Goblin Slayer - Volume 12 - Chapter 3

Chapter 3 - Hit And Run

He’d never seen an assassin walking around dressed like an assassin.

No, scratch that—he had seen one, once, shortly before that person had been spotted by the guards and apprehended. So maybe he should say he’d never seen a professional assassin do it. Anyone who did was an idiot, an amateur, an ass, or maybe all three.

Needless to say, he was a pro.

§

Not that he really thought of himself as a pro killer for hire. The notion nagged at him as he sat up slowly in his bed. Outside the window, the sun was high; it was already past noon. To go to bed at nearly dawn and wake up after noon wasn’t healthy—he knew that, but still…

“I’ve become a certified night owl.”

He’d started talking to himself more, too.

He was in a cheap room, with nothing more than a bed and a wardrobe to keep him company. The floor was in bad shape, too, and threatened to creak when he walked. His movements were light, but his body was still flesh and blood, still had weight. He got delicately out of bed and put a hand on the floor. He stretched out his fingers, stiffened his spine, and pulled himself forward using the same arm.

After his usual number of reps, he switched arms. It wasn’t about quantity or speed; it was precision he was after. The whole point was not to make the floor creak.

Once he had done both arms, he stood on one leg and tried to repeat the exercise using only leg strength.

Right arm, then left arm; right leg, then left leg. He’d exercised and warmed up all four limbs, a good start. Ideally, he would have liked to do some pull-ups using a rafter or a crossbeam, but he feared to think what would happen if he accidentally broke something.

How much good this isometric training did him wasn’t entirely clear, but it was unquestionably better than doing nothing. If nothing else, he felt it was far more trustworthy than relying on gimmicks or gear or magic. Of course, if he made the mistake of saying so out loud, his partner would have launched into an endless lecture on the virtues of spell casting.

He understood one thing, at least: Without the spells carved into his arms and legs, he would never move an inch.

“…Hrm.” The water carafe he’d grabbed turned out to be empty, and there was no food to speak of, either. That was nothing new, and so, cursing his carelessness of the day before, he decided to go out to eat. It wasn’t so bad; he’d been planning to go out today anyway. His favorite team had lost at Wizball yesterday, and when that happened, it was better to go out and look for work than to mope around in his room.

He wiped himself down with a rag, then headed over to the wardrobe and opened the double doors. It was full of clothes on hangers, but he shoved them aside, looking for the hidden lock in one corner. With a click, the back of the wardrobe opened, revealing a second, secret compartment.

“Heh!” No matter how many times he did this, no matter how well he knew what was in there, it always made him grin. There weren’t many furnishings in his room, but he’d put an awful lot of work into this one—enough to drive his friends nuts.

It was more than just leather armor and military caps stashed away in the compartment. He had his pistol in there, his repeating crossbow, all sorts of things that weren’t technically allowed. Things that had to be kept away from prying eyes.

He’d seen a play ages ago where a king’s spy had hidden his gear this way. Ever since then, he’d wanted to do the same thing—although, given that the spy was killed at the end of the play, maybe it was bad luck.

“…Mm. Perfect. All in order.” He took out the pistol, worked the crossbow, checked everything over to make sure it was functioning properly, then put them neatly back on the shelf. He wasn’t entirely certain of what good this inspection did, but again…better than nothing.

Then, with his routine complete, he pulled on a shirt and jacket. Obviously, he wasn’t going to put on a military cap or a trench coat. He wasn’t even going to be walking around with his pistol or crossbow on him. Because if you saw anyone traipsing around town looking like an assassin, you knew they were an amateur.

§

In the hours before dark, a breeze blew through the water town, carrying the damp aroma of the river. Bathed in golden sunlight, the town seemed sluggish and slow.

A dwarf expertly poled a gondola along a canal. The assassin who wasn’t an amateur watched him for a lazy moment, then set off walking upriver. A rhea led a gaggle of kids who ran past him, shouting and jabbering. The rhea was nearly thirty; he had the worst kids in town eating out of his hand. He was probably planning a heist or something.

Speaking of how old people were, what about that elf listlessly scrubbing a cloth against the washing board? Elves stayed beautiful no matter how old they got, and anyway, it would be boorish to ask the age of one of these flowers of the night, even a human one—let alone an elf.

The woman eyeballed him, and he returned an embarrassed smile and a friendly dip of the head.

Doesn’t matter, he thought. Good little boys and girls didn’t join the Guild, and they weren’t out wandering around town this late in the evening. I’ll have to hit the employment agency pretty soon to get hooked up as a night watchman or a bodyguard or something.

He, after all, was not like run-of-the-mill adventurers, who either went out on quests or rambled around town. The fake rank tags were convenient, but they came with the caveat that if you went too long without going on an adventure, people would start to ask questions. And when a man with no obvious employment or source of income was hanging around, people started to suspect him of being behind whatever crooked things happened in their area.

He didn’t mind being blamed for things he’d actually done, but he didn’t want people coming after him because some dimwit had gone and caused trouble in the neighborhood. Having an alibi ready at all times was part of the game.

For a while he walked in such a way as not to stand out on the relatively empty streets—in other words, straight ahead, like he knew where he was going, but not in any hurry. Then, pretending he’d just had a thought, he ducked down a side street, then another, then another, working his way through the maze of alleys.

Beyond the bustling town center, it was startlingly quiet; neat and tidy. Somewhere back there was an unremarkable entryway that looked like the back door to some restaurant or other, and which led downstairs to a basement. It had a sign that made him think of the Silver Moon or the Grim Reaper. He glanced at the sign, then took the stairs in a single graceful leap.

He was faced with a wall covered in graffiti that looked like it had been there for eons. Written where a human would have to crouch to read it were some unfavorable remarks about elves. Up where a human would have to stretch to see it were some derogatory things about dwarves. And right smack at human eye level were two lines of very nasty stuff about humans.

He grinned, as he always did, and brushed the words Longshanks and Strider with his hand. Then he opened the lowest door down—the entrance to the speakeasy.

He passed the counter, where the bartender was doing a coded opium deal with one of the regulars.

“Gimme three peanuts.”

“Two ought to be enough for you.”

“Naw, three. Two plus one—three.”

“Order a drink every once in a while.”

“That dog piss?”

“Try to see things from my perspective…”

It might seem like a vulgar place at first glance, but inside, you realized it had a certain class all its own. The rug was soft; the counters, tables, bottles, and glasses were all kept sparkling. There was the billiard table, surrounded by people losing themselves in the game, and En Garde, a fighting game, that people were enjoying with glasses of wine in one hand. There were elves, rheas, dwarves, and padfoots. And that woman having the tête-à-tête with the lizardman over in the corner looked like she might be a dark elf.

If they’d been squatting somewhere in town, they would have been nothing more than a collection of ruffians, but somehow, here in this establishment, they were something more. There was a quality to the clientele here that you didn’t find in every dive on the street. If he had to put a name to it, he’d probably say it was…

Style, goddammit!

Anyone unfortunate enough not to have it was quickly and violently shown the door. They certainly wouldn’t be admitted into the establishment’s innermost sanctum.

He wove among the seats until he saw the door he was looking for. Thick, made of metal.

Yes, everything else about this place looked more or less like a normal tavern. But not what was on the other side of that door.

It was a cave, some people thought. But not him. To him, it was an ocean.

An open space bathed in cold blue light, the lamps dim but present, utterly different from real darkness. Bartenders and barmaids in perfectly tailored vests swam through the room, taking orders and delivering drinks. A hired band set up a melody of degungs that pressed on his ears like the roar of the sea. How could they produce such sounds with instruments that only seemed to rattle and shake? He had no idea, just like he couldn’t tell the difference between waiter, bartender, or garçon.

But hey, guess it doesn’t matter, he thought.

This was the ocean. And when it came to swimming in the ocean, the barmaids—the mermaids—were his preference, he decided as he found his usual seat.

“Oh, you’re here!” The red-haired girl looked up at him eagerly and smiled, clearly at least a little bit pleased to see him. As for his “eye,” he could see through this ocean, too. He let his cheeks relax into the slightest of smiles.

“Yeah, figured there’d be work afoot soon. You thought so too, eh?”

“Well, I either want to work or I want to bitch.” The red-haired elf looked awkwardly at the table. He sat down beside her as naturally as anything, then looked around again, spotting another girl laid out across the table.

“Mahh… Urgh…” The inarticulate groans hardly seemed suited to a cleric who served the God of Knowledge.

The assassin pulled a face. “What’s with her?”

“Just ignore her,” their brawny driver whispered—he was already here, too. He was happily sipping some fruit juice—staying sober so he could take the reins, presumably.

“Says she’s out of money.”

“What? We were loaded after the desert thing.” He looked more exasperated than he’d meant to. Granted he’d been trying to keep a low profile until the fuss died down, but even so, it was a little soon to be running short of cash.

“It’s the books’ fault! They’re so expensive…” the cleric grumbled, in a voice that wasn’t quite a sob and wasn’t quite a curse.

“Yeah, books cost,” the red-haired girl said with a half-smile. “Believe me, I deal with enough magic to know it can hurt.”

“That’s why I have to take on these nasty jobs. It’s all in pursuit of the truth.” The cleric’s head lolled to one side, and she giggled, sounding for once like a girl her age. Maybe she felt better now, having gotten her complaint off her chest. If nothing else, he was pretty sure it wasn’t alcohol—only an idiot drank before a job.

Hrm…

The thought reminded him that he still hadn’t had anything to eat.

“Shove over. I’m starving.”

“Yep, yep. Hup.” The cleric girl sat up so the table was clear. The assassin called over one of the barmaids—she really did look like a mermaid—and ordered without even looking at the menu.

“Three burgers. Skip the buns. And some carbonated water.” He flipped her a gold coin, and the barmaid left with a smile.

“Well, at least you’re not out of cash.” The red-haired elf grinned, her smile turning into laughter. “Trying to act like a gunslinger?”

“Nah, just overslept,” he said simply. He had never liked that handle; it made him uneasy. “Lost yesterday.”

“Wizball,” the red-haired girl said softly. “…Is it really worth getting that depressed over?”

“I tell you, it’s all because the captain got hauled in by the city guard the other day.”

Even as he spoke, the barmaid, admirably quick at her work, returned with his order and set it silently on the table. The metal hot plate crackled with jumping fat from the three still-red meat patties on top of it. He grabbed a pinch of salt from a nearby jar, added plenty of peppers, and then began cutting into the patties with his knife. Finally, he brought a bite to his mouth. He wasn’t after flavor so much as quantity, nor nutrition so much as heat. The feeling was distinct. Anyway, he knew where he was. He was confident it would taste great.

“I mean, wouldn’t be the first time some dwarves got drunk and high and messed up a tavern after a match,” he said, finally catching up with his own thoughts as he swished some of the carbonated water around in his mouth. Finally, he added, “Stuff seems to be everywhere these days.”

The driver took up the subject from another angle. “The city watch caught this centaur, one of the aurigae—the runners from the Quadriga competition—just the other day.”

“Yeah? What for?”

“Dope,” the driver said disinterestedly. He was a big fan of the Quadriga competition held at the arena. “Guy said it was asthma medication, but I guess it was illegal asthma medication.”

The assassin had just a couple of choice words for this: “Bullshit story.” He stabbed the last bit of meat on his plate as if it had killed his parents, then popped it into his mouth.

The red-haired elf watched him with amusement, then contributed a question of her own to the conversation. “Okay, okay. But is the ‘demon chief’ of the town guard really as terrible as they say?”

“I hear he used to be part of the underworld, so he’s been known to turn a blind eye.” The cleric of the God of Knowledge flagged down a passing employee, having been swayed by the smell of the meat to order something for herself. “I’d like a lemon water. And something to eat—the cheapest stuff you have in the cheapest possible quantity. Don’t care how much you have to water it down.”

“I’ll get a cured-meat sandwich,” the red-haired elf said with a grin, pulled along by her friend’s display. “Want to split it with me?”

“An elf eating meat. Will wonders never cease?”

“There are no wonders in this world.”

It was a good feeling to see a couple of young ladies joking and giggling together. If nothing else, he felt a lot better than he had last night, both physically and mentally. For him, that was enough. So, when the unidentifiable white creature scampered out of the shadows, he was even able to smile at it.

“Hrm, are you sure that’s the way to treat a friend? I think I must object.” The familiar bapped his hand, but he didn’t even care, just patted an empty seat.

“Oh, you’re here,” the red-haired girl said, reaching out a hand, and the cleric added, “Work! We want work!”

“You all saw that, didn’t you? The way he treated me just now. Awful, wasn’t it? Grabbing a person by the neck! Gods above.” Their companion—wherever its true body was—licked its fur in between bouts of bellyaching.

He just shrugged. “You brought it on yourself, sneaking out of the shadows like that.”

“That’s right, you have the Bat-Eye, don’t you? Suppose I should have expected it, then.”

They were only needling each other, anyway. He even forgave the white creature for making off with a slice of a guy’s meat.

Shortly thereafter, the red-haired elf’s sandwich arrived, and the innocuous conversation among friends continued. Mostly about the book the cleric had purchased (succumbing to her thirst for knowledge), and about the swindle that had taken place in town the other day. When the food and drink had finally been cleared away…

“All right, everybody here?” their friend said gaily, approaching their seats. It had probably been there for a few moments before it showed itself. This wizard only ever appeared via her familiar; she herself was probably somewhere far away. Otherwise, she could never have timed her entrance so perfectly, for the exact moment when there was a lull in the conversation. That much was easy to pick up in even a short time working with her.

The rest of them, including the assassin, frowned when they saw the fixer with his little grin. It was time for the cloak and dagger: running through the shadows of the great city. Spy’s work.

In other words, it was time for a run.

§

“This job comes from someone I trust, but I haven’t been able to get any intel on it myself,” the fixer told them.

“Man, swap those around, would you?” the spy said sarcastically. “It’d inspire more confidence, at least.”

“I haven’t been able to get any intel on this job myself, but it comes from someone I trust!”

“It’s the same thing!” the driver spat, annoyed.

“Yes, but we’ll do anything. For the right price,” the cleric said blandly.

“Quit that, would you?” the red-haired elf interjected, slightly amused.

“Well, it sounds like a milk run, so I wouldn’t get myself in a twist over it,” the white creature remarked, summing up the situation, and thus their briefing began.

It really wasn’t a very difficult assignment, the fixer reiterated. A quick night’s work.

Quick and easy ain’t the same thing, the spy thought. Maybe they should make that a saying on the backstreets, he reflected.

“Anyway, tonight’s target is a little girl somewhere who made a big mistake.”

They’d told him, the fixer said—now, this was just what he’d heard—that it was the sort of thing that happened all the time. A riffraff girl, a beggar, the type you might take for a prostitute. But hey, when you walk around with squared shoulders and a knife in your bag, people are likely to think you’re a lawless ruffian. She was just an errand girl for one of the street gangs, but…

“Then she started hawking the dope on the side, screwing up the territories, diluting the draw.”

Common story, the spy felt. And oddly admirable. When you didn’t have any money, you were always cringing and hiding. When you had money, you got to walk around like you owned the place. That extra confidence was important.

The driver, though, appeared to have a different view of things. He spat out, “What a damn idiot!”

“A fat cat forgets that a rat can bite.”

“Sounds more like a rat who thought she could beat the cat by biting it…” The red-haired elf somehow looked both dismissive and sympathetic at once. “So, what’s the job? We’re intimidating her? Grabbing her and bringing her back here?”

“No, this is a hit.”

The red-haired girl fell silent. After a second she said, “Oh.”

This sort of thing happened virtually every day in the great city. The street gangs survived by their reputations. Look at them the wrong way today, and you could expect to die tomorrow. Drug dealers never lived long to begin with. One might not expect runners to even need to get involved.

But for them, it went the other way around. Trouble meant business. If they could get in on it, they could make money from it. It was the fixer’s job to find the most profitable trouble of all. And the smirking man in front of them discussing this assassination was very, very good at his job.

“So, give me a verdict. Do it or don’t.”

The group went quiet, trading thoughtful glances—or perhaps consulting one another with their eyes. Only the spy was prepared to immediately open his mouth. “You didn’t tell us the most important thing.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“The reward,” he said sharply, annoyed with the man for trying to play dumb. “We need ammo, spells—that shit ain’t free, y’know. Money in advance—that’s the way it’s done.”

“What do you take me for?! Of course there’s a reward. Here.” He tossed four heavy, jangling bags of coins onto the table, right where the spy’s meal had been a few minutes before. Half the amount provided by the quest giver—the “johnson”—would remain in the fixer’s pocket. Half of the rest would be paid to the runners in advance, and the remainder held until the job was finished. That was the etiquette in these things. Chances were, the wizard, the familiar’s master, had already received her portion as well.

The spy weighed the payment in his hand—just half the total he would get. Hmm… Quite a bit of money for a quick night’s work.

The spy watched the fixer with his inhuman eye. The man’s expression didn’t shift.

I know this guy. Must have been a whole group of gangs, or some other collective, that came knocking. But the spy didn’t complain. He would get money. Money could help beautify the city. That meant good karma for him. Even just a little bit at a time.

He only had one thing to say about it, just two words. “I’m in.”

“Me, too.”

“I do want that money.”

“All right, you’ve got me.”

“There,” the white creature said, pleased to see everyone’s hand in the air to volunteer. “That wasn’t so hard.” The creature jumped down from the fixer’s knees (when had she gotten there?), and then up onto the table. “I’ve already got a bead on where the target is, and everything else we need to know. Only thing left to do is to head over and scope it out for ourselves.”

If it was a fixer’s job to bring them work, it was she who did all the research before they set out. She—that was how the spy thought of the wizard who controlled the familiar. He thought that was right.

The red-haired girl and the cleric got along well. They were thoughtful, on the same wavelength. Not easy to pull the wool over their eyes. That’s why the spy was willing to trust what this woman (that’s what he felt her to be) said. There was no room in this world for insisting that your friends had to have all the proper credentials.

“Not that far away,” the driver said when he heard the place. Naturally, he already knew how to get there. “But we’ll want something more than our own feet to carry us. I’ll get the carriage.”

“Sounds great. Thanks.” The red-haired girl smiled and stood. She pulled on a cloak and grabbed her staff, and she was ready to go. The cleric followed suit. She, like the elf, needed no more than the vestments draped over her slight frame, along with her holy sigil, to be completely prepared.

The driver only needed a vehicle, and there were plenty of sprites everywhere in the city. When he saw the three of them ready for the run, and so promptly, the spy also stood. Then he gave a dramatic frown. “Maybe we could stop by my place first.”

“Why would we do that?” the red-haired girl said, a bit concerned. The way she tilted her head, puzzled, partially revealed one of the long ears normally hidden in her hair.

“Gotta get my stuff.”

Okay, so there hadn’t been a job when he’d left that morning. Still, it wasn’t a good look.

§

Even by a circuitous route, the destination wasn’t that far. Along the edges of the water town, somewhere among the chaotic sprawl, was a den of drug dealers.

Squatters hovered around fires among the abandoned buildings, empty houses, and trash piles. There were no maps of this area to speak of. Even maps of the city itself weren’t easy to come by. They were tough enough to get in proper walled towns, but most places didn’t have the money to spend on such things.

When it came to sprawl like this, there was no planning, no rhyme or reason. It just spread out, and people who wanted to live there showed up and fashioned the place to their liking. Whoever was there yesterday would be gone today, the town itself seeming to change from moment to moment.

Properly speaking, they were beyond the bounds of the water town here, on the fringes of law and order. If they wanted to get around, they would need to rely on one of the local squatters for guidance, or otherwise…

“Mm. Info was basically spot-on, more or less.”

Or otherwise, on their sweet young lady with her gifts given by the God of Knowledge. She had been meditating in the rocking carriage until she opened her eyes and spoke those words.

The God of Knowledge didn’t actually provide knowledge directly, but gave help to seekers thereof. Untrustworthy sources were as bad as a Dark God, or so the cleric often complained.

“I’m sure about the location, anyway. And I’m fairly sure she’s still there. Even if she might be gone tomorrow.”

“Only question is the situation on the ground, then.” The spy nodded slightly, playing with an object in his hands. The pistol was a complicated weapon, the crossbow even more so. You didn’t want them to go off accidentally. It was deathly important. Such was the thought occupying the spy’s mind as he rapped the gun stock against the side of the carriage.

“Don’t do that. You’ll scratch it,” snapped the driver. That was what he always said. Whacking the side of the carriage was the quickest way to get his attention.

“I’m gonna have a look. Stop here.”

“Tell me with your words,” the driver grumbled, but he pulled the reins, and the horse—or rather, the kelpie—came to a halt. The best thing about the spirit-horse was that it made no hoofbeats. And the damp patches it left in its wake swiftly disappeared.

The spy reflected on the benefits of their animal as he tucked the pistol in his bag and put a ball cartridge in his pocket.

“Counting on you.”

“Uh-huh. Take care of my shoes.”

He always kept his words at a minimum, and her response was no less restrained. There was no hesitation and no doubt.

The red-haired wizard closed her eyes and slumped against the spy’s shoulder like a puppet with her strings cut. She’d told him this was what happened when she projected her soul into the astral realm, traveling free of her body. As pure spirit, she could travel many miles in an instant, enabling her to see whatever was out there. Of course, she was traveling on the astral plane, not the physical one, so she wasn’t seeing exactly what he would see when he showed up. Nonetheless, she could tell if things felt off, or roughly how many people there would be, and that was worth a lot.

The spy, of course, hadn’t the slightest idea what the world was like that she was seeing. But then, he didn’t know what world the cleric was seeing, either, or the driver, or the white creature, or the fixer. In the whole party, the only “mundane”—the only non-magic-user—was the spy.

But so what? That was what it meant to play different roles. He knew what his position was.

The spy gently laid the girl’s body down, folding up a blanket for a pillow. Then he took the crossbow he had just checked so carefully and watched from the carriage with perfect vigilance. He was the meat shield, and he had no questions about that. The spy knew whose pound of flesh was worth more, a patchwork’s or a wizard’s. He knew very well.

Night had already enveloped this trash pile of a city, but the darkness was no impediment to his vision. His forbidden eye perceived the world in wire frame, much like the infamous Dungeon of the Dead was said to have looked.

“Hey, question…” The voice came unexpectedly from the direction of the luggage. The white creature, their means of communicating with the wizard, came slithering out. The spy asked what she wanted without ever looking at her—of course he didn’t—and the creature swished her tail interestedly. “I know I asked you already, but that eye of yours, it can see through things, right? I mean, the Evil Eye isn’t my specialty, but…”

“Only sort of. Thin walls, I might be able to get a glimpse of what’s on the other side.” Shadows hovering around rotting barrels. The crossbow’s crosshairs. A giant rat. Fine. Let the thing eat some leftovers if it wanted. “I don’t really know how it works, but it lets me see in the dark.”

“I just thought of something!” the familiar said, her voice going up an octave, like she was bouncing on a keyboard. It sounded like she had, in fact, been thinking about this for some time. “That would be a great way to sneak a little peek at an elf’s lovely body—perfect for a young man like yourself!”

The spy didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he spent a good two seconds on a sigh before he said, “…Yeah, I could. But I don’t, eh?”

“Wow, you admitted it,” the familiar said with a very un-familiar-esque tilt of her head. It made her look more like a small, confused animal. “That merchant lady the other day—she was awfully pretty, too. Those feet. Just lovely!”

“With that rapier and the dagger at her hip, too,” the cleric girl added quietly. “Toned and trained.”

The spy cast a suspicious look at her, but only for an instant. Then he said in a deliberately dutiful voice, “Someone asked a question, and I answered, that’s all. That’s my job, isn’t it?”

“Gosh, and here I thought you had a thing for elves. The way you laid her down there was so gentlemanly, too. Am I right?”

“You’re right.”

They aren’t listening to me, the spy thought. He was about to give a click of his tongue, but thought better of it. Best not to let them know they had gotten to him. But even his self-restraint seemed to amuse the creature—or at least the magician somewhere behind her. And she wasn’t the only one. The cleric girl was smirking at him; he didn’t have to look at her to know.

“So, not interested in her at all?”

The spy gave up the act and let out another very long sigh. “I’m not saying that.”

“He’s not saying that!!”

“But listen, she trusts me, and I’m never going to betray that.” The spy reached back with one hand and mussed the creature’s white fur in an effort to quiet her (her voice had risen another key in the meantime). She squealed in a way that sounded genuinely girlish to him, though he didn’t say so.

He had her trust. He wasn’t going to betray that.

“Stop getting weird ideas.” That was all he said, and then he straightened up. He moved his limbs, with their magically attached flesh, like a panther preparing for the hunt. “I’m going to patrol outside,” he said, then spared a glance at the red-haired girl. “Tell me when she gets back.”

“Yep, sure thing. After all, you’ve been very informative!”

The spy jumped down off the carriage with a click of his tongue, added purely for the benefit of the gratified familiar.

As soon as he dropped off the carriage and into the darkness of night, he heard another voice, this time from the driver. “How is it these days?”

“Decent.” The huge driver looked like an ox, but he was quick-witted. The spy’s lip curled slightly. “The joints do ache when it gets cold, though.”

“Not saving up any money?”

“Not enough for real flesh.” The spy shrugged. “Might be Wizball for me one day. How about you?”

“Going well enough,” the driver responded blandly. “Enough to cover the carriage, and enough to keep the woman paid up.”

“Veritable contributing member of society, you are.”

“I didn’t say she was my woman. Hmph!” the driver snorted, but that was all.

The spy shook his head and stood by the carriage. His crossbow dangled in one hand. He needed to patrol. But there was a time to focus all his energy, use it up. That time wasn’t now.

A bit of banter in the middle of the run was a good thing. At least for this party, it was. If you couldn’t even afford to crack a joke, that meant you were really up against it…

The passengers fell silent once more when the spy left the carriage behind. The white creature and the cleric of the God of Knowledge looked at each other and giggled like two very old friends.

“You heard him, didn’t you?”

“He’s not not interested!”

“………”

They couldn’t help but notice that the pointed ears that emerged ever so slightly from under the red hair were trembling. But they would wait for her to get back from her travels. It was the friendly thing to do.

§

“…Thanks for waiting.” The red-haired wizard hopped down from the carriage about five minutes later. Some fine wit had concocted a proverb that went something like: “Do it in two minutes! Now do it in two seconds!” But what really mattered in this line of work was precision, not speed. In that sense, the spy had no qualms with the woman. How could he?

The spy slung the crossbow over his shoulder by the cord, took a quick look around, then said, “How was it? …Something the matter?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “Just wondering why they’d ask so many questions right here.” She looked put out. Most likely because of the blathering women. If that accounted for eighty or ninety percent of her annoyance, another ten percent might be the driver, and the last ten, him.

“Well, speed’s of the essence when it comes to information.”

“I know that…” The red-haired girl heaved a long sigh, then said slowly: “I saw her. She’s there.”

Huh. The spy nodded. Looked like their drug dealer was out of luck tonight. If she hadn’t been there, might she have lived to see another dawn?

Dunno about that.

He wasn’t sure how long it was really possible for her to survive. Running headlong toward a cliffside wasn’t something smart people did.

“The place reeks of patrols and drugs. Several others there besides her. They didn’t shine very brightly, though.”

“Squatters living in the insula, maybe.”

“Couldn’t say,” the red-haired wizard replied with a shake of her head. She pulled up the hood of her cloak. “Sorry.”

“All good,” the spy whispered, then he pulled his pistol out of his bag, spinning it idly in his hand. Playing with a gun makes a person unlucky. Apparently. He tried to remember who had said that.

Didn’t matter who it was. He tore open the ball cartridge from his pocket and loaded the weapon. Then he smacked the stock into place, wadded up the empty packet, and he was ready to go.

“Best case scenario, we’re runners. Worst case scenario, we’re still runners.”

§

When the spy and the girl started walking, the driver slowly rolled the carriage away, just as planned. An unfamiliar vehicle stopping for too long would attract unwanted attention, and stick in people’s memories. Not to mention that such a nice carriage in such a nasty neighborhood would become a temptation before long. Before starting a run, they always settled on an innocuous route for the driver to amble around.

“……”

“……”

The spy and the red-haired girl stuck close as they made their way toward the insula, a sort of apartment complex. They appeared to look into the far distance because they were each observing different worlds, one of sound, one of magic. The only thing they shared was that they each had blind spots. The way they each looked out for the other was the natural thing to do when operating as a two-person cell.

When he thought about it, the spy realized it had been no short time that they’d known each other. He so rarely ran through the shadows alone anymore.

“…First floor empty?” he asked.

“Looks like it,” the red-haired girl whispered back. He could hardly see the light of her life. It was quiet indeed. Unfortunately, the walls and floor were made of stone, which dampened sound. You really couldn’t expect x-ray vision from the Bat-Eye.

Probably used to be an eatery, way back when, he thought. Decaying tables and chairs sat around, forgotten even by the scavengers. The windows and doors had been taken out to fit more customers in, so there was too much breeze in here. If you were going to live in this building, you’d want to start on the second floor, just like their intel and the reconnaissance sweep had suggested.

“Moving up,” he said.

“I’ll watch our backs.”

With that quick, whispered conversation, they started forward, feet moving as if in a dance, starting up the stairs. His own footsteps sounded heavy. Hers seemed so light. Between the two of them, it worked out to simply sounding like two people on the stairs.

The spy kept his crossbow ready at all times, making sure he was always checking the angle of fire. Suddenly, he found himself remembering the idle conversation with his party back in the shop.

Drugs, drugs, drugs. Three strikes and you’re out.

Was it chance? Fate? It didn’t make any difference. What he had to hit, he would hit.

Thus, when he gained the top of the stairs, he noticed the inky shadow floating in the hallway.

“That’s unusual,” the red-haired girl with her astral vision said before the spy could speak; she must have noticed it, too. “It’s more tense than before. And I don’t know if there’s any light of life.”

“Trouble?”

“Maybe.”

“If we could go home and still get the reward, I’d do it right now,” he mumbled.

“And I’d go with you,” she said with a chuckle, adjusting her hood. They proceeded down the hallway.

Their goal was a room on the far end of the second floor. No windows, as far as they had been able to tell from outside. If the place had some preparations, though, they would like that. Surely the room had one or two escape routes…

Then the spy was standing in front of the door. Traps—very likely. Didn’t even have to ask whether it was locked. They weren’t sneaking into some company HQ or big merchant’s shop. Speed would matter more than caution.

He and his partner exchanged a knowing glance. They got in rhythm. One, and two, and…three.

“……!”

One good kick from the spy’s magically augmented leg smashed the door open. He slipped inside without a sound, whipping his crossbow this way and that as he checked the room.

A woman—there she was. The first thing he noticed was the sickly sweet smell of opium; he hated it. The heavy aroma surrounded the bed on which the woman lay, her arms and legs sprawled in a slovenly manner. Maybe she’d just been washing up, because her thick chestnut hair was soaking, sitting in waves on her head, long ears peeking out from under it. Her body, covered by only the barest excuse for undergarments, was preternaturally delicate, slim, and light. That didn’t necessarily mean she didn’t have meat on her bones, though, as he knew from having to heft his partner.

Huh. Maybe he did have a thing for elves…

At least, when they aren’t lying there with their eyes wide open, their tongues hanging out, and a knife buried up to the hilt in their chest.

“Sh-she’s dead?!”

“…Well, she ain’t alive.”

The red-haired girl squeaked, just short of a scream, while the spy went over to the bed. It’d be no laughing matter if it turned out she was only playing dead. But there was no heartbeat, and you couldn’t fake that.

“She’s still warm,” the wizard whispered, placing a hand on the woman. She reached up and closed the woman’s eyes.

That takes care of the open eyes—now she’d look great if it weren’t for the knife. It was a ridiculous thing to think, but the spy was trying to get his confused brain to form some coherent thoughts. “So she must have been killed just recently, then?”

“Yeah—I mean, she was alive when I projected from outside.”

Okay, let’s think this through.

When? Just a moment ago.

Where? Right here.

Who? Not us.

How? Knife to the chest.

Why? That, we don’t know.

No windows. No one came out while we were watching. Haven’t passed anyone since we came in. All of which adds up to…

“…Whoever did it is still here?”

“That’s not funny…” the red-haired wizard said.

No, it wasn’t. The spy didn’t know exactly what was going on, but it wasn’t good news.

One thing seemed obvious: They would want to get out of this building posthaste. The spy started backing up, one sliding step at a time, trying to keep himself between the body and the red-haired girl, to cover her.

Hurry. Had he missed anything? Wouldn’t get another chance to look. Would they even get their money for this?

“Let’s go. We’ll join up with the others. We have to figure out what’s going on, or—”

“…!”

He heard his partner suck in a breath. That was enough. He spun, his crossbow at the ready.

From the doorway came the last thing in the world he wanted to hear. “Stooooooooooooooop!”

“Guard…!” He wasted only enough time to curse the gods. Standing in the doorway of the room was a town guard—he could tell from the sword-and-scales symbol branded on the leather helmet. He gritted his teeth, wrapped his left arm around the red-haired girl, and ran straight ahead.

“Eep?!” she cried, but he didn’t even register it as he picked up speed. He was looking at the sword the guard had drawn, ready to stab him.

“Hrrahhh!” The spy slammed his right arm against it.

“Wha?!” Not expecting such a firm impact, the guard tumbled backward, the voice strangely high-pitched. A woman?

The strike knocked the guard’s helmet off, revealing brown hair tied high on the head. But the spy didn’t have time to hang around. He swung his left arm away from the guard, protecting his partner, and dealt his opponent another blow with his right arm. There was a screech of metal as his arm bounced off the sword. The blade filled his vision. He let his momentum carry him forward, slipping out of the room.

He covered the hallway in three great bounds, his legs groaning, then grabbed the railing of the stairway with his free hand.

“Counting on you!”

“Uh-huh!”

There was no need to even discuss it. He just jumped. Gravity grasped his body. He began to fall.

“Falsa…umbra…oriens. Arise, false shadow!” From her perch on his shoulders, she flourished her staff and intoned words of true power. He felt a shock run through both his legs, then the shadows began to bubble up from the ground, filling the stairwell.

“Ahhhh?!” He heard the woman shout in confusion. So it was a woman. The Vision spell was no doubt wreaking havoc with her sight right now. If that was enough to make the guards give up, though, they wouldn’t have been the object of so much anger…

“Damn Lawful Goods…!” the spy growled when he heard the woman blow a sharp whistle. He didn’t spare a backward glance as he rushed through the shop-turned-abandoned-building, faster than the speed of sound. So what if there was a little junk lying around? With his limbs in overdrive, the place might as well have been empty.

“Should I cast Transparent, too?!”

“No, it’ll be okay!” he responded to the voice over his shoulders. Her judgment was always spot-on. Every time. Stun spells like Sleep were useful in a pinch, but if you screwed them up they were a waste of a turn. The spy knew it worked better to confuse targets with an illusion, after which it was his job to handle things.

He was really glad his friend wasn’t so fatally stupid as to try to launch offensive magic at the guard. If, by any chance, a court mage with a black staff showed up, it would be too terrible to contemplate. Above all…

Offing a guard is bad news!

There it was. The guards might overlook someone pinching an apple, but if you killed one of their own, they would hunt you to the ends of the earth. He happened to want to keep living in this town, so it was well-advised not to murder local law enforcement.

Yes, he could see sound, but that didn’t make him a daredevil, heedless of his life. Which meant he had one option here—run away—and one way to do it—on his own two feet. The whistle would summon other guards, but they wouldn’t appear and attack instantly. He had time. They would go to the whistle first. They would only set off in pursuit after that.

That just meant he had to escape the cordon before they banded together and got underway. Time, that was what mattered most now. Time and speed. He leaned forward, running, running. Running like a tiger.

“I have to wonder—was this a setup?”

“Yeah, maybe we were tricked.” She reached out, holding onto the spy’s cap so it wouldn’t be blown away by the wind. “He’s never made any mistakes in that department before, but… Hey, why are you laughing?”

Well, that was because neither of them actually thought for a second that the fixer had sold them out. The spy just ran faster, through the streets of the slums, around corner after corner. He had the driver’s route in his head, of course. But to go straight to him would have been absurd. The squatters weren’t his friends. They would sell any info to anybody for some money. So the spy ran a convoluted route, keeping the time in mind, and when he jumped out into the main thoroughfare…

“All aboard!” The carriage came barreling into view, moving so fast the kelpie barely had time to whinny.

The spy gave the driver an affirmative shout, and as he passed by the vehicle, he shoved the red-haired wizard through the door. “Ack!” she exclaimed, but naturally, he ignored her. He felt guilty, but this was an emergency.

He grabbed onto the back of the racing vehicle, pulling himself aboard by sheer arm strength. He held his cap to his head against the buffeting wind with one hand as he scrambled onto the roof. The vehicle the driver had requisitioned for this particular job had a skylight. The spy shoved himself halfway through it, then finally brought his crossbow to bear, twisting around and facing backward.

Not gonna chase us?

The slums receded in the distance. He didn’t sense any enemies. Their target was dead. They were being pursued.

In other words, this isn’t over.

He let out a breath, then slid the rest of the way into the carriage.

§

“Target status?”

“Not alive.”

The question came from the cleric girl, a brief interrogation over the sound of the clattering wheels. The red-haired girl, amused by the spy’s diffident tone, added, “He means she was killed.”

There was a thunk, and the carriage jumped. Probably riding over some rubble, something the springs couldn’t absorb. The cleric’s eyes burned with curiosity. She leaned in close. “There were no windows in that room, were there? Was the door locked?”

“Used the master key,” the spy said laconically, by which he meant he had kicked it down. He felt floaty, hot. He needed some time to cool down. He put a cigarette between his lips.

It was always like this after he had been in overdrive. His brain felt like it was on fire, and he had to let it cool off or it would stop working entirely. “No time to look to close or use an unlocking spell.” He searched in his pocket for a flint, but didn’t find anything; the red-haired girl saw there was nothing for it but to reach into her bag. She produced a palm-sized cylinder with an attached straw, both made of water buffalo horn.

She brought them together with a practiced motion, driving the straw smartly into the cylinder. There was a rush of air, and when she pulled the straw out, the flint on the end was glowing merrily.

“Here,” she said, holding it out, and the spy leaned forward with a “Thanks” to light his antipyretic. His dried wolfberry caught, sending up sweet smoke that filled the cabin.

When had she started to carry around that fire-starting thing, again? He didn’t seem to remember her having it when they’d first met…

“So, we don’t know whether it was a locked-room murder or not,” the cleric mumbled in annoyance, resuming her original position.

There was another thump and the carriage jumped again; the driver gave a low click of his tongue. “Guess they’ll figure it out when they do the inquest, not that it matters. We’re hitting the sewers.”

“Got it.”

“And open the windows. Don’t want the smell to stick.”

“Yeah, sure.”

The spy nodded and calmly opened the carriage windows. This wasn’t a point he was going to argue.

If you were going to get involved in smuggling, you had better know the best ways to get discreetly out of town. In other words, this called for a specialist. The fight was over, and now he had no choice but to place himself in someone else’s hands.

The carriage leaned precariously as it slid off the dock and into the river. The kelpie’s hooves made stippled patterns on the water, and the spinning of the wheels gave way to a gentle burbling.

“…Gotta wonder, though—what was a city guard doing there?” the spy said, exhaling the smoke of the antipyretic out of his lungs. The red-haired girl shot him a look to ask if he was all right; he nodded and pinched out the end of the cigarette with his fingertips.

“Don’t drop it in the cabin and don’t throw it out the window,” the driver growled.

“I know, I know.” The spy stuffed the butt in his pocket.

“Good,” the driver said, seemingly able to sense this. Then he said, “Got a better question. How’d a small-time punk living in a shithole like that get their hands on enough dope to sell?”

“A backer’s everything in that business… Milk run, my ass.”

That was the one grievance he could have held against the fixer. The thought lingered in his head. Well, they would deal with that after they had solved their other problems. Trying to apportion blame in the middle of a run was as good as signing your own death warrant.

“Sorry,” the white creature said, and she sounded like she genuinely meant it. “The two of us will try to get a handle on what happened. But it’s not a betrayal by the johnson, I guarantee it.”

“I know that. So does everyone.” The red-haired girl laughed softly and patted the creature on the head. Not the way you would an animal, but like a friend. “But who do you think did it? If it got to the point where we got a quest for it, then almost anyone could’ve killed her…”

“Huh? It’s simple, right?” the cleric of the God of Knowledge said, sounding like the answer should have been the most obvious thing in the world. From her spot in the corner of the carriage, she said, “Let’s review. There were at least three people at the scene. You, him, and one more.”

“…”

“You didn’t kill her. He didn’t kill her. So…?”

The spy groaned softly. No assassin ever looked like an assassin.

“The guard…”

“Bingo.” The cleric leered at him. He wasn’t sure he had ever seen quite that expression on her face before.

§

“If they killed her, I think we can assume killing her was of some benefit to them.” In the quiet confines of the underground sewer, the cleric’s words sounded strikingly forceful. The carriage had floated this way and that through the maze of waterways, finally coming to a rest gods knew where. Well, the gods and the driver—the spy was sure he knew where they were, even if the spy for one couldn’t have begun to guess. He wasn’t worried.

He could hear water rushing around them in the dark; it hardly even felt to him like there were any other living things around. But the spy’s eye heard it. Things that hid in the dark; literal bringers of death. Things that squirmed in the shadows. Things that made their homes here, under the city.

Ghouls.

They had snouts from what he could tell, but maybe that was to be expected from those calling themselves ghouls. Ghouls were monsters that emerged from burial mounds and ate only corpses. At least that stuff about them being denizens of the dream world had to be a lie. What happened to the rat that was caught just after skittering past his feet, though, that was reality.

“Lively, aren’t they?” said the driver, who had evidently made contact with the ghouls after the fracas the party had been mixed up in with those goblins. These ghouls might eat humans, but they didn’t want to be destroyed wholesale along with the goblins that had once attacked people in town in the night. That had been a year or two ago now, and it had been a pretty payday for their group…

Carefully, the driver pulled down a hempen bag sitting by him on the bench, and kicked it into the darkness. A veritable army of beasts lunged at it and tore it apart, the sound of feasting briefly echoing around before everything went silent again.

“Give ’em a little something to eat and they want to attack you—might even help you.”

“It’s all good, as long as they don’t invite us to dinner,” the spy said. He pulled himself back into the carriage—he had been leaning out the window to keep an eye on things—and urged the cleric to continue. “So what? Maybe someone snapped and did it in a fit of rage.”

“In which case it would at least yield emotional satisfaction. That’s reason enough to kill some people.” The cleric sounded like she was explaining things to a particularly dim pupil—and then she threw in a pop quiz for good measure. “Dope’s been showing up more and more these days, right?”

“Far as we know, yeah.”

“Then it has to be starting somewhere,” the cleric said quietly. “A supply depot where it all comes from.”

“…And where’s that?” the red-haired girl asked with a tilt of her head. She spoke softly, even though it was unlikely anyone was listening to them.

“The city guard garrison,” the cleric replied flatly, narrowing her eyes. The other young woman sucked in a breath. “They take the opium they’ve confiscated and let it slip to suppliers, make themselves a little pocket change. Simple enough, right?”

The red-haired wizard was the only one who looked like she was having trouble believing this. The driver, who had gone silent, and the white creature, who was probably deep in conversation with the fixer, both seemed to accept the likelihood. But the red-haired girl, sounding like she still didn’t want it to be true, asked, “Would servants of the Supreme God really do that?”

“They would,” the cleric told her friend confidently. “After all, it’s not the gods who decide what’s good and evil—it’s us.”

The gods in heaven didn’t demand that people act a certain way. They didn’t give miracles in exchange for faith. People didn’t believe in the gods because there was profit in it.

“Sometimes you hear someone say that great people are beloved by the gods, or that if you’re unhappy, it’s the gods’ fault,” the cleric said. “But that’s because people only look at outcomes. The process matters, too,” she continued in a whisper. “Those people just don’t want to take responsibility for losing out—they want to foist it on the gods.”

“…Guess it’s not that hard to guess what happened,” the spy said, largely ignoring the girls’ conversation. He could think about good and evil all day and all night, but he wouldn’t have anything useful to contribute. They were killers who killed when they needed the money. No more and no less.

The driver flicked the bill of his hat with one finger, saying blandly, “If a dope dealer’s in trouble with her supplier, that means there was an argument during negotiations—market couldn’t decide what it wanted.”

“And then they killed her,” the spy murmured.

The driver nodded. “Then they figured they might as well at least get something out of it.”

“The money she’d earned.”

When you got rid of the fancy titles, that was what it came down to. That was all: a completely, disarmingly ordinary case. Fate or Chance, or both, had simply coincided with their run with uncanny timing. It was as simple as that. But…

“Knowing the truth doesn’t mean anything’s finished,” the driver added; exactly what the spy was thinking. “They catch us, they’ve got their scapegoats—everything works out for them.”

“I’m sure they’d love it if they caught us because of their own screwup.” The spy laughed. But there was no hint of hesitation as he said, “Gotta take ’em out. Only choice.”

“…I don’t like bein’ in the business of killing city guards,” the driver mumbled.

“Yeah, well, that’s why I’m the one who’s gonna do the killing.”

The driver pulled the brim of his cap down over his eyes. The red-haired girl was giving the spy a reproving look, but he ignored all of them. He knew his position. As an asset, he was replaceable. And, more importantly, deniable.

“Well, you are the man in charge of violence around here. And it sounds like it’s about to get violent,” the cleric of the God of Knowledge said in her usual calm tone. Maybe none of this interested her. Maybe there was something else that drew her attention more.

The cleric opened the door of the carriage and then—vwip—with the particular gracelessness of someone who wasn’t a gifted acrobat, she jumped out of the vehicle. “There’s something else we have to do first, right?” she said more forcefully than usual, in order to hide the way she was reeling from the landing. “What part of town is this? I hope it’s close to the God of Knowledge’s temple.”

“Mm… Well, it’s not too far,” the driver said.

“Hmm,” the spy grunted, taking up the crossbow from over his shoulder. “You going back to the temple?”

“Obviously. Have you lot never researched anything?” The sweet young cleric sounded absolutely exasperated. But her eyes sparkled as she said to them, “If you’re going to really investigate something, books are the place to start.”

§

What does “the man in charge of violence” do during the research phase? Commit violence, of course.

It might consist of nothing more than guarding a “face”—a negotiator—or a spell user. If he could be of help just by standing around, then standing around was what he would do.

“The reality is that the amount of knowledge any one person possesses is minimal. You have to either ask around, or you have to do research.”

“I know we’ve been to the Temple of the God of Knowledge before, but it never fails to impress me…”

The spy followed the girls and their whispered conversation up to a bookrest, thinking about his role. There wasn’t a sound in the temple, which housed rows of bookshelves that stretched up to the ceiling, a forest unto themselves. The moonlight that filtered in through the windows wasn’t enough to see by; candles burned by several of the bookrests, suggesting they weren’t the only ones flipping pages in the middle of the night in pursuit of knowledge.

Can’t say any of it makes much sense to me, the spy thought. “Reading, writing, and ’rithmetic? As long as I can add up the points in a game of Wizball and follow the rules all right, that’s enough for me.”

“Then that’s your truth. That’s all you’ll ever have in your life… Ah, here it is. Take this.”

“Yeah, sure.”

The cleric girl tugged a book out with her fingertips, and he grabbed it off the shelf. It was a thick book with a metal cover; it would have been an imposing weight for a flesh-and-blood person, but the spy held it as lightly as anything. The weight was supposedly intended to discourage thievery, but it was also quite a piece of work in and of itself. And it was brand-new.

“…The heck is this?”

“Book of heraldry,” the cleric responded. “It describes the history of the nobility, their roles—it’s all in there.”

“Oh, it’s this year’s edition… I didn’t know it was out already.” The red-haired girl sounded like she was seeing a seasonal flower in bloom. Apparently, the spy was the only one who didn’t recognize it. He groaned. Even in the darkness, he could guess that the cleric was doing that thing she did, where she managed to look self-important while maintaining a neutral expression.

Sometimes it’s better not being able to see, he thought. It would only make him seem sore to actually say anything, though, so instead he headed promptly for the bookrest. Clerics with their slight builds could hardly carry these books, let alone hold them to read them; that’s why they needed the bookrests. The book could sit there while they flipped the parchment pages.

“This is a good publisher. Bit on the expensive side, though… Oh, is that why you don’t have any money?”

“Uh-uh. There was this song going around, ‘The Wolf of Hell’… No, we’re staying on task. Who did you encounter? Did they have a family crest of any kind?”

“Let’s see… I got a quick look at the embroidery on her clothes. There was a lozenge-shaped escutcheon, and the crest—”

From the spy’s perspective, the girls might as well have been talking in code. He didn’t know about heraldry or whatever, and he didn’t know why they wouldn’t just write their names—“I am such and such of the house of so-and-so!”

Guess I’m not one to talk, the spy thought. The red-haired girl had a better memory than he did. And she was an elf, so she could see in the dark. He would just stand there quietly, scanning the area, until he was asked to do something else. If that was enough to be of help, then that was what he would do.

They might be in the Temple of the God of Knowledge, but they were still on a run, and still fugitives. And what was he supposed to do—leave the spell users to their own devices while he stood guard back at the carriage? That would be ridiculous. The spy had no interest in such role divisions, which were little more than excuses to stop thinking.

“Do you need help with anything?”

Look, just like that. Someone approached holding a candle, their face hidden deep within a hood. If this was the enemy trying to feel them out, the girls would have had to deal with it all by themselves.

“Oh, uh…” The spy tried to stall for time as he thought quickly, appraising the situation. The person’s voice was low and calm. Not sure if it was a man or a woman. But probably a cleric. In other words, not an enemy. The spy relaxed his tensed muscles and allowed a smile onto his face. “…I think we’ll have it worked out soon,” he said. “My friends here are very good at finding things…even in books.”

“I see.” The hooded person’s words were brief, but gentle. He thought he heard a smile in them. “Possibilities are indeed plentiful in the library. A place of habit for those on the hunt.”

“Er, right…”

The woman—was it?—bowed her head in the flickering candlelight. “Fall not, darkness.”

“F-fall not, darkness…” The spy vaguely remembered that these were the words of a prayer of the God of Knowledge. A wish for their success, probably.

Almost as suddenly as they had appeared, the person with the bowed head vanished among the stacks, into the dark. Only a few twinkling stars, far in the distance, seemed to remain.

At that moment, the cleric spoke up. “…Found it. I think this is her.”

“Yeah, looks right,” the red-haired wizard said. The spy glanced over his shoulder at the gloom and noted that he no longer saw the candlelight, but he didn’t let it bother him. He glanced over the shoulders of his two friends (it wasn’t hard; neither of them was very tall), but found the hasty hand in which the book was written too difficult to read.

“So who was it?” he asked instead.

“We were right. It was a woman.” Then the cleric of the God of Knowledge reeled off a name as long and complicated as a magical spell. Daughter of Mister Big Important Count This of Clan That who had lots of land.

“Girl comes from serious money, then.” Nothing about the name meant anything to the spy. He didn’t know a duke from a marquis from a count from a viscount from a baron. When he’d once asked if a margrave was the overseer of a cemetery, he’d received only crushing looks of pity. In his mind, anyone who held such a title simply fell under the category of “noble,” and most nobles, in his mind, had it good.

The red-haired girl ran her finger over the page several more times, making sure of the name, then nodded. “Yeah, I know this person. She used to come buy drugs—medicine—from my mentor sometimes.”

“Drugs?” Again with the drugs. The spy looked at her searchingly, and for some reason the red-haired girl blushed and looked at the ground.

“Well, ahem…” She shuffled uneasily. Finally, she took a breath and mustered, “S-some elves become, uh, concubines, I guess? And so, she, uh…”

“She wanted something to help her have more kids?” the cleric asked bluntly. “Or fewer?”

“F—Fewer.”

“A fish’s air bladder, honey, acacia wood, and pine sap, maybe. Of course, the best plan is not to get pregnant in the first place.”

Don’t say that, the elf seemed to be thinking, but the cleric refrained from acknowledging it, and shut the book. “So, what do we do?”

“Hmm?” The spy cocked his head. He didn’t really follow. The cleric continued as if reading from a dinner menu, “We know who we’re dealing with now.”

“I guess that means a run, then,” he said, trying to sound as detached as she did. “Whatever you’ve found out, the fixer ought to know how to make money from it.”

§

The nighttime sprawl was as silent as an abandoned building. The denizens of this part of the city typically either spent their nights engaged in unspeakable deeds, or else sleeping the sleep of the dead. All the more so when there had been a killing just hours before.

The body had already been removed from the insula where it had been found, and there was no longer any sign of the city guard. After all, the criminals, the MO, and the motive were already fairly clear. Leave it to the rank and file to catch the bad guys, then; no need to sniff around the scene like dogs.

“…Hmph.”

That makes it the perfect time to do a little investigating.

There was a quiet rustling, and although there was no need to hide her footsteps, the woman guard snorted with annoyance over them as she entered the abandoned shop. Perhaps the interlopers had been a thorn in her side. Or perhaps they had been a gift from heaven.

Were the pips on the dice of Fate and Chance good and evil? It was beyond the powers of a pawn like her even to imagine an answer, and thus she silently climbed the stairs. She didn’t hesitate for a moment when she reached the room on the next floor, blocked off only by a rope since the door had been kicked down—she went right in.

The door was gone, as was the half-elf woman’s body; nothing else in the room had changed.

Damned Devil. The guardswoman’s lip curled into a sneer. The guard captain, who went by the sobriquet of the Devil, had pressed her relentlessly about the state of the scene of the crime. Including preservation.

If you weren’t part of the Devil’s clique, then you might as well have been smoke on the wind. But it was also the Devil’s modus operandi that allowed the woman to find what she was hoping for. It was a good roll of the dice.

Better than the seven I needed, at least.

The guardswoman crouched, one knee on the floor. The blood that had dribbled from the bed stained the rug underneath, leaving a large spot. She was just pulling up the carpet when she stopped.

Is it just me, or does something feel off…?

She couldn’t explain it—it wasn’t quite her sixth sense, nor any of her ordinary senses, but her brain picked up on it all the same. Was the stain on the rug and the stain on the floorboards slightly…misaligned?

“That was intentional. We needed someone to do some excellent detective work, or there would’ve been trouble.” The voice caught her by surprise. It was cold as an icicle, sending a shiver down her spine. “It was a toss-up whether we should do this at home or at the office.”

Her hand was already on her sword as she jumped up like a spring-loaded doll. She cast her eyes to the right, then the left in the dim room. The corner. The bed. No windows. The storage container—the space where the door had been. Right behind her…!

“Wouldn’t want to miss you, after all. But I guess the criminal really does return to the scene of the crime.”

There was a shape there. A nameless living thing that ran through the shadows. The woman could just make out a leather trench coat; a military-style cap obscuring the figure’s face. The only thing she saw was an uncanny light emanating from the person’s eyes.

“Best way to avoid a search cordon is to go back inside it after the cordon’s expanded.” The guardswoman took a few steps backward, trying to put some distance between herself and the shadowed figure. She might not see well in the dark, but she could see the person—the spy—was holding a pistol.

The spy chuckled that this was the reverse of earlier, but the guardswoman didn’t dignify him with an answer. The spy just gave a little shrug and reached into his breast pocket with his free hand. “We already found the hidden cash store you’re looking for. I’ve got some friends who are very good at finding things.”

He produced a small parqueted wooden box, the kind that might be used to hold papers, and one that looked far nicer than anything else in this room. It had been hidden under the floorboards, under the rug, under the bed. She’d worried the city guard might have gotten ahold of it, but this, she could work with. After all, she was the one who was going to be in trouble if the guards found that box.

Eight or nine out of ten, she figured this was a slam dunk. She could usually expect to roll a three or four at least. And if all went well, then what need was there to fret about what she would do if she failed—which she wouldn’t?

“I’ll thank you to give that back this minute.” The guardswoman sounded like she might snap at any moment. The spy realized this was the first time she’d unequivocally sounded like a woman, and the thought made him smile. She went on, “Accept your arrest quietly. I’m certain our Lord, the Supreme God, will be merciful.”

“You mean this is yours? Wow, color me surprised.” The spy’s smile never slipped as he produced the contents of the wooden box. The accumulated harvest of selling drugs, presumably: a bag of gold coins, with a few bronze and silver pieces mixed in. And then there was the envelope with a wax seal depicting a green eye. It had been opened. The contents: an order, and a detailed map of the city.

“I don’t know how much you planned to wring out of the cultists for this thing, but I know this map isn’t your work.”

“…”

If looks could kill, the spy would have been dead five or six times already. He snapped the lid of the box shut, then squeezed it into a pocket of his overcoat. He traded it for something else in the pocket, which he tossed to her as if it were a ball. “This is yours, right?”

Shing. The object lodged in the floor with a sharp sound. It was a striking—but at this moment, thoroughly gore-stained—dagger. The one which, until a few hours before, had been sticking out of the half-elf woman’s chest.

The owner of the knife didn’t move to retrieve it—and after he had been so nice as to give it back to her. Not that the spy had been expecting some dramatic reaction. He’d just brought the knife along because it would be helpful to him to be able to mention it.

“I knew it was weird that you only had your sword. They always issue the sword and the dagger as a pair.”

The guardswoman fixed the spy with a glare, breathing hard, as she finally managed to squeeze out, “But how…?”

“Aw, don’t ask.”

In reality, it had been simple: pose as a squatter, swear to the guards he was one of her people (and throw in a few coins to convince them), and walk off with it. After all, what guard worth their salt wouldn’t trade material evidence for some pocket change? There were plenty of people who wanted such things as—the spy didn’t know—mementos or something. He’d figured it would work out.

To be fair, he’d heard the guard captain these days was a real devil. The rabbit-faced guard would probably get a dressing-down for her trouble. But it wasn’t his job to spell out the details for her. And he didn’t have time.

“ !!” The woman gave the knife a kick, simultaneously drawing her rapier and leaping at him. He considered whether she was more like a tiger or a lion. The sword could strike like lightning, and he wouldn’t have time to dodge both it and the dagger.

The spy gritted his teeth. Power coursed through his limbs. He saw the tip of the knife approaching with his dulled vision…

“At this distance, a knife’s not as fast as a pistol.” The finger on his right hand was already pulling the trigger. There was a boom and the lead slug blew the rapier out of the woman’s hand.

“Clavis…caliburnus…nodos!”

At the same time, there was a click of iron sabbatons fixing in place, and the woman pitched forward. Almost before she had a chance to shout, the spy was catching her dagger out of the air. With his accelerated consciousness, the entire thing took hardly the blink of an eye.

“A spell caster…!” the guardswoman exclaimed.

As she tried to get up, the spy walked over and placed a foot firmly on her back. “Two-person cell, don’t you know.” He grinned. “She’s reliable. A lot more than me.”

If you were pro enough to fight in the dark, you couldn’t also afford to be a daredevil, risking your life all the time—but with two of you, well, you might get away with it.

The spy crouched to look the woman in the eye; her breath came in strangled gasps as she tried to get air into one functioning and one crushed lung. Nobody who knew the spy could have stood up under that gaze for long. Now, he just shrugged. “Lots of people think a pistol is just a distance weapon, but it’s really a way of getting through armor at point-blank range.”

He pressed a pillow against the guardswoman’s face. Then he grasped the barrel of the gun, raising the butt. The place already had the drug dealer’s blood all over. No harm in a little more. And besides, dealing the blow through something soft was the best way to make sure he didn’t damage his weapon.

“Killing a city guard is bad for business. Word’s gonna be, you grabbed the money and took off.”

“Wait—we can make a deal!” the guardswoman cried, somewhat unexpectedly, cringing and looking like a cooked shrimp. The spy wasn’t particularly interested in hearing what she had to say, but he was having trouble pinning her down, and his response was a beat too late. “Maybe instead of killing for money, you’d like to…to help make the world a better place!”

“Hmm?”

“After all, if you wanted to kill me, you’d have done it already. There’s something you want.”

“Usually is.”

“Money. And glory. You want to do great deeds. I’m sure of it.” The woman seemed to have taken the spy’s offhand response in the most favorable possible way, for she started speaking rapidly. “You’re human too, aren’t you? You must understand, then. You must see that this town is being invaded!”

“Yeah, I guess it is.”

“Just look around—you can see them everywhere. Elves, dwarves—the padfoots and rheas. Whole swarms of them…”

He could feel her shifting under the pillow. He wasn’t sure if she was trying to escape, or if she was simply shuddering.

“We need to be rid of the demis, depose the foolish king who tolerates them, and take our country back. It’s the only just and right thing to do!” The woman showed no compunction as she spoke, gave no sense that it ever occurred to her that she might be in the wrong. That was the whole reason she’d put the confiscated goods out on the street, spread the drugs around, killed her client, tried to frame the party, and was now begging for her life.

“‘Demis.’ So it’s come to that, huh?” The spy spat out each word like the seed of a fruit.

“Am I wrong?” the guardswoman spat back. It was like there was a fire in her belly and she wanted to get it all out. “An elf born from the loins of a human is a disgusting thing.”

“Guess everyone’s entitled to their opinion.”

So the squatters, slaves, and sinners of the slums had wasted themselves on drugs and been killed. No particular reason to get mad about that. He himself took money, sometimes to do a good deed, sometimes to kill someone. All the same. What the johnson in front of him wanted, was a city that was beautiful and pure in accordance with her ideals. The reward: money and fame. It would be to humanity’s benefit, the good of the world. A beautification project that he could contribute to.

For that purpose, he would kill. He would kill elves who had come forth from the loins of humans. All the same.

The spy shrugged.

“Like trying to spot a shadow at night.”

“…What?”

“It ain’t my job.”

The guardswoman didn’t respond immediately. She forced her head up, pushing aside the pillow, and looked at him as if she couldn’t quite comprehend what she was seeing. “…In that case,” she said finally, “what do you want?”

“Good question,” the spy replied. He gave it some thought, then grinned like a shark. “Guess I want my team to win.”

§

By the time they had delivered the sack full of meat bits down to the sewers, the first soft rays of dawn were beginning to appear. Some would call the dark purple of the clouds beautiful; others might call it terrifying.

As for the spy, now that all the heavy lifting was done, he could only call it dizzying.

He emerged from underground and stood for a moment, listening to the flowing water. He and his friends could at least have themselves some hearty meals for the next couple of days.

The rabbit-faced guard would probably be taking her scolding pretty soon, and the guards would be going back to the scene of the crime. They might notice a new stain. All they would find, though, would be the empty wooden box. The guardswoman would be missing. One obvious conclusion. The guardswoman who had been supplying the drugs had gotten into a disagreement with the seller, offered her the money, and then stolen it and run—to where, nobody knew. That would be it; case closed. Nothing for the Four-Cornered World to worry about.

The spy slowly began to walk away from the entrance (or was that the exit?) of the sewer. But his body just wouldn’t relax. In the faint light spreading over the city, he saw someone he didn’t recognize standing next to a carriage that he did. The spy felt for the reassuring weight of his pistol at the breast of his trench coat as he walked. The repeating crossbow had a better rate of fire, but for ease of use and sheer power, it was the pistol every time. No question.

Then, though, he stopped walking. He couldn’t believe what—or rather, who—he was seeing.

“Is that you? The maid?”

“The representative of the johnson, if you please.” It was the silver-haired girl (she could easily have been taken for a child)—although she almost didn’t seem to be there, like a shadow.

Representative? the spy thought. Then the outfit was either a disguise or a personal proclivity. There was no way she was actually a maid.

The spy looked up doubtfully at his friend the driver. In response, the driver pulled his cap down as if to say it was no business of his, and shook his head in mild annoyance.

“Looks like you’re done with the job. How’d it go?” the maid asked.

“…” Still being careful, the spy slowly undid the buttons of his trench coat to reveal what was within. The pistol hung near his chest. He reached past it, pulled out the opened letter and the map, and tossed them to her. The silver-haired maid grabbed them in midair and looked at them with an interested noise. “Did you happen to look into what this map depicts?”

“No,” the spy said, shaking his head. “Too busy.”

“That’s fine, then.” The maid folded the map neatly and put it in the envelope, then put the envelope in her pocket. “That ought to be the end of the drug problem in the water town. Your quest giver is very happy, I assure you.” The words sounded scripted, almost silly. “The quest is now over. Your reward is with the fixer.”

“Aye-aye,” the spy said, nodding. “Think of us the next time you need to do business.”

“I will.” The silver-haired maid murmured, “Good-bye, then,” and started off down an alleyway. She might have been going to buy breakfast—but then she lost herself among the shadows and disappeared from view.

The spy watched her go, not saying anything. His head—his brain—burned.

“…Looks like it’s over,” said the white-furred creature, poking her head out from the driver’s bench. She let out a breath she seemed to have been holding. Maybe she knew who the silver-haired maid really was. “Excellent work.”

“Yeah, thanks,” the spy replied shortly. It really felt like work, too—he was tired.

The creature seemed to notice this. She cocked her head as if listening to something far away, then sniffed and said, “She says… ‘Sorry to put you to all this trouble every time.’”

“All good.”

Actually, it wasn’t remotely good. There was the one who did the negotiating, the one who did the research, the one who gave support, and the one who got them around. And then there was the one beside him, casting spells. All of which boiled down to… “My role is to do the hit and get everyone home safely.”

“Heh! They can swap out all your meaty bits, but they can’t change your personality.” The white-furred creature laughed. The fixer was probably laughing, too. So the spy added a chuckle of his own. It wasn’t such a bad feeling, to be praised by his friends.

“I’m heading back,” the creature said. “Have to check in with the fixer.”

“Isn’t he right there in the room with you?” came the teasing voice of the cleric from inside the carriage, along with a giggle.

“Hmm,” the familiar said evasively, but she found herself plucked up by the scruff of the neck and placed on the cleric’s knees.

“I’ll be going back to the temple today, myself. I feel like I’ve been asleep for three solid days.” It was, in fact, the cleric girl who had been keeping watch on their surroundings, using the abilities gifted to her by the God of Knowledge.

“Sure, good work,” the spy said softly.

“Hrmph,” the driver grunted. “How about it—you want a ride back?”

“Nah,” the spy answered after a moment, shaking his head. “I’ll walk.”

“Suit yourself.” The slightest of smiles came over the driver’s normally impassive face, and then he gripped the reins of his animal. “Go now, kelpie, it’s time to get busy! Earth to river and sea to sky, turn all a-tizzy!” The kelpie raced off pulling the carriage, its mane of froth flying, leaving behind it only hoofbeats like raindrops and neighing like the burble of a river.

The spy watched them go. He stood there alone in the street, staring vacantly after them. Finally, unable to stand the pale light of dawn any longer, he started to trudge away.

It’s all over now. Got a chance to think.

Imagine what the guardswoman must have been feeling, maybe that was the thing to do. If it was all ghoul shit, all just the way the world had to work, then maybe no one could complain.

Now, to piece together fragments of random information like they meant something, just because you thought you saw a pattern in them—that was simple paranoia. But say—just say…

What if the half-elf drug dealer had been the guard’s older sister, or maybe her younger sister? Maybe the child of a lover. At any rate, the illegitimate spawn of some noble family. Mixed blood. Chased out of the house of her birth, but still financially dependent on them. She turns to a life of crime, even to opium, taking advantage of the fact that she’s the blood relation of a member of the city watch to get her hands on confiscated goods.

If it all comes to light, it could undermine the honor of the guards. Or even worse, her own family. And the other daughter, the guardswoman—think what that would mean to her.

Human supremacy. She was willing to do anything for it. Even ally herself with the forces of Chaos.

Suggests the johnson was the girl’s parents. Maybe they just wanted to make sure things didn’t get out of control. Or maybe it was more than that.

But the drug dealing had already been discovered. Someone had gotten ahold of the secret messages between the women, whether by chance or through treachery. Maybe they’d blackmailed the women—or maybe they’d wanted to stop her.

Whichever it was, there were plenty of things in the world one was better off not knowing. And plenty of things one had no way of knowing.

So, the squatters, slaves, and sinners of the slums wasted themselves on drugs and were killed—would anyone mourn them? Why jabber about such negligence to the common classes—there would be no point disturbing them with it. Only the hopelessly stupid or the most heedless daredevils would insist on exposing it, and he was neither.

“…Hmph.”

He would prefer if it had been blackmail. It was easiest if no one was really good. If there was no real way to be saved.

Karma feels a little bit lighter that way.

The spy was buckling under heat that was starting to burn; he searched in the pocket of his trench coat. He pulled out a slim cigarette. Now he just needed to light it…

“…Here.” He heard the cylinder straw striking, and then there was a glow of flame before his eyes. “…’lo.” The red-haired girl—the changeling elf-daughter—was standing there with a shy smile. The spy silently accepted, taking in a deep lungful of the smoke of his antipyretic, and when his brain was a little cooler, he asked, “…What, didn’t go back with the carriage?”

“Nah,” she said. “Just sorta felt like walking home.”

“Huh.”

Wreathed by faintly sweet smoke, the two of them set off walking at an easy pace. He had a head’s height on her. Elves were tall, but she was slim, delicate, and light. Maybe it was because her parents were humans. He didn’t know. The spy didn’t know any other changeling elves.

The spy was careful to shorten his long strides, the red-haired girl jogging to catch up and then walking beside him. They didn’t know much about each other’s backgrounds. He was a failed Wizball player who’d lost his arms and legs in an accident, who now went into the world of shadows looking for money. She was a merchant’s daughter, targeted by slavers because she was a changeling, who was after revenge for a friend who’d got caught in the middle.

It wasn’t a question of good and evil, of high principles or low motives, of Order or Chaos.

“Hey,” she whispered. “Next time you’re gonna go see some Wizball…take me with you.”

“Never seen it before, right?”

“Not really.”

“Huh.” The spy nodded. “I’ll buy you some peanuts and crackers, then.”

“Is that what you eat when you’re watching a game?” She giggled as if this were funny.

It was about time for the water town to be waking up. The streets filled with people, shop signs were flipped to the OPEN side, and the city filled with footsteps and the hum of crowds. Rhea chefs were preparing their utensils, dwarf smiths were banking their fires, and elf troubadours were tuning their instruments. Soon, everywhere would be packed with human kids and padfoot children tumbling and playing.

What must the two of them have looked like as they walked through it all? The spy briefly wondered as the idle conversation went on, but it didn’t take him long to decide it didn’t matter. He laughed; just because he was an assassin didn’t mean he had to go around looking like one.