Present yourself at the Navy Offices on Basswood Boulevard

Basswood Boulevard, from the Conqueror riding her gilded chariot atop the gate to Castle Worryknot, down to the shipyards at Landweir Channel, belongs to the Navy.

Basque and Heron have their main buildings, the administrative wings and their great lecture halls, on opposite ends of the road, with the bulk of their facilities branching off into side alleys and gardens. The noblest of the old nobility and the most ambitious of new money maintain townhouses in the shade of the bony, bonny, sticky trees. They number a dozen or so, and only the Cerulean Titan’s estate is spoken of with similar regard. And Hugertwice’s Books & Sundries sells books and sundries inside the old Greenshaft mansion. But all else belongs to the Navy.

The palaces of the Numbered Admirals, their bureaus and residences, are clustered towards the Castle, with the Seventh sharing a park with Basque’s stone-arched spires. Anchor Tower, the junior Admiralty’s place of work, is off on Arrester Square. The Old Magazine houses over a million weapons of all sizes inside its iron dome and deep cellars, with the Navy researchers and craftsmen adding more by the hour. There are the shipyards, of course, and an endless number of offices and barracks, of canteens and storage, sprawling all along the Boulevard and branching off into narrow alleys and ancient roads. They are housed within flat and brutal brickwork blocks, in high halls built in the style of the old Empire or inspired by Greenish fashion, and in reed-thatched huts that predate the fall.

It takes some doing to find the right building, the right floor, the right hallway. And when you do knock on the door to the Landlocked Commodore’s office, it is a female voice that orders you inside.

”He’s out. Staff briefing,” the uniformed woman says, eyes glued to the pulpy pages of her periodical.

You find yourself inside a spacious but otherwise unremarkable room. There is an open metal locker by the entrance, cap and coat haphazardly thrown over the hanger. Sword and belt peak out underneath, and ammunition, books and a lunch box pile high on the upper board.

A plaque marked with his name, large enough to read from where you stand, hangs beside the brass-inlaid door at the far end. The neighbouring buildings, looming high, overshadow three large windows and brownish-grey curtains take away what little outside light remains. Leviathan Lanterns burn on the wall, on the small table by the worn-out settee, and on both dull desks.

One stands empty, papers sorted into two neat piles and the office chair arranged straight against the plate. And behind the other, Sporewood varnished in peeling black, sits the woman in her Navy blues still reading her magazine. But she rises at you introducing yourself, her eyes wide, and snaps into a queer salute, immediately relaxed into an offered hand. The epaulets on her shoulders mark her as an Ensign, and the neat jacket underneath – though unbuttoned – is standard issue. Her pleated pencil skirt and heel boots are not.

”There aren’t many of us,” the Experimental Ensign says, noticing, after she has given you her name and confirmed her rank. ”They come up with a bright new look every season, and the Lord only knows what will happen when they finally allow us on vessels or as enlisted crew. Please.”

You join her on the shabby cushions. She has tied her dark-brown hair into a neat ponytail but still fidgets with an invisible tress. Her jacket falls open to the sides, and the starch-white uniform shirt underneath clings to her. The thin fabric is cut for a man, revealing skin and the size of her bust, firm and stiff-tipped on her fencer's frame.

”I’d offer refreshments,” she says, hands now steepled in her lap, ”but the Doll is out, and I cannot leave my post. I should be working on my paperwork, in fact,” she says but makes no effort to move. ”What brings you to our neck of the woods, First Officer?”

You explain the basics.

”Interesting. I did not know we had the budget for that. Hold on...” She searches through the tidy piles on the empty desk, leaving a mess in her wake. ”Aha!” she says and returns to you, papers in hand. ”This form II - 24A, but it is not quite the same as if you were to report to the Office of Maps and Surveillance directly, and this is...”

The details, the complex demands of law and bureaucratic custom, entail a labyrinthine system of notation, of cross-references and codes within codes. You do your best to follow the Ensign’s explanations, and she smiles even as she guides you through some parts twice and thrice. But the idea is simple: Report on the situation of Northbeachisswamp in (exhaustive) writing and be paid 30 Talers upon delivery of the report.

She shrugs. ”That’s the going rate for Oursea assignments anyway, and I can’t imagine the boss paying out of pocket. But then again I never knew our department was authorized for intelligence gathering at all. I was with Maps and Surveillance, until...” She pauses. ”How do you know him, anyway?”