Chapter 970: Pancake Charter (2)
The annex smelled like fresh paper and old furniture—comforting, competent. I like rooms that know what they are. Varas met us in the lobby with three warrants and not a single dramatic flourish. Points to him.
"Clean entries," he said, handing me the envelopes. "The court is watching."
"Good," I replied. "We love an audience for boring."
Rachel grinned. Reika’s eyes were already on the map board. Seraphina stood where she could see both doors without looking like a statue. Rose set a bottle of water on the nearest desk and labeled it "Arthur." Luna took Stella’s hand and passed her a pencil sharpener shaped like a fox.
"Staging complete," Reika reported.
"Brief," I said, opening the first envelope. "Address One: second-floor office over a bakery. Accountant. Low risk. Address Two: townhouse with history. Expect a passive coercion ward at the threshold. Address Three: discreet office, notable surname. No shouting. Paper first, feelings last."
Stella, in the observation seat, wrote that last sentence into her notebook in large, careful letters. "Paper first, feelings last," she read aloud, impressed with us for thinking of it. I hid my smile.
We rolled.
Address One was textbook. I knocked, identified us, and held up the two truths that make decent people open doors: paper and patience.
"Magistrate’s warrant," I said, reading the header calm and clear. "We’re here to review records linked to Operation Emberfall. We will not search beyond the scope. We will catalog what we touch and return what is not evidence."
The bookkeeper’s shoulders sank with relief. Guilt has a shape; this wasn’t it. He opened the door. Rachel and Reika entered like sunlight and a calendar. Arthur stayed near the threshold, hands in pockets, reading the room like a sentence he might have to fix.
We moved through the steps we’ve practiced a hundred times. Rachel cleared the air with that Redeemer hush she carries in her wrists; Reika boxed ledgers in order; I read each line of the warrant out loud as we moved sections, so the room heard what we were—and weren’t—doing. It matters. The law isn’t a hammer; it’s a promise.
"Anything that isn’t yours?" I asked the accountant.
"Just the bakery’s smell," he said, embarrassed by his fear and grateful we didn’t make him pay for it.
We tagged the place CLEAN — 48 H and left the bakery an anonymous donation because their bread smelled like responsible mornings. Stella drew a tiny stamp in her notebook and wrote, "Boring won."
Address Two tried to be clever. The townhouse had an excellent view of a magistrate route and the kind of paint that says, "We never do anything wrong." I don’t like paint that talks.
Rachel frowned the second we hit the landing. "Pressure," she said.
Seraphina lifted her palm toward the door. "Polite coercion," she diagnosed. "Nudges compliance, hides strain."
I looked at Arthur. He stepped to the frame and raised his hand to the white space above the lintel—no garden, no drag, just his mother’s lesson drawn in breath.
"No coercion in this room," he wrote.
The sentence took with the sound of paper smoothed across a desk. The pressure evaporated. The latch clicked, not theatrically—just honestly.
The man inside had the exact look I’d expected: ready to bluster, ready to perform a grievance, ready to throw his surname like a shield. Then his face did a new math. He sat down instead.
"Magistrate’s warrant," I said again, same tone as before. We do not reward bluster with bluster.
He nodded once, surly but sane. Reika opened a safe without scratching paint. Inside: a ribbon-ward pretending to be a personal seal. Rose set a blue curve across it—simple as kindness—and the ribbon stopped pretending. Rachel bagged the contents with gloved efficiency; it is a joy watching professionals refuse to be impressed by nonsense.
"These are copies of magistrate stamps," I said, flipping a false seal with a pen tip. "Your counsel will likely want to talk about who gave you these and how much you paid."
He stared at the floor and did not answer. Silence is an upgrade from lies. I logged it as a win.
We tagged the study CLEAN — 48 H. A neighbor stuck their head out on the stairwell and found five women, one man, and a child with a notebook doing nothing dramatic. Their face relaxed. They went back to their life. I breathed easier.
Back in the van, Stella drew a line over a doorframe and labeled it "Words won." Luna kissed the top of her head and murmured something about verbs having spines. I could get used to this version of my days.
Address Three was the messy one. Discreet office. Polished nameplate. A surname that makes receptions tilt just so. The receptionist’s smile was the kind that wants to be helpful to the winning side.
"We are not sides," I said, gently.
Arthur stood just behind my shoulder, the way he does when he is being a line and not a blade. I like that version of him best.
We took the elevator—eight floors—and walked a carpet that did not deserve its confidence. The door at the end had the surname in engraved brass. Rachel knocked. I read the warrant again, calm and even.
The man who opened it had the same haircut every ambitious coward has in this city. He glanced at Arthur. His hand flexed. I watched his throat work around options and excuses. Then he did something rare and sensible.
"Let’s not perform," he said, stepping back. "Please come in."
Performances are expensive. Truth is cheaper, in the long run.
We entered. No shouting. No drawn blades. No righteous speeches. We asked for the files; he produced them. We checked the seals; they were wrong in that fastidious way that tells you who trained the forgers. I logged chain-of-custody times, stamped receipts, and watched a man realize that boredom is lethal to the kind of corruption that feeds on spectacle.
"Do you have anything to say for the record?" I asked when we’d finished the first pass.
"Yes," he said quietly. "I knew better."
"That will help," I said, and meant it.
We tagged the room CLEAN — 48 H. On the way out, the receptionist’s smile had turned human. Small, honest, a little scared. That’s the shape of mornings I can work with.
At the annex, Varas took custody with a grateful nod and the look of someone who appreciates a dull stack of evidence more than a dramatic arrest.
"Nicely boring," he said. "The court will be pleased."
"We live to underwhelm," Rachel replied.
"Some of us," Seraphina murmured.
"Most of us," Reika corrected, deadpan.
Stella passed me her notebook in the van. On the last page she’d drawn six lanterns around a little house and written: "We won by not being loud."
"Accurate," I said, and initialed the corner like a proud teacher.
Evening pulled the light low by the time we returned to the penthouse. The house let us in like we’d gone to the market. The charter rested on the console. Above the molding, a faint line still hovered: "Tonight is for rest."
There was an envelope under the frame. No crest. Clean paper. Inside, one line in tidy pink ink: "Do hurry, Arthur." Signed A.
Arthur set it beneath the charter without comment. I logged ’no breach—postal route used,’ because some days the difference matters.
"Two more lines tomorrow," Alice said, turning on the kettle. She did not ask; she scheduled.
"Before breakfast," Luna added, smirking at Rachel.
"Before coffee," I said, because my job is to ensure equality of suffering.
"Betrayal," Rachel muttered, but her smile gave her away.
I was about to propose a civilized argument over pancake rota when the air changed—thin, high, wrong. The ward on Arthur’s palm vibrated like a plucked string. Luna’s head snapped to the windows. Seraphina froze. Rachel’s hand dipped toward a lantern she wasn’t wearing. Reika’s gaze tightened, calculations replacing calm.
Arthur crossed to the glass in three steps. I followed because my job is to translate awe into plans.
Far beyond Avalon’s last towers, past the long river bend and the gentle hills that are only gentle to people who’ve never fought on them, the horizon changed its mind. A dark line pushed up from earth to sky like a blade deciding to meet a throat.
A tower pierced the clouds—thin at the tip, wide at the base, covered in a shimmer that didn’t want to be seen. It did not erupt. It asserted. The light around it looked like law mispronounced.
"What is that?" Stella whispered, notebook forgotten in her lap.
No one answered. For one measured heartbeat, our city pulled in breath and did not let it go.