Does the black moon howl

"Here, milord."
Calvary fished a few coins out of his pouch and paid the driver as he dismounted from the carriage. The Arkham Jail (nicknamed "the Asylum Asylum" by local wags) loomed up over him, an imposing slab of brick and wood, a single solid complex stretching into the sky, from which no escape was possible save a long, soaring dive into the cold churn below. Connected to the mainland by a narrow, precarious spit of land, it had been built a decade before his birth, when the small, squat jailhouses dotting Asylum had grown too full to hold the teeming refuse of the island's underworld.
There was a small guardhouse by the wrought-iron gates, and Calvary checked in. The warden did not meet him - she was much too busy for that - but he had timed his visit to coincide with the overlapping changing of shifts, and one of the guards bound for Block 4 led him there. (Calvary had memorized the layout years ago, but the sentiment was appreciated.) The ceilings were low - low enough for his fingertips to graze its lumpy surface - and the corridors were brightly-lit - so as to prevent any would-be escapees from sneaking around.
Block 4 was separated from the rest of Arkham by another, even narrower spit of land, artificially widened by stone and only large enough for two men to walk abreast. Regular shipments of food prepared in the Arkham kitchens trundled over the connector, conveyed in trolleys, and it was with one of these shipments that Calvary went, having traded his writing-pad for a small leather-bound notebook. He remembered Block 4 as having been a place of near-constant construction, but that construction had stopped temporarily, and no wonder - for Block 4 had been built to house certain individuals termed "special inmates".
All the inmates here required more extreme countermeasures - adventurers gone berserk, for instance, or mages who had developed a penchant for arson. He had gone over the transfer documents last night, each one detailing why the various inhabitants of Block 4 had been assigned to that section. For most of them, that reason was indicated on the form as "Ferocity": attacking other inmates, causing a ruckus, rioting, and - on top of all that - being far too strong to put down without assistance.
But some were stranger still, and it was these inmates that Calvary had come to see.
The first thing he did was to visit them, peering through the transmuted peepholes that had been built into every cell at Arkham, indulging his own curiosity. The warden had taken care to never put two humans in the same cell, and the same thing went for other races. So it was possible to see, for instance, a tiefling with a slime, or an orc with a merfolk. It was not a sight that most people witnessed very often. Two races, both out of their natural environments, forced to interact. Thought-provoking. Calvary ambled throughout the whole structure, from top to bottom and back again, pausing at every door. Though there weren't a lot of doors.
Most of them were mindless brutes. Ferocity, remember? Loose cannons. Berserkers. Struck by bloodlust. He came across a huge tiefling woman - now, there was a glimmer of intelligence in those eyes - but Calvary discarded her. He didn't want someone with that much raw physical power at his beck and call. Too risky. There was the insect druid, and then there was the vampire. Those two were viable, but rather too threatening, if half of what he'd heard was true. They'd raise hackles, and being associated with them would draw too much attention to him. Not worth it.
Calvary had almost given up on this trip as anything other than a brief sightseeing jaunt when he came across a particular cell.
There were two humans in this cell. Ostensibly, at least. The old man had set off a few diagnostic spells, meaning that he wasn't fully human - or even mortal, if some of those spells spoke true - but no further examination had been undertaken. Arkham didn't have enough resources; all it had been able to do was move him in there. All things pointed to him being able to leave whenever he wanted to, anyway, so Calvary saw no reason to prod him.
There was a man in there, though. Wavy pale hair, so blonde it was almost white. Delicate features. Lanky, not lean. Calvary looked down at his notes. He hadn't been dropped in Block 4 for any reason apart from the fact that he'd been implicated in a prison riot. He'd claimed that he'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but the warden hadn't believed him, so there he was. Unlucky for him, lucky for Calvary. Seemed a smart enough chap. Articulate, too, which was more than could be said for the general population at Arkham.
Calvary arranged a meeting with him. A few minutes after he'd informed the warden of this decision, Owlen Crast was shoved into the lone interrogation room at Block 4. Calvary bade him sit. "You know who I am?"
"Permission to speak?"
"Please."
"Your clothes are understated but expensive. The brooch on your lapel indicates that you work for the government of Asylum. Bag of holding on your shoulder. Saw signs of your arrival over the bridge an hour ago, and now I'm meeting you in the flesh. Either this has been in the works for some time, or you have enough clout to arrange such a meeting. Likely both."
Interesting. Calvary slid a complex strategic problem that he'd been working on across the table. "Solve this for me?"
The man looked down at it, then up at him. "Knight to g4, mate in ten. A fee of ten groats to Snicket. The bookkeeper did it. Mr Green in the kitchen with the candlestick. Fifty-one thousand, five-hundred and seventy-eight. Delta to D4 would upend the opposition's strategic calculus and cause a break in their defensive line, opening the way for Kappa to make a feint for Omicron. And..." He closed his eyes, opened them. "Does the black moon howl?"
Calvary stilled for a moment, then reformulated his composure. "Impressive." He'd been working on that for the past year.
"It's a masterful cypher," said the man. "But not unbreakable. I think you overstretched yourself by incorporating those gnomish characters. It's starting to lose its integrity."
"Noted on that." Calvary smiled. "How would you like a job with the government of Asylum?"
"That's it?"
"Hm?"
"I've never thought of myself as that - lucky," the man spat that last word out, "to be offered a job in government. Seems too good to be true."
"It is." Calvary folded his arms. "You will be processing data for myself. Gathering information from across the archipelago. Organizing, analyzing, deciding. Some field work, too, should it call for it. A knife in the ribs at the right time. A pouch of coin here, a favor there. A thankless task. And the rewards are minimal save mine own protection and enough funds to lead a comfortable life for yourself."
"You collect people like me."
"And deploy them." Calvary shrugged. "Or you could choose to stay here. But a man of your talents likely has some scheme to escape. No one would willingly dwell here."
"You'd be surprised," Crast said, under his breath, no doubt referring to his cellmate. "Very well - I accept."
Calvary stood up, extended his hand. They shook. "Any personal belongings in your cell?"
"No."
"Then you leave with me." Calvary handed him a pouch. "Here's some coin to start with. Once we're back on the mainland, go and buy yourself a meal. Maybe a room at an inn. Some clothes. Whatever you like. I'll be in touch." He'd be tied up for the rest of the week, but Eänir was back in town, wasn't he? Calvary had dealt with him before; some of his associates were working on mass-producing his more mundane inventions. A few guns here, a few furnaces there... it could go a long way.
As the two of them walked back across the bridge, behind a glowering guard pushing a trolley back across, Calvary decided to contact Eänir. Him and Crast would keep each other busy until he'd settled his other affairs.