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Chapter 17: Perseverance

In the alley at night, a few fires, high or low, bobbed brightly in the darkness. They were cigarette fires. As Mary Etta rode by, the horse lights illuminated the alley. The light struck faces, and all five men with shaved inches lifted one hand to shield their eyes and hid the other behind their backs, and one of them, crouching, almost fell because he was off-balance. Mary reined in her horse to stop and shouted toward the alley, "What is it that you have to do at night?" One of the men there dropped his hands and squinted in response, "Nothing, we'll be leaving soon." They looked scornfully at the long-barreled shotgun stuck in a holster on the horse's flank, and at Galliard, who was carrying a rifle next to him, and the black dog he was leading, and then turned their backs on one another, and burrowed deeper into the alley, their forms hidden from the sheriff's view. Anyone who knew such men would not be easily obeyed, but that was as far as the sheriff's authority went. At best, they went over and cracked the whip a few times without being sure that these men had committed a crime, and that didn't help. St. Solothurn Parish is what is known as a ghetto, with countless addicts and criminals. Most of the people here are craftsmen and manual laborers who can't afford to rent a whole house and often have several families crammed into one place, and this cramped and depressing living situation catalyzes crime, and civilians involved in crime are prone to lose their jobs, and the poor who lose their jobs can't afford to rent a room, so they have to go out and roam around at night looking for a place to spend the night. And when a person cannot survive anyway, he commits a crime. Believing that crime at night is difficult to identify, people have fewer scruples and are more willing to commit crimes than during the day. Life in the ghetto thus creates a vicious circle. Poverty is the soil of evil, and experienced magistrates often fret over the patrols scheduled for this area. The people here were poor, but it wasn't hard to get a few guns. Mary glanced at Galeed, who was walking leisurely in front of her with his dog on a lead, and admiration grew in her heart. She wouldn't have wanted to be here if she hadn't been accompanied by this old hand, ashamed to perceive her own cowardice in the face of evil. Tonight, as usual, the premeditated criminals and the "patients" were dealt with. Today there was also a patient. In another alley, they found a patient who was munching on a feral cat, whose face was covered with tiny rod-like projections like bird quills, and who did not hide his desire to attack when he saw them. To minimize the possibility of exposure, they settled him quietly with their swift swords and the bayonets fitted to their muskets. With this one settled, the next two hours were smooth sailing. Glancing at the time on his pocket watch, Galeed led Mary back as the opposing shift was over. The next batch of people coming over to patrol would be coming over to dispose of the bodies, and he'd be back to lend a hand then. After years of influence and infiltration, the clerks who lined the sheriff's patrol routes had become Presbyterians as well. Many of the night shifts in the sheriff's were of darker descent, while the general population was assigned to shifts in the more affluent parishes, where there were fewer aggression-rich newborns. It didn't matter if the occasional slip-up revealed the reality of the Darkling's existence; at most, it would give the city a few more weird stories. And weird stories were the kind that were discussed by many, but not many people would take them seriously.It really exists. "Galliard, has anyone worked out how those diseases are spread?" On the way back, Mary was still thinking about those strange looking patients, although she was born with a problem that made her forget people's faces and couldn't visualize anything tangible in her mind, but the "patients" still left a lasting impression on her. If she had to assign a label to their appearance, that label would be "beast". "Who knows, we sheriffs don't care about that, medicine is too far away from us." Galeed remembered that the other man was talking about the lies he had told to explain the existence of the Dark Ones. He looked ahead at the street, which was filled with fog this evening, warranting a few extra moments of vigilance. Though there was still only one moon in the sky, he knew the Dark Moon was approaching, a sensation born of intuition. Not only the Dark Familiars, but the wizards would be restored to their past powers. The words of the Dark Familiars would gradually increase in this era. But Galeed was a contented man, and he hoped that it would be good for life to remain as unchanged as it was now for as long as he lived. Not noticing that Galeed's thoughts were not on the conversation, Mary Etta went on with her own thoughts, "Perhaps we should pause the development of the colonies, sending the plague into the country for the sake of gold isn't much different than committing a crime." Galeed gathered his thoughts as he dismissed this: "What a crazy idea, but the Queen and the Ministers would never agree. You know how much manpower they put into acquiring that wealth. The Loren War alone killed three hundred thousand men. This low contagious disease is not excessive compared to the war." The plague was just a lie, but if it really existed, he also believed that the nobles in the capital city of Sub New City would make such a choice. "Is there something about killing that you can't stand?" Galliard asked, and he actually had an answer in mind. This was just a little girl, after all. Mary admitted it openly, "Yes, killing those patients made me feel guilty. Now and then I have thoughts of relieving the sheriff of his duties." Galliard regretted a little that he hadn't sensed this earlier to intervene. He slowed to a walk, side by side with the horse that Mary Etta was riding, and endeavored to stay the course, "But we've saved a lot of people too, haven't we? We sent the patients who still retained their sanity to the clinic, and you've seen them when they recovered. It's a credit to you that they were able to heal." It was hard to find someone so gullible and willing to work. It wasn't as if the Sheriff's Department didn't have other Dark Ones, but they didn't necessarily have the same work ethic as Mary, always letting their hot blood and arrogance get the best of them and handling the newborns roughly, resulting in some of the newborns that should have been joining the Presbyterian Church according to the regulations to either die or become hostile to the Presbyterian Church and fleeing to another city. "That's right, and that's one of the things that encourages me to do it." Mary smiled, "You don't have to worry, it's just a minor setback, I'm not that fragile." Galeed sighed in relief, "Yes, you're not like the other girls, you're tougher than all of them, as well as hardworking." "But there's also something I want to ask you for." Mary respected the senior, but it wasn't too much to ask for a little trickery now and then to make the other give in. Although Galeed didn't say so explicitly, she was also vaguely aware that she was by and byIt is becoming an indispensable presence. Conditions that can be utilized must be utilized, otherwise justice cannot be upheld. "I've recently been investigating a man who is so good at playing with money to get people and justice that he can convince even magistrates who haven't seen a murder scene that he's innocent. I just don't have a lot of time to find him myself, and despite hiring detectives, I've been having no luck. But if a veteran like you, who serves as a full-time sheriff, is willing to step in, I think I'll be able to catch him in the act." Mary knew that Gaylid was not young, but every time she had taken a hand in subduing a criminal it had been cleanly done, and she had full confidence in the other's ability. Galeed was not self-conscious of this; he recalled it carefully, but could not remember any such suspicious person being involved in a case lately. But having been asking for Mary Etta's help with no return, he was beginning to worry a little that the other man would actually leave the sheriff's department at some point, and then he would have to revert back to his old life of taking only two days off in two weeks. "All right, I'll help you out. Tell me who he is." "His name is Clayton Bello and he lives on Gunfish Street in St. Morehead Parish ......" Galliard didn't continue to listen to the rest of the conversation; Mary couldn't possibly know as comprehensive a story as he did, because Clayton himself was filling out a form for him not long ago. Now that was trouble. Just as he was in trouble, a rented carriage came around the corner of the street, forcing them to stop. The coachman was sitting in the driver's seat chatting with his passenger, "Mr. Bello, your current clothes are really good, but they are not as good as the ones in Mrs. Leutz's store ......." The carriage drove past the front of the face with a brisk wind, and before the coachman could finish his words he was on the west side of the cross street, and could no longer hear what he was saying. "Bello doesn't seem to be a common surname." Marie Etta sighed as she looked at the back of the carriage. Galliard, on the other hand, looked in the direction from which the carriage had come; the street was a dead end, and following his line of sight, the pale black silhouette of the Poorhouse was standing in the background of the night. ....................... Fortunately, it took only two days for Creighton to find the scent trail. He smelled the same odor at the Poorhouse in the parish of St. Solothurn. Although it was different from the conjectured dye house, Creighton didn't feel like he was looking in the wrong place because Joe Mani was also here and Creighton smelled him too. This shouldn't be a coincidence, the werewolf thought that It should be that Joe had found the Grail Club a step ahead of him, it just wasn't clear what had happened, or was happening, between them. It was late at night when he followed the scent to the poorhouse, which was closed to outsiders, so he couldn't see Joe that day, but had to come back the next day. The chapel priest at St. Mellon's parish knew where Joe was, and Clayton surmised that Joe had relied on the power of the White Church to find the Grail, or else he wouldn't have been able to find the clue faster than he did. When it was five o'clock the next evening, he took the wagon again to St. Solarte's parish. Because it was past the time for admitting vagabonds, the black-iron skeletonized doors of the Poorhouse were closed, the latches had been locked, and the sole caretaker was napping in a chaise longue behind them. Clayton walked over and recited an incantation, and the gate opened in response. "I'm here to make a donation, please open the door."