153 Strange Rule
Standing before the white globe-shaped statue, an assemblage of countless skulls, in the Salle de Bal Brise,
Lumian paused. His eyes scanned the Intis inscription—”They sleep here, waiting for the arrival of happiness and hope.”
Pulling his gaze from the statue, he strode toward the entrance.
Two henchmen, donned in crisp white shirts and dark overcoats, spun on their heels to face him,
“Good morning, Ciel.”
They’d been buzzing with the whispers about this brash newcomer who’d reportedly offed Margot and left Wilson licking his wounds, all within a few fleeting days. It was no secret that he’d been roped into the Savoie Mob.
“Good morning, my cabbages,” Lumian tossed back, his lips curling into a grin as he borrowed Dariège’s pet phrase.
The Salle de Bal Brise was still waking up. Waitstaff moved with placid efficiency, arranging chairs, scrubbing the floors.
Lumian had intended to seek out Louis, a familiar face. No need to ruffle the feathers of Baron Brignais over such small matters. But there, nestled at the bar, sat Maxime—the very same one who’d tailed him.
Maxime, still sporting his trademark cap, drank a pint of rye beer.
A smirk spread across Lumian’s face as he sauntered over.
Perceiving a presence nearing him, Maxime, out of habit, flicked a sidelong glance.
He went rigid, as though struck by a sudden frost.
In the next heartbeat, he vaulted off his stool and swiveled toward Lumian, plastering on a toadying grin.
“Good morning, Ciel.”
He too had caught wind of the rumors—of Ciel’s assassination of Margot and the defenestration of Wilson from the fourth floor of Auberge du Coq Doré.
A surge of relief washed over him. Thank the stars he hadn’t pushed his luck when he’d been nabbed tailing Ciel. Considering Ciel’s penchant for violence, he could’ve easily ended up as fodder for the rats in some godforsaken corner of Underground Trier.
This man was a bona fide killing machine. No qualms, no hesitation!
Lumian smiled.
“Merely ‘Ciel’ doesn’t quite ring with the proper respect, does it?”
Seeing Maxime blanch, Lumian added,
“I’m curious as to when I’ll hear ‘Baron Ciel’ rolling off your tongue.”
This was a jest, yes, but also a thinly veiled indication of his ambition—to rise to the ranks of the Savoie Mob leadership, and sooner rather than later.
His internal dialogue sang a different tune: I’d call you ‘Baron’ this very moment if it kept you happy, just like our ‘Baron’ isn’t a real baron, but a self-proclaimed one.
Lumian claimed a stool at the bar and patted the one next to him.
“Have a seat. I have a few questions for you.”
Maxime swiftly obliged, gesturing to the rye beer before him. “Fancy a pint?”
“Ranger for me, if you please,” Lumian responded without missing a beat.
A ‘Ranger’—a tangy blend of orange and pomegranate beer—cost two licks more than the rye.
Though it pinched his pocket, Maxime hollered over to the bartender, “A glass of Ranger.”
Swiveling back towards Lumian, he flashed a grin.
“What would you like to know?”
Lumian bided his time until the generous pint of the orange-colored beer was delivered before launching his inquiry, “How did you join our Savoie Mob?”
“I’m Savoie born and bred.” Maxime gestured to his weather-beaten features. “Hopped over to Trier in search of greener pastures, but my buddy who’d put me up had already joined the Savoie Mob.”
The Savoie Mob was the brainchild of a handful of Savoie natives who’d made their living as laborers, servants, and peddlers in Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman. They were a fierce lot, unafraid to put themselves in harm’s way, and they’d quickly carved out their own slice of the pie. As the mob’s influence grew, they began to pull in recruits from other provinces and even Trier locals, but the heart of the organization still came from Savoie.
Lumian gave a slight nod, steering the conversation to his next question,
“And is Baron Brignais the head honcho of the whole Savoie Mob?”
“No.” Maxime stared at Lumian, aghast.
He’d joined the mob without even grasping the basics?
And he’d taken out Margot and severely injured Wilson in the name of the Savoie Mob!
Lumian took a leisurely sip of his orange-pomegranate beer, a playful grin adorning his face.
“I was under the impression that Baron Brignais was the head honcho. I mean, his swagger, his flair, his brawn… how could he not be the top dog?”
Maxime recoiled in terror, clapping a hand over Lumian’s mouth.
Were such words safe to spill in such an open area?
If word got back to that person, it could put a serious kink in his relationship with the baron!
Maxime wasted no time in setting the record straight.
“The baron is in charge of the Salle de Bal Brise, Avenue du Marché, and the loan shark operations. His peers include “Rat” Christo who oversees smuggling, “Giant” Simon who runs the dance joints on Rue du Rossignol, “Red Boots” Franca who oversees Rue des Blouses Blanches, and “Bloody Palm” Black who controls half of Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman.
“There’s a top dog above them, but I’ve never laid eyes on him nor do I know who he is.”
In a hushed voice, Maxime added, “Rumor has it he’s a legitimate merchant, a card-carrying member of the Savoie Chamber of Commerce. And he’s no small fry, either.”
A member of the Savoie Chamber of Commerce? So, the Chamber of Commerce is backing a mob to handle their dirty laundry and keep the competition in check… Lumian pieced together the puzzle from his own experiences as a drifter, snippets from Aurore’s offhand comments, and a smattering of books, magazines, and newspapers he’d devoured at home.
News of Ciel’s arrival at the Salle de Bal Brise reached Louis, Baron Brignais’ shadow. He made a beeline for the bar, his heart pounding with worry that the audacious country boy was about to stir the pot yet again!
He was really worried that the bold country boy would cause trouble again!
Finding Lumian engrossed in conversation with Maxime, Louis slid onto a stool on the other side, easing into the chat, “What’s got you coming to the Salle de Bal Brise at this hour?”
Lumian shot him a sly smile. “I’ve got a favor to ask.”
Louis, his forehead still sporting a nasty bruise, shrank back at the sight of Lumian’s grin.
“What is it?”
Sensing they were about to dive into heavier matters, Maxime beat a hasty retreat from the bar, nursing his rye beer closer to the dance floor.
Lumian retracted his gaze and said slowly, “I need you to fetch me a lizard’s eye, a rock from an eagle’s nest, and a snake’s venom gland.”
He kept the full list of the Prophecy Spell’s ingredients under wraps, planning to source them from different places.
“What do you need those for?” Louis found the trio of items vile and bizarre.
Lumian chuckled. “Remember how Margot bit the dust?”
Louis felt a chill run down his spine. It felt like a veiled threat, and it was working!
I’m not trying to rattle you… Lumian snickered to himself.
“I stabbed him. My blade was laced with poison.”
“Right,” Louis remembered Ciel’s chat with Baron Brignais.
Seeing Louis still hadn’t caught on, Lumian mentally berated, Why is this guy denser than Charlie?
He sighed, spelling it out for him. “Those items are to whip up another batch of poison.”
“What are you planning?” Louis nearly jumped out of his skin.
He had a hunch Lumian was about to stir the pot.
“Self-defense,” Lumian replied tersely.
With no grounds to object, Louis let out a sigh of relief, promising,
“I’ll get someone on the job to collect those three items for you.”
He ran through the list of items again, making sure he’d got it straight.
Once he’d confirmed the details, Lumian took a swig of his Ranger, switching gears.
“Ever heard of the Salle de Bal Unique?”
Louis eyed Lumian suspiciously, advising, “Best steer clear of that place. The dance hall’s owner, Timmons, is tight with the police commissioner of Quartier de l’Observatoire. And there’s a shadowy organization pulling his strings. Anyone who’s tried to squeeze them has found themselves in a world of hurt, and some have even vanished off the face of the world.”
Each quartier in Trier had its own police headquarters, each headed by a commissioner.
The police commissioner’s official title was the Commissioner of the Trier Police Affairs Committee, answering to the Minister of the Trier Police Department.
So that’s why the Poison Spur Mob never had the guts to chase up Timmons’ debt… Lumian nodded, deep in thought.
Seeing the worry etched on Louis’s face, afraid he was about to stir up a hornet’s nest, Lumian threw him a curveball.
“Who else in the Poison Spur Mob ranks up there with Margot? And who’s their boss?”
What are you trying to do? Louis almost blurted out.
Could it be that Ciel’s planning to knock off all the heavy hitters in the Poison Spur Mob?
Are you out of your mind?
Keeping his cool, Louis replied, “That’s none of your concern right now.”
Lumian responded with a knowing smile, not pushing the matter. He downed his Ranger.
…
In the shadowy enclave of Quartier de l’Observatoire, nestled near the catacombs,
Lumian found Osta Trul huddled by the bonfire.
He laughed mockingly.
“You’re the most professional person I’ve ever come across.”
Like clockwork, Osta was here seven days a week, peddling his con.
“I’d love to be soaking myself on some beach, but my debts tell a different story.” The thought of hopping a steam locomotive out of Trier and dodging his outstanding loans had crossed Osta’s mind. Yet, each time he made it as far as the station, Baron Brignais’s goons would be there to give him a good thrashing.
This had instilled in him a healthy fear of the Baron’s reach, and he’d since abandoned any such ideas.
“I need you to fetch me a few things,” Lumian cut to the chase, settling down beside Osta. “For each item you bring, there’s an extra 5 verl d’or in it for you.”
Osta’s eyes sparked with interest.
“What are you after?”
Lumian stared into the fire, his voice low. “Lynx innards, hyena tongue, stag bone marrow, and any deadly herb.”
“They’re not easy to come by.” Osta tried to haggle.
He’d already made up his mind to scour the eateries in Quartier de l’Observatoire.
Lumian brushed him off, changing the subject. “Where can I find aquatic monsters in Trier?”
Osta pondered a moment before replying, “There’s an underground river in the catacombs nearby, fed by the Srenzo River. Every so often, someone claims to have run into an aquatic monster. And occasionally, some surface along the Srenzo River banks, but they’re quickly dispatched by the Purifiers or the Machinery Hivemind.”
Lumian nodded. “Do you know the Salle de Bal Unique?”
“Sure do.” Osta pointed skyward. “It’s over on Rue Ancienne, right by Place du Purgatoire.”
“1 verl d’or. Show me the way.” Lumian rose to his feet.
He planned to scope out the place, gather what intel he could. If it was a dead end, he’d move on.
In no time, Osta was leading Lumian topside, veering into Rue Ancienne near the square, and halting in front of a vintage edifice.
The building, a somber shade of blue-gray, retained its pre-Roselle charm.
Classic pediments, a chevron roof, and leaded windows.
The Salle de Bal Unique occupied the ground floor, its entrance resembling a giant maw.
It happened to be past noon, and a carriage pulled up to the curb as three men and a woman alighted.
Dressed in dark short suits, they sauntered towards the Salle de Bal Unique.
As they neared the entrance, each member of the quartet produced a monocle, fitting it over their right eye.
Watching this, Lumian turned to Osta, bemusement written all over his face.
Osta, flashing a knowing smile, enlightened him, “That’s one of Salle de Bal Unique’s rules. Everyone who steps inside must be donning a short suit and a monocle.”
153 Strange Rule
Standing before the white globe-shaped statue, an assemblage of countless skulls, in the Salle de Bal Brise,
Lumian paused. His eyes scanned the Intis inscription—”They sleep here, waiting for the arrival of happiness and hope.”
Pulling his gaze from the statue, he strode toward the entrance.
Two henchmen, donned in crisp white shirts and dark overcoats, spun on their heels to face him,
“Good morning, Ciel.”
They’d been buzzing with the whispers about this brash newcomer who’d reportedly offed Margot and left Wilson licking his wounds, all within a few fleeting days. It was no secret that he’d been roped into the Savoie Mob.
“Good morning, my cabbages,” Lumian tossed back, his lips curling into a grin as he borrowed Dariège’s pet phrase.
The Salle de Bal Brise was still waking up. Waitstaff moved with placid efficiency, arranging chairs, scrubbing the floors.
Lumian had intended to seek out Louis, a familiar face. No need to ruffle the feathers of Baron Brignais over such small matters. But there, nestled at the bar, sat Maxime—the very same one who’d tailed him.
Maxime, still sporting his trademark cap, drank a pint of rye beer.
A smirk spread across Lumian’s face as he sauntered over.
Perceiving a presence nearing him, Maxime, out of habit, flicked a sidelong glance.
He went rigid, as though struck by a sudden frost.
In the next heartbeat, he vaulted off his stool and swiveled toward Lumian, plastering on a toadying grin.
“Good morning, Ciel.”
He too had caught wind of the rumors—of Ciel’s assassination of Margot and the defenestration of Wilson from the fourth floor of Auberge du Coq Doré.
A surge of relief washed over him. Thank the stars he hadn’t pushed his luck when he’d been nabbed tailing Ciel. Considering Ciel’s penchant for violence, he could’ve easily ended up as fodder for the rats in some godforsaken corner of Underground Trier.
This man was a bona fide killing machine. No qualms, no hesitation!
Lumian smiled.
“Merely ‘Ciel’ doesn’t quite ring with the proper respect, does it?”
Seeing Maxime blanch, Lumian added,
“I’m curious as to when I’ll hear ‘Baron Ciel’ rolling off your tongue.”
This was a jest, yes, but also a thinly veiled indication of his ambition—to rise to the ranks of the Savoie Mob leadership, and sooner rather than later.
His internal dialogue sang a different tune: I’d call you ‘Baron’ this very moment if it kept you happy, just like our ‘Baron’ isn’t a real baron, but a self-proclaimed one.
Lumian claimed a stool at the bar and patted the one next to him.
“Have a seat. I have a few questions for you.”
Maxime swiftly obliged, gesturing to the rye beer before him. “Fancy a pint?”
“Ranger for me, if you please,” Lumian responded without missing a beat.
A ‘Ranger’—a tangy blend of orange and pomegranate beer—cost two licks more than the rye.
Though it pinched his pocket, Maxime hollered over to the bartender, “A glass of Ranger.”
Swiveling back towards Lumian, he flashed a grin.
“What would you like to know?”
Lumian bided his time until the generous pint of the orange-colored beer was delivered before launching his inquiry, “How did you join our Savoie Mob?”
“I’m Savoie born and bred.” Maxime gestured to his weather-beaten features. “Hopped over to Trier in search of greener pastures, but my buddy who’d put me up had already joined the Savoie Mob.”
The Savoie Mob was the brainchild of a handful of Savoie natives who’d made their living as laborers, servants, and peddlers in Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman. They were a fierce lot, unafraid to put themselves in harm’s way, and they’d quickly carved out their own slice of the pie. As the mob’s influence grew, they began to pull in recruits from other provinces and even Trier locals, but the heart of the organization still came from Savoie.
Lumian gave a slight nod, steering the conversation to his next question,
“And is Baron Brignais the head honcho of the whole Savoie Mob?”
“No.” Maxime stared at Lumian, aghast.
He’d joined the mob without even grasping the basics?
And he’d taken out Margot and severely injured Wilson in the name of the Savoie Mob!
Lumian took a leisurely sip of his orange-pomegranate beer, a playful grin adorning his face.
“I was under the impression that Baron Brignais was the head honcho. I mean, his swagger, his flair, his brawn… how could he not be the top dog?”
Maxime recoiled in terror, clapping a hand over Lumian’s mouth.
Were such words safe to spill in such an open area?
If word got back to that person, it could put a serious kink in his relationship with the baron!
Maxime wasted no time in setting the record straight.
“The baron is in charge of the Salle de Bal Brise, Avenue du Marché, and the loan shark operations. His peers include “Rat” Christo who oversees smuggling, “Giant” Simon who runs the dance joints on Rue du Rossignol, “Red Boots” Franca who oversees Rue des Blouses Blanches, and “Bloody Palm” Black who controls half of Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman.
“There’s a top dog above them, but I’ve never laid eyes on him nor do I know who he is.”
In a hushed voice, Maxime added, “Rumor has it he’s a legitimate merchant, a card-carrying member of the Savoie Chamber of Commerce. And he’s no small fry, either.”
A member of the Savoie Chamber of Commerce? So, the Chamber of Commerce is backing a mob to handle their dirty laundry and keep the competition in check… Lumian pieced together the puzzle from his own experiences as a drifter, snippets from Aurore’s offhand comments, and a smattering of books, magazines, and newspapers he’d devoured at home.
News of Ciel’s arrival at the Salle de Bal Brise reached Louis, Baron Brignais’ shadow. He made a beeline for the bar, his heart pounding with worry that the audacious country boy was about to stir the pot yet again!
He was really worried that the bold country boy would cause trouble again!
Finding Lumian engrossed in conversation with Maxime, Louis slid onto a stool on the other side, easing into the chat, “What’s got you coming to the Salle de Bal Brise at this hour?”
Lumian shot him a sly smile. “I’ve got a favor to ask.”
Louis, his forehead still sporting a nasty bruise, shrank back at the sight of Lumian’s grin.
“What is it?”
Sensing they were about to dive into heavier matters, Maxime beat a hasty retreat from the bar, nursing his rye beer closer to the dance floor.
Lumian retracted his gaze and said slowly, “I need you to fetch me a lizard’s eye, a rock from an eagle’s nest, and a snake’s venom gland.”
He kept the full list of the Prophecy Spell’s ingredients under wraps, planning to source them from different places.
“What do you need those for?” Louis found the trio of items vile and bizarre.
Lumian chuckled. “Remember how Margot bit the dust?”
Louis felt a chill run down his spine. It felt like a veiled threat, and it was working!
I’m not trying to rattle you… Lumian snickered to himself.
“I stabbed him. My blade was laced with poison.”
“Right,” Louis remembered Ciel’s chat with Baron Brignais.
Seeing Louis still hadn’t caught on, Lumian mentally berated, Why is this guy denser than Charlie?
He sighed, spelling it out for him. “Those items are to whip up another batch of poison.”
“What are you planning?” Louis nearly jumped out of his skin.
He had a hunch Lumian was about to stir the pot.
“Self-defense,” Lumian replied tersely.
With no grounds to object, Louis let out a sigh of relief, promising,
“I’ll get someone on the job to collect those three items for you.”
He ran through the list of items again, making sure he’d got it straight.
Once he’d confirmed the details, Lumian took a swig of his Ranger, switching gears.
“Ever heard of the Salle de Bal Unique?”
Louis eyed Lumian suspiciously, advising, “Best steer clear of that place. The dance hall’s owner, Timmons, is tight with the police commissioner of Quartier de l’Observatoire. And there’s a shadowy organization pulling his strings. Anyone who’s tried to squeeze them has found themselves in a world of hurt, and some have even vanished off the face of the world.”
Each quartier in Trier had its own police headquarters, each headed by a commissioner.
The police commissioner’s official title was the Commissioner of the Trier Police Affairs Committee, answering to the Minister of the Trier Police Department.
So that’s why the Poison Spur Mob never had the guts to chase up Timmons’ debt… Lumian nodded, deep in thought.
Seeing the worry etched on Louis’s face, afraid he was about to stir up a hornet’s nest, Lumian threw him a curveball.
“Who else in the Poison Spur Mob ranks up there with Margot? And who’s their boss?”
What are you trying to do? Louis almost blurted out.
Could it be that Ciel’s planning to knock off all the heavy hitters in the Poison Spur Mob?
Are you out of your mind?
Keeping his cool, Louis replied, “That’s none of your concern right now.”
Lumian responded with a knowing smile, not pushing the matter. He downed his Ranger.
…
In the shadowy enclave of Quartier de l’Observatoire, nestled near the catacombs,
Lumian found Osta Trul huddled by the bonfire.
He laughed mockingly.
“You’re the most professional person I’ve ever come across.”
Like clockwork, Osta was here seven days a week, peddling his con.
“I’d love to be soaking myself on some beach, but my debts tell a different story.” The thought of hopping a steam locomotive out of Trier and dodging his outstanding loans had crossed Osta’s mind. Yet, each time he made it as far as the station, Baron Brignais’s goons would be there to give him a good thrashing.
This had instilled in him a healthy fear of the Baron’s reach, and he’d since abandoned any such ideas.
“I need you to fetch me a few things,” Lumian cut to the chase, settling down beside Osta. “For each item you bring, there’s an extra 5 verl d’or in it for you.”
Osta’s eyes sparked with interest.
“What are you after?”
Lumian stared into the fire, his voice low. “Lynx innards, hyena tongue, stag bone marrow, and any deadly herb.”
“They’re not easy to come by.” Osta tried to haggle.
He’d already made up his mind to scour the eateries in Quartier de l’Observatoire.
Lumian brushed him off, changing the subject. “Where can I find aquatic monsters in Trier?”
Osta pondered a moment before replying, “There’s an underground river in the catacombs nearby, fed by the Srenzo River. Every so often, someone claims to have run into an aquatic monster. And occasionally, some surface along the Srenzo River banks, but they’re quickly dispatched by the Purifiers or the Machinery Hivemind.”
Lumian nodded. “Do you know the Salle de Bal Unique?”
“Sure do.” Osta pointed skyward. “It’s over on Rue Ancienne, right by Place du Purgatoire.”
“1 verl d’or. Show me the way.” Lumian rose to his feet.
He planned to scope out the place, gather what intel he could. If it was a dead end, he’d move on.
In no time, Osta was leading Lumian topside, veering into Rue Ancienne near the square, and halting in front of a vintage edifice.
The building, a somber shade of blue-gray, retained its pre-Roselle charm.
Classic pediments, a chevron roof, and leaded windows.
The Salle de Bal Unique occupied the ground floor, its entrance resembling a giant maw.
It happened to be past noon, and a carriage pulled up to the curb as three men and a woman alighted.
Dressed in dark short suits, they sauntered towards the Salle de Bal Unique.
As they neared the entrance, each member of the quartet produced a monocle, fitting it over their right eye.
Watching this, Lumian turned to Osta, bemusement written all over his face.
Osta, flashing a knowing smile, enlightened him, “That’s one of Salle de Bal Unique’s rules. Everyone who steps inside must be donning a short suit and a monocle.”
