They Met in a Tavern E-Book

Elijah Menchaca

• Herausgeber: CamCat Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 548

Beschreibung

They Met in a Tavern

Leseprobe

They Met in a Tavern

Eli Menchaca

CamCat Publishing, LLC

Brentwood, Tennessee 37027

camcatpublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

© 2021 by Elijah Menchaca

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, 101 Creekside Crossing, Suite 280, Brentwood, TN 37027.

Hardcover 9780744303834

Paperback 9780744303643

Large-Print Paperback 9780744303476

eBook 9780744303469

Audiobook 9780744303315

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021936570

Cover and book design by Maryann Appel

5 3 1 2 4

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Acknowledgments

About the Author

For Further Discussion

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To my Wings, who makes me feel like I can fly.

1

The Contract

As the crackling fireplace kept away the last chills of the dying winter, the Handler made a show of examining a stack of papers in front of the client. He’d already read them, had aides read them, and read the aides’ notes on them before this meeting started. He’d kept his job as long as he had by being thorough. But for some reason, clients never believed it unless they saw him doing it.

The Handler didn’t mind; showmanship was his favorite part of the job.

“Well, it would seem everything is in order,” the Handler stated, straightening out the stack of papers. “I’m certain we can make all the necessary arrangements to move forward with your contract.”

Silas shifted uncomfortably in his seat on the other side of the Handler’s desk. He probably thought he did a good job of hiding it, but the man may as well have been proclaiming his emotions in song. The poor soldier—and even without any heraldry, his posture gave him away as one—was almost adorably lost in the unfamiliar territory of criminal enterprise. All the more reason to make him feel at ease with whatever pageantry and pleasantries were necessary.

“Thank you,” Silas said. “And you can keep my name out of this?”

“All contractors will conduct their business through us,” the Handler assured with a sweeping wave. “Your hands will be clean right up until the targets are handed off to you.”

“Good.”

“There is one minor problem I’d like to address now,” the Handler said.

“What?”

“There are a few names on the list you provided . . .” The Handler leafed through the papers until he found the one in question and plucked it from the stack. With a dry quill he pointed to the offending names. “These five here. I would advise you to double the reward for each of them.”

The client frowned, and the Handler knew he felt like he was being conned. The Handler took no offense. It was only natural for someone of the client’s background to distrust someone like the Handler. They were from opposing worlds. And, even if they weren’t, it was an obscene amount of money they were discussing. 

“Why?”

“I advise this purely out of a desire to ensure satisfactory results,” the Handler said. “Simply put, if you want to capture the Starbreakers, you’re going to need the best. And the best won’t bite for what you’re offering.”

Silas’s frown deepened as he stared at the names. The Handler waited patiently for him to see sense.

“I thought they were failures.”

The Handler chuckled softly. It wasn’t an inaccurate assessment. But it wasn’t the full picture either. He wondered where Silas must have been from, to not understand who they were dealing with. Or maybe he was younger than he looked.

“The Starbreakers toppled the tower of the Hegemony when they were children. They’ve slain things from other worlds and found some of the Old World’s greatest marvels,” the Handler said matter-of-factly. “Even now, anything less than the very best won’t be enough to touch them.”

Silas continued to stare at the list and the five offending names. Brass. Phoenix. Snow. Church. Angel. Securing other names from the list would be beneficial. But these five could be the key to everything.

“You have a deal.”

2

Brass

Brass woke up lying naked on the floor of what was either an expensive inn or a pretentious brothel. His first thought was that the place had incredibly lush carpeting in its rooms. His second thought was that his head hurt. A lot. But that was nothing new, and, if he could find his things, easily fixable. He just had to wait for the room to stop spinning.

Slowly, fighting his hangover’s protests, he sat up and blinked. Thick curtains pulled shut over the windows were blocking the early-morning sun, leaving the room dimly lit. There was an excess of red velvet in the room’s decor, which told him most of what he needed to know about where he was and what he’d gotten up to last night.

The bed, which he seemed to have missed by a few feet last night, was occupied by a woman with smooth caramel skin and flowing dark hair that spread out over the sheets and obscured her face. Somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, fighting to be heard over a stabbing pain in his temples, alarm bells were going off. He gingerly searched for her wrist under the sheets. When he found it and felt a pulse, what little concern he had evaporated, and he returned to looking for his things.

Finding them was easier said than done. Besides the bedroom the suite had a bathroom, a kitchenette, and a living room, and absolutely all of it was a mess. Dozens of room-service trays were strewn about, stacked with half-eaten plates of cold food and empty bottles. That wasn’t even touching the unconscious strangers scattered in every room with about as much dignity as Brass had woken up with. Actually, slightly more, given that most of them seemed to have managed to collapse onto a piece of furniture instead of the floor. There were six people in the suite, and Brass had absolutely no memory of meeting any of them. Brass wouldn’t have had a problem with that, except their clothes thrown all over the suite made it harder to find his.

It took about ten minutes of stumbling and searching before Brass finally spotted his pants and belt in the kitchenette, draped over the back of a chair. He took about two steps forward before he tripped over his own feet and fell face-first onto the floor.

“Oops,” he muttered. Rather than repeating the incident, he opted to crawl the rest of the way.

From the floor, Brass rummaged through his pockets until he found a small pouch and a book of matches. He made his way to the nightstand, which was the closest flat surface he could find. From the pouch he took a generous pinch of specially blended herbs, deposited them in a neat pile on the nightstand, and lit a match.

The blend burned, releasing blue-gray smoke into Brass’s face. The smoke smelled like blueberries and driftwood. Brass breathed it in for a few minutes, feeling his headache evaporate with every breath. He sighed in relief, then sniffed again. The smell had changed. Now it just smelled like burning wood as the smoldering herbs scorched the nightstand.

“Shit!”

Brass frantically slapped the still burning herbs until the flames were out, stinging his hands in the process. As the herbs finished their work, the last traces of distracting pain receded from his skull, paving the way for a sudden rush of stark clarity to take its place.

“Probably shouldn’t have done that on the table.”

Feeling significantly better, Brass grabbed his pants off the chair and tugged them up to his waist. He found his vest shortly after and slipped that on as well. But he could only find one of his boots.

That’s irritating.

Single boot in hand, Brass toured the living room again with freshly sobered senses. Most of the men and women there wore makeup that gave them away as escorts or dancers, and the skimpy clothing Brass found lying around backed up that guess. But one woman didn’t fit the look at all. Her haircut was too sensible, and out of everyone in the room, she was the only one still wearing anything, even if it was just her underwear and a blanket.

Brass made a mental note to take another crack at finding a blend that could help with memory blackouts. He went back to the bedroom. Without a splitting hangover sucking up his attention span, something about the woman he’d found when he first woke up was making him uneasy. Trying not to wake her up, Brass brushed some of her hair out of the way so he could get a better look at her face.

“Fuu—”

In the bed was none other than Diane Recpina, one of the princesses of the City of Orm. On a hunch, Brass peered from the bedroom to take another look at the other woman who didn’t fit the bill of an escort and tried to picture her holding a tablet and quill. It was easy to do.

He still wasn’t entirely sure what had happened, but he was fairly certain he was going to be in very big trouble soon. Foreign princesses were pretty high up on the list of things he wasn’t supposed to sleep with.

As if to punctuate that thought, a knock came from the door.

“Who is it?” Brass asked, hurriedly tucking the princess in.

“Brass?” a gruff voice came from the other side of the door.

The alarm bells came back when he heard his name. Someone knew he was here, which meant they probably knew who else was here.

“Ah, one second!” Brass called out, rounding up spare blankets and towels from the floor as he drafted a perfectly innocent explanation for the scene his visitors were about to walk in on.

He ran around the room, throwing the towels and blankets to cover up the escorts, all the while trying to keep an eye out for his other boot. There was a second, more impatient knock at the door.

“Be with you in a moment!” Brass yelled back.

The search for his boot was getting him nowhere, so he gave up on it and made a beeline for the door just as the person on the other side knocked again. Brass could practically hear how many seconds of patience his caller had left. He combed his hands through his hair, threw his single boot off to the side, and opened the door.

“How can I help you?” he asked with a smile.

Brass was expecting Iandran royal guards, here to collect the princess—dark hair, steel rapiers, colorful robes, and engraved breastplates. The two men waiting outside were not that. Their skin was tanned from time spent in the sun but still unmistakably white. They wore rough traveler’s cloaks over piecemeal leathers. Instead of rapiers, they were holding shortswords.

These men were not here for the princess.

“Sorry, wrong room,” Brass apologized, slamming the door in their faces while they were still staring at him. Before he could reach the bolt to lock the door, it exploded open, and both men charged in.

Brass threw himself just out of reach of the men’s first swings and hit the floor. Without thinking, he rolled away until he collided with a chair, which he immediately hurled at the intruders to buy time.

Brass sprang to his feet just as one of them got closer. Luckily, their swordplay was pathetic. Unarmed, Brass swatted aside the first stab that came his way, and as the second guy came in, Brass grabbed his offending wrist and redirected his attack into his friend’s arm.

The attacker snarled, “Watch it!”

“Yeah!” Brass agreed, pointing to the guy he had used as a weapon. “Watch it, Greg!”

“What?” one of the men asked.

“Well,” Brass explained as he dodged another stab from one of the intruders, “you gentlemen neglected to introduce yourselves, even though you know my name. So, until you learn your manners,” Brass warned, pointing at the two men, “you’re Greg, and you’re Wallace.”

Wallace circled around, trying to get behind him. At the same time, Greg lunged at him again. Brass twisted on his heel and in one motion dodged the stab while kicking the man behind him in the stomach.

“Shut up!” Greg roared, charging again.

Brass sidestepped his attack and jabbed Greg in the eyes with his fingers. While he was distracted, Brass took his sword. With a burst of speed, and a quick turn to the side, he jammed the stolen weapon into Wallace’s shoulder. Just as quickly, he pulled the blade free and opened the man’s throat.

One down.

Greg tackled him to the ground, and Brass lost the sword. The two of them struggled, with Greg getting solid hits in as they tumbled across the floor. Their roll came to a stop near the door, Brass on the ground, Greg’s hands around his neck.

“Bastard,” Greg spat, getting blood on Brass’s face. “You’re gonna pay for that.”

Out of the corner of his eye, lying on the floor underneath a small end table, Brass spotted his boot. He was confused, thinking he’d thrown it somewhere else, until he realized it was the one he’d been looking for all morning. Brass tried to laugh, but all that came out was a strangled gargle.

“Save your breath for the devils, you sack of shit,” Greg said, squeezing harder.

Brass strained every muscle in his throat as he reached for his boot. Feeling on the cusp of passing out, he managed to croak, “What’s your shoe size?”

Feeling along the heel of his boot, Brass found the small, concealed button and pressed it, deploying a blade from the toe end. He grabbed the boot and jammed it into the side of Greg’s head. The tension around Brass’s neck disappeared, and Greg collapsed. Brass coughed and wheezed underneath the man’s bulk before shoving him off. He staggered to his feet as stillness took the room. The only sounds were occasional mutters from the escorts as they blissfully slept on, too deep into their drug- and drink-induced morning comas to have even noticed the racket.

“No, no, I’m fine, don’t get up on my account.”

Hearing the sound of a door creaking, Brass whirled around, still brandishing his boot.

Princess Diane stood in the bedroom doorway, clutching a sheet around herself, a look of utter horror on her face. Brass looked around the room, at the two bodies, and at the blood that was soaking into the carpet.

“Well. Good morning.” Brass greeted her breathlessly. “Would you like to get breakfast?”

The princess screamed.

3

Old Habits

Arman walked the streets of the Pale, grateful that not too many people were out this early in the morning. It had been a long time since he’d come to this part of Olwin, and his rumpled old coat made him stick out enough on its own without him also looking like a lost tourist. The Pale was the playground of the city’s richest citizens, full of high-end clubs and restaurants that generally didn’t see real business until later in the day. His memory wasn’t the problem—his mental map was out of date. There was a music hall where the theater used to be, Nathan’s Bakery was completely gone, and somebody had the brilliant idea to rename some of the streets. Strangest to him was the new tenant housing building that looked like it had been converted from an old hotel. People didn’t live in the Pale, except for a few business owners with rooms above their establishments. Well, not the last time he’d been here anyway.

Finally he found his way to the place he was looking for. The Crimson Lilac was a large three-story inn painted dark brown with red accents. On a second-story dining balcony, a few guests were enjoying a light breakfast. It was a higher-end establishment with a reputation for “expanded hospitality.” Exactly the sort of place he would have expected to find Brass.

He stepped through the front doors and was greeted by an extravagant interior. Expensive woodwork, fine paintings, bright red carpet. The lobby was a simple space, mostly built to exhibit art and sculptures. But there was a front desk and an inviting lounge visible just a room over that was currently almost empty. Like the rest of the Pale, it was the kind of place that didn’t really come alive until the sun went down.

The woman at the front desk was absorbed in a book and didn’t greet him.

Arman approached her.

“Excuse me?”

She looked up, quickly closing her book as she straightened her posture, brightened her eyes, and flashed a wide, apologetic smile. He always had a hard time telling real smiles from the professional ones.

“How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for someone who might have stayed here last night,” Arman explained. “A man named Brass?”

“I’m . . . afraid I can’t give out guest information.”

Arman had expected the rebuttal, but he hadn’t expected the delivery. The woman said it like a question. She sounded surprised. No, not surprised. Confused maybe.

“If you’d like, I can . . . take a message for him, when or if he comes here.” The woman blinked, reading from a mental script as her mind worked. “Is this Brass someone . . . important?”

“Not exactly.”

Not in the way most people were important anyway. Arman was sure now that Brass was somewhere in this place. It was just a matter of figuring out where. He could try to convince the woman to tell him, but he wasn’t really sure how. Or he could try getting a look at the hotel’s books somehow. That could get complicated, but it would involve less talking.

He missed having an invisibility belt.

He realized he was overthinking the issue just as a piercing scream from upstairs interrupted his thoughts.

“I think that’s him.”

The woman’s disapproval of him going up the stairs was written on her face, but she didn’t say anything out loud. On the way up, he tried to prepare himself. It had been years since he’d seen Brass, and the last time they’d spoken, things had ended . . . poorly. He told himself he could handle this. He wasn’t trying to make amends or hold a conversation. It was just a job.

He got lucky when he reached the top of the stairs. There was only one room along the hall with its door open.

Arman cautiously made his way to it.

“Brass?”

He peeked in. He didn’t see anyone, but there were signs of a struggle. Furniture overturned. Objects scattered. He was starting to get worried.

“Brass, you in here?”

Arman took another step, and a sword point was at his throat. It was a thin, shining rapier with an ornately swept handle. Wielding it was a wiry man with short, dark curls, finely groomed facial hair, and brown eyes that were accented with just a hint of eyeliner. He was wearing pants, an open vest, and nothing else, exposing a chest of scars and more than a few tattoos.

“Brass?”

Brass blinked, smiled, and sheathed his rapier. “Phoenix? Seven hells, what are you doing here?”

Brass dragged Arman into a hug, which Arman stiffly accepted without returning. He hadn’t known exactly what to expect, but it hadn’t been this. It was like their last meeting, and the last seven years, had never happened. He gave it a second before gently pushing Brass off of him.

“The castellan called in a favor,” Arman explained. Focus on the job. “Apparently, an Iandran princess went missing last week, and you know where she is.”

“Oh,” Brass said, disappointed. “Yeah, she’s over there.”

Arman followed Brass’s gesture into the next room. There was the princess, wearing a robe, clutching a cup of coffee, staring at a pair of dead bodies on the living-room floor.

“Son of a—purple, Brass! What did you do?”

“Okay, I know this looks bad, but it’s really not,” Brass defended. “These two guys—wait a minute. Son of a purple?”

Arman blinked, trying to think of the simplest way to explain himself. “Uh. I’m trying to watch my language, so I’ve been . . . using substitutes?”

“Why?”

“There was this whole thing with my parents about how kids are sponges or something,” Arman said. “I’m trying to make sure one of my daughter’s first words isn’t an expletive.”

“You have a daughter now?”

“Oh saints.” He hadn’t meant to tell Brass that. Or anything about himself. Too late now. “Uh, yeah. Seven months.”

“Phoenix! Congratulations!”

Brass pulled Arman in for another hug, tighter this time. Once again, Arman mostly stood there, though this time, he tried to half-heartedly return the embrace with one arm. At least until it went on for too long.

“Brass.”

“Hm?”

“What happened here?”

“Oh. Right. Them.” Brass turned his attention to Greg and Wallace. “Weirdest thing. They came knocking on the door asking for me, I answered, and then they barged in and tried to kill me. And well, you know how that goes.”

“What was the scream?”

Brass pointed back at the princess, who was now staring at the two of them, and Arman remembered the whole reason he was here. He cleared his throat.

“Apologies for all of this, Princess Recpina,” Arman said in Iandran. “My name is Arman Meshar. The university and the castellan asked me to bring you back to school.”

As soon as she heard her native tongue, the princess fixated on Arman. What he said almost didn’t matter. Just hearing it lent him an air of familiarity and safety she was desperate for. In Iandran she asked, “Those men. Who are they? What’s going on?”

“The authorities will handle this. Please, go get your things.”

The princess hesitated, still distracted by the bodies. She slowly nodded and left the room, holding her head. Arman recognized the signs of a hangover.

Brass cocked his head. “Well, you would have been useful when I was trying to make conversation.”

As soon as the princess was out of the room, Arman glared daggers at Brass, who looked offended.

“What?”

“You took a foreign dignitary’s daughter to a sex hotel, got her drunk, and then killed two people in front of her!”

“I didn’t do it in front of her. I think. She was just sort of there once it was over. I’m fine by the way, thank you for asking.”

A mouse-like voice interrupted them, this time speaking in Corsan. “Hello? Is someone there?”

Another woman walked into the room wearing a dazed expression and a shirt too large to be hers while clutching a blanket around her.

“Her staffer too?”

“That wasn’t my call. She wouldn’t leave her side.”

The woman peered past them and shrieked. “Are those . . .?”

“I’m with the city watch,” Arman interrupted. “You and the princess are leaving. Go get your things.”

The woman seemed a little confused, and shaken, but she quickly nodded and walked away in a hurry. The sound of her and the princess talking in panicked whispers filtered in from the next room. Arman dragged his hand over his face.

“This is a mess, Brass.”

“I think I’ve made worse.”

“That doesn’t make this okay!”

Sooner or later, security would arrive. Then it would be the watch’s turn, and all this would get back to the castellan, who would expect answers. Arman figured he might as well get them while he was there.

“Who were these guys?” Arman asked.

“I don’t know,” Brass said. “Forgot to introduce themselves before they started stabbing. Killers today: no manners.”

Arman ignored Brass, crouching down to look at the bodies. It would be a few minutes before the princess and her attaché would be ready to leave, and he was curious. They were men used to lean living, by the look of them. Dressed for a fight.

On a hunch, he removed the bracer off one to get a look at his forearm. As expected, there was a tattoo. It was a pair of crossed pikes, circled and entwined by chains.

“Freelancers. Not a company I recognize though.”

A cross between mercenaries and treasure hunters, freelancers roamed the world, braving its dangers for a chance at fortune and glory. They almost always worked in groups, and more often than not, those groups dissolved or got killed long before they ever made anything of themselves. And now two more had learned just how common that fate was.

Arman stood up. “Looks like you pissed someone off enough for them to hire glintchasers over it.”

“Not particularly good ones either,” Brass lamented. “I think I’m insulted.”

Another man walked into the room. He was tall, easily a head above Arman and Brass, with gray skin and pointed ears—but no tusks—and human eyes. A half-orc. He had his thumbs hooked in his belt and a questioning scowl. Arman recognized security when he saw it.

The princess and her attendant emerged from the other room, fully clothed.

“I hope you get this sorted out,” Arman offered to Brass. “I’m gonna go.”

“What? Just like that, you’re gonna leave me?” Brass asked. “Someone wants me dead, and I don’t know who. It’s a big mystery. That’s like, your thing.”

“No.”

“C’mon. We haven’t seen each other in years. Help me out with this,” Brass pleaded. “It’ll be just like old times.”

“That is the problem,” Arman said. “I don’t do this anymore, Brass.”

“Oh, come on. You got something better to do?”

“Yes. It’s called an actual life,” Arman said. “I have a family, Brass.”

“So, what? I’m just supposed to figure this out on my own?”

“Yes,” Arman stressed, before softening. “I’m sorry.”

Arman motioned for the princess and her attendant to follow him. The half-orc moved to stand in his way.

“I’m working for the castellan to get these women home safely,” Arman said. “It’s really not worth the trouble trying to get in the way of that. Besides, I just got here. You want to know what’s going on, talk to him.”

Brass stared at Arman, jaw slack. He mouthed the words “You bastard.” Arman ignored him. The half-orc thought it over and stepped out of Arman’s way.

“Thank you.” Arman let the princess and her attendant go first so he could say good-bye to Brass. “Good luck. With whatever this is.”

“Phoenix, you’re an asshole,” Brass retorted as the half-orc eyed him down.

Arman just shrugged and walked out the door.

“I hope your kid’s first word is cunt!”

4

The Castellan

The carriage ride across town was a quiet one. The princess and her attendant said nothing and avoided eye contact with Arman. He was a man of deep brown complexion, with near black hair and a closely shorn, slightly ragged beard. He was modestly built, but his eyes and mouth easily settled into a frown, as if it was the expression his face was the most comfortable making.

Even still, the women stole glances at him, and Arman recognized the look in their eyes. It was a very particular breed of trust, the kind people only gave when they were scared and needed someone to latch on to. After what they’d seen this morning, that look didn’t surprise Arman.

In lieu of conversation, Arman watched the city go by on the cart ride. It wasn’t just the Pale. Most of Olwin was foreign to him now. The streets were more crowded. Distinct fashion trends stood out against each other as natives and immigrants rubbed shoulders with one another. Even without the differences in clothing, it was easy to tell the natives from the newcomers. Locals couldn’t stop staring at new arrivals, but the foreigners were just trying to keep their heads down.

When Arman and the women arrived at the castellan’s keep, things grew loud as guards hounded them with questions. They then were swept in through the gates in a hurry once the guards realized who Diane was, lest anyone on the streets recognize the princess and swarm the keep. A member of the guard ran to get the castellan while a member of the city watch Arman knew came to escort the princess.

“Kaitlyn?”

“Arman! I heard Elizabeth talked you into leaving the house,” Kaitlyn said. A relieved smile spread across her face as she looked the princess over. “Thanks for helping out with this.”

“I owed Harbin a favor,” Arman said. He realized that probably wasn’t an appropriate response, then amended, “I mean, you’re welcome.”

Kaitlyn ordered a few men to break off and escort the princess away, and Arman noticed new livery of crossed swords decorating Kaitlyn’s left arm instead of the single sword she’d had the last time he saw her. She’d gotten a promotion. He smiled but thought better of saying anything. No need to hold her up while she had a job to do.

“Her Corsan’s a little choppy,” Arman warned her. “Probably best to find someone who speaks Iandran.”

“Right,” she said hesitantly. “No one in the watch speaks Iandran.”

“Oh.”

Without a solution to offer her, Arman opted to give a curt, apologetic nod and take his leave before anyone could ask for his help. The castellan would be expecting a debrief from him.

When Arman got to the castellan’s office, he did his best to give Harbin a quick summary of things. He explained how he found Brass, where they were; mentioned the men who attacked. The castellan took it about as well as could be expected.

Harbin was about fifteen years Arman’s senior, and he’d been the king’s man in Olwin since before Arman had ever set foot in the city. His hairline was receding, and he was putting on weight, but he still went out of his way to maintain a neat shave and a clean presentation. He was never a particularly reserved man, especially when he was getting bad news. Right now, his round face was bright red.

“The Lilac?”

“Afraid so.”

“Of fucking course they were there,” he muttered. “I’ll have a cleric give them a once-over before we get them back to the university. Last thing I need is a foreign princess with a social disease.”

Arman agreed. “Probably a good call.”

“I’ll get someone out to the Pale to look into those men as well, but there’s not gonna be much to find. Always manage to clean things up before we get out there,” Harbin mused.

“Brass can probably handle himself, if it’s just gonna be more trouble than it’s worth.”

“I don’t give a glint about him. He can die in a pit, and I’ll toast to the day he does. I care that someone thinks they can put a hit on a man in my city.” Harbin considered what he’d just said and amended. “Ah, sorry. I know he was your friend.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Arman said. “Brass is Brass.”

“Of all the places he could have turned up,” Harbin grunted. He was still fuming but decided that was enough anger to expend on this. He had to save some energy for whatever else the day had in store for him. “Well. Brought you in to do a job, and you did it.”

Harbin started shifting through his keys, but Arman held up a hand. “I don’t need money, Harbin. This was just a favor.”

Harbin stopped just as he seemed to find the right key. “Right. Guess you wouldn’t then. Well, I’ll walk you out.”

The two of them walked through the keep’s halls toward the exit. The place had started its life as a fort, guarding a smattering of houses, and had been built up, one brick and beam at a time. Very little had actually been torn down in all that time. Just repurposed. The walls were left as a monument to the building’s history, changing subtly in color or composition from one hall to the next.

Along the way, they passed the training yard, where a few squads were going through crossbow drills.

“Archers are looking good,” Arman noted.

“They know what the Lady’ll do to them if she comes back from leave and thinks they slipped up,” Harbin replied with a smirk. “How many more favors do I have from you?”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure this last one made us even.”

“Well, suppose I paid you for this one like it were a job and called in the favor for something else?”

Arman stopped. “You know, if I wanted to work for the watch, I would have asked for a job.”

“It’s not just a normal job.”

“No.”

“You haven’t even heard it.”

“Don’t need to.”

Arman resumed walking toward the exit, a bit quicker now. Harbin matched his pace.

“A week ago, we got word of an explosion going off in the Crest Ward. Blew a hole in a townhouse and set two other places on fire. Brigades did fuck all to put it out. They had to get a cleric to make it rain.”

Briefly, Arman wondered which church Harbin had called, but he decided it wasn’t worth asking. Instead he asked, “Why me?”

“That townhouse that went up? It’s still smoldering.”

Arman unconsciously slowed his pace. “A week later?”

“We figure it’s arcane, but that’s all any of my people can make of it. I’ve got a lot of good people. Good heads on their shoulders. But they know fuck all about magic.”

“The king could send a mage,” Arman reminded.

“Sent for one. They’re months out,” Harbin dismissed. “Meanwhile, whatever son of a bitch did it is still loose, in my city. Or maybe he died in the blast. I don’t know, because no one I’ve got can tell me what the hell’s happened.”

“And you think I can?”

“Who else?”

They came to another stop at the door that would lead outside to the gates. Arman did his best to keep a neutral expression while he mentally sifted through theories. Could have been arcane. Could be chemical. There was always demonism, but in practice, that was almost never the answer. He wouldn’t know for sure without getting a better look.

That had to have been exactly what Harbin was banking on.

“I’ll think it over.”

5

Elizabeth

While Arman technically lived on Olwin’s lands, he didn’t live in the city proper. As the great bread basket of the kingdom, the countryside surrounding the city was filled with countless farms and the occasional homestead. Akers was one such place. A collection of about two dozen squat houses and sheds with a single inn thrown in to welcome travelers, give people a place to talk, and let locals get out of the house without making the trip all the way into the city. It was a quiet place where people tended not to poke into each other’s business without good reason. Arman liked that the most about it.

It was still afternoon when Arman made it back from the keep. Most of the people in Akers were still working on their farms, but there were a few people who spotted Arman and waved or said hello. Quiet didn’t mean deserted. But he’d learned that living completely alone was unhealthy, even for him.

The whole of Akers occupied the slope of a large hill, with Arman’s house near the top. It was certainly one of the bigger buildings of the bunch, only really matched by the inn, but it still wasn’t much. It technically had two stories, but the second story was only half the size of the first. It certainly didn’t look worth the fortune that had been sunk into it.

Arman got to the door. Instead of keys, he just grabbed the handle and waited. After a second, he heard the locks click, and he went inside.

The savory smell of fresh-baked bread wrapped around him as he shut the door behind him. A smile broke out on his face. Elizabeth was home.

He found her seated at her desk in their shared study, croissant in hand, another on a plate, book propped in front of her. She was a petite woman but with a toned physique. Her chestnut hair was tied back and out of her way. She kept saying she needed to just cut it.

Arman greeted her. “Those smell good.”

“They are good,” Elizabeth confirmed, smiling but not looking up from her book. “And they are mine.”

“Really? Even this one?” Arman reached for the plate, only for Elizabeth to pull it out of reach, still without looking.

“Even that one. I didn’t put nuts in these, which means they are not for you.”

Arman feigned a hurt expression. Elizabeth didn’t notice.

“You said you didn’t know when you’d be back and to not wait up. So, I made food for me,” Elizabeth said. “If you are hungry, you may feed yourself.”

She finally looked up from her book at him, and her rosy cheeks brightened as she smiled. Arman felt like a set of weights fell off him. She ran her hand across his face, pulled him close, and gave him a peck on the cheek.

“Welcome home.”

“How’s Robyn?” Arman asked.

“Sleeping. Finally.” Elizabeth sighed. She shot him a sly look. “Looking forward to her father making up for all of the shifts he’s missed.”

Arman laughed. There was no real sense of dread. He liked taking care of Robyn. Mostly. Cleaning up after her was a hell all its own, but the chest naps more than made up for it.

“Sorry I missed so many.”

“It’s fine.”

Elizabeth gave Arman a comforting pat. “How did the search for Brass pan out?”

“Found him and the missing princess,” Arman said. “It wasn’t that hard, but I get why the watch couldn’t find him. I only knew where to look because I know him.”

“How is he?”

Arman was surprised by the question. “Well, he hasn’t changed at all. So there’s that. Still dresses like he sprinted through a closet and threw on whatever he got snagged on.”

“Does he still make those herbs you can burn to cure hangovers?”

“Why? Are you planning on getting drunk soon?”

“Unfortunately not,” Elizabeth said, smirking. “But being prepared never hurt anyone.”

“Who told you that?” Arman asked, already knowing the answer.

Elizabeth shrugged as her smirk only grew bigger. “Some bookworm glintchaser from the coast.”

Arman rolled his eyes, but the smile didn’t leave his face. He wrapped his arms around Elizabeth, and she grabbed his arm with a free hand.

“How did Harbin take it?”

“Well, when he found out where they’d been, he was . . . thoroughly perturbed,” Arman said. “But he didn’t put a warrant out for Brass’s arrest, at least. I think he was just glad to have the whole thing sorted. He was happy with my turnaround.”

“He wasn’t pulling double duty with a baby waiting for you to get back.”

Arman cocked his head. “You said you were fine with me going.”

“I was,” Elizabeth said, patting his arm. “Really, I’m glad you took it. You needed it.”

“Why did I need it?”

“You just did.”

Arman sighed, accepting this. It actually got him thinking again, about Harbin’s other job. The explosion in the Crest Ward. The fire that was still smoldering. Just remembering it racked his brain with questions.

“Well then, what if I took another one?”

“Hmm?”

“What if . . . I took another job from Harbin?”

Elizabeth very gently but very deliberately lifted Arman’s arms off of her and turned her chair so she was facing him. Arman instantly suspected he’d done something wrong but couldn’t read her face well enough to know for sure. Either she was intrigued or she was upset.

“What kind of job?” she asked.

That was encouragement enough to keep talking, even if he still couldn’t quite get a read on her, so Arman recounted all the details that Harbin had given him, plus a bit of conjecture on his part. He got so caught up in it, he forgot to ask Elizabeth whether or not she was upset with him for bringing it up in the first place. When he finished, he realized he’d paced to the other side of the room without even noticing. Nervous energy raced along his nerves, fresh from thinking out a problem in a dozen directions at once. It surprised him. He could have sworn he’d felt tired a second ago.

Finally remembering his initial worry, he tried to read Elizabeth’s face. She wasn’t overtly frowning or glaring. He wasn’t entirely sure though, until she asked him a question.

“What do you think happened?”

“I’m honestly not sure,” Arman said. “Off the top of my head, there are too many possibilities. I’d have to get an actual look at everything, run it through detection and identification, see what comes up. And even then—” She was smiling at him. “What?”

Her smile wasn’t big, but it was unmistakable, and now Arman was uncertain all over again. But this time, he knew he’d done something right. He just wasn’t sure what.

“Nothing,” Elizabeth said. “You’ve just got your thinking look on your face. It’s kind of adorable.”

Arman took the compliment, and it took him a second to remember what they were actually talking about. “So. What do you think?”

Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, folding her hands. Her thumb traced across her fingers a couple times before she answered.

“I think . . . I haven’t seen you this curious about something in a long time,” she said. “And I think Harbin wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t need you.”

“So I should do it?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I know you want to.”

Almost reflexively, Arman started to deny it and apologize, but Elizabeth stopped him.

“It’s okay.” Her voice carried a softness with it that instantly quieted him. All the energy he’d been feeling settled down at once, and suddenly she was the only thing in the world.

Arman hadn’t even understood that he’d been asking for permission more than advice, but Elizabeth had. Of course she had. He missed and misinterpreted signals from people all the time. But Elizabeth heard every breath, watched every movement of the eyes, and seemed to read it all perfectly.

“What about Robyn?” he asked.

“We’ll be okay,” she assured him. “You help Harbin sort that mess out.”

An infant’s cry broke the comfortable silence between the two, and a look of pity crossed Elizabeth’s face as she pointed Arman down the hall.

“After you sort out that.”

6

A Deal

The half-orc was stronger than he looked, and considering what he looked like, that was saying something. Brass had tried to get up twice since being sat down in an office and told to wait. Both times the half-orc sat him back down with arms like worked stone. Brass decided not to press his luck with a third attempt.

The door to the office opened, and in came a person of androgynous features, short-cropped blond hair, and shrewd gray eyes. Their clothes looked like they were expensive at one point in time and were clearly not being worn to impress anyone: simple in style, muted in color, but expertly tailored and made with imported material. As a side effect of his lifestyle, Brass was prone to forgetting a lot of faces. But never this one, and as soon as he realized who it was, his eyes lit up, and he forgot all about the mess he’d made

“Vera? Are you running the Lilac now?”

Vera’s lips pressed into a thin line, and their eyes narrowed as they slowly sat down across from Brass. “For the last five years.”

For the second time that day, Brass was struck with the realization of just how long it had been since he’d seen most of his friends. It felt like just yesterday that Vera was an escort landing a new gig in the fancy hotel they’d once been kicked out of.

Where did the time go?

That aside, there was a concerning edge to Vera’s voice, and Brass quickly realized this was not going to be a simple, happy reunion. Still, he knew Vera. He could salvage this.

“That’s great! Really, congratulations. If anybody could take over this place, it would be you.”

“Brass.”

“Hm?”

“Shut up.”

“Oh.”

Vera rubbed their temples while Brass checked on the half-orc again, just to see if he’d maybe wandered and created an opening. He hadn’t.

“Do you have any idea how big of a mess you’ve made?”

“Well—”

Vera held up a finger. “No. This is the part where you listen.”

The half-orc standing next to Brass tightened his grip on his shoulder to emphasize the point, but it was overkill. Brass knew better than to go against Vera. The list of people on Vera’s bad side who were still alive was a short one. Then again, it had been a few years. It could be blank by now.

“You killed two people in my hotel, scared my staff half to death over it, and if the blood and bodies weren’t enough, you brought the watch. They’re poking around, asking questions, and throwing around words like ‘interference of justice.’ The amount of glint I’m going to lose over this is obscene.”

“How much can you lose dealing with the watch?” Brass asked.

“After bribes, favors, and cleanup?” Vera looked Brass over, confirming a suspicion of theirs. “More than you can afford.”

“I feel offended.”

“Don’t play at dignity,” Vera scolded. “You haven’t been flush in years.”

“Well,” Brass tried to think of the best way to downplay the fact that Vera was right. “I mean, we all go through rough patches. But glintchasing’s got glint right there in the name. Give me a few months, I can get you what you lost on this little incident and then some.”

“Just a few months?” Vera asked, a mocking edge in their words.

“Two at the most,” Brass said. He racked his brain to figure out how he was supposed to actually pull that off. “You know, there’s a shipping group in Sasel that’s got a piracy problem. I can catch a boat that way, clean things up, and be back with the reward money before tax season.”

“You’re going to pay me back with a castellan’s bounty? That a half dozen companies are probably already chasing?”

“Well, when you put it like that, I can see the flaws in the idea, but the principle’s not a bad one,” Brass defended. “I can find a gig somewhere and make what you need in no time.”

“But not now?”

Brass glanced around for a possible escape route. The half-orc loomed behind him, perfectly positioned between Brass and both the window and the door. “No, not right now. But I promise you, let me go, and you’ll get your money.”

Vera leaned over the table, at once shocked and impressed that Brass would admit that he couldn’t pay them back. Their jaw was slack, even as the corners of their mouth curled upward.

“Brass. When, in all my life, have I taken promises as payment?”

“Once, right now? For an old friend?”

Vera blinked, stared, and then finally laughed so hard, their eyes started to tear up. “Avelina spare your heart, I forgot how much I liked you.”

Brass felt a wave of relief. Still got it.

“Kratz?” They turned their attention to the half-orc. “Don’t kill him. Just break a few bones and take an arm. Maybe dump him at a church if you’re not too tired afterward. Leave the face alone though.”

Brass’s smile dropped. “Pardon?”

“What can I say?” Vera shrugged. “I liked you more when you had money.”

Kratz lifted Brass out of his chair and began dragging him out of the room. Brass dug his heels in to pull back but only succeeded in scuffing the carpet as he was dragged out.

“Vera. Can’t we talk about this?”

“Nobody’s going to hire a glintchaser without a company, Brass.”

Kratz reached the threshold of the office door, and Brass braced his legs against the doorframe to try and hold the half-orc back. It was undignified, but it bought him a few seconds while the hulk of a man debated whether or not to just break Brass’s legs now.

“What if he was willing to work for free?” Brass asked.

That managed to catch Vera’s attention, if only because it confused them. They snapped their fingers, and the half-orc stopped trying to drag Brass out. After a nod from Vera, Kratz released Brass but still stood, ready to grab the glintchaser if he tried anything.

“What?” Vera asked.

“I’m not going to pretend you’re not right. It’s hard to find good work as a solo act,” Brass admitted. “But you know me. You know what I’m good at and how good I am at it. There has got to be some problem that you have that you know I could fix. Whatever it is, I can take care of it, free of charge. That’s the services of the best of the best, immense market value, for the low, low price of not having Tall, Gray, and Handsome rip off my limbs.”

“The best of the best?”

“You have another way to describe the Starbreakers?”

“I’ve heard a few choice ways over the years,” Vera said. “And you’re not the Starbreakers. You’re not even my favorite out of the five.”

“I can . . . Wait.” Brass paused. “Which one of us was your favorite?”

“The cleric.”

“Church?”

Vera shrugged. “He’s cute and he doesn’t cause trouble. Unlike someone I know.”

Brass waved a hand dismissively. As much as he wanted to object, he had more pressing concerns. Like not getting his limbs broken. “Fine, I’m one-fifth of the best. The point is, if I am good for nothing else, I am good for two things. A good time and getting you out of a jam.”

Vera considered Brass, who answered with a knowing look. That look. Like he knew exactly what they wanted and knew he could deliver it.

They shook their head. Brass was trouble. Maybe even more now that he didn’t have a company keeping him in check. But dammit if he couldn’t sell himself.

“Well. Now that you mention it, there is one other pain in my ass that you might be able to deal with.”

Brass eagerly took his seat again. “Tell me all about it.”

7

The Investigation

The Crest Ward was where idle money lived in Olwin. The people who called it home were well-off merchants, forgotten scions of old houses, and particularly fortunate retirees. They had plenty of money but not much interest in doing anything with it other than living comfortably and ensuring they wouldn’t have to cross paths with any wayward newcomers from the north.

The homes were all well-made; uniquely commissioned and constructed. Most had multiple floors, with the tallest building being the local church, which came in at a full four stories. Fences were common here, but to Arman’s eyes they seemed more decorative than practical.

It wouldn’t have been hard to find the town house even without directions given to him by Harbin. All he had to do was follow the smell of smoke.

When he got to the street corner, he found more or less the scene he’d expected. There was a space between two houses that was little more than a smoldering pile of ash and rubble encased in the charred remains of a wooden frame. Edges of wood here and there still glowed an angry orange. It looked like it had been on fire less than an hour ago.

A few members of the watch were waiting at the wreckage, stationed to make sure nobody touched the place who wasn’t supposed to. It was their best attempt at preserving evidence they couldn’t move.

Some of the watch shifted uncomfortably as Arman approached. He wasn’t carrying any sort of weapon, but he was wearing a set of reinforced dark leathers, and walking armored in the city carried enough implication of trouble on its own.

“It’s all right, he’s with us.”

The watch visibly relaxed as Kaitlyn trotted over. Most of the watch were used to dealing with thieves, drunks, and the occasional murderer. Dealing with magic had them on edge.

“Harbin told me you might be coming,” Kaitlyn said.

Arman hadn’t said yes to the job until this morning. He didn’t know whether or not to be offended that Harbin had just assumed he’d say yes.

Kaitlyn gestured to the ruins. “Welcome to . . . this. Haven’t really touched anything in there. Whole place is like an oven.”

Arman nodded. He’d come prepared for that.

Without looking, Arman traced a quick pattern across the arcane glyphs that were etched into his armor’s bracer. The glyphs lit up in response to his touch, creating a trail of light in sync with the path of his fingers until he finished the sequence, and the enchantment woven into his armor responded. The stitching and seams began to glow sky blue, and Arman felt a refreshing, cool sensation radiate from it. Instantly the heat became more bearable.

“What was that?” Kaitlyn asked.

“Fire resistance enchantment.”

“Ah. Don’t suppose you’ve got more of them?”

“Just the one suit.”

“Well.” Kaitlyn looked around as if trying to spot some way for her or her team to be useful. “We’ll make sure nobody gets in your way then. Hope you can figure this one out.”

“Right.”

There was still some smoke curling off of the ruins in places as he carefully stepped through the remains of a door frame. It wasn’t enough to be a real issue, but he still didn’t want to breathe it in if he didn’t have to. He fished into a pouch on his belt, producing a breather he’d packed from the drawer full of them in his basement. It was a small metal cylinder with a mouthpiece attached to the side that used extra-dimensional pockets of gas to let him breathe normally when that might otherwise be a problem. He’d made his first ones to explore a shipwreck ages ago. These days he mostly used them as an alternative to properly ventilating his workshop.

Breather in his mouth, Arman set to work. He counted three bodies half buried in the charred remains of the house. Judging from bone structure, he made out one male and two females. Scraps of armor hung around the male’s arms. A warped metal circlet had fused to the skull of one of the women. The other woman’s skull had horns protruding from it. A hellborn.

Between the unnaturally persistent fire and the hellborn, Arman came up with his first theory to test. He reached into one of the pouches on his belt and pulled out a golden rod etched with a pattern of thorny vines and open eyes. At over a foot long, it had no business being able to fit in the fist-sized pouch on his belt, but that was the wonder of enchanted pocket space.

The device was an old find, pulled from the tomb of a defunct order of knights dedicated to hunting demons. When activated, it emitted a glow that turned blood red in the presence of demons or their handiwork.

Arman grabbed the rod in two hands and twisted until it clicked. Slowly, the rod began to give off a soft glow, but its color remained white.

It’s never demons, Arman mused, putting the rod away.

Eliminating demonism left divinity or arcana. So, Arman pulled down his goggles over his head and tapped the side of the lenses. The world became bathed in orange, and Arman looked around for anything glowing white.

Nothing did, which meant divine influence was out.

He tapped the lenses again, changing everything from orange to blue. And suddenly the wreckage around him lit up. His clothes and armor were all glowing bright white under the filter, and the remains of the town house also gave off a faint white glow.

We have a winner.

Beyond the magic residue the fire had left behind, Arman caught sight of another, much brighter glowing shape in the floor of the house with the unmistakable outline of a trapdoor.

Still looking directly at where they’d revealed the location of the trapdoor, Arman switched the goggles off and saw only a pile of ash and burnt wood. Buried. He immediately started sifting through the rubble, feeling the heat even through his enchanted gloves. Hot cinders and soot kicked up and into his face as he excavated, stinging his skin.

Standing a safe distance from the smoke and heat but still keeping an eye on things, Kaitlyn raised an eyebrow. “Got something?” she asked.

Arman briefly took the rebreather out of his mouth to speak. After breathing clean air from it for so long, the air of the wreckage tasted especially acrid.

“Trapdoor. Basement maybe.”

He finished clearing the debris to reveal a simple metal trapdoor with a ring handle. He tugged, but the door didn’t budge. For a second he thought it was locked. Then he remembered he’d been able to see it with his goggles.

Arman had over a dozen enchantments prepared, some to protect him, some to provide him information, and all of them handcrafted and woven into the armor by him. There was no set like it in all of Corsar, maybe in all the world. And that was because there was no one else in Corsar who knew how to enchant armor.

He traced a new pattern on his bracer, triggering its identification spell. A wizard might spend weeks learning to cast a spell from memory. Arman built it into his glove and then let it do the work when he needed it. The differences were lost on most people, even ones like Kaitlyn, who had seen him and other mages in action. To them, magic was magic. As long as hands were waved and glowing lights appeared, Arman was as much a mage as someone from the Academy.

Strands of light extended from the fingertips of Arman’s gloves, tracing across the trapdoor in a grid pattern and occasionally glowing even brighter as they passed over the anchor points of the door’s magic. When the identification spell finished its work, the strands vanished, and glowing text written in Arcania materialized in the air front of him, telling him everything it had learned. There was an arcane seal placed on the trapdoor, identical to the one Arman had on his house. At the touch of the right person, the seal would suspend itself and allow the door to be opened. To anyone else, it was almost impossible to budge.