Chapter Text
Caitlyn levels her rifle with the furthest target in the field and takes stock: ninety meters give or take, wind blowing southeast about four knots. Not ideal conditions, but nothing she can’t account for. She aims her iron sighs a little up and to the right, takes a deep breath in and… bang bang bang bang bang bang. Six quick shots rotating about her left foot. Her shoulders relax, she breathes out and observes her handiwork.
“You didn’t account for distance on the closer two.” Greyson’s gruff voice startles her from behind, shocking her back into her senses.
“You know, you should pay a little more attention to your surroundings,” she continues. “Were I an attacker, I would have gotten within ten feet of you before you noticed. And I wasn’t even trying to be quiet.”
“Who would I have to fear with you on the property?” She responds. Grayson snorts and examines the targets, considering how to instruct her.
“When you fire so quickly like that with a rifle of this caliber, you’re still recovering from the recoil when you aim your next shot. Let the echo from your last shot hit your ears before pulling the trigger again. You’ll feel like you’re losing time, but you’ll have a higher hit count.” Grayson pulls an engraved silver revolver to demonstrate. She takes a deep breath in and out and fires six shots. Even on the furthest target with a lower-caliber weapon, the bulletholes nearly overlap with Caitlyn’s. She blows the smoke off the muzzle for effect. Caitlyn waits for her to continue, but she stands in quiet contemplation. Something’s wrong. She looks toward the balcony overseeing the garden. She folds her weapon and faces the sheriff.
“What is it?” She asks. Her mother often sends Grayson to speak with her, either when she’s busy or doesn’t want to hear Caitlyn’s response. Naturally, her mother feels it’s easier for someone else to deliver unpleasant news than it is for her mother to speak to her like an adult, even after all this time.
Sheriff Grayson sighs, confirming Caitlyn’s suspicions. “Cassandra - your mother wants to speak to you about your campaign.”
“My campaign?” She huffs. “I’ve been over this with her. The position is hereditary in all but name. Why must I debase myself in public?” For that matter, her mother isn’t yet sixty-five; it shouldn’t fall to Caitlyn to clean up her leftovers.
Grayson sighs and pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and begins to clean her pistol, avoiding Caitlyn’s eyes.
“You know it’s more complicated than that, Caitlyn. You have responsibilities as the head of the house. She wants to prepare you while there’s still time.”
The head of the house. A title which bears as many restraints as it does privileges. Caitlyn wishes Grayson would stop predicting her next complaint, but they’d run the gamut of things she’d change about her situation many times over. She shoulders her rifle and storms up the stairs out of the garden and into the Kiramman estate.
“Go easy on her, okay?” Grayson shouts after her, “she’s getting old.”
The mansion is abuzz with staff preparing the estate to host what is likely to be the largest gathering of Piltover’s elite of the year. In two weeks, her mother will announce her retirement at an elegant to celebrate her years of service. The service is ostensibly being organized by her clients to thank her, but in reality the house is expected to foot most of the bill for such an occasion. Caitlyn can hardly imagine what kind of party could possibly take two entire weeks to prepare for, even for the most prolific policymakers, a club which her mother certainly considers herself part of. Why her mother would invite some of the least trustworthy people in all of Runeterra into their home, she can’t begin to fathom. She makes her way through the house toward her parents’ offices, narrowly dodging a cart covered in candied fruit being rushed to cold storage. When she arrives at the office, she rests her hands on the handle and takes a deep breath to collect herself. Unfortunately her work is undone when her mother’s voice rings out through the door.
“Caitlyn, dear, is that you?”
She considers for a moment using the drapes as an impromptu escape rope through the window, but thinks better of it. On the third floor, best not to trust the curtain rods to hold her weight. She opens the door and steps inside. It shuts behind her with an echoing click.
“Hello, mother.” She answers.
The office is more disarray than she’d ever seen it. Letters detailing quotes for imported delicacies and beverages pile high on her desk. Behind her are several sample miniature ice sculptures dripping a bit into a basin for her to select the larger-than-life centerpiece from. A portable wardrobe is stationed by the wall full to the brim with opulent navy blue gowns threaded with gold and white lace. It’s as if she was preparing for a wedding, though she imagines even her parents’ own hadn’t been this extravagant. She approaches the desk and her mother stands to kiss her on the cheek, but pulls back and touches her face.
“You’re cold, dear. Haven’t I told you not to spend too much time in the garden this time of year? You’ll catch a fever. And fever or not you’ll be making an appearance at my retirement gala to announce your candidacy for the council seat.” She sits back down and offers Caitlyn a glass of wine, which she refuses. A loose tongue is the last thing she needs around her mother. She shrugs and pours herself a glass, considering her daughter.
Uncomfortable in the silence, Caitlyn clears her throat. “How are preparations going? Is there any way I can help?”
“Oh, you know how it is. There’s always more to be done, but we’re on schedule. And not now, darling, I’ve got it handled. Besides,” she takes a sip, accentuating the silence in the room, which feels like a weighted blanket dragging Caitlyn by the shoulders, “you’ve more important things to consider.”
Caitlyn swallows her scoff and stands up straighter, watching a drop of water fall from one of the miniature sculptures to prevent her eyes from rolling. A lecture on decorum would only make this more painful.
She barely contains a flinch as her mother continues: “Have you considered potential alliances in preparation for your upcoming campaign?”
In her best impression of a grateful daughter, Caitlyn responds, “Mother, must I really parade myself all across the Crescent courting the favor of Piltover’s high society? Will they not accept my application to the position regardless?”
Her mother’s face hardens. She must not have kept her tone restrained enough. Her mother stands and walks along the east wall of the office, examining the line of paintings of late House Kiramman matriarchs. She brushes her hand along the golden frame of her own portrait. Hanging there is a painting of somebody who could be mistaken for a slightly older Caitlyn if the viewer didn’t know better. The name Cassandra Kiramman is engraved below the portrait along with a sprawling list of offices and achievements in fine, slanted print. She finishes off her glass and sets it down, turning to face Caitlyn.
“Your name will grant you the position, Caitlyn, but it won’t help you to keep it. You need support, both political and financial. Do you ever wonder where our family fortune comes from?”
This time she can’t prevent her eyes from rolling. “No, mother, I don’t. Because you’ve taught me extensively where it comes from.”
“Humor me, dear.”
She sighs, reciting her education in a practiced drone. “It comes from many places: trade company holdings, patent rights, production facilities-”
“But the bulk of it?”
“Public works and engineering. I was getting to it,” Caitlyn snaps. She’s hardly in the mood for a lecture on legacy.
“Correct. And who foots the bill on such things?”
Caitlyn considers for a moment. “Well… I suppose the citizens of Piltover.”
“Well, in a way, yes, but who controls those funds?”
“The council, I suppose.” Caitlyn answers. “Are you going somewhere with this?”
“The council, as well as its subsidiary departments,” her mother explains. “And what do you think is the purpose of the governing departments?”
Caitlyn tries to retort, but her mother has adopted a tone that she’s unfamiliar with, leaving her lost for words. Usually guarded and tactful, she’s being uncharacteristically candid. Her mother doesn’t save her from her stammering, though, instead selecting a pipe from her desk drawer and filling it with pungent dried leaves.
“I suppose,” she begins carefully, watching the flame ignite in the pipe, “they carry out the will of the council.”
Her mother exhales a cloud of aromatic smoke and points at her with the business end of the wooden instrument. “On the contrary. In name, the departments serve the council. But in the departments are where the real power of the council lies. A vote is cast in the council and sent to the departments for execution, but whether or not they choose to act upon it,” she says, returning to her seat, “is entirely up to you. Or rather, up to what you can do for them.”
Caitlyn frowns. Until now her mother has spoken so highly of her work as a councilor. Now that Caitlyn’s ascent is imminent she makes it sound like a glorified and particularly banal dinner party.
“Then… what is the point of the council?”
Her mother laughs. “Now you’re thinking like a politician. And then there’s the other important matter.”
Caitlyn pointedly does not sit in the seat opposite her mother, instead choosing to stand, silently requesting dismissal. After several seconds of heavy silence, Caitlyn sighs.
“Would you care to enlighten me?”
Her mother folds her hands and meets Caitlyn’s gaze, holding it until Caitlyn feels the strong urge to look away.
Finally in a low, careful tone, she says, “The matter of a suitor.”
Caitlyn’s face grows warm with embarrassment and anger. “Mother!”
“I know, I know, it feels crass for a mother to inquire about such things, but they are things you must consider, Caitlyn. For the good of the family. Your father and I,” she gestures across the hall, where Caitlyn assumes her father is buried in preparations for the gala, “we had hardly met on the day of our engagement. Our affection grew only after our marriage. You are lucky I still neglect to make such an arrangement for you.”
“Oh, how very kind of you not to sell me to the highest bidder on Sidereal Avenue,” Caitlyn spits. Her mother raises her hands, dodging the accusation.
“I intend to do no such thing. But that doesn’t mean that the council, the people of Piltover, and most of all the house don’t expect you to select a suitable man of similar status to help you bear an heir. A daughter.”
Caitlyn is about to say something that she’s certain to regret when there is a firm knock at her mother’s door.
She sighs and calls out, “is it important?”
The door handle turns. Caitlyn sighs in relief as Sheriff Grayson steps through the door.
“My apologies, Councillor Kiramman,” she says. Her mother’s demeanor cuts ike a knife; Sheriff Grayson is the only person with thick enough skin to withstand it. “There is a matter which requires the attention of Junior Officer Kiramman."
Her mother rolls her eyes “Fine, go play soldier. But I expect a campaign plan by the end of the week. Sheriff, if you would assist my daughter in preparations I’d be deeply appreciative.” She dismisses the two with a wave. Caitlyn mouths a silent “thank you” to the Sheriff, who pretends not to see.
“Of course, Councillor. Miss Kiramman?”
◈ ◈ ◈
Caitlyn steps out into the biting cold of late autumn and takes a gulp of air. Though the mansion spans nearly an entire acre including its various annex wings, the air inside feels to Caitlyn as though it is forcing itself into your lungs with all of its floral scents and warm drafts.
“Thank you, Sheriff.”
Grayson smiles and grunts. “Looked like you were really getting chewed up in there.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” she sighs, though she suspects Grayson knows almost as much of it as she does. The Enforcers are an independent body in theory, but much of their funding is dependent on House Kiramman’s support. Though her mother rarely pulls that lever, she can only imagine the weight of it upon Grayson’s shoulders. “What was it that required my attention?”
The sheriff smiles and extends a leather flask, uncapped, and winks. “I located a supply of illicit spirits which require discrete disposal.”
Caitlyn lets out an unexpected bark of laughter. She gladly receives it and takes a swig, hoping to drown the needle-point anxiety still prickling her. Whatever is inside bites at her throat, but once it’s down the warmth begins spreading over her skin. She takes another before handing it back with a nod. She leans up against the railing overseeing the garden, watching the remnants of sunset catch on the dead branches beneath them. Sheriff Grayson takes a swig and stows her flask.
The two stand listening to the wind, the backdrop chatter and clinking of glass behind them. Unlike with her mother or with any number of the house’s clients and employees, with Grayson she never feels compelled to speak, and Grayson responds in kind. The two share a mutually tired silence until the prickling feeling has left her.
“My mother expects me to find a suitor,” she finally says.
Grayson chuckles. “Why shouldn’t you? I’m sure with your looks you could pull any man in Piltover who caught your eye.”
“That’s rather the problem. None of them have caught my eye.”
“Hm,” she pauses, chewing on Caitlyn’s words. ”Well I can’t say I blame you. Hardly an honest man left in this city. What about this academic of yours, Talis, was it?”
“That- he’s-” Caitlyn stammers, taken aback by the thought. “We’re friends. Good friends. For over a decade now.”
“Well, better the devil you do, I figure,” she responds with a smirk.
There’s some truth to that, Caitlyn thinks. In theory, Jayce would make a suitable husband. Though House Talis is a bit below her station, the renown he’s gathered through his work with Hextech as well as his unprecedented appointment to the council more than made up for it. None of that is the issue, though.
“Can’t imagine bedding him?” Grayson offers bluntly, jolting Caitlyn out of her thoughts. “He’s a fine looking young man. Were I younger…”
“Gross...” Caitlyn scowls. The sheriff takes one look at her and erupts into laughter. Caitlyn attempts to look cross, but whatever Grayson keeps in her flask pulls a laugh from her as well.
“But… I suppose that’s it, yes. I just don’t see him that way.”
She thinks of the hours spent in Jayce’s office when they were younger, when he was still a client, eating lunch together, poring over equations that made more sense to him than they did to her, tinkering with mechanisms and channels and inscriptions. She couldn’t be more fond and proud of him. She could even see sharing a home with him comfortably. They were good enough friends and worked well together, even in the cramped Academy office. But Jayce, as a husband?
“Not... Not like that,” she repeats. The sheriff nods, thinking. She points to the city, at the capitol complex which houses the council.
“Your mother’s right, you know. The council’s power doesn’t come from names and houses. You have to be very clever to get anything done there. Something your friend Jayce could do to learn.” She takes another draw from her flask and hisses through her teeth. “He’s skilled with his little gadgets. With politics? Not so much.”
“Perhaps,” Caitlyn admits, “but the last thing I want to do is go touring the merchant’s guild begging for scraps from thieves.” She looks over Sidereal Avenue’s bronze and gold rooftops adorned with elaborate statues with a look of distaste. The Avenue is only gilded on the surface; behind its doors, the guild merchants buy and sell life-altering assets like they’re poker chips, and more than a few of the exchanges aren’t entirely above board to say the least. But something occurs to her about Grayson’s comment.
“Were you eavesdropping?” She accuses.
“I prefer the term ‘standing guard,’” she corrects. “And you know, if you plan to make a change in that room, you’re going to have to do more distasteful things than flirting with old salesmen.”
Caitlyn looks at the mansion, wondering what “distasteful things” her mother has had to do to get to where she is. Grayson is still lost in thought, gazing over the river Pilt.
“You know, not all support comes from the Avenue.” She says, her tone suddenly gravely serious.
Caitlyn ponders what she could mean. Her mother taught her the importance of popular support even in a hereditary seat, how one can lose their position by running afoul of the wrong people.
“You’d be surprised how deep the veins of power run from the castle. Al-l-l the way down.” She draws a jagged line with the hand holding the flask, “into the belly of Piltover.”
“The Undercity,” Caitlyn says.
“To a shiny princess like you - I mean no offense of course - it may seem unappetizing. But deep under the barges are where the gears of Piltover really turn. When you’re building your support, I suggest you pay a visit. Who knows what you might find?”
That this suggestion was coming from the executive head of Piltover’s law enforcement astonished Caitlyn. The Undercity was a place crime ran completely unchecked. Not for lack of trying on the Enforcer’s part, but it seemed that anywhere they dug up a rats nest ten more would appear around it. At a certain point there was little to do but monitor who went in and out. Her disgust must’ve shown on her face, because the sheriff put her hands up.
“I didn’t make things how they are, kid, I just do what I can with the hand I’ve been dealt.” She says. “Every single person on that council has their hands in the dirt in one way or another. Even I’ve got… contacts, let’s say. To keep things running smoothly. Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she says, seeing Caitlyn’s look of indignity, “you think this city is all puppies and sunshine? You’re old and experienced enough to know better.”
It was true, since enlisting with the enforcer’s Caitlyn had seen more than her fair share of violence and crime. Though mysteriously she’s rarely put on jobs that risk getting her shoes muddy, no doubt thanks to her mother’s influence. But to think that the base of Piltover’s power lay with the chembarons of the undercity? What’s the point of the laws governing commerce if the people writing them have no interest in adhering to them?
“Look, I’m not telling you what to do, Caitlyn,” Greyson says. She stands and takes one last swig from the flask, offering the rest to her. What’s left is substantial, but Caitlyn finishes it off in one gulp, returning the flask. “But if you go digging around, I would have a suggestions on where to start.”
Caitlyn raises a brow. “Like what?”
“Oh, a place where people like you and I go sometimes, when they find the men in this city aren’t… how you said, ‘catching their eye.” Greyson grins. “A place called the Powder Keg.”