Introduction & Prologue
Pilgrim59
👑 Exalted Monarch 👑
Project Syndicate
DISCLAIMER
The following content is a work of fiction. Any names or references that correlate with referenced personnels and events in real life are purely coincidental and/or fictionalized. The following contents are made by and for personal creativity purposes. This project contains violence, strong language, suggestive themes, & substance depictions.
Viewer discretion is advised.
ARTWORK CREDITS
All rights and credits reserved to Sierra Five Niner Production (59P).
SUMMARY
The year is 1856, following the conclusion of the conflict in Crimea with the Coalition emerging victorious. Triumphant fervours were short-lived, as soaring crime rates in the British Empire beckons reforms. Rumors of a shadow organization, keen on setting the world ablaze in the name of a New World Order. Among the disillusioned crowds, arose a certain fraudulent clerk, and a brave yet churlish veteran of the Crimean War. At the behest of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, they were given a chance at redemption under the newly formed Foreign Affairs Service.
The following content is a work of fiction. Any names or references that correlate with referenced personnels and events in real life are purely coincidental and/or fictionalized. The following contents are made by and for personal creativity purposes. This project contains violence, strong language, suggestive themes, & substance depictions.
Viewer discretion is advised.
ARTWORK CREDITS
All rights and credits reserved to Sierra Five Niner Production (59P).
SUMMARY
The year is 1856, following the conclusion of the conflict in Crimea with the Coalition emerging victorious. Triumphant fervours were short-lived, as soaring crime rates in the British Empire beckons reforms. Rumors of a shadow organization, keen on setting the world ablaze in the name of a New World Order. Among the disillusioned crowds, arose a certain fraudulent clerk, and a brave yet churlish veteran of the Crimean War. At the behest of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, they were given a chance at redemption under the newly formed Foreign Affairs Service.
PROLOGUE: SUMMER
bereaved of her claims, long begotten
Scrutinous eyes and sharpened wits
Plebs or pats, beware her vengeful fit."
The Palace stretched out before the young girl's eyes, whose hands were tied by nothing but the cold eyes of the men in red. Ornate uniform spelled splendor of the glorious empire, where the less fortunate were confined to the bidding of their masters. It sufficed to say that the young woman was less keen on being at the mercy of the redcoats. There was little she could do but abide by their presence. Not so long ago, the woman took on a multitude of facade. Scamming and clawing her way through the arrays of private firms - all in the name of personal profit. Surely, the wheels of fate turned for the worse, where the fraudulent glories of plundering the rich that drove her was now the very testament that brought her before the Queen.
"You know, I could've well be on a ship to Dublin, if it weren't for those cursed Peelers… Yet here I am, at the mercy of you redcoats. This ain't a trial, is it? "
One of the soldiers eyed her briefly, before shoving her off the carriage. His silence confirmed the girl's suspicions. The voided presence of London's finest was a big red flag. One would think a criminal was to be tried before a hearing. The dramatics of it all, the great moment of the concierge of fraud, she thought. But it seemed that she has yet to be given such a hearing, if not at all.
"Right… Off I go then." She remarked, taking her steps forward.
Despite her nonchalant attitude, the woman kept her energy in check, prepared to make a run for it if a chance presented itself. Surely, she could make it about twenty paces before a volley of indiscriminate Minie balls found themselves bursting through her torso, and possibly her face. No, spare the face, please! She contemplated.
"Well, aren't you going to run?"
"Here lies my name, honorable recipient of twenty rifle balls through and through. That's not exactly the legacy that I have in mind, thank you." she chuckled softly.
"Come on then, forward you go. Her Majesty waits for no one."
The woman shifted her eyes at the soldier briefly, as the Palace grew taller before her. She lifted her arms with a submissive demeanor, as the guards locked their arms around hers. There was no helping it.
Before long, she found herself in a study, as the guards threw her onto the carpet. A voice emerged to greet them.
"Gentlemen, that's no way to treat a lady, now is it?"
A woman in her late thirties emerged from the far side of the desk. Her radiant attire emanates a certain aura of dread and overwhelming grace. An inexplicable sensation crept up on the young girl before her. The criminal in question cast her eyes upon the crowned lady, of whom was quick to dismiss the soldiers by the sheer gesture of her gaze alone. A brief silence befell the room, as the august lady lifted the young girl before up.
"Now then, you must be Miss Beauchamp of York. Or should I go by Shelby?"
"Depends on who I am addressing."
"I. Am." the woman claimed. Her eyes poked through the windows as the light beckoned her presence.
"This isn't some kind of elaborate prank is it?" The girl said, eyeing the woman briefly, before setting her sight upon the portrait of similar resemblance just across the room. She gulped down her realization with a chilly sensation running down her spine. "W-Why... Y-your Majesty. What business does the crown have with this presumably humble entrepreneur?" She played it off with a nervous smile.
"Entrepreneur, perhaps. But humble, my darling? You may presume too much." The lady in white grinned, taking a brief pause before continuing.
"Scarlet Shelby, orphan. Rampant fraud, with twenty different identities throughout the Isles. Wanted for forgery, swindling and tax evasion. I heard that you also did a number of favors for smuggled goods throughout the Isles. All accounts on ledgers and networking. Though, never one for violence, are you? The list seems to go on, shall I continue?"
Shelby remained quiet. Her eyes fixed upon the Queen, now filled with intrigues. There was no further reason to deny or beat around the bush, for she was at loss. The Queen smirked slightly, then pressed on.
"You have a certain set of skills of which I would like to see be put in a righteous manner."
"Your Majesty… I'm sure you have adequate if not abundant trusty steeds to your needs. What need do you really have for a deceiver of a masked clerk?"
"Crimes have never been higher since I became queen. You are simply an unfortunate resident of a sinister scheme."
"You are misinformed, Your Majesty."
"A graduate of the King's College. You wrote a number of thesis and economic proposals for reforms. Among these, were your very advocates for social reform and lawful regulations. After Fifty-Four, you relinquished your studies in pursuit of adventure. Your so-called "crimes" were merely to unveil the corruptions within the prominent firms and aristocrats. All by the offset of a certain mishaps at Oxford, am I wrong? Please, Miss Shelby, it's just you and me. There's no need for modesty and aloof certainties. I've been well-informed of your works."
Shelby did not protest, for it seemed that she was standing in the presence of an omniscient being, as her past unraveled before her very own eyes.
"You have my undivided attention, your majesty."
"Very well. I would like to hire your talents, indefinitely. Scrubbed records, and an official pardon posthumously. One that fits your modus operandi quite well, I reckon."
"Wait a moment! Posthumously?"
"Why yes. Officially, you've been tried and executed today, about fifteen minutes ago, my dear. Unofficially, you will be my instrument to bring about the end of this vile age of corruption and crimes. But of course, you could deny my offer, and that platoon outside could just make your death one for the record."
"It's not like I have much of a choice, do I?" Shelby sighed, with her long gaze eyeing the redcoats just within sight past the glazed windows.
The queen smiled slyly.
"As of this moment, Scarlet Shelby is dead. Welcome to my Foreign Affairs Service initiative, Miss Summer."
The Queen handed Shelby a dossier of her new identity, alongside a handsome attachment of funds with specific instructions of visits to certain places. Shelby eyed the contents briefly, then met the Queen's eyes.
"You know, I'd rather fancy a death by a volley. Dashing end of blazing glory. Alas, I am at your service, Your Majesty." Shelby joked, chuckling slightly to herself.
The Queen smiled, as she drifted past her desk and began scribbling away at a blank letter.
"You will need your wits intact, Miss Summer. My people will contact you shortly about your partner and field of operation."
"My partner? With all due respect, Your Majesty, what use of a partner do I need for simple accounts and numbers?"
"As capable as you are with numbers and ledgers, I have taken the liberty of accommodating your needs for firepower, should heated events transpire. Your task will not be one to be taken lightly, my dear. Treachery lurks in the shadow. It takes both fire and candle to pave the way, Miss Summer."
The Queen's words plagued Shelby's mind. Whatever it was that Shelby reluctantly agreed to, seems to have its share of arduous ventures. The dossier attachments contained enough currency to last her for a year. It did not escape Shelby's mind that she could snatch the money and be well on her way. But as thorough as one could be, the Queen seemed well-informed of her past. Everything she mentioned thus far was of a certain truth. Besides, Shelby was going to be working directly for the Queen, the very person that she did not think to be in the presence with. The wheels of fortune turned for the better, she contemplated, and only the boldest steps could match forthwith. Could an orphan, whose vigilante steps forged her corrupt fortunes be worth something in the Queen's eyes? A chance at redemption? Of course not. The Queen was three steps ahead of the self-proclaimed cunning entrepreneur. It dawned on the young girl, as she closed the dossier with a slight chuckle.
"Oh! Upon your shopping endeavors at the tailor, please send Mister McKinley my regards."
It was there and then, Shelby acknowledged the Queen's words with grace and curtsied.
"Your Majesty."
Shelby exited the room, prompting the emergence of a certain tall man to enter the room. The man in black eyed the girl as they passed one another, with certain contempt, before addressing the Queen.
"Is this the best course of action? That girl may prove prudent to your operations, but need I remind you that she is still a criminal?"
"Perhaps she is. But I'm sure she knows the unspoken, undeniable truth. She has nothing to lose but her name. An orphan, who casted away her name in the name of vigilante justice. The cost of her future for the betterment of those around her. You've seen the dossier as I did. I believe Miss Summer will see to her duties as needed, Bertie."
"Perhaps. Or she could very well squander your trust, alongside your investments."
"We'll certainly see soon enough, won't we, Bertie?"
"Yes my dear."
Shelby waltz passed the guards, turning back to eye the windows from whence she had just departed from. She locked eyes with the Queen from a distance, alongside the mysterious man beside her. Thoughts ran her by, but Shelby had yet to give into the temptation of running back to her old ways. Her paces betrayed her, steering forward to the carriage. A chance at a new life, with promises of the righteous cause that she yearned for the last two years. Only time will tell, but if providence had given way thus far, it was best to not offend the Lord. Although far from a firm believer, all those times Shelby had spent siphoning funds to Protestant communities really rubbed off on her. She shuddered at the thought, but could not help but beg the question of her own destiny. For better or for worse, it was time to dress proper for her new job. The first stop - McKinley's haute couture.
"Top of the mornin' to ya! How may I be of service, my lady?" A certain old man greeted Shelby.
Shelby slid a note towards the man, with a smile on her face.
"Her Majesty, the Queen sends her regards, Mister McKinley?"
"All these years, and she still paid her visits. Right this way, miss…?" He smiled, leading Shelby to his aide.
"Shel-..." Shelby hesitated before conjuring up a courteous smile.
"Summer." She settled.
"Miss Summer." The man acknowledged. "Arms, please."
His aide eloquently threw a measurement tape with speed thay wrapped around Shelby's chest, waist, then her side.
"Tell me, miss Summer, is this a quick domestic soiree or a foreign endeavor?"
"A bit of both, I reckon."
"Any particular style to your preferences, Miss Summer?"
"Virginian. Continental Blue, with white facings." she said, uttering precisely the Queen's checklist to the letter. Despite the nature of her new job, there lingered a certain uniformity aspect that she was to present herself in service of the latter.
She could have been well-off in her selection of attires, but it seemed that even in discretion, presentation took precedence over practicality. Shelby chuckled at the thought, then turned her attention towards McKinley's question.
"Buttons?"
"Three. Distressed, if you could please."
"Breeches or robes?"
"Robes."
"And the lining?"
"Something appropriate for concealment, if you please, Mr. McKinley."
"Very well Miss Summer. Would you like to have it on-hand or sent to your lodging?"
"On-hand if you please."
Summer emerged from McKinley's after their business concluded. She donned a white robe with fit ribbons, overlapped by a cerulean blue cut jacket in the style of the old American continental trooper. Beneath her dress ruffles were a pair of intricately woven straps for firearms and pocketed scripts. She had a pair of gaiter boots with dark sandstone and coyote lacings. She did a spin before the glass, admiring herself in vain. Not bad for being in the Queen's service, she reckoned. But it was time to move on. Summer boarded the carriage, bound for the docks.
Along the way, she stopped at a certain barber shop. What was once long locks of golden threads, were now replaced with a medium French cut, tidy for the long road ahead of her. She memorized the details upon the scribbled pages, before coming to a stop at a certain bridge. Disembarking, Summer found herself in the company of a tall lad in red with plaid kilt and sporran. A Highlander sergeant, by his attire and shoulder stripes. Six feet tall and then some, accompanied by a certain distant look in his eyes. Next to him was another gentleman in black.
"Her Majesty's hand-picked accountant for the trip ahead, eh? A bit too short to watch me back. Think ye could at least handle your luggage?" The man in red remarked with a Scottish accent.
"Heh. Her Majesty never mentioned a scruffy Amazon as my partner. Good Lord sir, nothing about you benefits a sense of subtlety." Summer replied sharply.
The two radiated a certain aura of dislikeness and enmity. The gentleman in black got between the two, with a slight sigh.
"Great to see you two are getting along quite well. Sergeant Blacke. Miss Summer. Righty-o. Here's your tickets for a steamer at twelve o'clock. Pier number three. Your contact will be awaiting your arrival nineteen days from now at Chennai. Here's a dossier for you two to review aboard."
"Won't ye care to explain the purpose of our objectives? I could do well to ken what's in store for me."
"Everything will be explained in due time."
Summer snatched the dossier from the man's hand before Blacke could react.
"It's blank."
"Surely, an educated lady such as yerself couldn’t possibly be illiterate?"
Summer shot a hostile glance at Blacke, to which the latter would chuckle slightly. Their petty, daggered words kept their handler entertained briefly.
"It's gonna be a long trip…" The man in black sighed.
"Confidentiality is our trade. I'm sure you two will have plenty of time to figure out the contents. That concludes my business. Good day to you. Miss Summer, Mister Blacke." He continued, before walking away from the bridge.
"Ye best keep up or I'll leave ye behind, Miss Summer."
"Likewise, Mister Blacke."
"English."
"Scots."
The man in black watched from a distance, as the two sashayed their way to the docks. A smirk to follow. "They'll do."
PROLOGUE II: BLACKE
ordained strength and steeled grit.
Ill commands and unfit orders in vain,
absolved by his sheer will and justful pain."
"Blacke! Blacke! Damn yer eyes, lad! The monkeys are watching! Break it off! Save it for the Russians!"
Blacke dwelled in the pitiful darkness. His grimy cell was as cozy as his tent on a cold rainy day. A sergeant on alleged attempt to murder a British officer. The truth was a matter of perspective for those that did not reside behind bars. Insubordinations suited him when loose. His fuses were as primed as his percussion caps. Trained to fire three shots per minute, and paid six-pences per day for the long marches.
A hero in the eyes of his fellow brethren in red, but a scoundrel in the eyes of yellow-bellied braids. Time and time again, the man had managed to hold fast the thin red line at Balaclava. Yet his fury remained unkempt at home. The faces of those that fell in the frozen plains of Crimea haunts him in his short paces from one end of the cell to another. The stripes on his shoulders tallied the times he had been wounded in battle. One for the Russian lancers, another for a stray bullet, and the last from a bayonet cut. Yet despise it all, he kept true to his beliefs. Standing strong in the face of adversity. Baptised in fiery smoke and frozen steel. Shoulders to shoulders, he marched on. Yey here he was, upon the revelation of certain cowardice accounts. Where his brethren stood, the man in braids bereaved them of reinforcements. Such was the true nature of aristocrats in uniform. Blacke accepted his fate to be shot this very day, in the name of justice.
Before long, the spoked wheels of fate were unscrewed, and latched onto a new wagon. He found himself in the presence of Her Majesty Queen Victoria.
"Do you believe in true justice, Sergeant Blacke?"
"Yer Majesty…" He muttered softly.
"You served your country well, Sergeant. Many, including myself, however, find you unsuitable for the army. You are tempered and quickly brutish for the likes of command. But beneath it all, I believe you to be a patriot. A vigorous equalizer of wrong-doings." She spoke. Her voice commanded the sergeant's attention and captured his eyes with acknowledgement.
“As it stands. You have the choice to stand trial by Mister Maxwell’s charges, or relinquish your existence as a soldier of the royal army. I may have use of your strengths in… unofficial matters. One that requires your strength and honest violence. Should you defer to the latter, your hands will be tainted, albeit at your discretion. All in the name of the blatant, yet ugly true justice that you seek. What say you, sergeant?”
Since the encounter, Blacke remained quiet throughout the day. Certainly, the reasonable conclusion he could reach was perhaps a chance to embark on this journey. Of all things, Blacke was not a saint. The years he spent in Crimea left a mark of haunting memories and troubled thoughts. Surely, the Queen knew this, having appointed him a partner for his new details. A man with nothing else to lose was to be unleashed - the unspoken truth that very well meant total deniability should things turn for the worse. As expendable as he was on the front lines. The only difference was that he had no restraints this time. He pitied the poor soul that was to accompany him. A non-combatant to boot. To be in Blacke’s company, was as delicate as slapping an extra set of braided cords on a front-rank fencible. Doomed to have little effects on the man, and certainly unsuited for a seasoned fighter as he.
“They better be able to handle their own in a firefight.” Blacke mumbled to himself, going about his days with the checklist entrusted to him by the Queen. He kept his uniform, procuring only an assortment of munitions.
Upon his arrival at the bridge, Blacke spotted a certain frail creature pacing their way towards him. Slender and delicate, with a luggage in hand. It did not take long for the Scot to realize that the woman was to be his associate for their trip.
“Ah, shite...” He muttered to himself, visibly frowning as they approached one another.
CHAPTER 1: SI VIS PACEM
The light easterly breeze carried the steaming vessel underway. Bound for Alexandria, Blacke and Summer spent most of their days wandering the confines of their cabin. A certain sense of enmity kept them distant. But even so, common courtesies must be met, and with it, sprinkled witty quips and sharp remarks. The only common ground they both shared was their dislike of one another. After more than a week at seas alongside the other passengers, Blacke and Summer have gotten their sea legs sorted out. The latter was more or less reluctant to give in to the sways of the churning rhythm of the waves. Blacke, on the other hand, often jabbed at Summer's inadequate adaptation to the sea. A condescending look, followed by a foul remark of her limited ventures in the Isles. Another day dawned on them, and Blacke put up his confident, yet haughty smile. The two met in the dining room for breakfast. While they were usually quiet to one another, the limited space upon the seas were more than enough to make the sergeant spill his words. If anything, he was never sober with his words.
“What kinda name is Summer anyways? Yer name’s only fooling a bairn barely a month old, miss.” Blacke said, mixing a shot of whisky into his coffee cup, then took a long sip out of his alcohol flask.
“Take it up with Her Majesty. Otherwise, you will leave me to my own devices, mister Blacke. Providence would have it, I only need to endure your presence for a few more days.” Summer replied. Her left eye twitched in annoyance, but she retained a calm composure. Although her frustrations were directed towards the blank dossier in her hand than Blacke's remarks.
“I reckon ye still have yet to decipher the blank pages?”
“I- It’s a work in progress. I’ll figure it out.”
“Well, yer progress needs work. I could lend my insight for a price.” he chuckled, as if he had already figured an answer to Summer's troubles.
“I don’t need your insights, Blacke. By the end of this day, I will reap the fruits of hard labor. I am not paying you anything.”
“As ye wish. You are more than welcome to fry that brain of yours aimlessly all ye like.” Blacke remarked with a smirk on his face, taking a swig from his flask.
Summer on the other hand, managed to restrain her frustration. After merely a minute of silence, the battle was already turning in Blacke’s favor.
“Say. Hypothetically. Should you be able to decipher the document’s contents, which I highly doubt obviously, what do you want?” Summer spoke.
“Hah. Have the talented miss Summer finally given in to my superior intellects?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Blacke. What’s your price? And no, I am not sharing chambers with you."
“Hahahaha. Miss Summer, please. Though ye do possess a bonnie face, I’d rather not trod that path with an oversalted ham such as ye.” Blacke replied with a laugh.
“Why you… ”
“Compose yourself, lassie. The document. Please.”
Reluctantly, Summer relinquishes the document to Blacke, of whom would proceed to take it to the boiler room, with Summer in tow. The latter tried to stop the man from seemingly burning the document over the burning coal
“What on earth are you doing? Stop this at once.”
“Settle down lass. Take a closer look.”
The blank pages began to unveil scribbles from line to line. Before long, the entire page was literate, albeit in a faint manner.
“Vinegar. Virtually undetected to the common eyes, but susceptible to heat. Our runners used this method during the war as a measure to relay orders safely.”
“Hmph. You could’ve at least disclosed that detail.” Summer said with a sharp breath, snatching the parchment from his hand and stomped back to their cabin.
“A thank you would have been nice, ye ken? Tchk! English.” Blacke shouted behind Summer, followed by a triumphant chuckle as he followed her back.
As the two made their way down the vessel, Summer found herself bumping into another woman just as she turned the corner. With her mind preoccupied with Blacke's jabs, she failed to acknowledge the presence of another, whose great sapphire eyes acknowledge Summer's intrusion. It did not take long for the Scottish maid next to the lady to chastise the young girl.
"Watch yer footings, daunderin' about without eyes!" The maid raised her tone.
"Apologies, madame!" Summer quickly apologized to the woman before her. Judging from her attires, she could tell that this woman before her was a noble of sorts. Her calm, unfazed expressions commanded Summer's entire being, almost as if she was being bewitched by the noble woman. The woman gave her a brief look, before setting her eyes upon the deciphered parchment in Summer's hands.
"You'll cause her to jump ship like that, Ms. Persley." The woman finally spoke, raising her hand slightly to calm her maid. "Fret not my dear. We all lose our footings sometime. I would advise a pair of stockings over your powdered knee to mitigate the chafings." She said softly to Summer.
"Thank you milady. I will take your words to heart!" Summer replied, just as Blacke caught up to her. The sergeant gave the maid a sharp look, taking notice of the way she was ogling at his dry thumb and index fingers. An odd option, despite the availability of his eyes. He could tell that she took an interest in his origins more than simply taking notice of the smallest of details for naught. At least, to most that knows their way around firelocks, they would often pay heed to one's hands to determine if their thumb were dried up from cocking and loading a rifle.
"I will be on my way now. Please excuse me, milady." Summer replied swiftly, after taking a slight glance at Blacke.
"Farewell, miss." The noble woman bid them farewell. Blacke would follow his charge, passing by the perfumed siren, acknowledging her presence with a simple "Ma'am."
While he did not pay attention much to the woman and her aide's disposition, Blacke was unsettled by the maid's gaze as he passed her. Even when he had made his way far beyond the railings, he could still feel their gaze fixed on his back.
The two eventually returned to their cabin, and spent some time studying the document. Summer's eyes were keen on the attached names and columns of one page, while Blacke briefed a glance over another sheet that regarded details of British and Russian troop movements for the last few months. The details of the two, albeit seemingly unrelated, were united by a common objective to monitor possible Russian activities in India.
"What do you reckon our contact in India will be like?"
"Long as they facilitate actionable leads, everything else should follow." He lazily remarked.
"Given our limited information and clues, I can hardly say for certain."
"Isn't it your job to ascertain such matters?"
"And what is your job supposed to be, Blacke? I don't see any sane reason for a redcoat sergeant to tail me around while I do my job."
"The way I see it, I suppose my job is to make sure you don't soil yourself in a firefight. This isn't just some office job you signed up for, lassie. You'd do well to remember that."
"I am well aware."
The very question that plagued the two since their unlikely association. A soldier and an auditor. Hardly a sensible pair, but alas they found themselves in each other's company. It dawned to them there, in the cabin of a vessel upon the tranquil tides. The only thing they shared thus far was their unspoken dereliction. Their pasts spilled by the Queen, and their purpose entwined.
"I suppose we are the scraps that Her Majesty deemed fit to throw to the dogs..."
"I figured as much. It's not exactly common to be handpicked by Her Majesty when she has an infinite source of manpower at her disposal. But we both have a job to do, and I intend to do it proper."
Summer eyed Blacke. The latter's calm delivery had a reassuring effect on her, even if she does not say it aloud. Blacke's conviction seemed more than what he let on with his unruly attitude. But the two would keep their concerns to themselves until the sun was high above the vessel. It did not take long for the rumbling of their stomachs to beckon their departure from the cabin to seek a cure.
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