar," Redgenald ordered Kathren, flicking his wrist toward the right side of the square. "Don't start anything." The woman turned to him, her face filled with indignation. She opened her mouth, probably to say something about going with him or not to order her around, but the words died on her tongue. Redgenald had stepped closer to her and loomed over the woman, flaring his psy and pressing it against her mind.

Her face went ghastly pale, and she staggered backward. Kathren would have fallen if Redgenald's hand hadn't snapped out, grabbing her by the cloak and pulling her close. Leaning down, he put his lips next to her ear and spoke, "You might have grown up on the streets, but I belong to a world you do not comprehend, and cannot hope to survive in. Accept your limitations, and do not make others suffer for your pride."

Giving her a little push toward the bar, Redgenald released the casting and turned to walk deeper into the crowd. Whether it was the revelry, the wine, or his control over his casting, no one noticed what he had done to the scout. Not that anyone would care even if they did. From an outside perspective, it looked like nothing more than a noble ordering around a servant who had displeased them.

Throwing a glance over his shoulder to ensure Kathren was moving to the bar, Redgenald breathed a sigh of relief before stilling his face and squaring his shoulders. Mentally tugging on the leash connecting him to Drogaith, ensuring he was closely following, the reaper resolutely marched forward.

Stopping before one of the attendants standing at one of the entrances leading deeper into the complex, Redgenald said, "I have business with the owner of this establishment. Take me to a private room to wait for his convenience."

The attendant's face didn't so much as flicker at the arrogant statement, as if he had heard such words a hundred times. But there was a spark of condescension deep in his eyes as he opened his mouth to speak, only for the spark to die as his mouth snapped shut. Redgenald had removed his pin marking him as an Inquisitor before he left the estate, as there was no reason to wear it outside for anyone to see, and when he flashed it at the young man, the response was instant.

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"Of course, Domine," the man said, falling into a low bow and sweeping his arm down the hallway, a hint of reverence and fear in his voice. "If you would follow me, I will take you to your meeting."

Without saying another word, the three set off down the passage, passing others along the way. As was the case in the front portion of the business, most of the proprietors were men, but a surprising number were veiled women. Though they all seemed to share glassy eyes, having downed more than one cup in their time at the 'tavern…' if such a word still applied.

Redgenald wasn't too sure. Shouldn't a 'tavern' only apply to a single building? And this was for damn sure not a single building.

After turning down and traversing more than a dozen hallways and a few open courtyards, the attendant opened the door to a room and motioned for Redgenald to enter. "The Owner will be with you momentarily."

Nodding in acknowledgment, Redgenald stepped through the doorway. It was a small sitting room, with a handful of chairs positioned around a table that featured a bowl of fruit, a pitcher, and glasses placed in the center. "Stand over there," the inquisitor ordered, motioning to a corner of the room. Without a word, his shadow moved to the spot and turned around to face the door, freezing in place like he was a statue.

Pouring himself a cup of wine, Redgenald took a seat and waited, trying to suppress his nervous tension. He was barely seated long enough to finish half a cup before the door opened, and an old man walked in. He wasn't alone, as an average-looking young woman in a loose white blouse and slacks was a step behind him.

"Ahh!" exclaimed the bald man with liver spots on his head. "Redgenald, I was not expecting to see you. The last I heard, you were still up in the Triad. Oh, and Fraylin, would you be a dear and have the staff bring us some tea?"

"Of course, Jester." Immediately turning on her heel, the blond-haired woman stepped out of the room.

"So, what is your explanation for being here?" the old man asked, a perpetual smile on his face, but it never reached his eyes. As he was smiling, a psychic mountain had landed upon Redgenald's mind, crushing him from all sides as it brushed past his mental defenses, and peered into his thoughts.

"I serve the Republic." Stated Redgenald, his voice strained. At his words, and the clear and unobstructed intent that radiated through his mind, the pressure lessened, but it did not vanish. It simply pulled back, waiting to be sent forth again, as there was little to no trust among the inquisitorial ranks. Multiple hard lessons had long taught them that there couldn't be.

Inquisitors were trained and expected to shield their minds from external influences to the best of their abilities at all times. To manipulate others' minds and spread the truth. With all of that training and far more, many were assigned to positions with little to no oversight, and few knew who they were really serving. No matter how loyal people were in their early years, as the decades passed, thoughts would begin to pop up. Ideas that they could make a better life if they used their abilities for their own benefit, and forsook their duty.

"What was the last message you received from me?" Redgenald asked, further lessening the mental pressure as the old man frowned.

"Now this is troubling." The Jester said, his perpetual smile faltering to be replaced with a frown for a moment. "Thank you, dear."

Eyes snapping to the side, Redgenald noticed that the woman was back, silently standing at the edge of the table, pouring tea into two cups. Redgeanld had no memory of when she reentered the room… meaning that he could have been talking to the Jester, one of their three bishops in the Inquisitorial Order, for hours. Or his mind could have blanked out for a matter of seconds. There was no way to know the truth without asking, and that wasn't going to get him anything of substance.

"As to your question," The Jester said, raising the small cup of tea up to his nose and inhaling the aroma with closed eyes. "The last report I received was on the fall of Southtown, and Victorus Ponpti's efforts to integrate their family into the construction of the imminent Westtown. For such a momentous event, the report was rather barebones. But it was the north, and no one was overly concerned with the Imperium's spies reaping a swath through our ranks. Still, I was anticipating something more, and with your late report, I was rather irritated with you."

That was the closest Redgenald was going to get to an apology, and the Silver-Ranked Inquisitor bowed his head in acceptance. "I must ask," Redgenald hesitantly said, waiting until the old man dipped his head before continuing, "did my report say anything about the Letairry?"

Holding his cup in place, the Gold-ranked Inquisitor responded, "Yes. We are aware of their infiltration and sabotage of the city. And that they were the ones who infiltrated Basetown. We have taken steps to ensure it will not occur again and sent additional Inquisitors to Cross."

"But you did not receive my report of the Kin delegation, or the potential of an alliance with them."

"No… It appears that our information network has, at least partially, been compromised." The man said, as the mental pressure he had been continuously putting on Redgenald pulsed, ensuring that the younger man hadn't attempted to construct any mental shields. Already, his mind was aching from the pain, and it felt like two burning coals had been implanted behind his eyes.

Someone watching the scene might ask why the conversation wasn't being conducted mentally, especially if they had the possibility of bringing up sensitive information. There were two reasons: the first was that the room was isolated and watched closely enough that the chance of anyone unintentionally overhearing was low.

The second was as cruel as it was necessary. A slow, drawn-out conversation, while the inquisitor's mind was being compressed, stabbed, scraped, and subjected to any number of other torments, made it all but impossible for one to conceal information and lie in the long term. Not impossible, but it was so unlikely that it might as well not be mentioned. And it was the reason Redgenald brought Kathren with him… He needed someone to escort him back to the estate after his will was nearly broken following this interrogation.

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