They seem enthusiastic, confident. Triumphant, even. The kid is keeping a lookout towards the north-west. One of the boxes is cracked open, and the floppy-hat woman carefully checks the contents - something gleaming and metal - before sealing it again.

They pick up the boxes and start to walk north as a group, not towards the heart of the city but along its outskirts.

He trails them, staying at a distance; the Longstrider spell he cast this morning will wear off in a few hours, but for now it means he can easily circle around to travel beside them, rather than behind them where they'll be watching, without much risk of not being able to catch up if they change direction unexpectedly.

They turn west slightly eventually, and make their way to one of the many workshops, knocking on a side-door. There are other people around in this slightly denser part of the city, but all east-enders who don't seem to find anything suspicious about the group. They show the contents of one of the boxes to someone speaking out of a barely cracked-open door.

...They appear to be having an argument with whoever is inside, and start to get unhappy about it. Raafi could, perhaps, lurk just around the alley's corner and have a listen.

Yep, that seems like a good plan.

      A greasy-sounding voice is coming from someone inside the building. "You'll get your payment when I get it. So you can just leave the boxes now-"

"That wasn't the deal. Half up front, half on completion, to a specified schedule. With penalties for failure."

      "You know how time is around here-"

"Bullshit. Don't make me come in there, Freddie. Port Prosper is the second-biggest clearing house in the Reach, you've had plenty of time. Where's our Bronzewood?"

      "I have six consignments, and the blueprints you asked for. And those were fucking expensive, it took bribes! It's all I could get away with acquiring without attracting suspicion."

"More like all that you could get at a bargain from your 'friends', fence. You expect us to pay for an incomplete job?"

      "I can get it done, I just need more time."

"Hours are expensive. We'd know. Hand over what you have now, and we'll come back tomorrow. This doesn't have to get messy. But if it does, you know we have everything we need to make a very big mess."

      "Fine! I'll give you the blueprints, but I'm not handing over the Bronzewood without the rest of the shells. I can get the rest tomorrow. We can make the exchange under cover of the feast of the Red Saint."

"The what?"

      "Big street party. In two days."

"...Ugh. Fine. Go get the blueprints, then."

The door shuts. The leader taps her foot impatiently.

This isn't the worst setup for revealing himself, but - no, she's distracted, and he's going to need her attention for at least a few minutes while he explains himself. He waits.

A sheaf of papers are held out the door. The woman examines them briefly, folds them away and makes a blustery half-threat, and then - deflates with a tired sigh before directing her crew to head back to the hidden cranny.

He follows until they're back out away from the crowds, and then runs ahead a bit to set himself up on the path they're traveling, leaning casually against a wall to wait for them to come to him.

They pause and look suspiciously at him when they spot him. They scan the surroundings, looking for anyone else, at a word from the boss, whose hand goes to her hip.

He raises his hands in a gesture of surrender, looking calm and unworried. (They're not close enough to speak to, and he doesn't want to draw attention by shouting.)

The group calms down after a bit and approaches to about thirty feet.

"I don't credit coincidences. What brings you out here among the overgrowth? Right in our path."

"I wanted to talk to you, see if I want to offer my help with your project. I'm in a bit of a unique situation, with some unique help to offer, if things work out that way."

Squint. "-Huh. Well, you don't look like one of the Stovepipes' agents, and you're alone, so sure, let's talk. Perhaps not out in the open. I'm Captain Willia Morel of the Tacketies, I'll shake your hand in a bit. This way."

"Raafi, cleric of Fharlanghn," he introduces himself, and falls in with the group.

She leads them into what seems to have once been a park, obscured from the nearest houses. They stack the crates up, and Willia holds her hand out for the shaking.

"Well met, Raafi. What's a cleric and what can they do for the cause of freedom?"

"A cleric is a bit like a priest, but I suspect that priests are different too, in the world I come from. I know gods are; ours give magic to their clerics, for one thing. Mine is the god of travel; I'd like to see your conflict resolved so that the trains can go back to running as often as they'd like to. And preferably resolved in a way that leaves everyone better off in general, which is why I'm starting here."

"...World you came from. Do you know the history yet?"

"Very little of it; I've been busy."

"Settling the Reach was bloody work, and bloody expensive in lives and machinery and everything else. The establishment decided they'd let people risk their own fortunes and lives instead of pouring their own resources into it. The promise was, settle the reach and you'll own your own patch of land. Hard work and risk, but you could make your fortune, get away from the slums and the workworlds. Tell me if I'm starting too early or too late."

"Sounds about right; go ahead."

"About a decade and a half ago, things were really starting to boom. The Hours industry was making everybody rich, and there were other valuable goods coming out of the Reach as well. New Winchester was a pretty big city at this point, mostly owned by big companies that moved in from London once it wasn't a total death-trap. But the Windward Company started tightening things against all the independents, who'd earned their places out here. Anti-strike tactics. New taxes. Choking regulations. 'Security' seizures. It was intolerable, they were never going to compromise unless someone forced them to. Nobody ever compromises unless you can hurt them."

"Things came to a head when Windward Company representatives shot into a crowd protesting outside the Wolversley Engine Yards, and the first Winchester War began. We Tacketies banded together to keep Stovepipe engines out of our spaces, we took back what was unfairly taken from the first settlers of the Reach. We blockaded New Winchester and let them run out of supplies, until they'd come to the negotiating table. London sent reinforcements... But we won, in the end. The establishment had to compromise, or they'd lose everything instead of some of their things. The Tacketies are official now, we represent the small homesteaders and independents of the Reach."

"...And after six, seven years, I think London started feeling revanchist. Lots of newspapers about 'restoring proper dominion'. The Windward Company started getting back to its old tricks. More heavy engines in the skies, patrolling the lanes. Restrictions on weapons, taxes on the Hour-trade. They tried to build the Isambard Line, and it was an unmitigated disaster, and they blamed the Tacketies for what was always a horrible idea. So we started fighting again, because if we don't we will become just another downtrodden cog in Albion's machine. No Stovepipe will accept that they lied to us and stole from us. We're all selfish dangerous rebels using propaganda to mislead the public and break away from the Traitor Empress's benevolent rule."

He nods along. "Sounds familiar. You have plans, I assume? For what you want to do, and what happens afterward if you win?"

"I do the jobs my superiors ask me to and don't know the big picture. I know it sounds hypocritical, given that the Stovepipes are doing that too, but it's safer. And I trust the people who are in charge. But, the general idea is stronger independence this time. No more compromises that they can gradually walk back. We want New Winchester, if possible we want Port Prosper and the Transit Relay. We're... Trying to keep things to just the Stovepipes. Just skirmishing."

He nods. "No, that makes sense. I'll want to talk to them, then, before I sign on. It's no good to me if you think the best way to keep your own freedom is to stop anyone else from coming or going."

"God of travel, was it? How's that supposed to work - is he an aspect of the Almighty, or something more heathenish?"