Story for the Day: The Spy Office

There are many divisions of the Frewyn Armed Forces: the Regulars are made up of cerns and captains and commanders, the Royal Guard are comprised of Elites and Brigadiers, and even the Brigade has its own especial subsection within the ranks of Westren, lending its members to the remote reaches of the Menorian Mountains and the Four Beacons, Frewyn’s far flung corners, where no one save a few passing gulls and ancient winkles would go at the best times of the year. Within these divisions are the irregular groups: the Fire Brigade, made up of volunteers and any new cerns who were told they were going to trained for it, the Frewyn Foreign Legion, containing any commanders and their respective regiments, to embark on missions overseas and help allied nations in need, the archers and quartermasters contingent, who manage all the weapons and equipment whilst shooting anyone who should try to take them, the Westren regiments, with their breacans and pipes and astonishing ability to injure someone by shouting at them, but there remains one division of the forces to which few belong, a somewhat new scheme, a regiment of two, collocated by a league of informants and tellmen, all of whom operate under constant watch.

                The Spy Office, the private division of the Frewyn Armed Forces, under the governance of the king, was a necessary company rather than a desired one; Alasdair would rather not deploy anybody on clandestine missions with effective yet circumspect results, but even a wholesome nation of farmers needs its necessary inhumations, and though Alasdair may regret asking Teague and Vyrdin to look into rumours regarding illegal activity within the realm, it must be done, to ensure the safety of his subjects and be doubly sure that what had happened to his father and Bryeison during the beginnings of the Galleisian War would never happen again. Frewyn prized itself as a sanctuary after the war was done, a nation reborn in a Gold Age of peace and security: trade renewed and the economy thrived, rationing ended and tithes against those living on arable land were removed, the restraints of curfew had been thrown off and children were allowed out at all hours, women enjoyed walks home in the late evening without the threat of being carried off by marauders, the elderly returned to their usual haunts, crambling about the churchyard and sitting by the squares at sunrise to watch the market stalls putting up, the shepherds and husbandmen roamed with their flocks and droves along the downs and moors-- all this secured by a patrolling force and the esteemed members of the Spy Office, a small contingent of obliging benefactors, willing to relinquish their free time to ensure the safety of the kingdom—the two generous persons now in charge being Vyrdin and Teague.

                Frewyn upon the whole is an blameless nation, but Frewyns are not unsuspecting: they know their fortune, understand their privilege in being blessed with so many friends and good neighbours, but their artlessness and consistency made the nation of sensible farmers liable to attack from all sides; envy and poverty drew much condemnation from the outside world, condemnation which would be thwarted one way or another, to keep Frewyn’s enemies from being beaten by slanes or impaled by tines. Farmers are frightening in the right context, and while those in the forces could swing a sword and nock a bow and arrow, there is nothing more horrifying than a farmer who has just had his field ruined by invaders-- scorching techniques are not reserved for the radish rows, and a man who has just lost a year’s worth of work to pests and raiders does not succumb to a violent rage; it is a quiet indignation, a tranquil evil that seethes behind tapered eyes and tightened fists. Frewyn’s midland farmers: the nation’s best defense again an attack on the capital, natural enemy of mice and marmots everywhere, and when their kindness in a good dinner, pleasant company, and a cup of tea is spurned, there is no affront more keenly felt, no resentment more alarming than a Frewyn farmer scorned. They were consequently also the best informants: a farmer shares any news that is passing; the days are long and evenings quiet, and something must be discussed over brined meat and spiced ale. The ears of old farmer’s wives are forever open, their fingers busy with sewing and milking, their minds conscious of newcomers in town, whose daughter is pretending not to have an interest in whose son, and just as sure as a farmer was to spread information, a farmer’s wife might be safely trusted to collect it. Frewyn’s farmers were all part of the Spy Office whether they knew it or not: it was their duty as country cabbages to sit and slister, and a matter of national pride to repeat all they had gleaned from their Gods’ Day outings to the king’s men.  

                Alasdair was not fond of the word spy; it implied trick and littleness, ingenuousness and deceit, but Frewyn was not home to a spy network like Lucentia was, and its spies did not go abroad and return home telling tales of royals from neighbouring nations. Alasdair had friends for that, connections he prided himself on, and their correspondence told him enough of what was going on between enemy nations that were was no need to send men abroad, and there was nothing like conspiratory spying going on between Frewyn and its friends—rather there was, but he knew of Ladrei’s associates and their hideaways—most of them—and knew they operated in Frewyn’s interests. Frewyn did not deal in spies: surveillance is an expensive thing, it required personnel and abstractionists, costumes and connivance; intelligence is all Alasdair should be after, and intelligence was all Alasdair wanted as he followed Vyrdin to the Spy Office, a place he euphemistically called the Office of Foreign Affairs, though all affairs discussed therein were domestic. Alasdair did not like that Frewyn should be classed with Lucentia in spywork; it bespoke an invasiveness that he should never need to practice, but Vyrdin called it the Office of Foreign Affairs to tease him, as most of the persons they spied on were foreign and their affairs were the thing to be followed. The office also dealt with business abroad, as a knife in a neck of an undesirable person abroad is much preferable to one being done at home; a dead Frewyn in foreign parts is better than one found in a garret or an alley in the capital, and what is domestic that goes abroad is automatically the business of Foreign Affairs. Vyrdin’s beard often parted when he ruminated over how many knives were employed to do overseas what would never be done at home; it is so dreadfully easy to lose a palliard in a country where no one knows his name. Alasdair knew of traitors who operated within the kingdom—he must know, as any king ought to be told of wrongdoings by his own subjects—and Vyrdin did his best only to inform His Majesty of conspirators when he knew it would discompose him most.