Chapter 378: No One Is a Fool

On the evening of January 8, Richard was called to the small conference room in the department office.

Croft and Greer were already seated inside.

Greer shook his bushy beard.

"The Imperial Capital General Administration transferred the matter of that Rune Anchor Talisman to the Military Intelligence Department.

"The Military Intelligence Department replied with a memo saying it 'has been incorporated into the comprehensive wartime intelligence analysis sequence.'"

"Which means they shoved it in a filing cabinet," Croft said, rolling his eyes.

"I can write that kind of nonsense too. It's the exact same phrasing I use in my annual rejection letters to students."

"What do you think the higher-ups are planning?" Richard asked.

Greer hesitated, swallowing his words.

Croft spoke for him. As the one with the more venomous tongue, he stepped in to say what Greer found too impolitic to voice.

"The higher-ups held a coordination meeting.

"The Church, the Guild, the Branch Office, and the Military. All four factions sat down at the same table."

He picked up his cup of bitter tea and took a sip.

"The Church's representative struck first.

"He declared that spiritualist heresy was corrupting the faithful and ruining public morals, demanding a total ban on all civilian spirit communication activities.

"He spoke with such impassioned righteousness, citing scripture so fervently, that everyone present was visibly moved."

Croft let out a laugh.

"Of course, the Church doesn't actually care about the corruption of their flock's souls. What really bothers them is mediums stealing the priests' livelihoods.

"In the past, when someone died, widows and old women would run to the church and toss coins into the donation boxes.

"Now when someone dies, they run to the mediums' shops, and all that money flows straight into Flower Moon Street."

Greer cleared his throat beside him, a silent signal that Croft had said enough.

Croft ignored him.

"The Guild's representative spoke next. He claimed all their manpower had been redeployed to the coast and the front lines.

"He argued that only the old and weak were left to patrol the Imperial Capital's rear, leaving them without the resources for any kind of sweep."

"That much is actually true," Greer chimed in.

"It is true," Croft agreed with a nod.

"But after telling the truth, the Guild's representative immediately changed his tune. He said the Guild could cooperate with a sweep, provided 'additional personnel quotas and special funding are allocated first.'"

"What about the Branch Office?" Richard asked.

Croft mocked their bureaucratic tone.

"'We fully understand the concerns of all parties and will actively research feasible solutions.'"

"That's the Branch Office for you. The people who do the actual work all died, and the ones who do the talking all got promoted."

"And the Military?"

"The Military's representative only asked a single question."

Croft pushed up his glasses.

"He asked, 'Do these spirit-summoning activities pose a direct threat to front-line security?'

"The answer was that there was no direct evidence at this time.

"So the Military representative declared it wasn't their jurisdiction, closed his folder, and walked out."

Greer spoke up.

"All four factions just talked past each other. The next coordination meeting is scheduled for the end of January."

"The end of January?" Richard was speechless.

"Yes, the end of January." An unrestrained sneer of sarcasm stretched across Croft's face.

"Don't complain about the pace. That last coordination meeting regarding wartime blackout standards took six weeks from proposal to implementation.

"And a blackout is something you can actually see. The fallout from this spirit-summoning trend hasn't even begun to truly ferment yet."

Greer added the final, crushing layer of reality.

"Besides, the front lines are still fighting, and the casualty lists just keep growing. The public is furious. They're one step away from taking to the streets in protest.

"If you jump out right now and tell everyone, 'You are forbidden to mourn your sons who died in the trenches, forbidden to sing, and forbidden to light candles for spirit communication'..."

"What do you think those gentlemen in Parliament would do?"

"Votes," Richard blurted out.

Greer looked up at him but didn't respond.

Croft, however, let out a scoff.

"See? Even a prep student knows.

"At a critical juncture like this, whoever steps forward to issue a ban becomes public enemy number one.

"They call the Empire an empire, but it's not actually a centralized state. No one has the power to force a decree through with a single word.

"Parliament, the Church, the House of Lords, the Military, the Department of Internal Affairs... everyone only looks out for their own jurisdiction."

He flipped his empty teacup upside down and slammed it onto the desk.

"No one is a fool, Williams.

"Every person in that room is incredibly shrewd. They've all calculated the pros and cons with absolute precision.

"They each made the most advantageous choice for themselves. Taken individually, every single one of those choices is flawless."

Croft stood up and pushed his chair in.

"But when you stack all those flawless choices together, you end up with a pile of shit!

"No one made a mistake, yet nothing got done.

"Because those who take action have to bear the risks, while those who do nothing only have to wait for someone else to move first.

"Everyone is waiting. Everyone is watching. Everyone is calculating.

"And by the time the calculations are done, the window for any salvageable action will have slipped right through everyone's fingers."

By the time Richard walked out of that small conference room, the sky was completely dark.

He stood by the hallway window, looking at the sparse, starlike flicker of gas lamps in the distant Imperial Capital Urban District.

Since the blackout was enforced, the Imperial Capital's nights had grown much darker than before.

Among the lights that still burned, he wondered how many living rooms were currently drawing their curtains, lighting candles, and bringing out wax phonograph cylinders.

Richard thought of someone.

Madam Marie.

If she were willing to step forward, things could be different.

She couldn't control the mouths and hands of millions of imperial citizens, but she held absolute sway over the mediums' network.

If she mobilized her connections and commanded every medium under her influence... the spread of this spirit-summoning fever could be cut by at least half.

But the sweep for the internal traitor had yielded no results so far. Without catching the mole, everyone remained on edge.

The higher-ups needed Madam Marie, yet they guarded against her at the same time.

Why would she step forward to help?

If she helped, the credit would go to someone else; if things went wrong, she would shoulder the blame alone.

Richard wasn't surprised in the slightest that she had chosen to play it safe and protect herself.

...

January 9, King's Cross Railway Station.

Gerard arrived early.

He wore a dark gray hunting suit designed for ease of movement, the brim of his hat pulled low.

He clutched his train ticket and a copy of the day's newspaper bought from the station kiosk. The paper remained unfolded.

Richard followed behind him. His canvas bag held his preliminary research notes, his Portable Curios, and his Spellcasting Media.

After their tickets were checked at the gate, the two men walked down the corridor deep onto the platform.

The military train formation occupied the first eight carriages, their grayish-green exteriors stamped with serial numbers.

A middle-aged man in uniform waited on the boarding steps.

"Sir Gerard." The man bowed slightly. "This way, please."

The two of them boarded the train.

The interior of the carriage had been modified, partitioned into three small private compartments and a slightly larger public cabin.

"Let's sit and rest for a bit." Gerard took a window seat, removing his hat and placing it on his lap.

"Not everyone is here yet. The train won't leave for another hour."

Richard sat across from him and pulled a stack of preliminary research notes on the Rune Glyphs from his canvas bag.

He planned to use this hour to finish up the last few pages.

Gerard opened his newspaper but quickly closed it again.

"Today's paper is still going on about the fallout from the Christmas Truce."

He folded the paper and tossed it onto the corner of the table.

"Someone in the House of Commons proposed investigating who was responsible for the Christmas Truce, claiming it 'undermined military discipline.'"

"Undermined military discipline." Richard looked up from his notes.

"The soldiers stopped fighting on their own, but someone has to take the blame. That's administrative logic for you."

Gerard snorted.

The train still hadn't moved.

The rapid clatter of military boots echoing against the concrete drifted in from the platform, occasionally mixed with the sharp blast of a whistle.

The first group to board consisted of three people.

Richard had already met the man at the front during his time at the club—the Imperial Capital's Chief Inspector, Old Phillips.

He wore a gray trench coat with the collar turned up high. An accompanying adjutant carried his briefcase.

The man spotted Gerard first and gave a nod.

Then his gaze shifted to Richard, pausing for about half a second.

"We meet again."

The person boarding right behind the Chief Inspector took Richard by surprise.

Phillips was actually here too.

He ambled up the steps with an old book tucked under his arm, procured from who knew where.

The only difference was that his free hand wasn't holding a teapot; his father had probably confiscated it beforehand.

"Yo." Phillips's eyes lit up when he saw his tea buddy.

"You're here too?"

"Scholar's observation," Richard replied.

"Observation is great." Phillips found a seat next to Richard, slumping down and tossing his old book onto the table.

Richard glanced at the cover: A History of Lighthouse Architecture Along the North Sea Coast.

What did this have to do with an exorcism operation?

The answer, of course, was nothing. Phillips never needed a reason to read anything.

"Sit properly," the Chief Inspector's voice snapped from the other side.

Phillips's back straightened reflexively.

The Chief Inspector didn't spare his youngest son another glance. He had already taken a seat opposite Gerard.

The adjutant pulled out several folders, arranging them neatly by category.

"We're picking up groups at both York Station and Scarborough Station."

The Chief Inspector flipped through a folder.

"Associate Professor Corbin is boarding at York, and the Montagu family is getting on at the same stop. Alexander is coming with his uncle."

He pushed a page of the roster to the center of the table and tapped the very last line with his index finger.

"Boarding at Scarborough Station is Hathaway, a hidden one from the Civilian Guild's Whitby Branch."

"I know Hathaway," Gerard added.

"She's been guarding those sea cliffs for nearly twenty years."

"Yes, she's more familiar with the local sealing system than the people from the Branch Office."

The Chief Inspector closed the roster.

Richard glanced to the side out of the corner of his eye.

Phillips had already opened that book on lighthouse architecture and was reading it with keen interest, his legs crossed.

His father was studying the cross-sectional view of the Whitby caves, while he was examining the 1847 masonry structure of the Scarborough lighthouse.

The father and son sat across the table, each doing their own thing, without exchanging a single extraneous glance.

Richard leaned back in his chair. Old Phillips had probably spent eighteen years trying to reason with him and concluded it was utterly useless.

Now he had switched tactics. No more talking; just come and see for yourself.

"Right, about that appraisal report your grandson provided last time."

The Chief Inspector suddenly brought it up while flipping through the documents.

"I submitted it upward, and the Military Intelligence Department replied with a standard form letter."

"I know," Gerard nodded. "My daughter submitted it to the Academy System's side as well, and they came to a similar conclusion."

"A similar conclusion." The Chief Inspector closed the folder with a light sigh.

With a low hum, the train lurched into motion. The carriage shuddered, and the platform began to slide backward.

It didn't take long for Phillips to grow restless.

He patted his coat pockets, rubbing his fingers together somewhat uncomfortably.

Two minutes later, he patted them again. Still nothing.

"Where's your teapot?" Richard asked in a low voice.

"Before we left, my dad told me to leave that piece of junk at home."

Phillips's voice was barely a whisper as he shot a glance toward the Chief Inspector.

"I hid it in my coat's inner pocket, but he searched me and found it before we walked out the door."

"...Searched you?"

"Standard procedure," Phillips said, completely deadpan.

"It's been like this since I was ten. I get patted down every time before I leave the house.

"Used to be for snacks. Now it's for teapots."

He slumped flat against the table, his face devoid of any will to live.

"Without tea to drink, what's the point of being alive?"