Buying the Farm.

[Cinnabar]

It's a quiet appointment, a small corner of the interim Meetinghouse - little more than a desk with a few screens around it in some attempt at privacy; an office whose walls block sight but not sound, and so the conversation is necessarily hushed. The government official, a dry, wizened stick of a man with ink-stained fingers and a scribe's myopic squint, peers at the young man sat across from him with some degree of confusion.

"I have the papers you requested, sir, but I must confess that I am not sure of your reasons for such. Is this relating to official business? The ongoing investigation, perhaps?" The murder, of course; brutal, shocking, and as-yet unsolved.

"No, not at all - I act entirely as a private citizen in this matter." Some small emphasis on the word private, pale brows raised to be sure that the notary takes his meaning. "I feel that if I am to properly serve Myrken Wood, I should have some investment, some property in order to better understand the trials and troubles of those I serve. Some foundation here, as it were."

"Quite so, sir, quite so." The clerk nods agreeably, and squints at the documents on the desk before him. "I had been led to believe that the intent was to see the land auctioned, but I have conferred with my colleagues in Councillor Treadwell's office and your offer is more than reasonable. You have the, mm, the payment with you?" A hopeful smile to the younger man, unconsciously rubbing smudged and blotted hands together. The other man nods, and reaches into his doublet to retrieve a small pouch and a neatly-folded sheet of paper. The letter is slid across the desk first, and swiftly unfolded and squinted at by the clerk.

"A promissory note - the payment is being held at the jeweller's named at the top there, in assorted cut stones. The jeweller himself appraised them, and can attest to their value." The pouch is set on the desk now, a muffled clink of heavy coins therein. "And hopefully this will aid the swift processing of the transaction, sir, and serve as a token of appreciation for your... discretion." A polite smile, a gracious incline of his head as the clerk tentatively takes the pouch and peers inside, rheumy eyes widening briefly.

"More than satisfactory, sir." His words are perhaps a trifle hurried as he nods, purse smoothly stowed in a desk drawer for the moment. "In fact, I have the paperwork right here. If I can prevail upon you to make your mark on the relevant documents then we can consider the matter sealed. Land, livestock, stores, chattels and workers."

"Most agreeable." High Constable Calomel nods, and leans forward to accept the offered pen. "On this line here, you say?"

--~--

It is later in the day when a lone figure walks up the road to the Baker farm, and spends an hour or so travelling between the squalid cottages and dirt-floor huts that comprise the homes of the farm's indentured labourers, stopping by with an amiable grin and a few polite words of greeting.

Choose a spokesman from among yourselves, and have them come to the big house as soon as they're able, he says. I would like to discuss the future. Your future. Our future.

And with that he's gone, up to the big house with easy strides, head turning to take in the lands all about as he goes with a proprietorial air.

[channe]

A spokesman, you say?

Easier said than done. Dominik Kaczmarek has fallen into this role as naturally as he has fallen into others; has he not become a voice against Bromn's? In Bromn's somewhat-cabinet? Has he not been a voice before that, whispering into black-market ears and righteous-butcher ears and Straka-soldier ears? So, when he arrives home from another day's masonry at the Ringwall, the whispering worker-women are there to meet him, Magda and her youngest daughters, the Karakovs, the Massry sisters, his solid older brother, Piotr --

-- the High Constable is here --
what could he possibly want? I --
We don't know anything.

So it's a strange-looking, dirty, workwork Dominik that makes the trek from the workers' quarters, that walks up the front porch-steps of the big house with a jaunty air, and that raps on the door.

[Lent]

The Detective's hand was covering his forehead. His flask sat empty upon the table. Why didn't he have a bigger one? "Don't you dare laugh, McCoy. I'll hit you so hard with my blackjack that that your nose will end up between your other cheeks."

"Aw, look, Kurt." This was a strange role reversal. Usually Kurt Lentham was the one who was untouched by anything life threw at him and his younger partner was the nervous, frustrated one. Today, not so much. "It was a good plan. There weren't any clues. We'd figure out who wanted the farm, maybe who did the murder, by whoever stepped up and bought the place in the auction. It was good, though sort of lazy, detecting, really, and now we know that..."

"Don't say it." Lentham only was able to make a mumble, but it was a mumble with a great deal of warning.

Unfortunately, it was too late. McCoy was trying hard not to laugh. "...the High Constable must have killed the farmer." Some things could not be kept secret for very long at all, especially for two who were watching the house so very closely.

"Ahhh!" And just like that the older man had leapt up and onto the table, bearing down upon his partner. Poor McCoy could only stare helplessly as he saw the hands coming towards his neck. At the last moment, however, Lent had merely scuffd his partner's hair with his hand. "God, you're an idiot. And I feel like one too, all this time and nothing to show for it. I'm just glad I don't have anything else left in my flask so I don't have to toast Calomel."

"Oh, come on." McCoy was more than a little nervous again. Almost being throttled would do that to a man. "Surely, the High Constable knows what he's doing. And I think my theory is pretty good!"

"He's making us look like idiots, is what he's doing. Win, lose, or draw here, we look like idiots. We probably ARE idiots at this point." The urge to throttle was rising again, but then he just sank back into the closest chair and relaxed. Just like that, Kurt Lentham was calm. So they'd look like idiots, so what? It was hard to work a case which was going nowhere. Maybe this would prompt something. He took a deep breath and stared into his empty flask. "As for your theory, it's well and good. Someone's using the murder and the Kaczmarek family potentially being involved to discredit Bromn, given the position he just gave Dominik. What do you suggest we do about it though? Knock on the bakery door and ask the governor loudly if he has any enemies he may know about. Ha." Lent put the flask back down. It was certainly empty. He had detected that much, no?

"We could just.." And NOW McCoy was ever so timid in his words. "talk to the High Constable about it. About the whole case, right?"

"You know, knocking on that bakery door is starting to seem like a better idea by the moment."

[Cinnabar]

A muffled shout and hurrying footsteps approach the door at Dominik's knocking. It takes short while of fiddling with bolts and latches - the Constable had made his way in by the kitchen door, and apparently spent some time making himself at home. Eventually the door opens, though, Calomel blinking at his visitor for a moment before grinning and opening the door wider with a welcoming gesture.

"Come in, come in! You're the appointed spokesman, then? Somehow, sir, I'm not surprised in the slightest." Out of uniform, it's worth noting; comfortable doublet and loose-necked shirt rather than anything more formal or dignified; blades at his belt, bruises upon one cheek and a thin line of neat stitches upon his brow.

"Uh, I think that's the cloakroom through there; it's got a basin, so if you want to clean up and head through to the dining room - that door there, I believe - I'll be with you in a moment. The kettle should have boiled by now." He waves the workstained man to one of the doors opening off the front hallway before turning to head back towards the kitchen, from whence echoes a rattling of earthenware and metal. Most curious.

[channe]

Most curious indeed.

Dominik lingers at the front door for a moment, and then, he'll make the sign of the One God and walk in. "I am, I s'pose you could say ... pardon, ser Constable, but yer tappin' on a deadman's floor," he says. "But I doubt yer a superstitious man." Neither, it seems, is the Kaczmarek man; he steps forward, following the Constable's directions -- foregoing the basin, see, and going straight in through the dining room.

Intrigued is the word for Dominik's face -- for a moment, he just watches where Cinnabar once was, and then he snags a chair and sits down.

[Cinnabar]

There's a couple of plates set out on the dining room table, whatever crockery the Constable's been able to find in the place it'd seem from the mismatched nature of it. Between them, a cutting board with a half-loaf of bread on it; a muslin-wrapped shape might be cheese, and another ham or bacon or suchlike cold-cuts. Seems that Calomel's not only walking on a dead man's floor, but having a picnic in his house.

The man himself returns a few moments later, bustling in with a tray and nudging the bread board aside to make room; cups are set out, one for him and one for Dominik, and then the Constable's taking a seat where he can comfortably face his guest. If there's any attention paid to the scorning of the washbasin, he makes no comment for now.

"Have you dined yet? I'm, ah, not greatly practised at playing the gracious host." A somewhat self-conscious grin at that, teapot offered uncertainly.

"Tea?"

[channe]

Mismatched was right -- in the year after his wife and son died in the Flux, Jan Baker never seemed to be able to "get it together," and while the house is fairly clean because of Massry brooms, he reverted, in a way, to bachelorhood.

"I -- er," he says, eyeing the plate with a suspicious glare, "I was plannin' on eatin' with my wife and kidlings, but it's been a long day -- an' Lara can split it three ways rather'n four. Now, pardon my askin', ser, but you bein' the High Constable an' all -- why are we havin' dinner?"

The man seems rather bamboozled, quite honestly, and it's hard to do that to Dominik; he picks up the cup, staring into it as if it were a foreign object, but -- oh, he's far too interested in this strange scene. So he places it down, folds his hands, and smiles.

"Please."

[Cinnabar]

"Oh? I beg pardon, I'll try not to keep you too long in that case." Tea is poured with slightly more care than skill, and the cheese and bacon are unwrapped before the Constable sets to carving generous slices from the loaf. There's a grin, then, a glance for the canny Kazcmarek.

"Because, sir, I thought it might set a pleasant tone for what is to follow. Also, I suspect that inviting all of the workers to dinner could make things rather cramped." There's a glance around the room at that, and a shrug; it's fairly capacious, built for a farmer's family and farmhands and foremen to take dinner together, but certainly not enough for the forty-odd workers that Calomel has been informed live on this land. He waves a hand to indicate that Dominik should help himself to the food, and sips his tea in the meanwhile; the peasant-turned-representative is regarded thoughtfully for a moment through wisps of steam, and then he sets his mug down carefully.

"You're no doubt aware that following Jan Baker's murder, and in the absence of any immediate family to lay claim to this farm, it passed into the hands of Myrken's government." Does he watch Dominik more closely as he speaks of the farmer's brutal slaying? Hard to say. After a brief pause, though, he continues.

"To come to the point, sir: I paid a visit to the appropriate officials earlier today, and made certain arrangements; certain transactions. In short, I have purchased the Baker estate."

There is a silence here, as he sips his tea again, regarding the other man calmly, evenly.

"In its entirety."

[channe]

The cup stops halfway to Dominik's mouth -- and then, as if he means to think this over for a moment, he takes a sip, and a bite of cheese, and sets it down, a large smile on his face. Any other emotion is completely wiped off and set aside.

"Congratulations, ser," he says, straightening, placing cheese on the bread. Don't think the reference to 'certain transactions' escapes him, even though he seems to be playing the grateful serf, eating quickly -- "This is terrible good, ser Constable, terrible good. It's a good farm. Output o' wheat in the upper fields, greens, tomaters, we got some cattle an' a tabacco field. Though what from Agnie tells me 'bout you, I never figgered you the farmin' type."

He eats some more, and then waits to hear what Calomel has to say next. He wants the other man to -- offer more. To see where his position is, because there's something that Dominik is holding back on.

[Cinnabar]

"I'm glad you think so." There's a slightly-self-conscious grin at that, and he takes a moment to pick at his own bread and cheese, a slice of bacon added to the makeshift sandwich.

"In truth, sir, I'm not the farming type at all. I don't know the first thing about running a farm, to be totally honest with you. But you obviously do, which is why I'd like you - that is, your family and the others you represent - to stay and run the farm here, if you're willing to do so." Some... what, apprehension in his gaze as he glances to the workstained man? Polite hope, as if making an offer that he's not sure will be accepted? He glances to his food, taking a bite of bread and cheese and bacon before continuing. Businesslike in demeanour, though one might sense that he is somehow tentative in his choice of words, as if cautiously feeling his way into unfamiliar territory.

"I'll certainly understand if any of you wish to decline and move on, of course; nevertheless, given how long you were all indentured here I'd hazard that you know the land very well indeed, and know how to get the best from it. I'd like you to at least consider the idea, if you will."

[channe]

Bam.

This is the only time you'll get anything out of Dominik Kaczmarek, Constable Farmer: a surprised, hang-jawed look, before he quickly fixes it by stuffing bread into his mouth, swallowing, and nodding, regaining his composure.

"Well, ser, we can't actually -decline- if that's what yer 'fraid of; you've seven years left o' service from me and mine," says the man who spends his mornings in the field and afternoons with brick and mortar. "Now," he says, and he stops -- cheese half-raised to his mouth, eyeing Cinnabar with some intrigue -- "Unless yer talkin' a release from the indenture."

[Cinnabar]

There's a pause, some slight frown of confusion as he looks up from plate to Kazcmarek. A moment as he replays the conversation in his head, wondering if perhaps he's been unclear about things, and the thought strikes him that given the man's experience with his previous landowner, perhaps what had seemed a matter so obvious as to be practically a given is... not so obvious after all.

So he washes down his mouthful of bread with a sip of tea, resting his elbows on the table in a display of poor tablemanners that would not be out of place in some grubby tavern, and regards the spokesman with honest curiosity.

"Why else would I be asking you, Dominik?"

[channe]

A slow, slow smile spreads over the mason's face.

Inside, he notes the Constable's use of his first name; the dinner; the tea. It's a language he knows well -- the language of someone who thinks he can worm his way into Dominik's loyalties by literal provision; but here, Cinnabar also wars with his expectations. Hang them by a string, make them beg -- that was the language of Jan Baker. A good man, but not good enough. Dominik takes a sip of the tea and sits back in his chair.

"Well -- ser -- you 'ave our gratitude," he says, in a slightly stunned voice, and it takes him a few moments to continue, looking down, around, to the door, back to Cinnabar. It's obvious this is something the man wants -- and terribly so.

"The Karakovs are planning to go back to New Dauntless," he says, playing the grateful serf all the way. "The Massry sisters will stay. The other families, 'cluding mine -- have 'em sweat for their own, ser, and don't fudge the percentages, and they'll stay for you right quick."

[Cinnabar]

The Constable's smile echoes Dominik's own, and grows more pleased as he speaks of families willing to stay on. There's a moment of mutual silence as he sips his tea before speaking again.

"That's good to hear." He nods, and there's no small amount of relief in his grin. "From what I know and what I've seen, I'd say that your families have long since paid off whatever debt was owed to Baker; I've heard various things about the man, but no doubt you've a better idea of what sort of person he was so there's no need to repeat them." His tone and unimpressed expression make it clear enough that not all of what he's heard was good, in any case.

"What I have in mind will involve a certain amount of trust, and a desire to have it succeed. If the Karakovs are willing to delay their return for a while they're likely to find that to their benefit, but that's their own choice." He takes a few moments to pick at his bread and cheese again, chewing thoughtfully as he gathers his words. More tea to wash it down, and then it's to business. There's a subtle shift in his posture and tone; no less amiable, but certainly more focussed, more sure of his words.

"The arrangement I was considering is this: I retain ownership of the lands, and a claim to a certain fixed amount of the seedstock, livestock and such - just enough to see things carried over from one year to the next, perhaps some reserves in case of a poor harvest. I don't take that away, mind, it's there as a buffer to keep the farm running." A pause to sip his tea, slender fingers winding around the mug as he sets it down again.

"You'll need to set enough aside to pay whatever taxes are due, and I'd expect a small consideration for the use of the land - whatever seems reasonable, maybe a tenth part of what's left after tax - but anything over and above that is yours to do with as you wish. Sell it, store it, eat it, plant it again, it's up to you. How the profits are divided among the families here is also for you to decide; I'm sure you can come up with something you can all agree on, anyway. If the Karakovs stay on for a while they'll be able to save up some funds for their return to New Dauntless, but that's for them to think about."

A shrug, as if to say that the Karakovs' decisions are now out of his hands, and this is perhaps a more profound gesture than Calomel might understand: their decisions are in their own hands for the first time since they were brought into indenturement. Still, his gaze is even enough as he regards Dominik expectantly, giving him time to think things over.

"Hopefully that's reasonable enough. If not, please say so and we can work out a more agreeable arrangement."

[channe]

Dominik blinks.

"So we start workin' for our own ends 'stead o' always gildin' Baker's pockets." Is that avarice in the man's eyes? No. It's not greed -- it's a full-on, anticipatory Christmas-morning look, it's pride mixed with ambition, it's vintage Dominik.

"So I'll repeat it back to ye, sirrah lord Constable, so's we're all on the same playin' field. You own th' entire 'state outright. We rent our houses from ya, an' use o' the barn an' equipment. You give us full custody o' the animals an' the fields, an' we get to keep --"

He shakes his head. "-- we get to keep most everythin', then? Pardonin' my forwardness, ser, but -- if you ain't no farmer, ain't you in this for some kind o' profit?"

See, Calomel: this is an offer that is almost too good to be true for Dominik Kaczmarek, and you'll see it in his eyes. He'll take it, sir, but first he'll tease out all of the strangenesses that line your words, that line this agreement -- he doesn't want to be caught in a bad deal. Percentages! This is more than a mere sharecropping agreement; this is full custody.

And freedom.

It's a big deal.