| The Ministries | |
|---|---|
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| The Ministries (Sidebar) | |
| Located in | Albion |
| Ports | The Ministries |
| Shops | Spitalfields Market St Dominic's Augmentations |
| Shipyard | Crown & Misery Co. Yards |
The Ministries is a platform in Albion. It occupies the very middle of the central circle, close to London.
This port shared its shop with London, although it doesn't have a Bazaar.
The Ministries[ | ]
"A number of instruments of government are located here. The Horological Office (which regulates time across the Empire), the Office of Works (which ensures the jobs no one else can be bothered with are done), and the Ministry of Public Decency (which curates the notion of 'Britishness' with the same care a lepidopterist uses to pin a butterfly to a board.) "
| The Ministry of Public Decency | |
|---|---|
 | |
| Category | Story Event |
| Type | Story |
| Data ID | 277958 |
Guide: How to pass the Royal Horology Exam[ | ]
- The time in Lustrum is 18:34.
- The train would have departed at 10:30.
- Nudge the Chief Horologist.
The Ministry of Public Decency[ | ]
A huge, horseshoe-shaped building of white stone, white columns, clocks, and iron gates. Inside, its walls are panelled with dark wood. Crimson carpets – worn by frequent passage – flood the floors. Within its cubby-hole offices, auditors toil to protect the sensibilities of Londoners here in the heathen sky.
Interactions
| Actions | Requirements | Effects | Notes |
|---|---|---|---|
| Request an appointment
Is there some way you could be of use to the Ministry?
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Come bearing gifts
You cross the foyer and approach the secretary ensconced at a teak desk. She listens to your request with a thoughtful frown. "I'd love to arrange an appointment for you with one of our auditors, obviously, but my hands are tied. Bureaucracy, you understand." She rolls her eyes, looks around conspiratorially, then lowers her voice.
"Best thing for a someone like yourself to do is to gather reports on nearby ports. I'm sure the Information Office would love to hear them. Then I could pop your name in this little book, and up you go!" Game note: Collect port reports from Albion and turn them in here to receive rewards. |
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| Request an appointment regarding intelligence you've gathered
Perhaps the Information Office would be interested in your recent reports.
Game note: Learn how you can be of use to the Ministry of Public Decency. |
A new acquaintance
The Congruous Secretary gives you a brilliant smile. "Well, that sounds entirely apposite. Take a seat, dear." She writes a note and inserts it into a pressurised delivery-tube by her desk.
Fifteen minutes later, a Genial Auditor arrives: a portly fellow with white, wispy mutton chops. "Pleasure to meet you, Addressed As(SpeechFormal). Let's go to my office, shall we?" He leads you through labyrinthine corridors. A new bust of the Empress seems to wait around every corner. |
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| Take tea with the Genial Auditor
His office is small, but comfortable. One wall is lined with books. Another holds a window, with a small window box in which he appears to be growing decorative fungus.
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The Genial Auditor
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| Deliver your port reports to the Genial Auditor
"Well, what do we have here?" he asks, pouring you both tea.
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Expert handling
He listens intently, writing notes on a pad of paper. His comments are absolutely neutral. "I see. Fascinating. Well, well." You notice your reports are filtered into separate piles.
Afterwards, he writes a requisition form for you. "Just pop this into Finance on your way out, and they'll see to the needful," he says. "Terribly grateful. Best keep this information to yourself though, eh? Rest assured we are experts. We'll ensure it's handled sensitively."
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Advanced alteration value probably needs examination.
Advanced alteration value probably needs examination. Advanced alteration value probably needs examination.
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| Trade Gratitude to reduce your Unwanted Attention
Surely the Genial Auditor can remove your name from certain documents, or suggest other, more deserving candidates for the Ministry's attention.
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A word in the right place
The Auditor is dismayed to hear of your troubles. "Oh no, no, no, no no. This must be a mistake! A person of your calibre? No, no, no. Some of our inspectors are over-eager, bless them. Don't worry. I'll have a word."
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| Trade Favour for a Ministry-Stamped Permit
The Genial Auditor keeps an Alexandrian collection of forms, orders, and permits, and is happy to dispense them to 'good sorts'.
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A damn good stamping
He rummages through his many-drawered desk. "Hm. That's an E4-dash-C. No use to us. Or indeed, anyone. Oh, here we are— Wait, no; that's a paraffin requisition form. Where the devil— Ah-ha! Success!"
He retrieves a densely-typed form, stamps it, and hands it over. Perhaps this is the one you'll need.
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| Trade Favour for a Cryptic Benefactor
When you enter the Genial Auditor's office, the air is heavy with cigar-smoke. Another Ministry official is present – are you intruding? "Not at all!" the Auditor says. "Come in! We're all friends here."
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Friends in high places
Judging from the Auditor's deference, his colleague occupies a position of importance in the Ministry. He is at no point named.
A semi-depleted decanter of brandy stands on the desk. You set about depleting it further. The conversation grows increasingly informal as you all lament the state of modern society. "Tell me," the Auditor's nameless superior asks, idly, "who would you say is the problem?" He listens closely to your answer. Afterwards, he stands to leave. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance," he says, shaking your hand. "Good egg. Damn good egg."
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| Trade Favour for an Invitation to Perdurance
The Ministry keeps a supply of invitations to the Half-Light Masque. Occasionally, they hand them out as rewards to people who provide valuable services.
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A tear in his eye
He hands one over: a luxurious cream card with flowing gold script. "Is there a better example of the importance of our work? The bloom of British youth, preserved in the flush of their innocence! It tests a chap's stiff upper lip, it really does."
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| Trade Favour for a Royal Dispensation
In matters critical to the Crown, the Ministry is sometimes forced to use extrajudicial methods. The Genial Auditor will have access to Royal Dispensations.
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Understanding
"Say no more!" You've worked so hard on matters crucial to the Ministry. They consider you almost one of their own. And if the Auditor's eagerness is in any way influenced by a desire to reduce the debt owed to an outsider, he's remarkably skilled at concealing it.
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| Surrender your Contraband
You won't get much for it, but nor will you get arrested for possession.
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The safe alternative to smuggling
A young Civil Servant sends a Clay Man to your locomotive to retrieve your contraband items. "Her Majesty thanks you," you are told, though your rewards do not exactly sparkle with gratitude.
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Advanced alteration value probably needs examination.
Advanced alteration value probably needs examination.
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| Make a deal to reduce your Notoriety
You've earned a few politely averted eyes.
Game note: Reduce Notoriety earned through smuggling. |
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Forgiven, if not forgotten
"Wait here." The Secretary disappears to speak to a few people, and returns with a polite smile. "This didn't happen, of course. Is there anything else?"
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| The Royal Horological Office | |
|---|---|
 | |
| Category | Story Event |
| Type | Story |
| Data ID | 281662 |
The Royal Horological Office[ | ]
Tick. Tick. Tick. Albion's heartbeat. Clocks of diverse size and shape line the walls of this small, grey office. Each is meticulously tuned by the Royal Horologists and Inspectors as practice for the thankless, complex task of ensuring the consistency of time across Her Renewed Majesty's territories.
Interactions
| Actions | Requirements | Effects | Notes |
|---|---|---|---|
| Report your encounter with a Weft of Unravelling Time
As soon as you mention the Weft, the Chief Horologist springs up and closes the door to his office. "There. Now we can talk more openly."
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New work
"These outbreaks of unruly time are... politically sensitive. I assume preventing or repairing them is beneath her Majesty's dignity. She is, of course, terribly busy.
"Our office has been instructed to make such repairs as we can. We have invented the Ravelling Jacks: simplified hour-looms that can re-weave time's torn fabric. If you would assist, we'll pay for every Weft repaired. "Unfortunately, the Jacks only work from inside a Weft. A delicate operation. And I'm afraid the machines are fragile. My superiors insist we demand a small deposit before you requisition one."
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| Report your encounter with a Weft of Unravelling Time
Mysteriously, the Horologists seem unwilling to talk to you.
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On the outside
They adopt blank faces when you describe your experience, and say things like "Sounds very unlikely. Are you sure you haven't got a touch of the old starlight? Makes one believe all kinds of things, I heard."
You sure they know more than they're saying. Perhaps if you were a member of the Office, they'd trust you enough to talk.
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| Submit your Observations on Mended Wefts
The Office will pay handsomely if you can produce evidence of repairs made to incidents of unravelling time.
Game note: You will gain sovereigns and the gratitude of the Ministry of Public Decency, and improve the state of the Clockwork Sun. |
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A stitch in time
The Chief Horologist examines your reports with forensic care: filling pages of his notebook with neat ink before he is satisfied. "Excellent. One of the clerks will see to your fee. And I'll make sure the Ministry hears of your good work."
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Advanced alteration value probably needs examination.
Advanced alteration value probably needs examination. Advanced alteration value probably needs examination.
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| A new assignment
The Chief Horologist almost looks pleased to see you. "Ah, Royal Horological Office(Title). You're back. Good. I trust you are ready for your next assignment."
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The clocks must run on time
"These careless colonists. We've been getting deliveries before they've even been sent. Chronologically speaking, I mean. Wind your pocketwatch and get them back on track."
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| Rare event (50%) | |||
| The clocks must run on time
"Good. Hurry up and tell them that they're living in the past. Or possibly the future. Either way, not in the now. An intolerable state of affairs."
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| A special assignment
The Chief Horologist almost looks pleased to see you. "Ah, Royal Horological Office. You're back. Good. I have an interesting one for you."
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Loose time in Port Prosper
"Port Prosper, Addressed As(SpeechFormal). A fine place to retire, provided one has wealth and the hours to spend it in." The Royal Horologist clucks. "Unfortunately, an operation smuggling falsely-franked hours has taken root there. I would send an Inspector, but few of them are qualified for rough work. In your little sideline as captain, however, I doubt you are so easily deterred."
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| A new assignment
The Chief Horologist almost looks pleased to see you. "Ah, Royal Horological Office. You're back. Good. I trust you are ready for your next assignment."
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The clocks must run on time
"Good. Hurry up and tell them that they're living in the past. Or possibly the future. Either way, not in the now. An intolerable state of affairs."
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| A special assignment
The Chief Horologist almost looks pleased to see you. "Ah, Royal Horological Office. You're back. Good. I have an interesting one for you."
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Loose time on the Brabazon Workworld
The Royal Horologist stares glumly at a report. "The Brabazon workworld, Royal Horological Office. A necessary operation, but one that causes this office a great deal of work. Their use of hours is... gargantuan.
"It appears they have been experiencing a spate of unlicensed hour-looming, and the overseers' brand of door-pounding brutality has not tracked it down. Perhaps you would have more luck. For the reputation of our office, I hope so."
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| A new assignment
The Chief Horologist almost looks pleased to see you. "Ah, Royal Horological Office. You're back. Good. I trust you are ready for your next assignment."
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The clocks must run on time
"Good. Hurry up and tell them that they're living in the past. Or possibly the future. Either way, not in the now. An intolerable state of affairs."
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| A new assignment
The Chief Horologist almost looks pleased to see you. "Ah, Royal Horological Office. You're back. Good. I trust you are ready for your next assignment."
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The clocks must run on time
"Good. Hurry up and tell them that they're living in the past. Or possibly the future. Either way, not in the now. An intolerable state of affairs."
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| A new assignment
The Chief Horologist almost looks pleased to see you. "Ah, Royal Horological Office. You're back. Good. I trust you are ready for your next assignment."
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The clocks must run on time
"Good. Hurry up and tell them that they're living in the past. Or possibly the future. Either way, not in the now. An intolerable state of affairs."
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| A special assignment
The Chief Horologist almost looks pleased to see you. "Ah, Royal Horological Office. You're back. Good. I have an interesting one for you."
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Loose time in Lustrum
"The Mother of Mountains is the primary source of London's hours. But the rush to mine it is frenzied and unruly. The Windward Company has reported a notable uptick in adulterated hours of late. Unscrupulous prospectors mingle them with geodes of chalcedony or quartz. I would normally send an Inspector, but I'm sure you can handle it. Prove me right, Royal Horological Office."
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| A special assignment
The Chief Horologist almost looks pleased to see you. "Ah, Royal Horological Office(Title). You're back. Good. I have an interesting one for you."
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Loose time in Carillon
"Have you been to Carillon? A most cleansing place. The devils run it, you know. The treatments are terribly invigorating. Anyway. We have reports of unlicensed hours being trades within its halls. I have faith in you, Royal Horological Office(Title). Handle the matter and hurry back. The clocks won't wait."
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| Speak to the Chief Horologist
He sits hunched in a thick, grey blanket, his crow-like stare fixed on a disassembled clock. Its gears are almost too small for the eye to see.
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One empire. One time. One date.
"Hmmph. 'Times change,' I have heard. Well not if I have any say in it."
He reaches for a pair of tweezers, the pincers barely thicker than a human hair. "The time in London must be the time in Brabazon, in Worlebury, in New Winchester, in Lustrum. To the second. It is the privilege and duty of this office to ensure that continuity." He sniffs. "A task that was considerably easier before we began spending hours like shillings and sixpences. Now it might be yesterday in one place, and next week in another. It is most untidy." |
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| Acquire a Ravelling Jack
It is, for all intents and purposes, an hour-loom small enough to fit on a locomotive, which can be used to repair Wefts of Unravelling Time. The Office will release one to you in return for a modest deposit.
Game note: The Ravelling Jack will take up a slot in your hold. |
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A new friend
The Jack is a cumbersome machine with an improbable number of arms and wheels. It comes with an almost indecipherable instruction manual and a stern lecture from the officer in charge of the supply closets.
Game note: When you enter a Weft, you may try to repair it. There is a chance the Jack will break. Return with evidence of repaired Wefts to receive payment. You may return an undamaged Jack to reclaim some of the deposit.
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| Return an intact Ravelling Jack
And claim the deposit for it. The Office can always use such devices.
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Back home
The capped porter points at a nearly-invisible scuff mark. "Slightly damaged," he says. The clerk only returns half your deposit. His apology is entirely insincere.
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| Look at the Clock of Albion
From this side, it is a polished wonder of valves, pendulums, and cogs working in perfect harmony.
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A breathtaking work of engineering
Only the finest engineers were permitted to work on it. Every component is encased in polished glass. The hands, sharp enough to slice paper, slide between the exquisitely carved numerals with buttered smoothness. Only the second hand is permitted to jump from moment to moment, and it does so with the precision of a military march.
"It's just for tourists of course," grumbles a bleary-eyed apprentice. "Albion time's really based on the ol' Tick-Tock-Man's pocketwatch. He keeps us straight. Except that time on his ninetieth birthday when he had one too many and the whole of Albion lost two hours."
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| Examine the array of clocks
They all have the names of ports within Albion and the Reach. Lustrum. Brabazon. Port Prosper.
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The current time is right now
Despite the vast distances involved and the complicating effects of local hour-usage, all the clocks show the same time. Each of London's territories is expected to run on Albion Standard Time. But London is a long way from them. Despite being a commandment from the Empress' own lips, it is a law more often breached than observed.
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| Ask about the nature of Hours
Their use remains poorly understood.
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Modest adjustments
The Chief Horologist doesn't bother to hide the weariness in his voice. "No, despite the imaginative claims of certain penny-dreadfuls, hours can't take you back to yesterday, nor leapfrog tomorrow.
"But with the use of hour-looms, a week's journey can be made to take a day, or a prisoner can endure the ten years of his sentence while only one year passes outside his cell. A workworld can perform a month's labour in a week. A lifespan can be stretched. The Empire, Addressed As(SpeechFormal), runs on hours."
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| Enquire about employment
Not just anyone can become a Royal Horologist.
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A job for serious people
The Chief Horologist looks surprised at your enquiry. Horologists tend to be cut from a specific cloth; a rather greyer fabric than that worn by a skyfarer.
However, you have the right to take the examination if you wish. He blows the dust off a textbook and bids you sit down. No calculation devices or writing implements are permitted.
Royal Horology Exam – Question 1
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Advanced query needs investigation
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| The Office of Works | |
|---|---|
 | |
| Category | Story Event |
| Type | Story |
| Data ID | 288726 |
The Office of Works[ | ]
The Office of Works is a bustling bureaucratic enigma. Behind its red-bricked flanks labour numberless clerks and surveyors. What mysteries lurk within its memoranda? Its chits and its receipts? What, exactly, are its eponymous 'works'?
No one is sure. But in a draughty loading bay, an Unflappable Foreman purchases supplies to complete outstanding work orders.
Game note: Provide the Foreman's requirements to earn payment.
Interactions
| Actions | Requirements | Effects | Notes |
|---|---|---|---|
| Offer your services
He sniffs, and leafs through a dog-eared ledger.
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Gainful employment
"The Office of Works, gawd bless 'er, has very particular requirements. Very particular. Let's 'ave a look..."
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| "'Ere we go: order eight-four-four-six-dash-dee."
"Still needs an explosive. Not your regulation shot and shell, neither. Something with some heat to it. Enough to turn glass to gas. You might need to box clever, here."
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Ingenuity
The Foreman pales as you show him your improvised, experimental explosive. "Christ almighty. Masterson! Take this away! Carefully!"
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| "'Ere we are. Order eight-oh-nine-dash-jay."
He clears his throat, and reads: "'An additional three hundredweight of good hours comma unseasoned comma appropriately franked and authorised.'" He glares at you. "Hear that? Franked and authorised. None of your contraband."
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All above board
The Foreman squints critically at the complex permits. "Well, yes. That, ah, that all seems in order. Glad to see the back of this one. We've been keepin' the rest of the hours in the storeroom next to the canteen, and it makes us all a bit weepy when we has our sandwiches. Sad stuff, time."
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| "Ah! Order nine-eight-two-one-dash-cee. Properly urgent this one. I'm parched."
He reads from his ledger. "'Required: two caddies of dried tea for the drinkin' thereof.' And none of that mushroom rubbish, neither. Nor the factory sweepin's. We wants something a bit fancy."
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Spinning a tale
The Foreman cracks the lid and inhales a noseful of the scent. It would be too much to suggest that this is the fabled midnight tea that grows beneath a black sun. But perhaps, you intimate, it contains a leaf or two of that priceless plant. The Foreman is intrigued, and pays you promptly.
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| "Oh yes. Work order seven-seven-seven-seven-dash-jee."
"It says here we're missing 'two bolts of bombazine comma freshly oiled full stop must be proof against spillages comma frayin' an' fadin'.'" That'd be quite the oil. You may need to improvise."
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An oiled delivery
You were forced to provide your own oil, extracted from one of the eery specimens you found in the sky. The Foreman seems impressed. "Initiative," he remarks. "I admire that."
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| "I suppose there's this one: good old seven-two-seven-four-dash-eff."
"The eff stands for— Well, I'll let you infer." He reads from the order. "'Live specimen of celestial fauna brackets one close brackets. Must be in rude health and of intemperate disposition.' So," he snaps his ledger shut, "best of luck with that one."
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A ravenous delivery
A pair of labourers manoeuvre the catch into its new pen, their hands trembling as you recount tales of its ferocity. The Foreman shakes his head. "Gawd knows what they want this one for. I stopped askin' questions after someone gave me an answer." He shudders, and pays you.
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| Ask if there are other opportunities available
The Foreman sighs wearily. He consults his ledger, flipping each page with an irritated finger and scowling.
Game note: If you dislike the current work order, this will request a different one. You can only make such a request once every 15 days. |
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A great imposition
"Well, I don't know, I really don't. Orders are strictly meant to be done in priority order. Don't like bending the rules like this, I must say. Where would the empire be...?" His grumbling continues, punctuated by the sharp turn of pages.
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Advanced query needs investigation
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| Take your leave
You have business elsewhere.
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"Cheerio!"
The Foreman turns his attention to a pallet of crates destined for St Dominic's Station. "Hurry it up! These have got to make the twelve-fifteen!"
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Triggered Events[ | ]
| Her Renewed Majesty's Customs Service | |
|---|---|
 | |
| Category | Story Event |
| Type | Story |
| Data ID | 316863 |
Her Renewed Majesty's Customs Service[ | ]
A busy, growing department, the Customs Service regulates the trade of sensitive goods, combats smuggling, and levies duties on trade in and out of Albion.
It's also the last thing standing in the way of opening your new transit relay between Albion and Eleutheria.
Trigger conditions
The Albion to Eleutheria Transit Relay ≥ 60 ≤ 60,
Location: London
Area: The Ministries
Frequency: Always (100%)
Interactions
| Actions | Requirements | Effects | Notes |
|---|---|---|---|
| Pull some strings
Your establishment associates help you identify a Pallid Civil Servant with the authority to resolve your problem. You will need to call in a favour.
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The right sort
The Civil Servant shows you into his office. The curtains are drawn. Gaslights glow on the walls. "I have an aversion to starlight," he admits.
"Now, then. This new relay is a private facility, yes? And you come highly recommended," he waves an effusive reference, signed by your benefactor. "The Customs Service has a duty to monitor new routes in and out of Albion, but I'm sure we can come to an arrangement." He insists on some presence at the relay, but in the end you agree that the Customs Service will only station a couple of Monitors nearby, and perform random checks on goods passing through. It's the best you're going to get. "Marvellous," he says, clearly glad this is over. "I will ensure this goes through the proper channels. Good day." You take your leave. Game note: Your new relay is now functional!
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| Form a deal with a corrupt official
Your criminal associates have given you a name: a member of the Custom's Service whose loyalty might be swayed, if you can prove it would be in his interest.
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A man on the inside
He used to be a smuggler with the Gentlemen, until his capture and arrest. To avoid a prison sentence, he agreed to work for the Revenue Men. Since then he has hounded and hindered his old associates.
Now, the allure of his past criminal existence tugs at him; he is desperate to break some rules. When you spread your chart – showing smuggling routes that would benefit from the new relay – on the table, you see his eyes widen. Perhaps, in exchange for a cut of the proceeds, he would turn the occasional blind eye. How is the civil service pension these days? He agrees. The relay can open, and Customs will limit itself to a few Monitor patrols and occasional 'random' spot checks at the relay itself. You shake hands. Game note: Your new relay is now functional!
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