Before dinner, I gathered the children in the study. I didn't tell them about the list. I didn't tell them our grumpy neighbor was an Imperial target. Instead, I stood before a chalkboard and drew a single, life-sized diagram of a galvanized steel nail.
"Today's extra-curricular lesson," I announced, tapping the board with a wooden pointer, "is on the Oxidization Rates of Fasteners in High-Humidity Environments. Arin, if a nail loses 0.02% of its mass to rust per annum, calculate the structural failure point of a standard garden gate over a twenty-year period."
I watched them. Arin's eyes glazed over instantly. Lysa looked like she was counting the molecules in her own breath. Cyrus and Mira, to their credit, actually started taking notes, their faces masks of polite, agonizing boredom. It was perfect. To any Imperial "ear" listening through a telegraph tap, we were just a family of scholars losing our minds over hardware.
The Dinner of Infinite Wisdom
Dinner was an even greater masterpiece of monotony. As Avaris served a perfectly seasoned (but visually dull) potato soup, I didn't talk about the Grey Cloak or the Merchant.
"Avaris, the viscosity of this broth is fascinating," I said, holding a spoonful up to the light. "It reminds me of the thermal-sludge density we discussed in the 42nd chapter of the Structural Integrity Handbook. Children, did you know that the specific heat capacity of a potato allows it to retain heat 14% longer than a turnip of equal mass?"
"Is there going to be a quiz on the potato, Father?" Arin asked, his voice a hollow shell of its former self.
"Naturally," I replied, beaming. "After we discuss the history of the spoon."
Avaris caught my eye over the rim of her bowl. She saw the flick of my gaze toward the window—toward Hallow's cabin. She knew the lecture wasn't for the kids; it was the "white noise" behind which I was preparing my next move.
The Structural Survey
The next morning, I traded my scholar's robes for my most stained, official-looking surveyor's vest. I grabbed my transit level, my tripod, and a stack of "Boundary Infringement" forms.
I marched up the hill to Old Man Hallow's property. He was outside, naturally, shaking a rake at a crow.
"Hallow!" I barked, sounding as pedantic and annoying as possible. "The Academy has flagged a three-degree lean in your western retaining wall! As a certified Imperial Architect, I am legally obligated to perform a Sub-Surface Integrity Audit! If that wall collapses, it could create a silt-slide that affects my hydrangeas!"
"Get off my dirt, Verne!" he screamed, his face turning a vibrant shade of plum. "My wall's been leaning since the Great Frost, and it'll be leaning when you're in the ground!"
"Move aside!" I pushed past him, setting up my tripod.
While I pretended to measure the angle of his wall, my hands were busy. I wasn't just looking at stones. I was looking for the Signal Interceptor mentioned in the Imperial list. I scanned his porch, the eaves of his roof, and the crawlspace beneath his shed. I used a small, handheld resonance crystal to sniff for telegraph frequencies or hidden wires.
Nothing.
I checked his woodpile. I checked his goat's collar. I even checked the hollow of the old oak tree. There was no interceptor. No wires. No high-tech Northern equipment.
Hallow wasn't a spy. He was just a man who lived on top of a geographical "sweet spot" where the Imperial telegraph lines made a sharp 90-degree turn. His "interference" wasn't a machine; it was likely just his habit of burning damp leaves right under the lines, causing thermal interference, or perhaps he was just digging holes for his fence posts too close to the brass conduits.
The Empire was going to arrest him for being a nuisance, convinced he was a genius saboteur.
"Well?" Hallow spat, stomping over. "Is it leaning or not, you spindly ink-stainer?"
"It's worse than I thought," I lied, scribbling frantically on my clipboard. "The molecular tension of your mortar is at critical levels. I'll have to return tomorrow with... a more intensive probe."
I packed up my tripod with the stiff, jerky movements of a man deeply offended by a neighbor's mortar quality. I marched back to the cottage, leaving Old Man Hallow still shouting at the back of my head about "academic trespassing."
The moment I stepped through the door, Avaris was there, drying a plate with a look that suggested she had been watching the whole "audit" through the window.
"So?" she asked, her voice dropping that domestic sweetness for the sharp edge of a tactician. "Did you find the grand Northern conspiracy hidden in his goat shed?"
"Nothing," I sighed, dropping my heavy leather bag onto the table. "No wires, no resonance crystals, not even a suspicious pigeon. The man is exactly what he looks like: a grumpy hermit who probably accidentally hits the telegraph conduits when he's looking for worms to fish with. But the Empire's 'logic' is a closed loop, Avaris. They saw a signal drop, they saw a veteran's name, and they've already built the gallows in their minds."
Avaris leaned against the counter, a playful, dangerous glint in her eyes. She started to tease me, her voice sliding into that melodic Northern lilt. "Oh, so my genius Architect is stumped? The man who can talk a Grey Cloak into a coma can't figure out how to save a man from a ghost-hunt? What are you going to do, Ilyas? Give the Imperial Command a three-hour lecture on the history of Hallow's fence posts until they beg for mercy?"
I looked at her, and a slow, calculating smile spread across my face. "Better. I'm going to give them exactly what they want to find. I'm going to build a camouflage for the Empire—a masterpiece of junk and 'high-tech' nonsense."
"A fake interceptor?" she asked, catching on, her eyebrows arching.
"Precisely," I said, already pulling a drawer open to find my spare copper coils and some discarded clockwork gears. "If they find a 'secret spy device' on Hallow's land, he's a dead man. But if they find a 'abandoned resistance relay' three miles away in the Old Quarry, they'll think the 'interceptor' moved. They'll chase a shadow into the woods and leave our grumpy neighbor to his goats."
I held up a rusted brass casing and a glowing blue resonance stone I'd been using for a paperweight. "I'm going to build the most convincing piece of 'rebel technology' the Empire has ever seen. It will look terrifying, it will hum with 'forbidden energy,' and in reality, it will be about as functional as a spoon."
Avaris laughed, a soft, warm sound. "Using boring junk to create an exciting lie. You really are a terrifying man, Ilyas Verne."
The workshop is open. I have the gears, the coils, and the 'forbidden' blue glow. By midnight, the 'Great Quarry Spy' will be born.