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MISSING, PRESUMED UNDEAD




Jeremy Davies


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A DF Books NERDs Release

Copyright ©2005 by Jeremy Davies

First published by DDP, January 2005



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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment. 

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All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in Canada by Double Dragon eBooks, a division of Double Dragon Publishing Inc. of Markham Ontario, Canada.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from Double Dragon Publishing Inc.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by:

Double Dragon eBooks

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Markham, Ontario L3P 7Y4 CANADA

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Layout and Cover Illustration by Deron Douglas

Edited by Chere Gruver

ISBN: 1-55404-214-3






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I'm sick of it! I'm sick of all the garbage I've seen written about Frank! His life. His death. How he got his start in the business. I'm as sick as a five-day dead kobold in the gutter. I'm so sick of it, I've decided to tell you all what it was really like, ‘cuz I was there, and as the years have shuffled past like so many punks on the way to the rack on stretching day, I've had plenty of time to think about Frank and the good ol’ days.

Not that all the days were good, mind you, as you're gonna see, and not that they seem that ol’ either. If I think hard enough, they're just like yesterdays, every one of ‘em. And if I think a bit harder, I can once again hear his footsteps on those cranky wooden stairs and I can smell the morning's first pot of Hurghian coffee like a happy slap up the side of the snout.

This is for you, Frankie.

I miss you, you son of a ghun.

Rhys

Somewhere. Sometime.




Friends are just enemies you don't know enough about. 

Old City proverb.




Chapter One: Necroview

Interviewing murder victims ain't all it's cracked up to be. For one thing, they're very distracted and surprisingly uninterested in vengeance—most of the time. They're much more interested in stuff like telling you what the afterlife's really like and making sure someone's fed their cat. For another thing, three priests gotta be there and their whole purpose for being there is to stop the murder victim from revealing anything about the afterlife. Article Five, paragraph four, subsection seven “a” of the Citied Council Necromantic-Watch Investigative Charter reads:

And if said shade shall begin to reveal secrets of the hereafter duly appointed officers of the faiths present find possibly disharmonious to their congregations and/or the general211 population, then said necroview shall be immediately terminated and all words struck212 from the written record, not to be seen by naked213 eye. Further summoning of this shade is not permissible.

Priests have a vested interest in making sure the rest of us saps are kept guessing about the afterlife. Hey, I got no beef with ‘em. If we all wised up, they'd be out of a well paid, respectable crust with no heavy lifting, heaps of holidays and the odd sacrificial virgin.

There are plenty of worse jobs in the City. So there we were, cramped into The Necroview Room of Watchhouse One to listen to Master Lender Adrian Skrew, recently chopped to pieces on the streets of Hightown, the MAD lieutenant and his batman, the necromancer and his cape, the three priests, Frank and me. The Ursors’ Guild wanted Frank there ‘cuz, just like everyone else, they had about as much faith in the Magicrime Analysis Division of the City Watch as I do limbs. And wherever Frank was, I was tucked in his belt, his faithful magic ... blade. So we both got to hear what the first victim of the Hightown Hacker had to say, straight from the cadaver's mouth.

"Has someone fed Tinkles?” Skrew's shade hovered above his mangled body. It was black, even through the shimmering gray Manah cloud only the necromancer and I could see—him being a trained magiprofessional, me being innately magical and downright swell. I could see Skrew's eyes, but the rest of him was lost in the mother of all shadows. Now, I'm not implying nothin’ about ursors, like their souls are black and they're all damned to the foulest pit in the lowest plane of hell (I'm sure the hells are sick to death of the mean bastards), but that's how all shades look. Dark, shadowy, mysterious. The necromancers do it on purpose.

I hate necromancers.

"Tinkles is fine, Mr Skrew. Tinkles is well cared for, I just need to ask you...” Lieutenant Reginald Hoggwash loosened the tie around his fat neck and bit his fat lip. He was out of his depth, and that's flat, but in true MAD style, he wasn't letting it stop him. He was wading right in with concrete boots.

"It's just that if he doesn't get his afternoon mackerel, by jinkees, he gets moody. Only last week..."

"We're on to that, Mr Skrew, now..."

"It's amazing the things you see here, the things you feel.” Skrew's shade shivered and shook and tore down the middle for the blink of an eye, then pulled back together. “I've gone beyond the borders...” The Friar from the Order of the Worship of the Ecclesiastical Three Toed Fish, the Bishop from the Order of the Fifth and Only Righteous Path to Complete and Utter Salvation (Third On The Right—You Can't Miss It) and the Imahm from the Order of the Light Behind the Softly Erotic Curtain all shifted nervously in their seats. The duly appointed officers of the faiths looked ready to pull the pin. The slightest specific reference to the afterlife, and that would be that.

"Who killed you?” Frank asked. When he needed it, he could summon some power in his voice though, for the most part, he was the most softly spoken bull minotaur you'd ever meet. The dank air in The Necroview Room went stale and everybody stopped breathing. It was a pathos moment, and the necromancer, a City elf named Sadly Sadly Saunders, smiled. They love that sort of crap.

Skrew's shade wriggled, like he was smoke in a breeze, and Sadly almost lost him. I saw the flash of Manah he burned to pull the guy back together. It was thick dark blue with a jet of crimson through it. Hard edged. Powerful stuff. Sadly knew his dope.

"I can ... mmggmgmg mggmmmghhhmm ... you know ... mmmghgmmmgh."

"Can't you ... you turn him up? I can't hear a word he's saying.” Hoggwash's bright red face was sweating like a bruised fig on a barbecue plate.

"This is not some seaside children's attraction, Lieutenant,” Sadly shot back. He flicked back his blow-waved blonde hair. “The ways of necromancy are plotted far beyond the ken of mortal ... ken."

"Spare me the lecture, stiffie stool, just ... ah, I dunno. Skrew! Who damn well killed you and speak the hell up!"

"Hell?” The word echoed around the room and I almost choked on the pathos. Skrew's shade spun around like a miniature tornado and Sadly almost lost him for good. He dug deep and managed to weave a holding pattern around the escaping Manah, but it wasn't gonna last. The voice was more muffled and distant. “I cannot tell you the mmmgghh mmmmghgg mm mm mmmmmghhh. It was mmmgh mgh mmun mmennnnmmmb."

"What did he say?” Hoggwash squealed, his notebook ready. “Was that ‘one leg'?"

"I though he said ‘wrong head',” the Friar offered, scratching his bald spot.

"No, it was definitely ‘bun red',” said the Bishop with great passion. “An obvious reference to the holy crimson bagel.” His face beamed with righteous zeal, kind of like an angry boil ready to bust.

"No! No!” the Imahm shouted. “He said ‘done bed', a section of a passage from the Holey Wholly Holy Book of Ribald Wisdom that refers to the post-lovemaking commandments of the Apostle Big George where He clearly states that..."

"Article Five! Article Five!” The Friar shouted. “I declare this summoning at an end under Article Five!” The Friar was pissed he hadn't thought of trying to fit the mumbled words into some sort of religious jib. In a flash, Skrew was gone, back to whichever hell that housed him, and Sadly was packing his tools into a black attaché case. The three duly appointed officers of the faiths left the room squabbling and bickering like a tribe of goblins at a fresh scrap heap.

Hoggwash looked happy with himself. He straightened his crumpled gray suit, made from the cheapest Daktarrian wool (and already starting to pill), and motioned to his batman, Kris. Kris was a little punk, half fey and always trying to make out like he was some sort of wise elvish scribe instead of a jumped-up City Watch go-fer. That's the trouble with the half fey, or, if you prefer, half elves. The only thing City elves have going for ‘em is a certain style, a kind of refined panache, but I never met a half fey that got one slimy drop of it. The human genes just soak it up and spit out a sad-case wannabe punk The fey find human women as easy as peeling a cob of corn. Since human women are suckers for corn blonde hair, a set of bright blue eyes and tight archer's buns, there's plenty of half fey in the City, don't worry.

"Well, Kris, I think we can put out an APB on a one legged man with a Hightown token last night.” He smiled like he'd just killed a dragon and had his foot planted on its forehead for a magisnap.

"Ummm ... an A, P, what?” Kris scratched his armpit. Very un-fey.

"You know, an APB.” Hoggwash sighed and stared up at the ceiling. The guy did a lot of ceiling searches. I think he was the City expert on the inside of roofs. “Why can't you people learn the anagrams? Is that too much to ask? APB is ... um ... it's ... it stands for ... ah ... All ... um ... All People Betray ... ment. All People Betrayment. OK?” Kris looked back at him with a face so blank, you could have painted one on it.

"Don't worry, I'll sort it out myself.” Hoggwash seemed to notice Frank for the first time and he grimaced a too-much-Hurghian-curry grimace. “And what are you looking at, Mynos? I don't know why you're even here. MAD has this case fully in hand.” All three of his chins wobbled with indignation. “I'll talk to Captain Rhubarb about private citizens attending official Watch necroviews when I go upstairs, you have my word on that."

"I am here by the request of my client, the Ursors’ Guild, with the full knowledge of your Captain, Lieutenant, and I'm sure if MAD has this case fully in hand, it's a case desperately in need of less handling.” Frank tipped the tip of his fedora. For a bull minotaur, he was short at around six feet two inches, which is where he got the ‘Stubby’ tag, but he was at least a head taller than the MAD lieutenant. His horns were short and uneven. The right pointed up and the left skewed down and the matching ear drooped in sympathy. He wore specs over his dark brown eyes that were worth some guilders. Oval lenses, steel rimmed and custom made on the south coast of the Hurghian Sultanate. He wore a neat brown suit, nothing fancy, with a brown fedora hat and the browns matched his fur.

Hoggwash stormed out, trying to figure out whether he'd been insulted. Kris followed in his shadow like a well trained poodle.

We were left alone in the Necroview Room and it was suddenly very quiet, with a certain whiff of spook. It didn't bother Frank. He pulled out his thick magnifying glass and leant over what was left of the ursor's body for a closer look. Whoever this Hightown Hacker was, he'd done a number on Skrew. The guy looked like he belonged in a casserole.

What are you seein', Frank? I mindsaid. It was easier in public, and more personal in private.

"Wounds consistent with a heavy cutting instrument, a blade about eight fingers wide, probably a one handed axe-like weapon wielded by an offender of extreme strength in a frenzy of rage. Angle of cuts change only three times, consistent with a single offender attacking from the front to the chest and head, forearms used as shield, then cuts to the back after victim collapsed.” He paused and poked and sniffed. Alone in the room, his muttered words echoed like a priest at an altar. “On closer examination, several cuts to the lower ribs indicate two offenders.” He paused again, still looking through the glass. “Or one offender using two weapons, one in each hand.” He took a step back and mused.

"OK, Rhys, I believe we have a case to pursue."

OK, Frank. We lookin’ for a one legged man? 

"No, Rhys, as far as that goes, the good Lieutenant should rely more on real police work than magical gimmickry. The case I'm referring to is that of Mz Ashley Ash."

But, Frank... 

It was no use arguing. I could tell by the set to his snout and the twitch in his droopy ear. But just ‘cuz it was no use, didn't mean I wasn't gonna try.




Chapter Two: The Office

Anyway, it didn't start there. No, the whole deal started with a dame walking into the office the day before, a dame dressed in rubber and lookin’ out of place.

Frank's joint was on the third story of a building that used to be a cheese factory—you never quite got used to the smell, you just learned to live with it. (Sharing the acute nose of a minotaur could be a real drag). It was cheap though. Five guilders a month on Stripside Lowtown, corner of Lincoln and Blood Basin Streets, a part of the City where street vendors paid three times that a week for a patch of cobblestones you couldn't put four boots in. The saga barons that own the rights to the Franklin ‘Stubby’ Mynos name have a pretty tourist attraction there now for all the Frank fans who've been sucked in on the myth. For ten guilders a piece, you get a guided tour of a bunch of carefully constructed lies and a ‘gift shoppe’ that'll rob the teeth from your grandmother's grave. Leave it out and save yourself some grief.

The real building was empty, apart from Frank's office and the attic in the north top corner. The office was about big enough to swing three cats in. Furnishings were tight back then. There was an empty filing cabinet Frank never used, but clients expected to see one, so it was there. There was a chair with threads hangin’ off it. There was a rough greenwood table with a wedge of paper under one leg, and on it was a magifone (still in its shrink wrap), a rolled up Kronikle, a pot of coffee, a bowl of unshelled peanuts, a few papers, some half empty ball-point quills, and me, sitting beside three unopened bills.

The magifone was my idea. I made Frank buy one while he was flush from the Zagynese Gryphon deal. I told him it would bring in business. Everyone in the City was getting ‘em. I mean, why waste shoe leather when you could dial a few symbols and be talking through the magilink? Of course, Frank still hadn't gotten around to gettin’ the thing hooked up.

Below the hole in the door where the glass should've been there was a sign.

Franklin “Stubby” Mynos

Executive Investigations & Cryptographic Analysis. 

Cheap Rates 

"Cheap Rates” was my idea. Frank was no good with guilders. As far as finances go, he would've been lost without me. I'm Rhys (or Rysovynn-thael+ if you want the full cabana) and as intelligent blades go, I'm pretty small. But don't let that fool you—good things come in small scabbards. I'm made from the purest star-geld, the metal of choice of all Master Enchanter sword makers, and yes, I was made by a Master fairy sorcerer thousands of years ago, none other than Istaghass Yhore, thank you very much. (Kraal the Peerless of the Barren Lands swore by him—apparently—just before that unfortunate incident with his Two Handed Sword of Exploding and Rather Unexpected Death ... The trouble was that as a poker player, Master Yhore made a great Enchanter, if you know what I mean. After a bad night about five and a half eons ago, he ended up owing this Dwarfish Lord a ‘magical blade'. (By the way, NEVER play poker with dwarves. It's in capital letters for a reason, people.) So Yhore made him a three inch long letter opener in an Augheryne broadsword pattern with full sentience—all five senses and fully self powered. I spent the next five centuries at the bottom of a dwarfish laundry basket.

If I ever meet the old enchanter again, I'm gonna cut out his eyes.

So Frank relied on me for my commercial skills more than anything. If I wasn't around, the bull would've been out in the gutters of a Westside slum in no time, pickin’ through garbage for food to eat and old newspapers to read.

Maybe he would've been better off.

We were getting work at the time. Since the Gryphon case, people had been knockin’ on our door for all sorts of baloney, like missing pets (little dogs and dragonnes mostly) or suspicious neighbours or suspicious wives or worried parents of the-young-kid-from-the-country-come-to-make-their-fortune-in-the-City-and-disappeared sort of deals. Frank was always a sucker for a sob story. There was nothing I could do about it, but I sure as hell made him chase up payment from those I reckoned could afford it. Like I said to him, we weren't no charity case. Then he'd explain what a double negative was and I'd tell him to stick one of his horns where the bulldust goes.

So even though we were getting work, we weren't exactly rolling in swine-skin guilders. There were bills on the table and some of ‘em looked mean. Frank stuck me in one and cut it open. (Yeah, just ‘cuz I'm magic doesn't mean I can't open letters). It was the Masons’ Guild, a gold crested Registered Body with a tallhouse office in Hightown.

Let me tell you here, City Registered Bodies come in four ranks, graded by the Office of the Body Politic Registry according to their "commerical, social and cultural value and influence throughout the City". There are those with the Gold Crest—the crème de le crème, the Silver Star—the crème, the Bronze Pin—the crème de le crud and finally, the slush—the crud. But, to be a Guildsman of a slush Body like, say, the Shoe Polishers’ Guild, is still better than being a non-Guilded drone, the poor saps with no affiliation. They're the crud de le crud. If you kill a Guildsman, it's murder, but if you kill a drone, it's only a crime if you leave the body in the street. It's called Grievous Bodily Litter and it's a fourth grade misdemeanour. You'll get a fine and a slap on the wrist.

But even a slap on the wrist can be serious depending on who the bailiff is...

The Masons wanted the one hundred eighty guilders Frank owed for the hole they fixed in the back wall of his office. Deathbolts ain't good for graystone. They wanted their one hundred eighty swine and they wanted it last fortnight, or action would be taken and a notice of a Third Grade Severe Credit Anxiety Alert would be sent to the Credit Solutions Company, which could...

.... further impede any credit based business dealings for yourself in the future, as you would be dead. 

Please don't call if there are any further problems as we don't give a toss.

With Sincere Malice,

Master Mason Mithrift Pincherson (the Third) 

"Hmmmmmmmm,” Frank ‘hmm'ed.

I could tell he wasn't thinkin’ about the debt.

Frank, if you would've got a few guilders off that Mr. Tenderloins like I told you, we woulda had the swine to pay the Masons. The Credit Solutions Company are heavy, bucko, heavy with a capital H right through your cranium. I hear they hired this ogre from the Mountains of Creeping Unease that's bigger than the side of a... 

"Hey, Rhys, did you know if I take the words ‘imminent demise’ and the phrase ‘soon to be terminated’ and translate them into Middle Fraktarian, remove the third consonant from each word and then reverse the spelling and translate it all into partially-limited hieroglyphs, the non-literal meaning of the resulting phrase is “I've got..."

Then the dame came through the door, see. Now I'd like to say she was a stunner, with a high cut dress and wobbly bits that would send your eyes around the bend and over the fence, but she wasn't, and the de ja vue would've probably killed us both. No, this dame was no Dorothy. Her name was Thurl and she was all thurl. She looked like she was made from planks of wood and she was dressed, like I said before, in rubber.

"...a torn hoodwink giblet."

"Mr Mynos?” She spoke quietly, like she was in a library.

"You can call me Frank. Can I help you?"

"Yes, I am Mistress Embalmer Thurl Whatasque and we, the Guild that is...” she cut herself off and looked around the office, thinking and perhaps rethinking, “...we require your services."

Ching ching! Guild work! Money in the bank! Swine in the hand! Happy days! No CSC troll kicking your ass until it bleeds guilders. 

"I'm listening. Take a seat."

"No thank you, I'll stand.” You could smell the embalming fluids on her over the building's background odor. It was dense, chemical and in your nose like a troll. “This morning, one of our valued clients went missing and we need to find her.” She stopped and waited.

"OK, what was her name and where was she last seen?” Frank pushed his specs higher up his snout and meshed his fingers together on the table.

"Well, her name was Ashley Ash and she was last seen lying on slab C in Room Three of our Hightown Guildhall ... Mr. Mynos, shouldn't you be taking notes?"

Frank smiled. “I don't forget things easily, Mz Whatasque."

"I see, well, yes, where was I?"

"Slab C in Room Three of our Hightown Guildhall..."

"Ah yes, in Hightown. A preliminary fluid evacuation had been performed and she was awaiting the twelve tick stage organ flush."

"So, I am to understand she was dead?"

"Oh yes, we wouldn't perform an organ flush on a living body, Mr Mynos."

"So ... somebody has stolen a dead body from your Guildhouse."

"Yes,” she sniffed and looked through the window across the Lowtown skyline. The sun was starting to pitch down toward the northern hills. The chill would soon follow. “As you can imagine, the Guild is very embarrassed and would prefer not to involve the rather ... indiscreet ministrations of the City Watch."

Discretion! I mindcalled out to Frank. Discretion's worth an extra two hundred swine at least!

"I see.” Frank scratched behind his droopy ear, which was a relief—it'd been drivin’ me orkan! The nature of my sentience is bound up intrinsically with my host, see, which means my experience of the marvelous world around me comes directly through the chump I'm attuned to. Although I can use a few little magical type tricks to improve on ‘the meat’ if necessary.

"Is this a job you are willing to take on, Mr Mynos?"

Yes, Frankie! For the love of Whiplash, the god of Indiscriminate Stopping, yes! 

"What can you tell me about the late Mz Ashley Ash?"

Why are you still asking questions, Frank? C'mon, take the money and run. 

Thurl looked Frank right in the creamy browns and furrowed her brow like five fresh acres of crop land. “How will that help you find the body? I mean, I don't see..."

"With all due respect, Mz Whatasque, I don't tell you how to do an organ flush now, do I?"

She pursed her lips. “Point taken, Mr Mynos. The fact is, we aren't usually too curious about the background of our clientele. As long as they're dead, it's usually enough. I do know that in life she was some sort of company clerk. Maybe Mr Chant knows more about her ... personal details. He is the Master at the Hightown Embalmers’ Guildhall from where the body was taken."

Don't forget to get a retainer off her, Frank. 

"I see, well, I think I could look into this matter for you, if I could just have some details down here and I'll need a letter of commission from the Guild, as well as access to the Guildhouse in question.” Frank pulled out his standard work agreement and offered it across the desk.

"What is your affiliation, Mr Mynos?” Thurl asked while she filled in the particulars.

Ahhhhhh... 

Frank rocked back in his chair and licked his bottom lip before continuing. It wasn't an easy question to answer. “Well, I'm an associate member of the ... ah ... South-Central Lowtown Faction..."

He'd been a member for a year, but hadn't paid the dues.

"...and I have a registration application before the Body Politic Registry, which I am sure will be resolved shortly..."

The partially completed forms and related application devices were under a pile of receipts and used tissues in the corner of the room with three coffee rings and a curry stain on the front cover.

"...but anyway, get your details down and I'll put all my immediate endeavors into finding your missing ... client."

And the retainer, Frank? 

"Ah yes, there will also be an amount required of you, or should I say your Guild, that is, in lieu of expenses and deductible from the total cost in the eventuation that I..."

"Do you require a retainer, Mr Mynos?"




Chapter Three: The Body Politic

The Hightown bells rang out the time, crisp and sharp and bronzy, the five gongs for Fishbeat Tock. Frank once told me the name came from the simple fisher-folk, who settled where the City now stood to ply the waters for dark fin. At that time of day, the boys would pull in the shore nets as quickly as possible with the slowest boy being beaten for his troubles. There hasn't been a fish sighted in Dark Fin Bay for over five hundred years and the only thing you can catch in it now is a serious skin disease that'll rot the nose right off your face, but some traditions die hard. Boys are still regularly beaten around the clock.

By the time we saw the bony rear end of Thurl, the Mistress Embalmer, her smell had moved in for the week and we were looking at a crested Guild-note for the sum of five hundred guilders.

But, Frank, you can't cash that anywhere ‘cept a Bank, and to do that, you need an account, which you can't get unless you're affiliated. You're gonna have to climb back in bed with the South-Central Lowtowners, ‘cuz that registration application is gonna take years to go through the system, even after you manage to get down to the Registry and actually put the thing in. 

Frank was a rarity in the City. I mean everyone hates the Guilds, the Factions, the Unions, the Parties, the Companies, the Houses, the Orders—all the Registered Bodies that do their best to make life a living hell and maybe bring you closer to the eternal rest that goes beyond it, but instead of just throwing up his arms and saying “yeah, well, what-ya-gonna-do” and then exploiting every little angle he could find to make his own life a little easier at the expense of every other punk, Frank tried to remove himself from it. I mean, he was so passionate in his dislike for the Bodies’ Politic, he was cold to it. He didn't want a piece of the action.

"I don't think South-Central would have me back after what I said, and anyway, I wouldn't walk in there to save my life. I'll have to find that application and get on it.” He searched through the mess on the floor—broken crockery—half eaten pie crusts—it was amazing how a mind that could think a sparrow out of the sky at five hundred paces could miss the side of a barn at arm's reach.

Frank, Frank, it's under your receipt ... mound. Listen, the registration process for a new Body can take years, Frank, YEARS! They'll want to interview you and see business plans and make commercial assessments. We can't wait that long for the money. Can't you just hook up... 

"No, Rhys, I can't, and don't shout when your mind speaking. It gives me a headache."

He was a stubborn son of a ghun, but I gotta admit it, I loved that bull minotaur—in a blokey, hey-did-you-see-that-pit-fight kind of way. I can be a little jaded at times, I'll admit it, even downright bottom of the cesspool cynical. It was nice to have a light beside you when you switched on the dark. It was nice to be with Frank.

Anyway, we had a date at the Hightown Embalmers’ Guildhall, but Frank wanted to fit in a Registry visit first. He dashed through the application paperwork, straightened his suit and tie, pushed the fedora down between his horns and took the staircase, creak after cranky creak, down to the street level door. Stripside Lowtown (meaning that part of Lowtown between the Strip and Pentacle Promenade), on a Helmsday afternoon is still getting over the night before. People say this particular slice of the City is the most intrinsically ‘City’ district you'll find, and maybe they're right. It's the image most people have in their minds when somebody says ‘City'. There ain't no trees, or shrubs, or even a single pitiful blade of grass to look at—locally quarried graystone, rough bricks and worn-to-the-bone cobbles make up this particular jungle. And what ain't any of those three things is slowly turning into one of ‘em. Lowtowners themselves have a particular kind of walk, a sort of half crouch with their head tilted down, but their eyes up and wary. You don't catch a Lowtowner off guard. They got ‘wary’ by the steel capped bootful.

Frank hailed a wyvern cab cutting down Lincoln. For the thousandth time, I marveled at the look of unbridled malice the bridled wyvern shot us as it pulled up on a twit. Even with its teeth and claws plucked and acid glands drained, they look like mean sons of bitches. But they're quick and steady on two legs and they respond well to training in the right environment (the kind of environment where they get flogged to near death every third turn of the glass). The whole City would grind to a halt without wyvern cabs. They're cheaper than magicars, more reliable than the subway pellets and very, very rarely attack their patrons.

The wyvern crouched down until the steps to the passenger compartment touched the sidewalk and Frank climbed up and in. It might seem fantastic to a non-Citysider, but this is everyday; climbing onto a wyvern is like doing up your boots. The compartments are strapped and fused into the wyvern's back, which looks kinda precarious, but it's actually very secure. They never come off, even after the beast has packed it in.

"The Strip, thanks, driver,” Frank said through the thin hole in the security wall. “The Body Politic office."

The driver waved a hand and gripped the controls, lurching the wyvern up and breaking him into a smooth trot. He took it easy, so it didn't even scream.

The City Strip is probably the most well known strip of land in all the known realms. It's a tourist Mecca and joint among joints. Made up of Main Street and the Boulevard, which run parallel along the Lowtown side of the Hightown Bulwark, the Strip is the closest to the sparkling tallhouses of the crested Guilds that most people get. It's also a real hive of activity, if by ‘hive’ you mean ‘a dangerous amount’ and by ‘activity’ you mean ‘nasty shit'. We passed bright magilights, which were glowing their lurid colours, even though the suns were still fighting their way through the tainted air. There's always a smoggy blur around the Strip. We saw a horse coach load of tourists looking out through plate glass, heading for the Welcome Nugget Casino, Bar and Grille, where the games are so crooked, you wouldn't be able to straighten them with a thunder god's hammer. The poor saps might as well just throw their guilders through the door and run. It'd be safer and less cruel.

Our driver slowed down for the intersecting streets where the traffic can get three shades close to murderous. Right of way goes to the bigger beanstalk on most City streets. The Citied Council had tried to install traffic crystals along the Boulevard a few years back—like the ones they have in Hightown—with red for stop, green for go and yellow for ‘floor it!', but the crystals were worth fifty guilders apiece and didn't last the week. The posts are still there with three empty eyes for the birds to nest in.

But we had a different ham to bone that day. Frank shed the cab on the north side of the Boulevard and offered a tip by throwing a small, dry bone to the wyvern. It ate it without losing a half-twit of its grudge against life, the world and everything in it. It gave Frank a look like it would've happily sucked his liver out of his navel, and screeched back out into the traffic.

The Boulevard was running smooth for a Helmsday afternoon. The wyvern cabs and horses dodged nervously around floating magicars with their sparkling paint and rounded chrome edges. The magicar Manah trails were a dense and pungent sky blue—the product of a complicated maginological reaction involving a liquefied substance known as Manahvyne and four separate air golems. To me, it didn't seem the things were even off the ground, it was more like they were just floating on a lush patch of sky. Magicars are as expensive as death (OK, death is cheap. Hasn't anyone told you metaphors don't hold up to close scrutiny? Give me a break!) so only the high rollers got ‘em—the punks that've come down from Hightown for the club life, the gambling, the cheap liquor, the vice of every description (and even some that defy any description).

The Strip's got it all. All wrapped up in a garish rainbow of magilights, sweat and thinly veiled violence. And we all know what veils are made for.

Frank looked up the steps of the Lowtown Office of the Body Politic Registry—We Rank the World— and only just managed to dodge the goblin coming through the air at a speed and trajectory only decent sized full-blood ogres could manage.

"...and stay da fhark# out!” one such ogre explained.

Frank paused. Two decent sized full-blood ogres should be enough to give anyone pause—anyone with any sort of attachment to their life. The goblin, who apparently had no such attachment, ran a small way down the pavement, turned, and reined down a string of insults and curses that would've had a fishman docker red in the gills. Maybe he thought he was safe.

Maybe he shouldn't have thought so much.

"Please peruse our lit-ra-cha before you call again.” One of the ogres reached down beside the door and pulled out a stone bound book the size of a small pony. The goblin's face changed from a dark ‘indignant’ emerald green to a pale ‘pathetic’ snot green in the time its takes to snuff out a candle with your fingers. He didn't have time to run.

They say in their natural habitat, ogres survive chiefly not though their fearsome appearance or their prestigious strength or even their gruesome breath or body odor, but through the accurate dispersion of heavy objects in a deliberate and organized manner to procure their victuals. In other words, don't piss off an ogre, even at a distance, if said ogre is anywhere near a handy, heavy object. You're likely to soon be wearing it as a terminally uncomfortable headpiece.

The goblin took the Office of the Body Politic Registry Explanatory Notes and Introduction—Book 1 of 12—clean between the shoulder blades. The Cleaners’ Guild would lodge a complaint. Goblins make a terrible stain.

"Great shot, Aarrrg. Dat's a two, at least.” Ogres can rarely count past two, so they have a very binary way of looking at numbering. They know one when they see it, and just assume anything higher is two.

Frank shrugged and gave his specs a push up his snout. He climbed the stairs.

"Can we be of service?” Aarrrg asked cheerfully. Aarrrg and Oorrrg were ogris brothers who would do anything for guilders, as long as it involved unthinking violence of some sort. They wore studded loincloths and the facial expressions of dead river cods. Two six foot long exaggerated axes, with blades wide enough for a halfling to dance the foxtrot on, sat propped up against the door. They rarely needed them. Both of them towered over Frank, who took their hostility in his usual stride. Minotaurs and ogres have this natural I'm-bigger-and-meaner-than-you sort of racial rivalry deal going on all over the City, and all the Realms for that matter. Frank, of course, didn't buy into it.

"I need to see a clerk of the Registry."

"Do you have an apoined-mint?"

"No, but I have ... paperwork.” Frank waved the paperwork under their noses like a flag. His nostrils flared just a little, though I'm sure he wouldn't have admitted it.

Aarrrg looked at his brother and they nodded to each other. “Dis way.” Aarrrg ushered Frank through the door. Just inside was a pile of stone bound books, every one of them with ‘Explanatory Notes and Introduction—Book 1 of 12—’ on the spine in neat, soulless lettering.

"Why do you only have book one?” Frank asked.

Aarrrg tried to think about the question. Why was this bull asking this question? What was the answer? Should I hit ‘im? My ass is itchy, should I scratch it? These are the sorts of things that probably ran through the empty corridors of his ogris mind.

"We only ever need da one,” he finally answered. “Still haven't missed."

It was swell to see technical corporate writing finally put to good use, I must admit. Frank followed the ogre down the main thoroughfare of the Registry, which was a wide, stone corridor that echoed every step back at you with interest. The joint had six stories and we were going to the top. The doors to the elementavator swooshed open.

Now there was no reason for me to get nervous in an elementavator. I mean, even if the air golem under the little cube of stone and wood decided to go orkan and drop everything to pursue a hot looking gust of wind, I'd be alright. I'm made of star-geld and there's only two known ways of destroying the stuff. To be dropped into the fiery depths of the Volcanic Cup of the Great Crag of Serious Trouble, or to be dipped in some mysterious substance called ‘kokah kole-ah'. Why flesh and bone creatures risked their lives in such death-defying contraptions of maginology is way beyond the likes of me. Are stairs so bad?

The air golem groaned and shuddered, sounds which Frank and the ogre tried to ignore, but it stayed bonded to its post. Almost all the new whizzbang gadgets on the cutting edge of maginology use an air golem somewhere, from the highly compressed ghun bullets to the Subway Vacuum Dynamo, and the poor punks pay. Golems have a certain level of ‘life’ wizards and ethicists everywhere find convenient to ignore. They need to get themselves a decent Union.

The doors opened with a little ‘ding’ sound and the ogre lumbered out first and pointed Frank down to the end of the corridor. The corridor was lined with old paintings and a few fresh magisnaps, mostly of old, tired looking rich punks in expensive suits. The carpet was lush and crimson, thick enough to lose your wallet in, and the high arched windows looked out over the Boulevard with an uncanny air of disapproval. Frank walked along the length of the corridor into the Registry Room in a silence broken only by the ponderous ticking of a huge Ogre Barrel clock.

"Can I help you?” came a disinterested voice from a high, high table. It was a kobold, of course. Those little blue buggers love paperwork, red tape (or any other coloured tape, as long as it causes problems), committee procedure, and doing heaps of work to get fharking nowhere. After you've dealt with kobolds for a while, you want to strangle them on sight.

"Yes,” said Frank in his most officious voice. “I have application forms and devices here for the registration of a new Body..."

"Is that the S-nine, the B-four, the Q-seventeen-A and the green coloured PP-twenty-two with the gold border and five ball rotating cup device?” The clerk lifted his eyebrows in that way that kind of says ‘you're probably as useless as a burnt bratwurst'.

I hate that.

"Um, well, yes, except the PP-twenty-two seems to have a purple border..."

"Ah, that will be the older form, before BPCC Circular one triple seven twenty-eight twenty-eight a slash seven slash kh slash ninety xxz. I'm sure you will understand you must leave here and renew all your paperwork, as well as filling in three more subsidiary forms you will find..."

That was enough for me. I slipped out of Frank's belt and plunged myself through the little bugger's foot.

"ARRRRRRRGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Aarrrg waved and smiled from the end of the corridor.

"I'm sorry, I seem to have dropped my letter opener,” Frank said. He made a grab for me, but I jumped back out and dived into the kobold's other foot. Their skin may be blue, but I can tell you, their blood's just as red as yours.

Telekinesis? Pah! To me, it's more like standing up out of an easy chair. There's not that much Manah involved in something as simple as stabbing a pair of feet, so try not to be too impressed. You gotta save something for the big finale.

"Now, you give us a square deal and accept the paperwork and process it pronto,” I hissed, “or the next thing I pierce will be something like a little blue sausage for a party platter."

The clerk decided to process the paperwork as soon as possible and he'd be in touch with an interview slot ... oh ... um ... ouch ... yeah, it looked like a week, no next Simsday is free, how about half past ticktock?

No one wants a pierced sausage, whether it's a little blue wiener or a bloody great black pudding.

Now, coincidence is a funny thing. Frank had more than his fair share of coincidences in his lifetime, let me tell you, and I've developed a theory on it. I think coincidences are out there all the time, milling about like a bunch of gnats. Most people can't see ‘em or ain't lookin’ hard enough, but Frank was always lookin'. He had an eye for the gnats. He had an eye for damn well everything and coincidences used to swarm around him, like he was some sort of ... well something very attractive to gnats, whatever the hell that might be. Hey, I'm a magic sword, but I don't know fharking everything, give me a break!

"Why was the funeral cancelled?” Frank asked.

"Huh?"

Frank pointed at the notice board behind the kobold, who was desperately holding his feet to stem the blood flow. In ‘Department News’ there was a fresh looking note saying:

REGISTRY FUNERAL CANCELLED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. AFTERPEX MUST NOW BE WORKED.

Signed,

Wissdyn Boyle,

Third Chief Undersecretary to the Head Registrar

No wonder everyone was in such a bitch of a mood.

The clerk flinched and looked over his shoulder. “Um, I got no idea.” It's funny how a few foot piercings can take the air out of an over-inflated City kobolocrat. It's like they leek more than blood. “Um ... but I'm sure it will be re-scheduled. I mean, Mistress Ash was highly valued by Master Boyle and Master Tightfish and is sorely missed..."

Bingo. There were gnats everywhere, I'm sure of it.

"Is that Ashley Ash?” Frank's eyes sharpened.

The kobold flinched back into his seat and grabbed his groin protectively. “Yes,” he squealed.

"Tell me more about Ashley Ash."

"Well ... I...” I was watching the little punk, so I saw him reaching for the lever just below the desktop. It was hooked up to a line that ran to a magipager, which was, no doubt, connected up to the ogre's loincloth or something. I cut the line and let the punk sweat. After more stammering, he braved a quick wave to Aarrrg, who still stood at the end of the corridor. Aarrrg smiled and waved back, again.

Ogres are about as stupid as eight hundred pounds of corded muscle can get, which is why they really don't make great guard material. They look mean, and don't get me wrong, they ARE mean hulking lumps that can bend a knight in shining armour into a giraffe shape better than any clown with a long balloon, they're just too dumb. Well, I don't know if it's that, I think it's more they're just easy to confuse. I mean, the whole idea of civilization confuses the hell out of ‘em for a start. In the wilds of the Five Finger Hills, they know who to thump and eat—anyone who ain't them. But you drop ‘em in the City and say “only thump people that do this and that and the other,” and they just can't handle it. They don't know who to thump, when or where. They got no problem with how, and why is never a question.

I slipped my way up the clerk's pants and nestled in amongst the cabbage patch. He got the picture. Hey, it was dirty work but someone had to do it.

"AshleyAshwasfounddrownedintheSoupthreedaysago—theythinkshejustfellinafteroverworkingherself—shewasanUndersecretarytotheHeadRegistrar—andconsideredapersonalfriendbybothhimand—theChiefUndersecretarynowcanyoupleaseget—outofmypants."

I thought he did well to get the capital letters in.

Frank digested the information quickly. “An Undersecretary to the Head Registrar. That's big."

The kobold was frozen to the seat.

Frank patted the poor little sap on the shoulder. “Thank you, you've been most helpful, and I should get those wounds looked at if I were you. You don't want to get an infection."

Frank braved the ogre filled elementavator again and we managed to get back out on the street without wearing any lit-ra-cha.

So this Ash dame was a big wig at the Registry. Why wouldn't the Embalmers tell you that? 

"Yes, it seems ‘company clerk’ was somewhat of an understatement. Maybe the Embalmers didn't know. There was certainly nothing in the Kronikle about her death, which means there must have been a hush up. What we've got to work out here is motive, Rhys. Motive. Why would somebody steal a dead body?"

That's a good question, Frank. Hey, you hear about that sick punk by the name of ‘Dead’ Willy Spankit who used to get off by... 

"I think we can rule out necrophillia..."

Two elves walking past frowned in a fey manner at Frank.

"Well, we should rule it out, don't you think? It's a sick, perverse deviance."

Try to keep your voice down, Frank. You'll get us arrested before we get to Hightown. 




Chapter Four: Hightown

Frank walked down the south side of the Boulevard in the shadow of the Bulwark, which is thick and menacing enough for most people, let alone the wall itself. It doesn't just block out the sun, it repels it. Prince Cimilus Pratt had the Bulwark erected to keep ‘the riff raff out’ back when the Pratt House ruled the City and the City was called Prattholding. It's about sixty foot high and six feet thick with magical brick-o-last augmentation. The magi did it for free, for the advertising space on the wall. As it says:

PROUDLY HELD TOGETHER THROUGH

BRICK-O-LAST.

MAGIC BRICK BONDING THAT WON'T LET YOUR COOKIE CRUMBLE

234 Main Street, ask for Brett.

And tell ‘em the Bulwark sent you.

So because by City Charter anyone even touching the Bulwark is under immediate sentence of death (quick or painful depending on the mood and imagination of the Judge-Magistarr), the wizard inventor of brick-o-last has never been able to update the sign. He called all of his children Brett, even the girls, and the tradition has stuck to this day. If you get a job working for him, you have to change your name to Brett, just in case.

But if you tell ‘em the Bulwark sent you, they're liable to punch you in the eye. Truly. I've seen it happen.

After a five tock walk down the Boulevard, dodging the casino rats in cheap Daktarrian tuxedos and fur lined barbarians with more guilders than brain cells, Frank made it to the Hightown Entry Pavilion, which squatted against the Bulwark like a dangerous spider. The Pavilion covers the ground around the gate and looks like ordinary black canvas, but it ain't. It has a faint, smoky Manah trace to it, and the two ordinary looking, black porto-rooms underneath radiate more Manah trace than I care to stare at for too long. They can slap a low level Mind Rinse on punks walking down the street five blocks away, let alone once they're under the Pavilion. Let ‘em try to pry open Frank's brain! Nothing was getting in there unless he wanted it to; he was certified unRinsable. But the two trarks that checked him out once his turn came didn't know that. Their ugly snouts sniffed the air for the slightest whiff of wrongdoing.

Trarks are not a natural race. They're a magical hybrid created to guard Hightown and patrol its streets and, particularly, its Bulwark. The Pratts created them with the help of several Guilds, most of them magical, but some of them organic. They combined human, pit bull, lizard, dragon and ogre samples and created trarks, an intelligent, mean-assed, sharp edged race of muscle men that can change sex at will and lick their own gahoonahs, but I'll leave that alone. Just don't go out with one on a Simsday night, OK?

The trark behind the stone desk looked over Frank's letter of commission from the Embalmers. Then he looked it over again. Then he did it once more. He looked at Frank. He picked up the plain white magifone on the desk and rang the Embalmers’ Guildhall. Got the dope. Then he read the letter, again.

"Thisss all ssseemsss to be in order Msssr Mynosss. Do you have any weaponsss you wishhh to declare?” The trark's beady red eyes bored through Frank. There's something about hybrid races that unnerve the naturals. It's a primal thing, like ... oh ... I don't know. It's like dogs with their feckles or hackles or freckles or whatever. You know what I mean.

"Well, no, I don't use weaponry..."

Without even looking, the trark pointed down at me, tucked away neatly in Frank's belt. Just like me, trarks have the gift of magisight, which means they can see Manah traces without even trying. I've been told I glow a light orange colour with occasional red specs. The trarks’ trace is a dark purple/green, like smoke from burning acid. They are bad-ass punks that have more painful little magical tricks up their studded armour sleeves than you can poke five sticks at.

"Oh, that. That's not a weapon, it's a letter opener.” Frank pulled me out and I tried to lay low. I dropped my Manah profile down to a magiflea's fart.

The trark gave me a solid once over, then a twice and thrice over. These guys are careful with a capital ‘C'. He picked me out of Frank's hand and I felt the rush, I admit it. All sentient blades feel a certain ... thrill when held by powerful beings. It's what attracts us to dumb-ass meatheads that go ‘round chopping people up like bad salads. But I've got a modicum of self-control. I bit my metaphorical lip as hard as I could and tried to think of baked apple pies and puppy dogs and Turnsday morning on the beach with fruit salad and ice cream.

The trark handed me back (thank Chippendale, the god of Tanned Oily Men in Smelly Jockstraps,) and grunted. A token was produced from nowhere. I saw the flash of Manah and realised the token came directly from the trark's hand. The Hightown entry token was actually part of a trark's body! No wonder no two twit punk bothered making fakes. Hightown security was as tight as a City bank manager.

"You have a three day token to conduct your businesss Msssr Mynosss. If you require more time, you will need to report back to me with another letter from a Registered Guild, otherwissse, you will return your token. Or I will come for it.” It was quite obvious that if he had to go to the trouble to fetch a chunk of himself back from you, he'd be removing a few chunks of you to compensate for the inconvenience.

And he'd enjoy it.

"So, who should I ask for?"

The trark smiled. He actually smiled. His teeth were as sharp as fish hooks and yellow, a clean, surgical yellow. “Any of usss will be fine, Msssr Mynosss."

Let's get out of here before he says Mr Mynos again. It's worse than a tropical storm. 

"I'm sssorry, did you sssay sssomething?"

They were more magically amped than I thought! The mindspeak bond between sword and wielder is a very personal, very singular power, and not easy to hack in to. He must've only heard a mumble, but it was enough to freak me out almost as bad as the last time somebody suggested going for a holiday to Happy Heated Haven Lodge on the lip of the Volcanic Cup of the Great Crag of Serious Trouble.

Frank said no and we walked through the unadorned but functional archway, into the most exclusive part of the City—the inner sanctum of Realmic Corporate Being.

City Hightown.

When you enter Hightown, it's immediately obvious it's not like any other part of the City. For a start, the streets are clean, there's no beggars, no thugs, no half naked whores with faces you could plough a corn field in. It's all business. People talk about it like it's some kind of fairy land. They say things like: ‘this party's almost as good as a Hightown do', or ‘I'm as happy as a Hightowner', or ‘Please, it's a family heirloom', but the reality of the situation is Hightown is a boring suckhole of a place. It's all business. The only pits of pleasure are the ones devoted to the business of pleasure, and most of that has a bigger market on the outside of the Bulwark.

All the Guilds with the precious golden crest on their letterheads maintain some form of presence in Hightown. The Big Four—the Bankers’ Guild, the Magi Guild, The Hightown Faction and the Merchants’ Guild—have tallhouse offices in Capi-toll Square. They own the Citied Council. Lord-liege Mayor Takklehurm didn't even break wind unless the Masters of the Big Four had OKed it three weeks in advance in triplicate.

Now I can appreciate the architecture and the obvious displays of the bowel-shaking power of human commercial endeavor, but Hightown ain't my kind of place. And just because it seems respectable, don't think it ain't dangerous. The only difference between a Westside Lower Limits thug and a Hightown banker is the thug will only rob and maybe kill you.

Corporate evil goes way beyond that.

Frank hailed a cab. Wyvern cabs had only recently been phased out in Hightown for a new fleet of magicar cabs provided by Phudd & Blevvins Magifacturing Company. Phudds were a decent piece of magichinery for the price. They weren't a Mage Kraft or a Lexican or a Mercedez, but they were tough and reliable and rarely exploded in hot weather. They looked like a bright yellow brick with slightly rounded tips. One of them screeched in beside Frank as he emerged from the Bulwark gate and popped down on its ground pinions with a heavy thack.

"Well, you gonna stand there gawkin’ like a prize pair of fharkin’ pigeons, or you gonna get the fhark in?” the driver shouted. An elf the size of a healthy buffalo beamed a savage smile at Frank.

"Tony!"

"I can't help bein’ me!"

"Tony! What are you doing here?"

Tony was an elf who had driven the Lowtown and Eastside runs for over three hundred years. He knew those streets like the back of his bow finger. Now most of you all think elves are these elegant, high and bloody mighty chaps that sit around chantin’ and recitin’ poetry and playin’ harps to the inner sound of the cosmos, and if you look at most City elves, that's just what the buggers do. But real elves, elves unsullied by human expectations of ‘em, ain't like that at all. Real elves, out in the boonies, are elegant enough I guess, if your idea of elegant is a drum full of salted snakes.

"What can I say, Stubby! They offer me a Hightown run in a brand new Phudd, so what does a poor workin’ man do? Huh? Huh? He sells out! He sells out! Yeah! So how the fhark are you guys doin'?"

Tony weighed at least three hundred pounds. He had five rolls of stomach, three chins and bright yellow hair, the kind of colour you see on candy canes. He could eat enough to feed a family of five for a week in one sitting, and anyone fool enough to try and out drink the guy, soon found themselves either mistaken or in an alcoholic coma. All around the front seat of his cab there were bottles of booze, most of ‘em empty. He currently held a half empty “Rebel Shout” whisky bottle in his left hand. His classic, pointy elvish ears had gone to cauliflower from pub brawls.

"We're peaches, Tony,” I answered. “How's your place up in Knaves goin'?"

Tony engaged the magicar drive system with a series of deft flicks of the wrist and pulled up and out on the control wheel. The Phudd bobbed into the air, paused for the briefest moment, then shot out onto First Avenue.

"The Elfarossa? It's goin’ from strength to fharkin’ strength, Rhys. You think they'd let me live here, huh? Hah! Tight ass fharkin’ corporate blowhards! They can lick my stones, Rhys-ee, that's what they can do! I'd never move out of the Elfarossa. Building a fifth floor at the moment that's gonna be a pool room and bar. Kicks around in the breeze, but hey, whachyagonnado?” He swigged from the bottle of whiskey. “So where you goin', Stubby?"

"Embalmers’ Guildhall, Tony, corner of..."

"...First and Royal. What? You think just ‘cuz I've only been doin’ this run for six months, you need to be my mother tellin’ me where a joint is? Hah! I had this place sussed in six glasses, Stubby. Six fharkin’ turns of the Greenwitch glass! I've been lookin’ ‘cross the Bay for three hundred years, you think I don't know where a joint is? You ask me anywhere. Anywhere!"

The traffic in Hightown was light. We caught a glimpse of the Hurghian Ambassador, Rajiv Soliv Whativ. He had a golden turban on his head the size of an idol to Big George and was whipping down First Street on a flying couch. Hey, it's more comfortable than a carpet and they recline. There were a few magicars out, but mostly Phudds and Chevrons. I saw one stretch Mercedez with unnatural-black windows take a corner nice and easy. Every now and then, some Hightown gofer would zip past on a hover disc powered by, you guessed it, the none-too-reliable air golem. Tony almost hit one of ‘em and they traded abuse in a professional, conversational way.

Tony pulled up out the front of the Embalmers’ Guildhall with a precise, sudden stop.

"Hey, Stubby, you got my fone string, right?"

Frank nodded.

"Well, give us a ring next time your Knaves way and I'll show you the latest extension, huh? Take my card anyways."

Frank took the card and climbed out while Tony waited for a small enough gap in the light traffic to make a show of it. He'd spent three hundred years battling the road users of the rest of the City, he wasn't gonna change his style. On the back of his Phudd, a sign read:

Driving Complaints? Call #^*#* FHARK YOU! 

The Embalmers’ Guildhall looked like a prison block—clean graystone with no adornment. It was single storied (which I appreciated) and had a plain double wooden door with a bronze knocker on it. Above the door, the sign read:

Hightown Embalming Guildhall

Where Entombing is always Booming

Inside it was cold, dim and vaguely damp. There was no smell, which surprised me. If I had a nose, I would've already been holding it—ready. The reception area was plain and functional. Some dull looking chairs and a U shaped desk with a woman behind it. She was a nice looking piece with dark red hair and painted lips like crushed cherries.

"Can I be of assistance, sir?"

Then I noticed the Manah trace. It was gray and cloudy and pulsing around her like a constant drum beat.

Hey, Frank. There's something not quite right about her. 

"Yes, thank you, I'm Mr Franklin Mynos. I believe I'm expected."

The dame checked her notes. It bugged me. I'd seen this trace before, but I couldn't pin it down.

"Yes. Mr Chant will see you in the lounge. Help yourself to refreshments.” She pointed a finger.

Frank followed the finger through a door into a comfortable, but obviously little used, lounge. There were two plain looking sofas and a table with an urn and some pots, jars and spoons. It looked like the refreshments were in need of some serious refreshment. Frank opened up the coffee pot and sniffed. He came away, grimacing like someone just threw up on his shoes, and sat down on a sofa, unrefreshed.

I've got it! That dame's a... 

"A zombie, yes I know, Rhys."

He could still surprise me back then. Eventually, I got used to it.

How... 

"Her pupils never focused and I couldn't see a carotid pulse. I may not have magisight, Rhys, but I've got a brain."

"Well, that's a relief,” said a voice from behind us. “If I might interrupt, Mr Mynos, I'm Josepp Chant, Master Embalmer.” If you imagine what an embalmer should look like, Josepp Chant was the complete opposite. He was short, chubby, hairy and had a smile on his face that could have swung a club. Three teeth were missing and his forearms were as thick as kobolds. Whole kobolds.

"Josepp ‘the Assassinator' Chant?” Frank was a walking, talking, information booth, let me tell you.

Josepp chuckled. “Not many people remember, but yeah, I did fight in the pits years back, and managed to make a fair roll of guilders out of it and stay alive to boot. As soon as I could, I got myself out of the game and into an honest trade, and here I am.” He smiled a gap-toothed smile. “Come on and I'll show you the scene of the crime. Isn't that what you guys call it?"

Pit fighter to Master Embalmer, huh? He's finally picking up after himself. 

The Assassinator had a forty-two fight career with twenty-seven KO's (Killed Outright), twelve TKO's (Thoroughly Killed Outright), two SKO's (Somewhat Killed Outright), one ELE (Escaped—Later Executed) and no losses, though the fact he was still alive proved that. Not many pit fighters walk away from the business—not with both legs anyway—so Josepp was a big exception.

Frank followed the exception down a flight of stairs into the underground bowels of embalming city. Bowels was the right word. The smell hit us as we crossed the threshold. It was like a punch in the nasal guts.

"City Ordinance requires we have anti-olfaction spells incanted on each door, but I don't see the point. I mean, I don't smell a thing."

Frank just nodded while he tried not to breathe. I cursed his minotaur sensitive snout Master Yhore had empowered me to share.

After what seemed to the untrained nose like a year and a half, Frank made it into Room Three and was shown slab C, the last known resting place of one Ashley Ash.

For some reason, because it was Hightown where the high rollers roll in the big bikkies bowl, you might've expected some sort of plush embalming room with gold edged slabs studded in diamonds and string quartets playing a Herbinstaufen sonata to the babbling waters of a Hurghian fountain.

Instead, we got cement and graystone and bloodstains and dirty clay pots full of I-didn't-want-to-know-what. There were no windows—we were underground. The door we came in was the only point of egress.

"So when did your client go missing, Mr Chant?” Frank's voice echoed in the room.

"It was after lunch. She had the prelim fluid drain when we broke for smoke-oh. She was there, right there on the slab and when we came back, she was gone. Just like that."

I had a fair idea what fluid draining entailed, but I was hoping Frank didn't ask. Chant's face turned grim and the corners of his mouth kind of buckled down. You could still see the Assassinator in him. His hands gripped the edge of the stone slab and the muscles in his arms tensed like crouching armadillos.

"I mean, why? I gotta tell you, Mr. Mynos..."

"Please, just Frank will do."

"I gotta tell you, Frankie, we don't have much security. We don't need it. Who wants to break in to the Embalmers? Huh?"

"How long were you away?"

"Awww, I'd say about half a glass."

"And has any work been done on this table since?"

"Ahh, no. No."

Frank whipped out his thick magnifying glass and had a closer look around the table. There was plenty of fluid stains, stuff I didn't want to wonder about, but Frank went over the lot, giving each a gander and a sniff. Finally, he found one he liked. He gazed into it, like it was gonna run away, then pulled out a cotton bud and wiped it in the stain. He held it up in his nostril and sniffed deeply.

Now that it was concentrated on the cotton bud, I picked up a slight Manah trace. Real slight, like a biscuit dipped in tea. The stuff wasn't itself magical, but it must have been used for a magical purpose at some stage. It must have acted as a conduit for some arcane rite.

Frank turned back to the bemused Embalmer. “How many undead do you employ here, Mr Chant?"

Josepp Chant's face suddenly turned from happy tavern owner whats-your-poison-mate to sullen pit fighter here's-some-poison-mate in the time it takes for an elf to spot an overly romantic human woman in a crowded room. Another flash of the Assassinator ran across his face like a barbarian at a vested virgin barbecue. “It's all perfectly above board. There's nothing wrong with it. We have all the permits and necromantic authorities. You can see them yourself if you want."

Touchy. 

"I'm sure everything's in order, Mr Chant..."

He's got something to hide, Frank, or I'm an apple corer. 

"It certainly is in order. It certainly is. And I don't appreciate the implication that it ain't!” He folded his arms.

"Nobody implied anything, Mr Chant, I simply wanted to know how many undead you employ. That implies nothing insidious."

"Well, no, I suppose not, you just caught me a bit off guard there.” Josepp switched back to his more familiar smile. “Well, we have seven orderlies who act as bearers and three reception staff. They're zombies, the cheapest sort of undead, you know, but we keep ‘em looking ship shape with the preservatives we've got, see. Otherwise, they'd rot to pieces in a matter of weeks. Frighten customers away. You don't have to pay ‘em wages and they're damned hard workers. I'll hear nothing bad by ‘em."

"Interesting. So the Necromancers’ Guild deals in undead temp work? This is a facet of City employment I knew nothing about."

"Well, it's got nothin’ to do with finding my missing stiff, which is what I'm payin’ you for. I want this done quick, Frankie. I've heard good things about you, son, so I know I can trust you to keep your snout shut, hey? This whole deal has caused me a whole heap of grief in the Guild. When I get my hands on whoever's responsible...” Chant fought to keep his composure, finally managing to pull that smile back across his wide, flabby face like he was dragging an anvil. “If you're interested in the undead temps, you'd have to see the Necromancers about it. All I know is we pay five hundred guilders apiece and it's a steal, I can tell you. But it's all aboveboard. And we don't give away our clients. All our clients are accounted for..."

"Except the Ash dame,” I said in Frank's voice. I couldn't resist.

"Yeah, except her, but that's what you're here for. To account for her. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"One more thing, Mr. Chant, do you use tetramain mhordide in the embalming process?"

"No, no, definitely not. That's a mhordide compound only used by magi in their ... arts. We use several other tetramain by-streams, but nothing even close to mhordide strength. That would get us censured, Mr Mynos. Now, I do need to excavate the cranial cavity of the late Mr Wells in Room Two. Such a shame, it seems he was running with scissors and ... well, lets just say he wished he had the guts to do it again. Ha ha ha ha."

We left the gladiator gone to fat with his cheap Queens accent and his even cheaper sense of humor laughing it up in the hallway and returned, with some relief, to the nasally neutral outer world.




Chapter Five: Eldritch

The light was fading and storm clouds were rushing in from the Five Finger Hills framing the eastern horizon out past the block-like shapes of the housing projects in Queens and Kings. They say there's still plenty of gold out in them thar Hills, but there's also plenty of ogres and orks and goblins. Not the City types either. These still haven't had the brush of civilization splashed around them like five-week-old soup. But, hey, the only difference is the old-fashioned types still have clubs instead of sharpened tempered steel. Civilization only makes them better at what they do.

So what do you think of the undead temp angle? Could the Necromancers be thievin’ stiffs to make a quick bucket of swine? 

"I intend to find out,” was Frank's only reply. He hailed down a passing Phudd and climbed inside. “The Necromancers’ Guildhall, thanks, driver."

Ahhh, shoot it all, Frank! I hate the stiffie stools. They're all so up ‘emselves, like they think they're all so fharking great, just because they can fool around with the dead. Like just ‘cuz some punk's dead, they're worth jawin’ with. 

The Necromancers’ Guildhall is near the southern tip of Hightown, a flashy patch of real estate for a shabby crowd, if you're askin’ my opinion. We took First Avenue all the way into the centre of the Corporate precinct until we hit Capi-toll Square just as the street lights sparked up. The Hightown magilamps turn themselves on as the blanket of night unfolds, and they're quite fine lookin’ pieces of magichinery. The only problem is, every now and then, particularly in wet weather, some poor sap gets fried from walking underneath ‘em. The Guilds don't mind. It encourages people to spend money to get around, instead of walking. Anyway, they can't pull ‘em down or the stock price in Mystik Lighting would crash, and several Master Magi are major stock holders in Mystik Lighting Services, Incorporated.

In the City, consumer confidence is a blind, unsure goddess. That's not a metaphor. Her name's Felicity, the goddess of Blind Faith and Consumer Confidence. You can see a statue of her on Fifth Avenue.

The Hightown tallhouses! I gotta admit, Capi-toll Square is an impressive sight with all its lights on like it's Krossmass time all year round, and for the fellas up there, it probably is. The Empire Trade Kore is right beside it, taller, thinner and with a thick sparkling spike they call the Trade Spire. The other buildings, like Mage Centre One and Mercantile Mission Tower, form a tight cluster around ‘em like mean little brothers. You're used to seeing ‘em from far off. From underneath, you'd swear they touched the floor of the gods. Like maybe Credulance, the god of Firm Belief and Unwanted Finance, might occasionally stab his toe on the Trade Spire.

The cabbie dropped us off out front of the Necromancer's building. It was just as I expected. An unnecessarily gothic joint with gargoyles and sharp points and swirly bits that led nowhere.

FWWWOOOOOSSSSHHHHH!

Frank almost jumped out of his fur at the noise, like a thousand and five dragons farting on take off (and yes, they generally do). The torch in the hand of the Statue of Franchise had come alive, a great, heaving, magically powered bonfire. The fireball that had spat out if it was floating safely up through the clouds and out toward the middle of the Bay. Safely, unless you were some unlucky punk in a boat that is.

Frank had told me about the big stone dame's history. She was a gift to the City from the people of Crossontt when we kicked some other joint's butt. Some gift! A hundred foot concrete statue of some dame wearing a crown and holding a bloody great torch up in the air that explodes into life every second sunset and at least once a week, shoots out a fireball that lands somewhere miles away and starts a bloody great fire. I don't get the point. I mean, the City already had a perfectly good lighthouse on South Scene Island, until a fireball burned it down. Frankly, we would've all been happier with a bottle of plonk and a pair of socks.

Up close, she looks mean and determined, in a stony sort of way.

Then the rain dropped out of the sky like the Bay was emptying out on us. Frank leapt up the steps three at a time and rang the bell on the door.

I hate gettin’ wet.

The door opened slowly with a long, drawn out, theatrical creak. A deformed looking head poked out.

"Yyyeeesss?"

Of course. A hunchback. A necromancer's clerk is a good job, don't get me wrong. They get great benefits and a kick ass funeral plan, not to mention the annual staff picnic, which I've been told is a real hoot, but you've got to be a hunchback and if you're not, they arrange it for you.

"I'm Mr Franklin Mynos, representing the Embalmers’ Guild on a certain ... matter. I'd like to speak with the duty necromancer, if I could."

He looked Frank up and down. “You're wet,” he said, and stared him in the face.

"Yes,” I responded. “It's fharkin’ raining, you dimwit!"

"I think you both ... better come innnsssiiide."

And, of course, the joint was decked out in shag pile red carpet with mysterious books bound in imitation flayed virgin skin lining the walls and little twisted statues designed to put your mind at unease. Behind the reception desk, made of hundreds of fake skulls joined together, a giant, gnarly, overly ornate and unnecessarily melodramatic sign read:

Plunging the Depths of Death.

Seeking the Secrets of Life.

Purveying the Ultimate Mysteries of Existence ... and Beyond!

Join our séance club now! Pensioner Discount!

Ask a question of a dead relative during Morbid Glass and get two for the price of one!

(no rainchecks)

"Please ... be seated and I will fetch ... the maaassster."

Those poor bloody clerks not only get their backs bent, but they gotta talk like they've got three screws loose and their uncle's name is Lucy. I feel sorry for ‘em, but then again, after five tocks alone with one, all you want to do is poke out an eye.

Naturally, Frank went straight to a bookcase. It was the usual Necromantic fare. 103 Ways To Flay Virgins, So You're Dead—What Next?, How To Conjure Up Your Family Tree In Three Easy Nights, A Necromancer's Guide to the High Unlife, Frobes Magazine's The Dead List. Frank picked out a copy of the Undead Eunuch by Germayne Smear. Apparently, it's the book for the undead who feel they have been the victim of oppression and want to renew their expectations of a fulfilling unlife.

I think it's a bunch of crap.

The inside cover had an inscription:

To my dearest Vlad. Suck the marrow out of life and keep up the impaling. 

G. Smear 

"Ah yes, Germaine. She's a mummy, you know.” The duty necromancer approached Frank with the souls of his feet floating just above the carpet, instead of walking (what a goose!). He was tall and thin, dressed in voluminous black robes with a neat crimson edge, and I'm sure he had makeup under his eyes to make them look more shadowed and eldritch. Fharking Necromancers—always with the eldritch. If they could distill and bottle eldritch, there'd be stiffie stools in every gutter. “Mummies are the superlative form of the undead. The most resilient. The most immortal. The most ravishing...” The turkey seemed to notice us for the first time. “Ahhhhhh, allow me to introduce myself..."

"No,” Frank said, “allow me. You are Master Mancer Ahrkanion Hotsun the third. You are left-handed, though you eat with your right, you enjoy light opera and smoke the occasional Hurghian cigar. Last Simsday, you saw a prostitute named Melissa, who charged you twenty guilders and your dog is a beagle named Champ."

Frank liked to show off every now and then. You should've seen the stuck-up geezer's face. All the eldritch dropped out of it like shit from a flea-bitten camel's ass. His piss-ant levitation cant slipped straight out from under him and his feet hit the shag carpet with a grunt.

"How dare you use Craft on me in my Hall! I will have the Magi Guild throw the book at you, you jumped up bull...” His mouth opened and closed like he was struggling for breath, like he was drowning.

"I didn't use magic,” Frank responded quietly. “Surely you would have seen the Manah trace."

Hotsun stopped with his gob still open. Then he smiled.

"Amazing! How did you do it?"

"Elementary, my dear Hotsun. Simple observation, which sometimes can be far more powerful than magic. Firstly, and most simply, I noticed your name on the duty board behind that reception desk. Secondly, you used your left hand to reach for this book, but there is a small food stain on the left side of your shirt, indicating food had dropped from a fork held in the left hand, instead of the right, where most left-handers would hold it. As for the rest, I heard the last few bars of El Lardo Big Fahrdo being sung by the diva, Lollah McTummy, just before you arrived (I believe the Villandark Wood recording in ‘56, yes? Yes.). I could see the tobacco marks on your left fore and aft fingers and could smell the brand. Your twenty guilder receipt from The Love Pumper Room in Lowtown with the letters M E and L of the lady in question's signature visible, is hanging out of your side pocket and I know of two girls that work the Pumper whose names start thusly—Melissa and Melanie—so it could be either. And there's a magisnap of you and a beagle with the inscription “Champ” on it that I could just make out through the half open door to your staff kitchenette down the hall."

Hotsun chuckled. “You are quite the wit, Mr Mynos. And it was Melanie. She has much bigger ... hmmmmm. Anyway, you do not seem to be Embalmer material. Far to ... sharp for that crowd.” He smiled. His brow uncreased, again.

"No, the Guild is my client. I am an executive investigator and I have a few questions."

"Ah, now that rings a bell. Wait a tick! You were the bull that caught Dorothy Com! That's it! I summoned her back into City Watch custody you know, back from the Gray Lands beyond the ken of mortal ... ken. Her shade was rather bemused with having underestimated you, Mr Mynos. Plus, I had to send somebody to feed her gerbils. So what can I help you with? We necromancers have nothing to hide, except, of course, that which is beyond the ken of..."

"...mortal ken, yes. No, everything I wish to know is well within my ken, Mr Hotsun. Shall we?” Frank and Hotsun sat down in adjoining lounge seats. “Now, if you don't mind me asking, how quickly might a person skilled in the necromantic arts animate a freshly dead body to the point of walking?"

"Ah, well, the simple trick of walking a dead body around without sentience is one of the first lessons taught to our apprentices. It is known as the Automation Principle and though I certainly cannot reveal to you any details regarding the procedure, I am happy to inform you the most simple of my apprentices could achieve this result in a matter of tocks. But to return sentience to the body, even to the most basic of levels seen in a proverbially ‘mindless’ zombie, he did the two finger inverted commas in the air, “takes at least a full day's preparation and many Arcane and Eldritch Rites far beyond the ken..."

"...of mortal ken,” Frank and I helped him finish.

Hotsun smirked his disapproval.

"Another thing, Mr Hotsun. I have heard the necromancers provide undead temp employment now in the City, is this true?"

Master Mancer Ahrkanion Hotsun III looked like he'd just sucked a big fat lemon dipped in Moochachos chili. He stood up and tried to loom over Frank, but his looming needed work. He looked aggressively constipated.

"Mr Mynos, such information is not known in regular circles, so I would request you keep it to yourself. But yes, we have been permitted to trade in such ... trade by order of Citied Charter three two four five xy{one eight seven}four five axc*t two three four, passed last Helmstide. It is all aboveboard, of course, and perfectly legal, though I am sure those muckrakers down at the Kronikle or the City Sentinel would have a field day. You must not tell anyone, Mr Mynos.” He tried another loom.

"Why don't you try prune juice?” I mumbled.

"What was that?"

"Um, I said ‘I won't let my mouth loose'. But I would like to know where you get your ... raw material."

Hotsun thought about another loom, but gave up and crumpled back into the chair.

"We ... ah ... that is to say ... um ... well ... we reap the bounty of the mean streets of the City, so to speak,” he smiled weakly. His lips were as thin as boot laces.

"Bounty?” Frank wasn't giving up. The stiffie stool was squirming like a severed reptilian's tail, so I was startin’ to enjoy myself.

"Ah ... well ... we acquire certain material in the way of deceased individuals who have come to grief in the criminal sectors of our beloved township, those that remain unclaimed, and we put them to use for the good of the community. And what a fitting solution, might I add! Also, those on the lower rung of the City socio-economic ladder are able to ... sell the remains of a loved one to us at a reasonable rate, so that not only do they receive a return on the demise of a family member, but they save themselves the cost of a funeral. Thus, they are more prepared to progress to a level of true consumer prosperity."

It's interesting to watch somebody attempt to fit an ethical backdrop behind a swine-spinning scheme they had never considered required one, and do it on the fly. I call it pot noodle business ethics.

"I'm not here to argue about corporate conscience, Mr Hotsun. These questions relate to my inquiries. So is every new untemp you create recorded?"

"Yes, yes, of course. It is part of the Charter. We have a book..."

"Can I see the book, Mr Hotsun.” There was no question mark. It wasn't really a question. It was more of a statement of fact. Like you show me this, and I'm sure the Kronikle will hear nothing about the whole deal. That was the sub-text. For a moment, sub-text outdid eldritch in the Necromancers’ Guildhall lounge.

"Of course, Mr Mynos. We are always happy to assist ... by the way, what is your affiliation?"

"The ... um ... South Central Lowtown Faction and maybe ... a further Guild that is yet to be ... anyway, where's that book?"

The Master Mancer took us down the hall and through the kitchenette. It was standard stuff, very un-eldritch. There was a postcard on the wall from the Impressive Canyon saying Wish you were here! And some chipped coffee mugs with slogans like Realm's Best Dad and Necromancers do it with the dead. Hey, they're eldritch. Nobody said nothing about tasteful.

Through the kitchenette, we found a back office that was cramped, but functional. Hotsun ran a finger across the spines of a bunch of black record books until he found the one he wanted. The spine read:

NECROPLOYMENT SOLUTIONS DOSSIER

XDR-34509.L

Hotsun blew the dust off it and opened it up. It creaked a loud, coffin-like creak.

"Isn't this book new?” Frank asked. His droopy ear twitched.

"Yes, yes, all the books do that here."

I hate eldritch.

Frank took a look through the book. The names and origins of the zombie workers were recorded, together with the mob that had purchased them. Since the whole deal was still new, there were only four pages filled in. Frank scooted down to the date three days before the Ash dame got snatched and took a mental note of all the zombies made afterward. All twenty five of ‘em.

Did I ever tell you the undead give me the willies, Frank? 

"Well,” Hotsun began. “If that will be all..."

A girl who resembled a young, two-legged predatory bird burst through the door. She had oily straight black hair in a pony tail pulled so tight, it looked like an ancient Turghan torture technique. “Master Hotsun,” she said, breathless. “Bob is up on the roof threatening to jump. Again."

"Ahhhhh, the many joys of having apprentices!” He shook his head. “I told him how much of a mess it would make, and if he landed in Master Foredoom's roses, he'd have more than hell to pay."

Did Frank have a nose for coincidence? I don't know. He had a nose as soft and furry as velvet—I know that—and he also had a stupid abstract idea of civic responsibility, particularly toward foolish kids that got themselves in strife. I tried to cure him of it, but he was a terminal case. Eventually, it rubbed off on me.

So instead of taking his leave, Frank followed the Master Mancer and the predatory bird-girl up to the roof.

The one thing I have positive to say about the stiffie stools joint is they got stairs—no elementavator. Up on the roof, huddled together under the door awning, was a bunch of spotty apprentices, all wide-eyed and trying desperately to look eldritch, which is a tough ask in the middle of a cold, wet night wearing a poor excuse for a colourless sack.

The kid, who was obviously Bob, stood on the edge of the four story building beside a gargoyle's outstretched wing. He was looking down into the street and crying like a saga queen.

"Ah, good, he's over the east wing,” Hotsun said with relief all over his skinny face.

"Why, is there something soft down there?” Frank asked.

"Oh no, it's granite tiling, but he's not over the roses and he won't land on the Avenue. The granite's much easier to clean than the sandstone, so the cleaners only charge..."

Frank turned his back on the Master Mancer and walked out into the rain. Out into the big wet. I hate the rain almost as much as eldritch stiffie stools, which doesn't make sense. I'm star-geld, so I can't rust, so it must be something innate to all metals gifted with sentience. It's a squirmy sort of feeling. It's like the sound of fingernails on chalkboard, the taste of iced cream and fish and the smell of roses over orkdust all rolled up into one. But it didn't stop Frank. He was saturated in three heartbeats. The water was dripping off his nose and running down his pants like a brown furry river.

"I can hear you,” the kid said between sobs. “Don't come any closer, or I'll jump!” He didn't turn around.

Just give him a slap on the back and we can get goin', Frank. I believe in euthanasia. People should have the right to end their own life—particularly if I'm getting fharking wet over it. 

Frank ignored me. “Listen, kid, you might have some problems, but hey, it can't be all that bad. You've got an apprenticeship with a crested Guild. There's plenty of kids where I come from who would kill for something like that. Well, sadly, for a lot less than that. How about you talk about it with me? I'm a good listener.” Frank took a slow silent step forward. The kid was as tense as a virgin in a necromancer's bookshop.

"It's no use. I can't go on like this."

Frank took another step.

"She doesn't even know I exist!"

"Girl trouble, huh?” I thought I'd add my two twits worth. What the heck? I used Frank's voice, but I made sure to throw it back a little so the kid didn't know Frank was creepin’ up on him. Hey, like I said, you teach yourself these things over the millennia. “Listen, kid, we've all been there. Dames are trouble, there's no doubt, but that's no reason to do a sidewalk swandive. They wouldn't care anyway."

Another step. Almost there. If I had a heart, it would've been pounding against my star-geld hilt.

"And I've ruined everything. She's..."

There was a flash of lightning and Frank's shadow fell across the kid. He turned his head. His eyes were red from crying but the tears were lost in the rain (pathos moment—I hate myself). He was a typical spotty faced, gangly teenager. His neck was pencil thin with an Adams apple that made it look like he'd swallowed a dragon's egg.

And he jumped.

Frank leaped his full body length and managed to snatch the edge of Bob's apprentice cassock with an outstretched hand. The cheap, paper thin material held for about a tick and a half, then started to tear.

"Leave me be!” Bob shouted, dangling over the waiting void.

Leave him be! 

Frank was slipping and he wasn't gonna let go. It was wet. It was windy.

I'd had enough.

The material tore out of Frank's fist. Bob started to fall. I jumped out of Frank's belt, flicked over the edge of the building, stabbed myself through the kid's hand and pinned him to the stone.

"ARRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Really, I can't do justice to the scream on paper. I could do a whole line of exclamation marks and it still wouldn't be right.

"Hey, kid, it beats making apprentice pizza on the granite grille."

Luckily for him, he passed out from the pain.




Chapter Six: Occasionally Herb

Like I said before, Frank wasn't your run-of-the-mill, born-ready-to-kill bull minotaur. Minotaurs, as a general rule, enjoy four things: violence, eating meat, more violence and eating more meat. What they lose out to ogres in the size department, they make up for in stubbornness and bone density. Minotaur bones are so hard, you could use ‘em to sharpen an axe, and the hardest part of their hard-as-Hades skeleton is right between the eyes. If you're ever grabbed by a minotaur and he manages to butt you in the head, it's lights out, Josephine, and that's ignoring the goring. If he butts you again, your lights ain't comin’ back on. When you got two bulls going hard at it, it's a scene, believe me. The sound of ‘em butting their heads together is sick enough to curdle dragon's milk.

Most minotaurs wouldn't give a fishman's fanny if they saw a young human teetering on the edge of a tall building, except to maybe wait around ground zero if they were feelin’ hungry. There's a law against eating the “Flesh of Sentient Life” within City boundaries, but not many watchstables frequent minotaur joints, except the minotaur watchstables, who like their halfling hocks gently broiled with onions and elf steaks blue to medium rare.

The Necromancers’ Guildhall don't have much in the way of medical facilities. Most of the folk they deal with are well beyond the ministrations of physicians, which is probably just as well for them. Frank laid the kid out on a lounge and bandaged up his hand with a ‘Bicentennary of Unlife in the City’ tea towel from the kitchenette. The other apprentices had been sent to their rooms, but you could hear ‘em skulking around the hallway while Hotsun huffed and puffed, waving a Guild Disciplinary Notice Type R (i) in the air and scolding the unconscious kid for his ‘abject endangerment of Guild property and willful neglect of correct suicide protocol'.

Apparently, if a necromancer wishes to top him/herself, he/she is required to do so in a way that allows for necromantic observation of bodily accouterments and further bio-spiritual examination according to Clause C, Section Five, Sub Section Twenty-three (xxi) of the indenture contract. Splattering your mortal remains on pavement like cheap offal is most certainly frowned upon, though death itself is looked at as a potentially upward career decision. Like buying a suit with shoulder pads.

"The Faculty will hear all about this and I'm sure they will recommend disciplinary action.” Hotsun's glare was full of disapproval, that inky, stinky, superior brand of disapproval that always comes in a suit.

"You're a real fharkin’ regular guy,” I muttered. “Why don't you go stick your head in a magilamp and let the light shine out your..."

"Rhys!” Frank wasn't big on what he called ‘vulgarities'. I figure, if the shit fits, I'm gonna wipe you in it.

C'mon, Frank. He's a prize spankin', certified, top-of-the-heap A-hole and you know it. Hell, let's just leave the kid with him and hoof it, huh? 

Frank hailed a cab but, of course, he took the kid with him. He figured with punks like Hotsun around, it was unlikely Bob would choose life when he came back to the waking world. Outside, it was still raining like the gods were having a pool party. The Hightown lights twinkled dangerously and there was hardly any traffic on the street. We felt the distinctive rumble under the sidewalk of a Subway pellet in motion. The tube must have been close to the surface there. Most of the City was tubed out for Subway access because it was a cheap form of magical transportation that took pressure off the streets and turned over a guilder to boot. Once the initial digging expense was complete, and sometimes they cheated by using old wyrm holes that criss cross under the belly of the City from ancient times, it wasn't a bad earner. They simply created a sucking vacuum with inverted air elementals at three points of the tube system and shut it off at regular intervals since they built the stations at exactly the same distance apart. But Frank wasn't big on enclosed spaces. And there's nothing more enclosed than a collapsed Subway tube, let me tell you. I blew a figurative kiss to the Statue of Franchise and we rode the Phudd and Frank's last guilder home.

Home. Frank lived in the attic above the office, which had just enough floor space for him to stretch out and sleep on. There was a small wardrobe where he kept his suits, and a hook on the wall for the fedora. There wasn't no bed. As far as I know, no minotaur has ever managed to get any shut-eye in a human bed—their bodies just can't take the softness. The walls were covered with stacks of books, right up to the roof in places. Frank loved his books—so much so, whenever I would suggest he get a bookcase for the things instead of stackin’ ‘em up, he'd weigh it up and figure ‘why should I buy a bookcase when I could buy more books'? Most minotaurs can't read and their only possible use for Loomkroft's City Guilds—Who's Who would be to stand on it so they could head butt an ogre in the face where he deserved it. Count's Celebrated Criminal Cases of the City sat by itself with dog-eared affection like a much-loved pet.

Through the solitary barred window, which opened out onto the roof of the building next door, you could see the big ‘M’ in the bright red magilit ‘Molly's Mischievous Maidens’ sign. Molly was an ogre of some repute and infamy in a world where the only sort of ‘famy’ is the ‘in’ variety. Few ogres have the brain power to get anywhere other than either end of an exaggerated axe, but Molly “Madman” Malone had some human blood in him somewhere, though you didn't know it to look at him. He managed to carve out a piece of the Strip for himself twenty years back (and by carve, I mean literally carve—what he did to “The Big Shot” Barlow was so messy, they couldn't tell his nose from his elbow) and the guy goes from strength to strength, hand in hand with the Clan all the way, of course. He ended up running two brothels, two casinos, a hotel called ‘Molly's Madhouse Check Yourself In ... ‘ and a yard full of iced-cream trucks with flavors like Orkan Ripple and Kobold Kornish Kream. They drive up and down the City streets playing crap music with an army of kids shadowing ‘em looking for an iced-cream buyer to mug.

Frank, being the caring, sharing, self-problem-ensnaring kind of bull he was, carried the kid up the steps and set him down in the office, with a rolled up overcoat under his head. His hand had bled through the tea towel and he was looking paler than a dead albino harpy.

Look, Frank, this is only gonna get us in trouble with the Guilds. You can't just take off with apprentices like that. 

But I knew it was useless. He had that look. That set to his snout. That twitch to his floppy ear. His mind was set in adamantine.

"You watch the kid. I'm going to fetch Herb."

Great! Now I'm a fharkin’ babysitter, huh? Mindspeaking's great. You can bitch at your attunee even after he's bugged out on you. I kept up at Frank until I heard ‘em coming up the stairs.

Occasionally Herb was a physician, and I mean a real one, with Physicians’ Guild and even Hospital Party affiliation, but he had some issues that made him work Stripside Lowtown, instead of some fancy joint uptown with an elvish receptionist sporting boobs in two time zones. Occasionally Herb was a full blood ork, he was manic-depressive, he was paranoid, and he had at least seventeen personalities, not all of which knew Herb was a physician. If you found Herb inside the skinny orkan body, and you occasionally did, you really lucked out. Herb was a twonky Physician, far better than the run of the mill Lowtown take-two-magileeches-and-call-me-in-the-morning crowd. He actually knew what he was doing. He actually knew which end was the head and which were the toes and some of the bits in between.

The trouble was he was only Occasionally Herb.

"You can re-apply this poultice in the morning and I'm sure the hand will be as good as new within a month or so.” Herb wore his The Doctor is In sign tied around his neck with thick red wool. Orks are a funny breed. More intelligent than they're given credit for, just mind-blowingly gullible. They don't usually survive long in the City, where to be gullible is akin to camping in the mouth of an ogre nest, but then again, they don't usually survive out in the wilds too long either. Almost any two twit, half-crazed, whacked-out Mage/Warlord who can string a few words together and loom like a headmistress can whip up an army of orks in a single afternoon. The punks'll believe almost anything. And though they usually have a few pounds of beef on ‘em, and a mean set of teeth, half of ‘em couldn't fight their way out of a cardboard dungeon (if you told ‘em it was steel, they wouldn't even try) and the other half would be too busy tryin’ to find the fifty guilders they need to buy the Great Bridge off you.

"You can send me an account, Herb. I'll fix you up.” Frank wouldn't. It's not that he was a deadbeat, guilders were just a very minor detail in his mind. They were just straw to throw over the sputum of life.

"Swell, Stubby.” Herb picked up his case. “And just remember, you can use my bridge any time you like, but I'm thinking I might put a toll on merchants and Guild masters. Vinnie was very understanding with his repayment schedule but..."

"I'll talk to Vinnie for you, Herb."

That's the third time this year Vinnie's done that. I hear he makes more money through ork scams than through his respectable crust.

Vinnie the Skinny ran protection rackets and slave routes for the Clan. Hey, there's nothing more respectable in Lowtown than working for the Clan. If you don't respect ‘em, they cut off your nose.

Herb was about to shake Frank's hand, when his whole body trembled and his head jerked to the left three times. It was the change. His back went ramrod straight. His arm tucked elegantly in behind him. Herb had become Pendalby, the gnomic butler to King Ysmann the fifth of the Lost Kingdom of Zagg. Hey, don't knock it. If there was a party going on in Stripside Lowtown, Pendalby was bigger than Fluess, the God of Slippery Loincloths. He could fix a lip-smashing martini in a liquid jiff and make a decent pina colada out of almost anything.

Frank did his civic duty and turned Herb's sign around. The doctor was out. If anyone came to Pendalby with a stab wound, he'd just say ‘jolly good, sir’ and fix them a whisky sour.

While the kid rested in our mis-opulent splendor, Frank sat down at his desk with a pencil and filled in his time sheet for the Embalmers. Then he pulled out the morning's Kronikle and started doodling around the edges of the already completed ‘Kryptic Krossword'.

So where's the Ash dame? I butted in.

"I don't know where she is yet, Rhys, but I know what she is. I'm considering her missing, presumed undead."

How do you figure that? 

"In the middle of the day, with that busy office, and then out on First Avenue, somebody would have noticed a person carrying a dead body. The only way to do it and not arouse suspicion would have been to sneak in there, animate her and walk her back out. Also, that was definitely tetramain mhordide in there, and that stuff is used by necromancers."

Yeah, it had a Manah trace. Small but gray. So we're looking for a punk with Hightown access, the ability to animate the dead and ... and ... what? 

"And a motive for taking Ashley Ash. That room was the third along the corridor, so whoever did it walked past several potential ... candidates to choose her. It was deliberate. Somebody wanted her and I'm pretty sure it must have something to do with the Registry."

And we had ourselves a mystery.

In the morning, things got more complicated.




Chapter Seven: Ursors

Frank drank Hurghian coffee, the real sort. He bought a clean, linen wrapped bale of it at least once a month at ‘Mustafa's International Exchange', shipped in direct from the far eastern Hurghian Sultanate. The linen wrapper had ‘Kufii’ printed on it in neat Hurghian lettering, but stamped rudely over the top of it, as a warning to the ignorant ‘enfedil’ international consumer, was ‘Coffee: Very Strong’ in bold red City ink. I can tell you the stuff was hot enough to melt lead and strong enough to snap the teeth from your gums if you weren't used to it. When he spilt it, I was always surprised when it didn't eat through the floor. Each morning, he'd brew up a batch of the stuff and drink the lot—straight from the pot. I'd say it was at least six cups worth, but remember, at least physically, Frank was a minotaur, so he could take it. Don't try this at home, kids.

But that morning was different.

Five sharp knocks on the office door summoned Frank and me back from la la land in a rush. Frank had fallen asleep at his desk and, hey, I don't need sleep, but I do need my rest. As a real deal magical elfin steel, I draw my power from the Manah inherent in the universe around me. I'm self powered, unlike those cheap-ass imitations that suck the life force from their wielder's soul (better check your so-called ‘magical sword’ for a Made In Tiewon label ‘cuz they're renowned for it). Even so, if I was ‘awake’ all the time, I'd go nuts in a matter of centuries. If you're in for the long haul, you gotta take some down time. Next thing you know, I'd be asking someone to throw me in a lake.

"Mr Franklin Mynos?” A flat, roundish head poked through the hole where the glass in the door should've been.

"Yes ... ahhhhh ... can I help you?” Frank fished around for his specs, tripped over his chair and fell on his knees. “I ... um ... yes, what is it?” He still couldn't find his glasses and his suit looked like a relief map of the Five Finger Hills.

"May I come in, Mr Mynos? Unless you're ... busy.” Disdain dripped from the word like acid from the fangs of a wild wyvern.

"Yes ... no ... um ... yes, certainly ... um ... I just need to find my glasses..."

Sharing Frank's vision when his specs ain't firmly hooked on to his snout is a frightening prospect. I burned a little Manah and amped up my viewpoint. It was like a curtain being lifted.

Forward, Frank. Forward. Back a bit. Now to your right. Bingo, you got ‘em. 

The head let himself in. “I'm Mr Sebastion Tuttlesling. I'm a legal advisor to the Guild of Ursors, tendered to them through the Righteous Union and permanently affiliated with the Advocates’ Guild, the Hightown Faction, the South Scene Island Faction, the Idealized Tyranny Party and the Order of the Poorly Repaired Sandal. I am here to retain your services.” Tuttlesling looked around the office down his sharp little nose with the definite air of someone who was having second and possibly, third thoughts. He had advocate written all over him, right down to his Kalamachi boots and pale blue Ar-farnie suit. I'm sure he wiped his ass with fifty guilder notes. Now, I got nothing against advocates as a general rule—someone has to try and make sense of City law—but in a place like the City where cut throat-ery and back stabbing is the norm, advocates manage to stand out as the scum beneath the boots of the lowest form of life.

"Has there been some sort of accident?” he inquired, looking around the office again.

Don't fhark this up, Frankie! We're talking Big Four here, baby! Play it cool. You drop names like the Hightown Faction and the Ursors’ Guild, which is effectively a subbranch of the Bankers’ Guild, you're gonna want people to not just jump through hoops for you, you're gonna want ‘em to do it with style, smile and singing all the while.

"Ah ... no, Mr Tuttlesling, this is ... um ... what can I help you with?” Frank rested the glasses on his snout and sat behind the desk with as much decorum as he could muster on short notice.

Tuttlesling took a step forward, lifting his feet carefully over a pile of notepaper and mixed food scraps. His mouth turned down at the edges like a wilted petal. “I took the liberty of bringing your Kronikle in for you. You may wish to peruse the front page lead before we discuss our business.” He handed the local rag over and Frank unrolled it. “My client asked for you by name ... though I am sure they have not seen your workplace..."

MURDER IN HIGHTOWN!

The dead body of a man was discovered this morning in Hightown, beside the Hightown Faction Guildhall. He had been brutally murdered, hacked literally into pieces in a way almost unknown in the exclusive corporate City precinct. Although his name has not been released, it is almost certain he was a crested Guildsman, who had attended the Hightown Faction meeting that night.

Lord-liege Mayor Takklehurm was unavailable for comment at the time of press, though it is understood he has personally met with the City Watch Commissioner, the High Lord of the Trark Guard and the Director-General of the Guilstapo to assess the progress of inquiries and stress the importance of apprehending the perpetrator or perpetrators of this foul act. It is understood all three of these fine arms of the City law enforcement community will work together on this important case.

Rest assured, good reader, the Kronikle shall follow this story with the greatest interest imaginable. If this Hightown Hacker is able to operate with impunity on the most safe of our City streets, then surely, the rest of us who are not afforded such protections, are all the more closer to ruin.

There was a picture of Takklehurm, his standard publicity mug shot where it looks like he's just drunk two bottles of Turghan Ale (and he probably had).

"Not much to go on there.” Frank scratched his floppy ear and shrugged.

"No, most details are being withheld from the general community. As it is, the Ordinary Jones Index dropped fifty-seven points when the Exchange opened this morning, some stocks twice that. We want to minimize the fiscal collateral damage to the City economy as much as possible. Felicity is more important than breathing, Mr Mynos."

"I'm sure she is, Mr Tuttlesling, but how can I help you exactly?"

"Before I can reveal that, Mr Mynos, you will have to sign these indemnity contracts.” Tuttlesling dipped into his thin briefcase and pulled out a wad of papers thick enough to choke a wyvern. I saw the flash of Manah, but any idiot could tell there was no way it could've fit in there. It landed face up on the desk and I'm sure the ground shook.

Frank scowled. “Is this necessary, I mean I can't read all of this before..."

"If you're willing to retain me for the purposes of assessing the manuscripts before you, Mr Mynos, in the capacity of civil advocacy, I would be most honoured to oblige."

Outside, a wyvern screeched an angry noise and sent a flock of pigeons roosting near the office window skyward. Old Thom's milk cart swerved on the slippery cobbles. A prostitute with cheap elvish ears called it a night. Frank's scowl became scowl-ier.

"I'm sorry, I'll just check if I've got this right. You want me to pay you to tell me what you want me to do for you?"

"I studied long and hard for my degree, Mr Mynos. I'm not a charity worker.” Tuttlesling tried to trump Frank's Queen of Scowls with a seven of Smugness.

Frank rarely got angry, but he could be a stubborn son of a cow. And he had a snout for people, although he rarely used it for profit, which was such a waste in so many ways.

"I think I'll just have to say good day to you then, Mr Tuttlesling."

"Good day?"

"Yes. Good day. I have plenty of work at the moment, so if you would be kind enough to leave. Oh, and thank you for delivering my paper.” Frank turned his back and started fiddling with the coffee pot.

Tuttlesling looked like somebody had just burnt off his baloney. He turned around and walked out the door.

I could have cried. Frankie! That job could have meant...

Tuttlesling came back in as stiff as a Hurghian halberd. Not one single human emotion stirred on his face. “My client wants you to represent their interests, Mr Mynos, all the heavens and hells know why, so I will make my offer but firstly, I must at least gain your...” and he almost choked “...word of honour you will not divulge any of the details I will make known to you regarding this matter to any other parties, living or dead.” He didn't even seem to breathe. You could have cut the air with a bent toothpick.

"But of course, Mr Tuttlesling. I am an ethical businessman. All of my clients are guaranteed the strictest confidence."

"Then, if you wouldn't mind signing the..."

Frank picked up the wad of papers and calmly threw them out the open window. Like magic, they blew instantly apart in the morning breeze and spread their way across the City. In one part of Lowtown, they became a rolled up nutball. In another part, paper darts. In another, they were used for lavatorial purposes. Another, as cheap crockery. The only thing that gets wasted in Lowtown is lives.

"I see. Well, of course, your word is good enough then.” The advocate sniffed the air and sat on a pile of papers in the absence of a chair. “My primary client in this matter, the Ursors’ Guild, want you to investigate the murder of one Master Lender Adrian Skrew, late of Hightown, the unnamed victim of this ‘Hightown Hacker’ as the papers have dubbed him. Master Skrew was a substantial member of the Ursors’ Guild and Hightown Faction, but was also on the Board of the Knaves Boating Faction and owned a shipping Company. This is a very grave matter and of some urgency. The City Watch Magicrime Analysis Division has been granted an immediate necroview, which is scheduled for Shells Glass, about one glass from now. MAD have disallowed any Guard or Guilstapo presence at the necroview under Article Three, paragraph one, subsection two of the Citied Council Necromantic-Watch Investigative Charter, which specifically states that only they, the Watch, and a “legally empowered representative of the deceased's estate” may be present. That representative is you, Mr Mynos. The Ursors’ Guild want you there as an independent investigator and they want you on their side."

"How much?” I said in Frank's voice. It's hard to see a minotaur's lips move unless they're roaring. Their mouth is all snout.

"I have been authorized to offer you two hundred guilders a day, plus expenses, as well as a five thousand guilder bonus, if you apprehend the perpetrator within a week."

Holy Lord of Heavenly Hallibad! You're gonna do it, ain't you, Frankie? Think of all that swine! I mean, you could fix this place up and even get yourself a decent hat. 

Frank sat and stared at the wall behind the advocate. This was not a time for brooding. When Frank brooded at a time like this, he was liable to do something silly, like flush good guilders down the can.

"I have quite a full case load at the moment, Mr Tuttlesling, but I will attend the necroview and decide after that. That's the best you're going to get,” he added before the guy could protest.

"Then that is how it shall be. Call me afterward, if you would be so kind.” Without another word, he put his business card on the table and walked out.

Are you bloody mad, Frank! I ... I'm at a loss for words. This is gonna be big, Frank, BIG! Murder in Hightown! Hah! Hightown Hacker, my smacker! It'll make you a star! It'll make you rich! It'll make you... 

"It makes me nervous, Rhys. It makes me nervous and I don't nerve easily. Why do they want me so badly? They've got the Watch, the Guard and the bleeding Guilstapo on it. Something's not right here."

To put that ‘bleeding’ in context, you gotta realise Frank never swore. I mean never. I once saw him mash his thumb with a hammer and all he did was look at it kind of perplexed. He reserved his most harsh of words, ‘bleeding', for the Guilstapo and for them alone.

He knew what they were about from experience.

"The kid!” The overcoat pillow was still there, but Bob, the suicidal student, was gone.

Oh well, Frank. That's snake eyes, but the kid's hardly our problem. Let's get back to the Hightown Hacker and maybe that five large bonus, huh? That's our main concern, isn't it? 

Frank? 

"We've got to find the kid, before he does something stupid."

What? Wear a polo neck with bell bottoms? 

I groaned, but it was no use. Frank slipped me into his belt, pushed his beaten fedora onto his head and went down the stairs four at a time. The morning light crashed into us. It was a bright, breezy Turnsday in the City with a fresh westerly blowing the many and varied magidustrial fumes across the Soup from Westside, not to mention the meat rendering plants and dye pits. Wyvern cabs ran the streets briskly, dodging the horse traffic, and the occasional cheap magicar glided by, leaking thick Manah traces. It was a typical scene.

Part of that scene was Cheery O'Leary. He sat outside our door with an old rusted legionnaire's helmet.

"Hey, Cheery.” Frank flicked a twenty twit piece into the waiting helmet. “Did you see a kid come out of here in the last tock or so? Torn linen threads, hair a mess. Pimples?"

Cheery was a beggar who worked a half block patch on Lincoln Street during the warmer months. He used to be in the Felon's Foreign Legion until he had his legs cut off at the knees in a chariot accident somehow involving sugared sultanas. He wasn't so Cheery any more.

"Yeah, Stubby, yeah.” When Cheery talked, he chewed his words and smacked his lips together between sentences, like a drowning fish. “Yeah, I saw a boy come out of yo’ door there.—smack smack smack—Headed down the street and ducked into Rotgutters Alley.—smack smack smack—What of it?"

"He's ... ah ... a friend of mine. Thanks, Cheery."

"He had a spoon, you know."

"Sorry?"

"A spoon.—smack smack smack—You know, what folks eat their grub with.—smack smack smack—Spoons can come in damn handy, you know. You're never lost with a spoon, my old sergeant used to say, right before that reptilian cut out his liver. It's the king of cutlery. No ... it's the prince. Anyways..."

Frank left Cheery to his cutlery debate and ran north up Lincoln, past Old Man Wither's Hardware and Coopery, and hung a left into Rotgutters Alley.

Rotgutters was dark. It was the kind of place that seemed to pool darkness like a dirty ditch holds water, even when it's been dry for days. There were stacks of rubbish and venomous smelling meat cuts from McCalfies Emporium of Kwality Beef, which was mostly rat, cat, dog and armadillo (plus stuff I don't even want to speculate about). The only door that was workable led to Herman's Amacha Alchemy Association. In the City, most alchemy joints are fronts for the poorest quality liquor distillers. The Distillers’ Guild don't mind—the type of people willing to take a chance with ‘Amacha Alchemist’ rotgut, don't have the swine to buy real liquor anyway, so it doesn't cut into their bottom line. The only thing worse than the taste of the stuff is ... well, there really isn't anything worse I can think of.

Right at the back of the alley, behind a particularly noxious pile of cheesy mould, we saw Bob. He was running the spoon across his wrists.

"What are you doing, kid?"

"Stop calling me kid!” He threw the spoon and it landed with a wet squissch. A rat as thick as a drainpipe popped it's head out, sniffed the spoon, and disappeared with it. “You don't have any knives in your joint, not even forks..."

Frank nodded. “I'm not fond of edged instruments."

"What about that?” Bob pointed at me in Frank's belt.

"Oh, this?” Frank tapped me gently on the hilt. “Well, this is a special case."

"Can I have a look?” Bob's dark eyes twinkled.

"Um, I don't think that's a very good..."

Do it, Frank, I've got an idea. 

"...OK then. I trust you.” He was talking to me.

Now any magical blade, including the more diminutive variety, can develop certain powers, merely as a function of their means of magilife—vise sa vie, the processing of universal Manah to develop and continue metallurgic sentience. What this means is any old bit of enchanted steel with a touch of flair and imagination can manipulate the Manah around them to a degree, in a way wizards would call ‘spellcasting'. Of course, it's not actually a spell. When your life essence is Manah, it's more like you're just spitting on your shoes to give ‘em a shine. It's nothing fancy, but it fills in the eons.

As soon as Bob got hold of me, he leapt back against the end wall of the alley and put my edge against his wrist.

"Farewell cruel world,” he whispered, and slashed.

With last words as cliché as that, the kid deserved whatever he got, in my opinion. Blood jetted up in a fountain, bright red and wet. Bob's face went as white as a funeral cloth. His eyes almost popped out of their sockets and his jaw went slack. He dropped me in the muck and grabbed his bleeding arm.

And started screaming.

"Ahhh it hurts! It really fharking hurts! Why did you give me a fharking knife! Shit. Shit. Shit. Don't just stand there, get me to a fharking physician, you bloody brainless bull! I'm gonna die! Ahhh!"

"I thought that was the idea.” Frank could tell what was going on. Unlike a properly trained cinemallusionist, I can only do first degree illusions. Nobody else could see the blood but Bob.

The kid collapsed in the filth.

"Rhys, you better stop it now. Rhys!"

Human psychology is a funny thing. I learnt an interesting lesson that day. If you convince somebody they're dying, they bloody well will.

Bob's heart had stopped.

Now amongst the many works of literature Frank had a keen fondness for was a book called ‘Hafas al-Paneek's Emergency Response Advice'. In it are such gems as:

'When stung by a Wyvern, the best response is to lie still with feet together and arms above your head. This will ensure that your body, if discovered, will be carried with ease and little risk to the lifters.' 

And:

'If being eaten by an ogre, DO NOT PANIC! Your muscles will tense and actually become more flavoursome to the ogris palate. Try humming a few bars of an irritating song.'

But amongst the crap was an interesting procedure called CPR (Can Possibly Return). Frank, being the caring kind of bull he is, slapped his snout over the kid's mouth and gave it a thrash.

Now it wasn't pretty, I'll tell you. Watching a minotaur snog a pimply boy in a dark alley is not my idea of entertainment. Herman, the ‘amacha’ alchemist, popped his head out the back door of his joint to check on the noise and in one of those classic comedic saga moments (those really cheap serial ones), did a double take, shook his head and closed the door back up. You could almost hear the canned laughter.*

Frank had never tried CPR, so it took him a while to get the hang of it. His lungs were about three times as big as Bob's and I thought at one point, the kid was gonna float away. The chest pounding was rough. I heard a few sick sounding cracks.

But the whole deal worked (I would have lost a fiver if I had opened my figurative mouth), so hats off to Hafas al-Paneek for that at least. As far as being eaten by an ogre, not panicking is a bit like saying if you slip off a cliff, don't fall. It's about as useful as a helmet in a homicidal halfling house (and don't let their size or the sagas fool you. Halflings are the meanest sons of a midget you'll ever find. Just make sure if you pick a barny with one, you're wearing a double plated codpiece).

Bob started breathing again, so Frank stopped the CPR and plucked me out of the filth—from where I emerged as clean as a brand new twit. Star-geld is a perfect metal, so nothing sticks to it. If you got the swine, you can get a very nifty set of dinnerwear made you never have to wash. Just remember to go easy on the fry pan. If it doesn't like what you're cooking, it's liable to slap you in the face.

Well, we've done all we can, hey, Frank? The kid's on his own now. Yes sir-ee. 

No sir-ee. Frank picked up the kid and carried him back up to the office. This time, he pulled down the ladder to the attic and deposited the kid up there. The thin window had a barred grate with a padlock, and Frank locked the trap door on his way back down. He wasn't goin’ nowhere.

It was no use bothering Occasionally Herb, the doctor was out. He was Dame Nellie Sutherland, the Huprah Diva. You could tell by the sound coming from his room across the street, which was akin to a hundred and thirty-four tomcats being skinned alive with butter knives. It was certainly the most aurally challenging of all of Occasionally Herb's personalities.

But we were already running late.

Frank. We gotta hustle if we're gonna make that Skrew necroview. 

Luckily, Frank got a wyvern right on the doorstep and we were on our way down the Strip and over the Ordinary Bridge into Eastside. The ‘Ordy’ is a functional enough bridge that spans the Upwerdd River with four lanes and a spear tipped fence along each side. It's a poor cousin to the Great Bridge into Westside, with its three huge arches and bright red makeover, but it does the job, and the river doesn't smell nothin’ like the Soup. It's not even in the ball park.

In no time at all, Frank was waltzing up the grim, graystone steps of Watchhouse One for the necroview of Master Lender Adrian Skrew, the first victim of the already notorious Hightown Hacker.




Chapter Eight: Mr Manager

But, Frank... 

It was almost midday when we hit the pavement outside Watchhouse One fresh from the Skrew necroview. Watchhouse One is the hub of the City's public crime fighting community. It's a plain looking graystone monstrosity, which most people think of as small, only because it's so close to the Justice Dome. Both buildings are on a prime chunk of land on the Eastside shore of the Upwerdd, with a decent view of the Bay and the Statue of Franchise perched on her rock at the tip of Hightown. Eastsiders have the best view of Hightown and most of ‘em feel like they're almost there, so they're a cut above the rest (being a cut below the others). The streets are decent. The cobbles get themselves washed once a month, and there are ‘quaint’ little shops (or ‘Storres’ as they like to call them) that sell funny lookin’ chairs and magilamps that are meant to come on when you clap. The further east you go, the less genteel it gets, until you slip into the outer precincts—Kings, Queens and Knaves. The only snobs you'll find out there are the ones that've made a terrible and final mistake and are about to get their giblets tampered with.

So, you gonna give Tuttlesling a ring, Frank? Let's get the real pork pies safely in the pantry, huh? We can deal with the stolen stiff later. In the interest of protecting the community, of course! 

Frank didn't answer and he didn't ring anyone. He just set his furry brow in a frown and hailed another wyvern.

On the way through upper Eastside it became obvious the Hightown Hacker deal had already grown into an industry. The City was in an uproar. Everyone was talking about it, making predictions, guessing ‘who'. Some said it was a return of the elven lords, some it was an undeclared Guild war, others the Clan enforcers had gone mad or it was a ‘crime au de passionne'. Street vendors had T-shirts for sale with slogans, still sticky from the printing press, like: ‘I Survived the Hightown Hacker’ and ‘Hack it up in Hightown'.

When opportunity knocks, a City merchant already has the tea brewed.

Once we got over the Ordy, it got worse. The Strip was in carnival mode. Forget the T-shirts—the first Hightown Hacker souvenirs were hittin’ the streets. You could get a doll on a string (a few corks tied together with twine and a cardboard axe) or even a clock made of cheap brass with a masked Hacker in the centre with axes for arms. ‘It's Hack o'clock in Hightown’ the inscription read.

Maybe the first casualty in war is innocence, but the first casualty of high profile crime is taste. And it won't respond to CPR.

Frank pulled the wyvern up at the Lowtown Office of the Body Politic Registry and paid the driver with a handful of twits.

What are we doin’ back here, Frank? There's a Hacker in Hightown with our name on him! 

"I need to know more about the Ash dame."

Aaarggg! 

Aarrrg and Oorrrg were at their security posts on either side of the doorway. They were both wearing ‘Hack Happens’ T-shirts in size XXXXXXXXL. Oorrrg was playing with a Hightown Hacker doll on a string.

"What'cha want?” Aarrrg crossed his arms and stretched his neck while he spoke. His cheap tattoos ran up and down his rippling forearms like playful fairies at Mardi Gras.

"I need to see the Registry Branch Manager on an urgent issue."

"You got an appoined-mint?"

"No, I..."

"Then fhark off, bull, or I'll throw da book at ya."

Oorrrg looked up from his Hacker doll, thought about it, then laughed several booming ... laughs, for want of a better word. It sounded more like an earthquake. “You funny, Aarrrg!"

"It does involve the murder in Hightown this morning,” Frank offered. Both of their thick eyebrows lifted. “I'm investigating the whole matter for the Ursors’ Guild and, if you like, I could deputize you both and grant you official ... um ... Deputy Assistant Executive Investigator (Third Class) status. Then, you'd be in the loop.” Frank tapped his snout knowingly.

Now Aarrrg didn't know what a loop was, but he sure liked the sound of this new and inviting position in an exciting and mysterious world. Plus, he might get a T-shirt with him on it! Maybe something like ‘Open Up and Say Aarrrg'.

"Well, why didn’ you say!” Aarrrg jumped up and flexed his back. It was like a rumbling quaking mountainscape. “C'mon Depu ... tee ... assee ... tif ... inil ... gatoor ... thur ... Oorrrg, we gotta get dis bull to da boss man."

"Hang on,” said Oorrrg. He was slightly brighter than his brother, Aarrrg, being about as mentally competent as an entire pineapple. “Don't we get badges?"

"Yeah,” Aarrrg added with sudden suspicion. “Don’ we get badges?"

"Why, of course ... certainly. I ... here they are.” Frank pulled ... nothing out of his pocket. “Here they are, they're made from elfin gold and studded with rubies, but...” Frank sidled up close to his new recruits, looked around, and cupped his hand over his snout, “...in case you have to go undercover, they've been made invisible to everyone except me,” and he winked.

Oh, brother! 

Frank pinned the imaginary badges proudly on the ogris brothers while I hummed a military sounding trumpet tattoo (hey, you teach yourself these things over the millennia). It was all so magical. The smiles on Aarrrg's and Oorrrg's faces could have killed a kraken.

Frank was led briskly up to the elementavator, up to the top floor, past the kobold at the high desk and straight on to the big impressive Branch Manager's office. They didn't even knock.

The office wasn't large, but you could smell the wealth. All the seats were bound in high leather and the bookcases were covered in glass. There was a man in a suit with a male-pattern-balding head, glasses and a sharp little nose behind an ornate desk, the polished kind with swirls and oak-ie shapes. There was a window behind the man that looked right down the Strip and out over the top of the Bulwark.

The man looked up and frowned the frown of a man behind an ornate, polished, swirly, oak-ie shaped desk. “Can I help you, gentleman?"

"Yeah, dis is ... um ... I don’ really know, but we're his ... ah ... Assis ... um ... ass..."

"Yes, thank you, Mr Aarrrg, you are his ass, I'm sure. Thank you for showing Mr Don't Really Know into my office, which is off limits to everyone except the highest Registry officials, meanwhile, leaving our front door unguarded. I am very pleased with your work. Please return to your posts."

Sarcasm may as well be Ancient Irregular Hurghian hieroglyphs to your average ogre. They both smiled, winked and tapped their noses inanely at Frank on their way out the door.

Frank smiled. “Thank you for seeing me Mr?"

"I'm Mr Manager to you and I could have you arrested right now if I so wished, so get to your point and begone."

Frank didn't bother sitting down. “I am Mr Franklin Mynos, Executive Investigator, retained to look into ... certain recent events, and I need some information.” Knowing full well this guy wasn't going to say squat ‘til he was sure, Frank pulled out the Guild letter and slapped it on the table. Mr Manager read it slowly.

The clock on the wall ticked like the distant sound of cavalry hooves.

This guy is a right royal tit, ain't he? 

"I see,” Mr Manager said. “Well, ask me your questions. I am a busy, but curious, man.” He folded his fingers together. Curious enough not to have Frank thrown out, but not curious enough to offer him a seat.

"What can you tell me about Mz Ashley Ash?"

Frank, would you forget about the Embalmers’ case already? We need to work on the Hacker and try for that bonus, for the sake of Trollop, the Goddess of Favorable Blessings. 

"Mz Ash..."

"Shut up! No, not you, Mr Manager, my ... um ... letter opener, that's all."

Again the frown. “As I was saying, Mz Ash was a valued member of our team and her career prospects were very high. The Head Registrar had taken a ... shine to her and the sky was her proverbial limit. She was, perhaps, the best and most promising corporate assessor I have ever had the fortune to work with. I discovered her, you know. Such a waste ... but, life rolls on, Mr Mynos, life rolls on, and the Body Politic Registry must keep rolling along with it, or preferably, a little ahead of it, if you know what I mean.” He glanced out the window and looked genuinely sad for a heartbeat or two.

"I'd like to know more about Mz Ash's workload at the time of her demise, Mr Manager..."

"Please, call me Crisp."

"Crisp?"

"Mr Crisp."

"Alright then. Can you shed any light on Mz Ash's workload, Mr Crisp?"

Crisp bent over and spoke into a small stone that had the sculpture of an ear fashioned into it, like the mouthpiece of a magifone.

"Mr Hummdrum, would you please bring in Mz Ash's file? Yes, all of it.” He sat back and put his perfectly manicured hands behind his perfectly dressed mousy hair. “I am a bit surprised at this attention, Mr Mynos, I must confess. The Watch made a full report into Mz Ash's ... untimely end. They were convinced it was an accident. Do you have reason to believe otherwise?"

"No, I do not..."

Not yet anyway.

"...and, seeing as the newspapers did not pick up the story of Mz Ash's accident, would you mind sharing a copy of the Watch report with me?"

"I don't see why not, Mr Mynos.” He smiled a sweet-store seller smile.

Our friend, the kobold clerk, came limping in with a thick wad of papers. He dropped the lot when he saw Frank and his eyes went as wide as a pair of barbarian biceps. “That's him! That's him, sir! The one that assaulted me at my post yesterday! Call the Watch! Call the Watch!"

"Oh, do shut up, Hummdrum, and don't get so excited.” Crisp sighed and shook his head. “I can't be concerned about ‘who stabbed whom’ all day, and you are just a clerk. Now pick up those files, there's a chap, bring them here and go away.” Hummdrum deflated almost at once and did as he was told. “Such an excitable fellow. You know he actually wanted to call in sick this morning? A few puncture marks and a little arterial bleeding and suddenly, the Office of the Body Politic Registry needs to grind to a halt! Hah! I told him he can be sick all he wants if he wants to climb back into his kobold cave and die, because that's what he'll be doing if he doesn't show up to work. Hah!” Crisp was warming up. “You've got to put these creatures in their place.” He glanced up at Frank, suddenly remembering he was talking to a minotaur. “No offense..."

"No, that's alright, Mr Crisp. You can't offend me. Now what I need to know is exactly what Mz Ash was working on at the time of her demise."

"Well, let's see here.” Crisp opened up the folder and rifled through the pages. “Ahhh ... yes. Um ... yes ... look here. She was helping to collate fiscal data regarding the collapsed Fertilizer Company of Eribonn Snee and there was a merger between the Lower-Eastside Workers’ Union and the Eastside Vertical Lacrosse Faction."

Frank nodded. “Can you elaborate on any of these issues?"

"Well, the workings of the Body Politic Registry in it's policing of the corporate sector of the City must, I'm sure you understand, Mr Mynos, be done within the boundaries of a strict professional ethical code.” Crisp sniffed like a king and waved his pointy nose in the air.

He could poke an eye out with that thing.

"However, I can give you some background information, the sort we would feel comfortable giving to the news sheets." He said the two words like he was describing some sort of terrible wasting disease. “Eribonn Snee was an elf involved in the wood chipping scene, affiliated with the Foresters’ Guild and, I believe, the Westside Outer-Upper Limits Faction, but don't quote me on that. He tried to put together a business selling cheap fertilizer to farmers out past the Westside Limits. You see his half-brother, the half fey, Henry Snee, was a necromancer and when he mentioned to Eribonn one day the Necromancers’ Guild often burns a large quantity of ... um ... organic matter, shall we say, Eribonn decided to create his own version of Blood and Bone..."

"Was that the Vegetables Attack incident? I remember reading about it."

"The very same,” Mr Crisp nodded gravely. “It turned out, much of the organic matter disused by the necromancers still held certain enchantments within it and when the fertile fields to the west of the City were harvested ... well, as you know from the news sheets, several good farming folk lost their lives. It was a real mess I can tell you, what with receivers and debtors and creditors and class actions and weeping farmer's wives and..."

"Some vegetable soups are still kicking ‘roun’ town that could make a hearty meal of you,” I quipped. You don't know fear until a six foot zucchini zombie is coming at you.

"Did you hear a voice, Mr Mynos?"

"Yes, I did, Mr Crisp."

"Oh. That's good. Anyway, it was a real mess and Mz Ash was doing a tidy job on it. Eribonn Snee is serving twelve years in Debtors’ GAOL, of all places. Then ... ah yes, the amalgamation of the Lower-Eastside Workers’ Union and the Eastside Vertical Lacrosse Faction. Quite straightforward, really. Almost all the members of the Faction were members of the Union, so it was natural they wished to minimize their costs and merge. There were a few discontented vertical lacrosse players, who were somewhat non-plussed, but you can never please everyone, can you, Mr Mynos? So the merger was already approved, despite seven protests in writing, and the last few books of forms just needed to be processed."

"Had the approval of the merger been announced, Mr Crisp? Was it general knowledge at the time of Mz Ash's death?"

"No.” A cloud ran across Crisp's face, the rain carrying kind with the chance of hail. “Such information is strictly confidential until the time of complete bureaucratic fruition, of course."

"May I peruse those files, Mr Crisp?"

"Ahhh, I suppose so. They are all publicly listed, and the Watch report is included amongst them,” he handed over the papers. “I know Master Tightfish, the Head Registrar, would want any sniff of wrongdoing in Mz Ash's death completely examined. He was rather ... um ... devoted to her you might say. Why don't you have a seat?” Crisp smiled his bank clerk smile, the kind you see just before they say ‘have a nice day'.

Frank sat and leafed through the files, while Crisp pulled out a box of Coronas.

"Cigar, Mr Mynos?"

Frank was about to wave it away...

Take it, Frank! Take the Corona! 

"Thanks, Mr Crisp.” Frank didn't look up from the files. He took the cigar and put it in his pocket.

"I'll smoke it later,” I added in his voice.

As for the files, it all looked like crap-olla to me. If I had a mouth, I would've yawned with it. When he was done, Frank stood up and shook the offered hand. “You've been very helpful, Mr Crisp, I thank you for your time. Oh, by the way, I have a Body application before the Registry at the moment, you wouldn't know when..."

"We will process it in the fullness of time, Mr Mynos, rest assured. And have a nice day."

Frank let himself out of the office and I bitched at him all the way down to the first floor.

He's got a serious pole up his ass, hey, Frank? You wouldn't be able to pull it out with a six-beast chariot. 

"Maybe, Rhys, but he's proved very useful."

He didn't give us shit. 

"Information is never wasted, Rhys. It is the blood in the veins of the monster."

Yeah, well this monster wants to forget about the Ash dame and ... Jumpin’ jaded jackasses! What's got into them? 

Aarrrg and Oorrrg stood just inside the open doorway with their backs to us, but even from that position, you could tell they were terrified. The two eight and a half foot ogres were shaking like spilt giblets and their arms, as thick as palace crossbeams, were raised, palms out and quivering. Cold sweat ran off them like spilling wine.

Now I don't scare easy, but when you see two ogres the size of the Washingdome Monument acting like they're about to fill their loincloths, it makes you think. It makes you reflect. It makes you bloody want to take Hafas al-Paneek's advice when faced with a 'situation both frightening and potentially lethal involving a confrontation with powers unknown', which is to 'remove yourself from the situation in a series of rapid muscular oscillations through the process of placing one foot as far as possible away from the other and repeating, at a high sustainable velocity, until the situation has become more favorable to continued peaceful existence.'

Frank froze.

The ogris brothers stepped aside and we were left facing ‘the situation'.

Or, more accurately, ‘him'.

A halfling that stood as high as Frank's kneecap.

But this was no ordinary halfling and, like I said before, even the ordinary ones are mean little punks. This one was dressed in black. A black suit with a black leather trenchcoat and a very neat black Panama hat over his furry little ears. This one had a monocle in the socket of one dark eye. This one looked up at Frank and smiled a smile that would kill the bluebird on your shoulder.

This one was Vappid Reamer, Director-General of the Guilstapo.

"Mr Franklin Stubby Mynos, if I'm not mistaken.” Vappid's voice was somewhere between a squeak and a crunch, a bit like a mouse getting squashed by a wheat flail. Menace dripped off every letter—thick, sticky menace. He was probably the most dangerous creature in the City and he knew Frank by name?

"Director-General Reamer, what brings you here?” I noticed immediately there was an unhealthy lack of fear in Frank's voice. It was steady and even with a twist of lemon. Aarrrg and Oorrrg must've noticed too. They unfroze and both attempted to get out the doorway at the same time, pushing and shoving until finally, one of the doors came loose from its hinges and fell out onto the steps, bringing a chunk of wall with it. It gave them the extra room they needed and the ogris brothers were gone. Fast.

You don't ask questions of the Guilstapo. You don't even talk to the Guilstapo unless you have to and, if you have to, you talk as quick and as fast as you can about whatever subject they like.

Again, the smile, and I could have melted on the spot.

"I haven't seen you in a long while, Franklin, but I've heard many things. Interesting things. You're an independent investigator now? How nice. How so very nice for you and your little toy there, Rysovynn-thael, ‘Size Isn't Everything'. Ha ha ha. Of course, I agree with the sentiment. A Yhore made blade I'm told."

I'm sword enough to admit a chill ran right up my shaft. I reserve a special variety of hatred for those that understand High Fey. There was total silence. It was as if the world had just stopped.

"You don't impress me, Vappid."

Frank! For the love of Hermaphrodite, the god of Indifferent Gender Definitions, ease the fhark off! 

"You should take your little friend's advice, Frank. Blowing your snout off has gotten you in enough trouble in the past, hasn't it? Be seeing you.” Vappid walked away from us down the hall in careful, measured strides that were short and slow, but still seemed to get him where he was going very, very quickly. He took the elementavator and was gone.

Geeez, Frank, what's got into you? And how did he know who you were? Where does he know you from? How did he read my mindspeak? What trouble in the past was he talking about? Where did... 

"Nothing doing, Rhys. It's all ancient history."

So I left it alone. It was no use pestering Frank. When he had that set to his snout, he was pester proof.




Chapter Nine: Milarky

I got Frank to sell Crisp's Corona to Himloque Fleetfella for a bluey, a ten guilder note. Cigar's like that are worth serious swine, so there was no way I was gonna let him turn it down. Then I reminded Frank he hadn't eaten all day, so he picked up some ham and cheese bagels on the way to the office. If it weren't for me, the bull would've been poor and starving before he knew what was how.

Once back at the office, Frank unlocked Bob from the attic and helped him down the ladder. “I think you broke my fharkin’ ribs,” was all the kid could manage.

There! See what you get! That's gratitude for you. 

"Sorry about that, Bob. I'm afraid you were my CPR guinea pig. You hungry?"

"Are you kidding? All you got in this place is peanuts. I could eat an ork!"

"Don't knock peanuts. They're the most perfect food in the known Realms.” Frank unloaded the bagels and started brewing up some coffee. “How you feeling anyway?"

Bob picked up two bagels in each hand and ate while he talked. “Like warmed up shit in the sand.” Crumbs sprayed across the floor. “How did you heal my wrist anyway. Are you a magileech?"

"No! No, the wrist was only an illusion courtesy of my friend, Rhys."

"Illusion, huh? Well, he scared the life out of me. I'd sure like to meet him..."

"OK, here he is.” Frank tossed me on the table.

"Hi, Bob,” I said out loud. “It's good to be alive, ain't it?"

Magic is a commonplace commodity in the City. There's always wizards or sorcerers floatin’ around firin’ off an angry fireball, or conjurin’ up some demonspawn for us all to gawk at (as for magileeches, they're more likely to turn your nose into a lobster while trying to fix your backache than anything else. Steer clear, unless you're really desperate). Even so, magic swords, even modest ones such as myself, have a degree of romance about ‘em and always get a reaction, particularly when they speak. Star-geld is an amazing metal. It doesn't shine like polished steel. It shimmers, kind of like water does when you're looking up at the suns from below. That shimmering, gently pulsing ebb and flow. It's simply ... well ... magical, I guess.

But to me, it's just me.

"Wow! A miniature magic sword! That's mad!” The kid picked me up between thumb and forefinger and felt the balance. Perfect, of course. “Can it mindspeak?"

"Yeah, but only to the bull. But check this out.” It was my turn to show off. I burnt a little Manah and levitated the Candlemakers’ Guild letter (overdue account number five) and a stray pencil, which I set up as if the letter was holding it from a corner like a sword. Then I lifted myself up to face it. “En Guard!” Tip tap tip tap, I crossed blades with the pencil in a saga inspired mock combat. The kid laughed and Frank smiled while he downed his coffee. “I shall rescue the princess from your foul grasp!” I lifted Frank's spoon and threw my voice. “Oh, please save me, Sir Rhysalot. Help! Help!” I kept it up ‘til my Manah sink was running dry. The spoon was heavier than I thought.

"Aha!” I drove my point past the pencil and straight through the bill.

"Arrrggggg! I am slain!” and the letter dropped to the table facedown, vanquished.

"Oh, Sir Rhysalot, my hero!” I pushed the spoon against my hilt.

"That's enough talk, Princess Spoonella, my shaft is as hard as star-geld for you."

Bob clapped and cheered and dropped a bagel. “That's mad!"

I took a bow as best I could. I must admit, it was good to see a smile on the kid's face.

"You gonna eat all of that?” Bob asked once he'd recovered, pointing at what was left of Frank's half-eaten bagel.

"It's yours,” Frank answered. In a flash, it was gone. The kid was eating well. He was eating better than well. If he started building a cocoon around himself, I wouldn't have been surprised.

Bob filled in those after-lunch-moments reading the funny page of the Kronikle while Frank finished another coffee and I rested up. Finally, Frank grabbed his hat. “So, what do you want to do, Bob? I'm heading back to Hightown, but you're welcome to hang around here if you want, or I can go with you back to the Guildhouse.” Frank was trying to sound casual-like, but he was walking on peppers.

"No. No, I think maybe ... no, because I can't really face ... well, yes, I think ... no..."

"Look, like I said before up on the roof, you've got this apprenticeship in a Crested Guild, It'd be a shame to throw it all away over a lady friend."

"It's not like that. Anyway, I don't know if I want to be Bob the Necromancer. I don't know if I'm cut out for it. I mean, my father got me into it because his brother was a necromancer and it's steady, well paid work, but I never really ... I mean it's not really me, you know? I mean, I enjoy ... oh, it doesn't matter. I should go back. But then..."

"What do you want to do, Bob?"

Bob shrugged. “Dunno. Dad'd go orkan if I quit."

"Believe me, I know how you feel.” Frank looked grim. I didn't know anything about his past back then so I didn't know what he meant. “Listen, you've got to make up your own mind about your future. If necromancy isn't for you, you've got to look for something else."

Bob's chin dropped and his face frosted over with depression again.

Frank changed the subject. “Well, I've got to follow up on some leads, so you can stay here or tag along."

Frank, this is business. We don't need no kid... 

"Sure, I'll tag. You chasing this Hightown Hacker?"

What we need is our own magicar, Frank, I keep telling you. If you get this Ursors’ bonus, we could get... 

I kept bitchin’ while Frank and Bob hit the street and took a wyvern down to the Bulwark..

There were twice as many trarks as usual around the Hightown Entry Pavilion with twice the tension and twice the homicidal look in their beady, bright-arterial-red eyes. It was like the air was made of broken glass and you could feel it scrape across your face.

They checked Frank over and under and over again, checked over the pass token several times and finally let him through. As a Crest-Guilded apprentice, Bob got in for free. None of them spoke a single word.

The Guard are taking this whole thing pretty fharkin’ personally, ain't they? 

There were three Phudds waiting in the cab bay. At the front of the queue was Tony, drinking a can of Muck, ‘the City Bitter'.

"Stubby! You becomin’ a Hightown regular now, or what? A high-liver and guilder-giver? And you've brought a little friend! Step into my office, short-lived ones, and let Tony-boy take you where you wanna be!"

"I think he's been drinking, Frank,” Bob whispered in Frank's ear.

"I certainly hope so,” Frank whispered back. “The last place you'd want to be is in a magicar with a sober Tony at the wheel. Believe me. Hey, Tony! Do you think you can find me Capi-toll Square in this here place?"

They chewed the fat as we shot down First Avenue away from the Bulwark. Tony drove at high speed and seemed to hardly ever look at the road in front of him. But somehow, he always looked just in time and then shouted a trail of abuse out his window as though it was as natural as breathing. Yeah, Tony was the real elvish deal. He was no sell out.

"So what have you heard about this Hightown Hacker milarky?” I asked him. Cabbies get to hear plenty, and they talk. Maybe it might pique a certain bull's interest if I got Tony to sing about it.

"Well, it's all come on so sudden like, hey? The fharkin’ Watch has pulled in punks from everywhere, all missing bits of leg or somethin', but they're gettin’ nowhere. Takklehurm is grillin’ ‘em out right now, as a matter o’ fact. Dutchy dropped him down at Watchhouse One not twenty tocks ago. The fharkin’ trarks are all over Hightown, of course, usin’ their mumbo jumbo, but they've come up with squat. It's the Guilstapo that'll find the joker.” Tony lowered his voice. “Those guys don't fhark around, but you'd know all about that then, wouldn't you, Stubby? I still remember the day when you..."

"Yes, that's enough, thanks, Tony."

Tony lifted his hands off the wheel and grinned in mock ‘whaddidIsay?’ resignation.

Hightown was subdued, the complete opposite of the rabid commercial festivities going on in the Strip. Tony pulled the Phudd up at a red traffic crystal at the Fourth Avenue intersection, jawin’ on about the nutball draft.

Then Bob opened the passenger door and bolted, all hells bent for leather.

"Bob!” Frank was after him like a shot, his hat coming loose as he hit the street.

"Oye! Oye!” Tony yelled in the background, but it was no use. Something had spooked the kid and Frank didn't want to let him go. He was quick, the little punk. He scampered down the sidewalk and ran into 'Realmwide Precious Goods—Importers of the most Exclusive Porcelain and China'.

Frank was puffing hot air out his snout and I was cursing like an elf. A real elf. We heard a woman scream just before Frank came through the door. The kid had just mounted the counter and was heading out back. We didn't have time to admire the finery—the pert little gold leafed china puppies or the porcelain elvish baby dolls in pink silk pajamas. Frank went straight after Bob, over the counter, and the little dame with the mousy hair screamed again, louder for the bull. They don't have a good reputation in china shops, apparently.

"Sorry, ma'am,” Frank muttered, and kept running.

Around the corner and through the tea room. Another scream. Another shocked dame with mousy hair. She dropped her tea cup on the floor and it smashed (the only china damaged, I might add, and it wasn't really the bull's fault), totally ruining her lazy Turnsday afternoon, no doubt.

Into the adjoining bathroom.

He's cornered. We've got him! 

But Bob was already half hanging out the window, squeezing his way through like an insect. Frank was just reaching for a leg when somethin’ hit him from behind.

Two trarks had Frank, one around the body, the other ‘round the knees. They threw him down and stuck a small knife under his chin. It had a thin shimmering blade, as if it was only the suggestion of a blade. It could quite obviously cut through steel like wet salami.

"Why in sssuch a hurry Missster Mynosss?” They smiled a pair of ugly yellow-teethed smiles.

And Bob was gone.




Chapter Ten: Cimmerian Drive

The Hightown Guard Interview Room wasn't such a bad sort of a joint. It had carpet, four chairs and a metal topped desk. It was three floors down from the ground floor of the Guarddome on Third Avenue in Hightown. They had cheap watercolor prints on the walls, those pastel-ly kind that remind you of pressed flowers.

"Like I told you, the kid is suicidal and I didn't want him getting away and maybe harming himself, OK? That's all. That's it. You can check with Master Mancer Ahrkanion Hotsun the third of the Necromancers’ Guild. I'm sure the whole incident was written up in triplicate for their files."

"I sssee. I ssssee.” The trark tapped his talons on the desk. Trarks are as mean as a flock of disgruntled dragons, but they ain't built for interrogation. Not the un-physical kind, anyway, and Frank's Guild letter of commission had them nervous enough not to try the other sort. Yet.

"Maybe you could ask me about my reasons for being in Hightown?” Frank was a helpful kind of bull. He could tell when a punk was in trouble.

"Sssilenccce!” Pause. “What was your businesss in Hightown today, Missster Mynosss?"

"Well, I..."

The door opened and in walked Director-General Vappid Reamer. He was still in his all-black getup with his usual look of smug superiority plastered across his furry little face like it was held together with kwik-stik magiglue. He didn't even look at the trark. He motioned over his shoulder with his thumb and the trark walked out.

"So, Franklin. I don't see you for years, and then, bang, twice in the one glass. Isn't that amazing! Isn't that ... a coincidence? Isn't it a small world? A small world for small people.” Vappid climbed up onto the seat and sat. His tiny feet didn't touch the ground but somehow, he remained menacing. Quietly menacing. Like an explosive porcelain doll. “You got anything to tell me, Franklin? I've got the goods on you, buddy, you know I've got the goods. How can you compete? You know the Bureau. We can do it all. But hey, it's not like we've got a crystal ball, huh?” He paused for dramatic effect. “Oh, hang on, we do ... ” The Director-General of the Guilstapo pulled a crystal scrying ball out from under his trenchcoat. It was about the size of a lemon.

He dropped it toward the tabletop and it stopped a thumb width from the surface. I saw little rays of sunflower-gold Manah holding it there, calm and patient, ready for command.

Vappid fitted his monocle into one eye. “Do we want to watch, Stubby, I believe that's what they call you now, isn't it? Yes? Do we want to watch Stubby at the Embalmers’ Guildhall, or maybe Stubby saving the boy on the roof, with a special guest appearance by his friend, the Yhorish letter opener..."

"You're boring, Vappid,” Frank cut in. “You've always been a boring little lollipop who needed every magical device the Bureau could get him to do his job. Why don't you get yourself a brain and quit using your little balls?"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop to what you'd expect in an Ice Drake's lair on a midwinter's night during a blizzard with no thermal britches. Vappid's tiny eyes were pins, the tips of pins, poisoned pins on the ends of keylock traps.

"Maybe we could spin the dial back a few years and watch the Samsonvale Tavern incident. I was there you know, so I can get a fix on it like that...” He clicked his fingers with one hand and waved the other, palm down, over the top of the crystal. I saw the back of a minotaur's head and the back of a halfling's head and a tavern door opening...

"No!” Frank jumped up, grabbed Vappid's wrist and pulled it away from the ball. The image faded. Frank's nostrils flared.

Vappid smiled. He looked at the thick hand around his tiny wrist and looked back into Frank's dark brown eyes. Slowly. Silence.

Two trarks burst in, ready to kill.

Vappid held up his other hand and waved them back out the door. “Franklin. Franklin. No need to get so worked up, you'll get yourself hurt. I just didn't want to keep boring you, that's all. I just needed your attention. I want to know what you know about this whole Hightown Hacker deal. I know you were at the necroview and the Ursors’ want you down on paper for them and you still haven't committed. I also know you're pretty much immune to the Mind Rinse, so why don't you share what you got with your ol’ pal, Vappid, huh? In the interest of the innocent City dwellers at threat. Huh?” Vappid reached over with his free hand and lifted Frank's fingers off his wrist, one at a time.

That sounds reasonable, Frank. Tell him what you know and let's get the hell out here. 

"Once again, fine advice from your magical toothpick. It's good to see someone's looking out for you these days."

Damn! I'd forgotten about that.

Frank slowly sat down and regained his composure. He straightened out his suit and specs. “I'm not working the Hightown case, Vappid. The necroview was a blow-out, as usual. I'm currently retained by the Embalmers’ Guild on a separate matter, so you'll just have to find your hacker or butcher or baker or whatever you want to call him, by yourself, without my help this time, OK? Do you think you'll manage without me? Try using your balls.” He pointed at the crystal and stared into the halfling's face.

Vappid laughed and it was a terrible sound, like his smile, only louder.

"I'm going to let you walk, Franklin, for old time's sake you understand..."

"What have you got on me, Vappid? Is it a crime to run in Hightown now?"

"At the moment, it could be. Takklehurm has put Article Nine of the Hightown Protection Charter into operation. I'm sure I don't need to remind you what that means. You used to know things like the Hightown Security and Protection Charter backwards, huh? Anyway, you can walk and go about your business. All your credentials check out. Just remember though, I'll be keeping an eye out, and maybe an ear or two. Try and keep your snout clean, or I might have to clean it for you."

Frank left the room and the building without looking back. I could tell he was uptight. His back was as stiff as a frozen fillet.

Geez, Frank, you got some great friends in high places. Maybe you shouldn't ride him so hard, huh? 

"I'm going to need you to keep a scryguard up if you can, Rhys."

Now scrying is an inexact art, let me tell you that. It's not like you just get a crystal ball or a bunch of tea leaves or five pounds of fresh intestine outta’ some punk's unwilling guts and whamoh, you can see what's what and what's when. Otherwise, Vappid and his cronies would've worked out who the Hacker was and we'd all have gone back to our miserable lives none the richer or poorer. There are limitations. I'm no Mage, but I think it's somethin’ to do with how attuned you are to the subject, and even then, you don't get a perfect picture unless you were actually there, or the possibility of a certain causality would have potentially placed you there or ... Well, you get the picture. It's all metaphysical this and existential that and downright confusin', so its no wonder half the Magi you meet are five twits short of a guilder. Suffice it to say, I could manage a pretty simple scryguard so anyone trying to focus in on us would have a hell of a time.

But nothing's perfect.

Not even me.

Frank walked quietly down the clean Hightown sidewalk under the shadow of the Guarddome. The ‘G’ is a magically inflated hemisphere of concrete that serves as the centre of Hightown security. Not only do the trarks run it and live in it, but it also serves as their nursery. When old trarks start runnin’ out of steam, they hatch new ones deep in the bowels of the ‘G'. If you want to know how I found that out, you'll have to wait. It's part of a whole different story.

Parked on double lines, Tony was waitin’ in his cab. He was on his thirteenth blazing dog. “Hey, Stubby. Couldn't let you do a fharkin’ runner on me like that, so I thought I'd wait for my fare. Plus, I got your hat. You alright, kid?"

"Yes, thanks, Tony.” Frank took the battered fedora and fitted it down between his horns.

Guys would do that for Frank. I mean Tony would've rather thrown away a freshly cooked Sorcerer's Supreme pizza than hang around doin’ nothin’ and knockin’ back fares. He was always needing the swine to build and renovate. His joint in Knaves was gonna keep going ‘til it kissed the clouds. But here he was, sittin’ out front of the ‘G’ for squat. Guys would do that for Frank. He had a way.

"You still goin’ to Capi-toll Square?"

"No thanks, Tony.” Frank eyes were focused behind his Hurghian lenses. He was back. “Now I fancy a little stroll along the boardwalk. Drop us down Cimmerian Drive, if you would."

"Sure thing.” He bit a chunk out of his last blazing dog and gassed the Phudd out onto the street, cuttin’ across the lanes and almost taking out a bright blue Lexican. The punk in the Lex blew his horn and Tony responded with the universal, realms-wide, single digit salute. There was a gap in the next lane behind a full-on City elf wearing silver spandax tights and riding a pegasus pony, and Tony couldn't resist it. He slipped the Phudd in and the pegasus spooked, then lashed out with its back hooves. But Tony had already allowed for it. It missed the side panel of the passenger door by a goblin's whisker. “Better luck next time, you jumped up fharkin’ flyin’ rabbit!” he shouted out his window.

After a few more hair-raisin’ stunts, Tony let Frank out near the docks on Cimmerian Drive, a road that runs the length of Hightown's western coastline. The Hightown Docks (west) are settled in at about the point where Dark Fin Bay becomes the Soup—the body of water that's the dumping ground for all the industrial and magidustrial waste that pours out of Westside and Westside Upper Limits every tock. The Soup had a distinctive green tinge that day. Not ocean green, but more a sick tree frog green. Over the faint green haze, I could see Westside pumping out fumes and the Westside City docks with hundreds of ships all jammed up together sharing space.

If any part of Hightown can be called ‘cheap', Cimmerian Drive is it. It's where the lowest corporate players live, the ones still at the bottom of the mountain, but higher than most City dwellers could dream. Terrace units are built right up against each other along the eastern side of the road, all looking very similar and sterile in a desperate-to-be-affluent-amongst-the-effluent kind of way. The western side of the road is ringed by a boardwalk that runs along the edge of Hightown right to the southern tip, where you can catch a ferry to the Statue of Franchise.

Frank took a walk on the boardwalk and scanned up and down the water's edge. “According to the Watch Report on Mz Ash's death, this is where they pulled her out of the drink, Rhys.” He looked over the edge and I looked with him. It was deep and alien. It looked like a tough place to die. Frank turned and faced the terraces. “And this is where the Watch made their inquiries, but...” Frank turned back to the water, “...the tide at the estimated time of death would have carried her in toward the Soup. Brought her in at least a bow cast, so that...” His hands made some nautical calculations in the air, which came up with his finger pointing further up the boardwalk, at the far end of the Hightown Docks (west).

Frank pushed his fedora firmly on his head and followed his snout.

The Hightown Docks (west) are not much different than any other docks. A bit cleaner, a bit quieter. A bit less, well, dock-y. There are dockers, of course, but none of them live in Hightown. They boat in from Westside each morning, or catch the Subway, along with the cleaners and the butlers and the waiters and the other folk that actually do the work to keep the place hummin'. They wear clean-ish clothes (for dockers) and smoke the usual collection of hazardous weeds that dockers seem to get their hands on all over the known realms. Don't hang out with a bunch of the guys in an enclosed space for too long unless you're used to it—you'll end up thinking you're covered in bugs and you're the heir to the Hummdinger throne or somethin'.

Frank went straight up to the foreman, a fishman by the name of Winnow Walx. Fishmen get a bad rap, particularly in the sagas, probably because of the wide, black eyes and their gaping, fishy mouths. They're always cast as the mad schemers of the deep and unquiet seas, desperately plotting to destroy the civilization of the land dwellers for the glory of their ancient, bloodlusting gods. The reality is that they're just as much land dwellers as any other walking race in the Realms and, in fact, a large slice of ‘em can't even breathe underwater anymore. They can go their whole life without ever touching seawater, and most of ‘em do, though when they do get in the drink, they can swim like a ... fish. Don't get me wrong, they have their share of mad schemers around the City, it's just that the desperate plots they plot usually only involve the glory of their own prosperity, just like the rest of us.

Winnow Walx had one good arm, an eye for trouble and was as thick as two planks, in the mind and muscle. His face was flat and mean and tough, with a wide mouth like a cod. You could have used him to drive stakes into a vampire pig.

"Whadayawant, bull?” he asked. He puffed on a cheap ‘roll-u-own’ cigarette.

"I want to talk to anyone who was on duty at around Heavenshand three days ago..."

"I was on then, what about it?"

"You see a broad with red hair near the docks that night?"

"Na."

"You see anything unusual?"

"Na.” But he blinked and looked away nervously. Our new pal, Winnow, was a poor liar. I could read him like a Penthouse letter.

"Listen,” Frank said in a friendly tone. When Frank was friendly, lips loosened. He could sound like the kind of rich, friendly uncle that gave you toy boats for no reason. “If it helps any, the Guilstapo are very interested in this whole Hightown Hacker deal and they may..."

"Look.” Winnow's cool dropped through the hardwood into the Bay. “All I saw was these punks, three or four of ‘em, over there near Pier One. They were carrying somethin’ between ‘em and they dropped it, and I heard one of ‘em shout, otherwise I wouldn't have seen ‘em. He didn't swear like a docker, see? He said something poofy, you know, like “blinkers” or “jinkers” or something like that. What a fharkin’ goose, I thought, and then I got on with my business, right? Now I don't know nuthin’ other than that and I certainly don't know shit about no Hightown Hacker, see?"

"Right, thank you, Mr Walx..."

"Just Winnow's fine, bull."

"Winnow, right, thank you, Winnow, you've been very helpful."

"Just don't mention me to no Guilstapo, huh? It's bad enough workin’ here with the Watch and the Guard on your back, but those punks...” He let the sentence hang like a criminal.

"I know, Winnow. I know."

Frank walked away toward Dock One. The gulls and pigeons competed for air and ground space around us, hoping for a snack, and the sound of the water moving and the rigging creaking filled the air. We were far enough away from the Soup now for the water to look almost like water instead of Magic Jaz, the dish detergent more Wizards use.

Frank checked out Dock One carefully, then cast his eyes around the surrounding area. The dock itself was empty and the pier looked worse for wear. There was a dockers’ yard opposite, where rusty bits of machinery were stored. Gravel with clumps of spindly grass filled the gaps. The place reeked of neglect.

"Look, Rhys. If I had something to throw into the Bay, and I had a magicar or whathaveyou, I wouldn't want to park it along Cimmerian, because people in the terrace apartments might see me. No, I'd park over there, in the dockers’ yard, where there's always stuff being carried around. And it's dark. Look, no magilights by the road, so I'd park there, and bring it down here. No one's going to notice another bunch of people carrying something around in a dockers’ yard. And then I'd toss it in, only I drop it and someone hears me say something out of sorts. Not right. And so we know. Ashley Ash was killed and dumped in here by three of four people and discovered the next day further up the Soup."

Great, so now we know. Big deal, Frank. We ain't investigating her murder, we're just tryin’ to find her stiff. 

"There's a connection, and there's more than one connection if I'm not mistaken. Something Skrew said.... We need to know what happened here, what happened to her to start with, which will lead us to what happened to her after. You've got to sort out all the pieces before you can get to..."

The truth? 

"The truth!” Frank laughed, but he didn't sound happy. “I don't deal in truth, Rhys. There is no the truth. All we got is a bunch of facts that add up to a truth and what you do with that, is your own beeswax. Maybe there once was the Truth, but if there ever was, it was one of those priceless Daktarrian urns that got smashed into a million million pieces. That's what we're left with, Rhys. Each one of those pieces is a truth and each one of those pieces is made up of a million million other pieces. If people want truth, they should go find a poet. All I'm good for is a string of facts, put together in a meaningful way."

Frank could be a philosophical son of a sermon-singer. He once had an argument with Dishtoe, some foreign brainiac, about the nature of existence and the concept of Utopia, whatever the hell that means. It sounded like an OK place, as long as you kept your nose clean, but cleaning noses can be a raw deal in anyone's book. Dishtoe ended up with a flat nose after he expressed the view the Todgers were gonna win the World Series of Nutball to Tully, the biggest Stankees fan this side of the Soup. And Tully was a Westside docker who could lift three caskets of iron ingots without breaking a sweat.

Case closed.

OK, Frank, there's no truth. We're all just a figment of each other's imagination and life is absurd or meaningless or whatever. So what's the next step? I vote you grab the nearest magifone and give Tuttlesling a call... 

"No, Rhys. I've got a hunch we're on to something here. I want to play this out and see where it leads us. I think we might pay Mr Eribonn Snee a visit."

Zucchini zombie guy? 

"Zucchini zombie guy."

Frank headed back up the boardwalk toward Cimmerian to hail another cab. The afternoon breeze was picking up and blowing clouds over the suns. Frank's tie flicked up in the air like a striking snake.

Frank. I hate Gaols. 

"You hate everything, Rhys."

Yeah, maybe, which only proves I've got higher expectations than most. 

Frank found a Phudd and we headed off to GAOL.




Chapter Eleven: Debtors’ GAOL

The City has dungeons and it has GAOLs. Dungeons are nasty places. They have rats. They have disease. They have guys who want you to call them Big Papa Pump.

But GAOLs are worse.

And Debtors’ GAOL is the second worst of them.

Debtors’ GAOL is the place they send anyone who owes big swine to a big Guild and don't look like they're gonna pay it back. It's a relatively safe, relatively controlled, relatively constant region of the Otherworld; Perdition Ninety-eight X if you want to find it, but I suggest you don't bother unless you're at least an Extra Master Mage (hold the cheese) with a Staff of Great Shabang and balls you could strike sparks off. Once they've done their ‘time', the criminal is released back into our World.

Some people see this as a soft option. Some people see the released inmate, how they haven't physically aged and say, "well, look at Fat Shimmby. He got off light in one of those GAOLs, didn't he? Wouldn't have happened in my day."

But GAOLs do things to people. People come back reduced. It's almost impossible to travel to the Otherworld and not be reduced. It's a metaphysical thing—our world gives, the Otherworld takes—and because the punks who are whinin’ about it are in our world, they don't see what's been taken. But I can see it, and it's not a pretty thing to see.

"You got ten tocks in there, bull, and you're only getting’ that ‘cuz of the Embalmers, see?” The half ogre was short for his race, which meant he was twice as mean. He had on a gray City GAOL uniform with patches and tags and shiny buttons on his collar. Above his head on the wall was a sign:

City Gate Accessed Otherworld Lockup (GAOL): PERDITION

Please, stay out of trouble.

The Gate to Eribonn Snee's own personal chunk of hell hovered above a copper plate about the size of an ogre's dinner dish.

"Watch your step when you go through and try not to look down. Or up. Or left, or right, or, well just try not to look. The City Department of Otherworld Correctional Facilities will take no responsibility for any manias, phobias, depressions or any other psychiatric conditions as a result of your visit.” He said it in the same way any City official says anything they've said over five million and six times to so many people, they couldn't give a rat's crack anymore. “Sign here."

Frank signed and stepped through without a word.

Gate travel is as safe as any other sort of travel that involves moving what amounts to a soft biological creature over a vast, metaphysically diverse distance in an extremely short period of time.

Are you sure we really need to... 

It's like stepping off a cliff face onto an invisible bridge of marshmallow with all the lights off. There was a sudden feeling of movement without moving. An even more sudden feeling of becoming displaced without actually going nowhere.

And then you're there. I'm sure Master Magi get used to Gate travel. I'm sure to them, it's like ducking out to the privy for a slash, but hell ... I hate it.

We found ourselves on a white glowing square, as big as a dance floor in one of those swanky Strip joints with the laser balls and coloured lights. The walls and roof were black, but they weren't walls and roof, they were essence barriers holding out the Otherworld. The blackness moved without moving, charged Otherness oozing and returning to itself, and every now and then, you glimpsed something out of the corner of your eye. A suggestion of something that may be there. Or may be somewhere else. Or maybe nowhere all at once.

Maybe getting closer.

Eribonn Snee was lying on the floor face-down. You might have thought he was dead if you didn't know you couldn't die in the Otherworld. Not in the way you understand death, anyway. Now where would be the fun in that?

"Mr Snee?"

Eribonn stood up slowly and turned his head. Like most elves, he was handsome and tall-ish, but his golden hair had matted into what amounted to dreaded locks, a popular look with some youth subcultures that have decided to rebel against everything from classic neo-fascist bourgeois hypocrisy, to basic hygiene and taste. His eyes were gray, the gray of a blank stone wall.

"Mr Snee,” Frank tried again. “Can you hear me?"

"Of course I can hear you. Are you here to find the dulcet tweed?” It didn't sound like a question.

"No, I'm here to ask some questions about the ... ah ... incident that led you here."

Snee seemed to digest the words for a while, like a really bad meatloaf. Then he ran.

He ran straight into one of the walls. He hit it and screamed. It was like he was being dipped in vertical water, inky deep seawater. There was a flash of orange and blue and he fell back onto the glowing white floor. He was screaming and laughing at the same time. You could tell.

"My wibble! Hold off the twidgy widgy bilbits with sneed, I said, sneed!"

"Mr Snee!” Frank shouted.

As quick as half a wink, Snee jumped up and slapped Frank across the face. Then he sat down cross-legged on the floor. “You were saying?"

Most minotaurs would have beaten the pulp out of an elf for even suggesting they might even think about slapping them in the face at some time in the future if they were really drunk and terminally insane. Frank saw the bigger picture. Even though, I'm sure his nostrils flared for just a tick. Just an eye blink. Just the swish of a tail.

"I was perusing your accounts regarding your fertilizer business records, Mr Snee, and I have a question for you.” Frank kept an eye on the crazy son of a serpent. Snee just sat and looked back, gray-ly. “It would appear there was a silent partner who provided an initial capital outlay, but a name is never mentioned. Only the initials HR. And yet, you were the only one indicted for culpable magicriminal neglect, and pursued for debt. So who was HR?"

Snee smiled and then let it fade.

Frank, you're not gonna get nothin’ straight out of this cracked egg... 

"Is it worth it, bull?” Snee muttered, his face slowly turning a strange shade of purple. “Is it? The plate's clean, isn't it? I kept the plate clean for supper...” He turned his head. “I saw you in the twelling dome! I saw you all!” he screamed over his shoulder. He turned back to us and smiled. “I'll tell you who HR is if you can riddle me an answer."

"Don't you mean..."

"I know what I mean. Do you think I'm crazy?"

"Well,” I began. “The thought had kicked up some dust..."

"Be quiet, Rhys. Alright, I'll riddle you an answer."

Snee took in a deep breath and his eyes lit up like fire. “What is it then?"

"What is what?"

"What's the answer?"

This guy is a nutter, Frank. A nutter. Why don't we ever meet anyone nice? 

Frank ignored me. “So you want me to give you an answer and then you'll provide the riddle?"

"Of course! How else would you do it?"

"Yes, rather dim of me, I suppose. OK. Here goes. A man."

"Wrong! Try again...” Snee snorted as if Frank was a well-meaning but inept child trying to say the alphabet.

"OK, how about, water."

"Wrong again! You're not very good at this, are you, bull? OK, you get one more answer, then that's it."

Frank, why are you even bothering? This guy is five eons past his use by date and he's getting more rotten by the tock. It could be anything! Anything! Just butt him in the face, grab him ‘round the throat and shake it out of him, huh? I imagine that's what most people who visit him do. 

"...of course. Thanks, Rhys. My answer is a red-haired woman."

Snee sat very still with his back to us. He turned his head slowly. His face was blank. A blank mask of madness. Then he leapt into the air and clapped his hands furiously. “Very good! Very good! The riddle is, who was the last one to ask me your question, so I will give you the very same answer I gave her.” Snee danced around as happy as twelve priests at a virgin convention.

"So, who is HR?"

"The answer to your riddle, that you have riddled to my answer, shall be a further riddle to answer.” Snee giggled like a goblin. Frank and I both felt the sudden pull of the Gate. White mist closed around us. “HR is the thought case, two thirds full of limpid pearls, watched by an angry lion..."

And in a sickening, stomach-dropping flash, Frank was back on the coppery plate in the GAOL office. Lieutenant Reginald Hoggwash was waiting for us, along with Kris and two uniformed watchstables dressed in blue-washed breastplates and faces hacked from a quarry.

"Well, Mynos, have I got some news for you.” Hoggwash's fat square head was smiling so hard, I thought it was going to split open and spray us with shit. Kris sniggered in the way all sycophants snigger in every world of all the known universes. “I have here a warrant for your civil arrest, would you believe? It gives me no pleasure at all, Mynos, I assure you, but ... oh hell, it gives me plenty of pleasure, there, I've said it."

Run, Frank! We could get by these creeps and... 

"What is the charge, Lieutenant?” Frank was calm. Not a whisker moved on his face. His tail didn't twitch.

"Franklin Mynos, also known as Stubby, you are hereby charged with willful and commercially objectionable operations of trade under the Registered Bodies Charter, to wit: the acceptance of Guild authority whilst under no adequate Guild affiliation, personal or Company. I am pleased to inform you that you have the right to remain silent unless spoken to..."

Let's get out of here, Frank, before they get the irons on you.

The two uniforms approached with the cuffs.

"...you have the right to remain passive while being beaten with sticks..."

Frank! Let's go! 

The cuffs slipped neatly over Frank's thick wrists. His face was soft and creased.

"...you have the right to legal advocacy. If you cannot afford representation, then the court will let you rot in hell. Do you understand these rights? If not, tough tarts!"

Frank seemed to be in a dream, but I knew it was more the opposite of dreaming. It was more of a logic trance. He was busy putting two and two and two together. Then, just as they led him into the back of the Watch van, his face smoothed out. His snout smiled and his wide brown eyes, peeking out through those oval specs, gave a secret twinkle.

I heard him whisper a name, but I didn't know what it meant, though I knew who it was. Everyone knew who it was.

"Logan Tightfish."




Chapter Twelve: The Tightfish Connection

The holding cells down at City Watchhouse One are not as bad as the City Dungeon downstairs, which is a hellhole from the darkest regions of the most depraved psyche, but you don't go down there ‘til you're processed and you're not processed ‘til somebody signs you off.

How, in all the many and varied planes of Other existence, is a no-name punk like Ghimp gonna get a word with the almighty Logan Tightfish, and more to the point, how's it gonna help us? I mean, what does ‘tell him you've got a message from Eribonn Snee’ mean? You should've run, Frank. You and me on the hoof from the Man. Instead, here I am in a musty drawer with an axe, three knives and a cheap Raktaari broadsword. Life's sure goin’ downhill. 

Well, I kept on bitchin’ pretty much nonstop until Uunda Ghimp—cheap Lowtown advocate, property investor and occasional illicit goods distributor—marched through the gate with his bright green goblin face beaming a yeah-I-always-hang-out-with-the-big-wigs look and Logan Tightfish right behind him with a face that looked like it had been dipped in curdled yak's milk.

I almost dropped my hilt.

Logan Tightfish, Head Registrar of the Office of the Body Politic Registry, asked for a private audience with one Mr Franklin Mynos in an Interview Room. The two watchstables behind the counter and the duty clerk almost fell over each other trying to get it done.

The room was arranged and Frank was cuffed and led into it, with Ghimp by his side. Tightfish shooed the watchstables away.

"Mr Mynos, I presume.” His voice was clipped clean like a well manicured shrub, the kind they turn into tasteful shapes. His appearance was the same; he wore an understated dark suit with a swish twin-tie and short spectacles. He was a human made out of a book.

Fortunately, they were still within range of my sentience attunement, so, despite being stuck in the Prisoners’ Articles (bladed instruments) Secured Locker, I was happily looking through Frank's big browns and listening through his ears and even getting a solid whiff of Tightfish's ‘Poop!’ aftershave, the stuff that's made from bird droppings and sells for fifty guilders a bottle. It's one of the advantages of attunement. There are disadvantages ... but I won't go into them now.

"Mr Mynos, your advocate, who was just leaving, informs me you wish to speak to me."

Tightfish didn't take his eyes off Frank. Ghimp was caught in mid sit. He was thinking 'I'm in the big league now! Head Registrar at my fharking beck and call!' You could read it all across his self-satisfied pinched-up face.

"Um ... oh ... OK ... I'll ... um ... be just out here then. If you need me, Frank..."

"That's OK, Mr Ghimp. Thanks for your time.” You could have heard several pins drop in Frank's mouth.

"Yeah, no sweat.” Ghimp closed the door.

Tightfish pulled out a small statue made in the shape of a crouching dog, a rottweiler or a dobermain, a mean looking son of a sucker. It sat there quietly and didn't seem to do anything in particular. Unless you had Magisight. I saw the Scryguard spew out of the dog's mouth and develop into a thick ball of Manah-focused energy that enveloped the two of them. It was a dark flaming orange colour, very tight, very solid—expensive stuff. To listen in on this conversation you'd need a Scry at least a thousand times stronger than anything MAD had access to.

In a nearby room, I heard Hoggwash say ‘Dammit!'

The Magicrime Analysis Division of the City Watch was a good idea that just didn't work. The idea was to have a team of magically competent professional investigators that would investigate crimes involving magic. The old ‘fire to fight fire’ deal. The trouble with it in practice is that the pay structure for MADmen is the same as it is for the rest of the City Watch, which means any punk with a few drops of magical aptitude avoids the shiny City Watch recruitment stands in the same way medusas steer clear of well mirrored dressing rooms. A Journeyman Wizard, straight out of apprenticeship, pulls in about ten times as much swine as the Division Head of MAD.

So MAD ends up being staffed by punks with, in terms of magical competence, the collective nouse of a half-baked plum pudding.

"So, what's all this about, Mr Mynos?"

"I need a small favour from you, Mr Tightfish.” Frank stared at a man who could outstare an angry gorgon.

"I'm not the type of man to grant favors lightly, Mr Mynos. I'm sorry if that's what you've heard."

"I've heard a few things recently, and I wouldn't think you're the type of man to come waltzing down to visit unknown guests of the Watch either, Mr Tightfish, but yet you came. Which only confirms for me the accuracy of my deductions."

Tightfish broke eye contact and looked away. A shadow passed over his face. It was quite obviously a face unused to shadows.

"I can't believe this is happening again,” he shook his head and continued. “My involvement in the Snee fertilizer debacle cannot be proven, Mr Mynos, my advocacy team assures me.” He breathed out slowly. “It was my sister, you see, she'd always been easy prey to these elvish fellows and she'd said she loved this one and he reciprocated her feelings and they just needed a start to ... anyway, these are just details. Foolish details. I still don't know what possessed me to finance them but..."

"An old Hurghian saying goes ‘To be wise and never foolish is to live the life of a stone', Mr Tightfish."

If anyone would have suggested to me that Tightfish had any humanity in his foul black mercantile soul before that moment, I would have told ‘em they needed to bathe their head in the waters of the Five Frosty Seas. The guy was known to be a living monument, a walking embodiment of all things City. And the City ate humanity. It ate humanity with sympathy sauce and a side order of braised compassion.

"So what is it you want of me?"

In five tocks time, the two of them marched out of the Interview Room, straight up to the Duty Counter, where a bunch of City Watch officials had gathered. Hoggwash wore a smile that already looked broken and running down his chin like buttered egg.

"Your charge against Mr Mynos is rendered erroneous, Lieutenant.” There was no give in Tightfish's voice. It was an iron rod.

"Yeah. Air-roan-yee-us,” Ghimp repeated.

Tightfish looked at Ghimp. “Don't speak again,” he said softly.

Ghimp didn't.

"I have here an interim Registered Body approval of one Especial Investigators’ Guild naming one Franklin ‘Stubby’ Mynos as Master and Chair, dated retroactively from time of application, which pre-dates Mr Mynos’ acceptance of Guild authority and, thusly, proves he has not, as charged, participated in any objectionable operations of trade under the Registered Bodies Charter.” Tightfish dropped the blue form down on the desk. It made a thud.

"What about regional Faction affiliation...” Hoggwash never quite knew when he was beat.

"If you would care to peruse the document, you will find that under Article Thirteen, Subsection Six (e), the Especial Investigators’ Guild is exempt from Factional requirements under the City Registered Bodies Charter by way of their, and I quote, 'cross-regional sphere of influence accounting for no particular geographical trade predominance'. I hope you find that sufficient to drop all charges, lieutenant." It was pretty obvious it wasn't hope at all. It was a belief you could shoe a dragon with.

"Um ... yes, of course, Mr Tightfish. If I had known ... of course ... I wouldn't have ... it's just that we were informed by a Mr Tuttlesling that Stubby here was breaching the Charter so ... anyway, it wasn't my doing. I was just following procedure."

Tightfish didn't say a word. He stared Hoggwash fully in the face and assaulted him with complete silence.

"Well, we'll just get Mr Mynos returned to the community..."

The last sun was giving up on the sky over the Five Fingers and the night chill was creeping up behind it with a dagger in its pocket. Eastside was starting to wind down. The streets were emptying. Frank followed Tightfish down the stone Watchhouse steps. We'd hardly noticed them before, but two very quiet elves dressed in matt black the colour of eye pupils flanked the Head Registrar. I certainly got the feeling the only reason we were seeing them now was that they wanted us to.

Tightfish's midnight blue Mercedez Flight Coach ZX magicar waited noiselessly at the bottom of the steps. The door slipped open with a further non-sound.

He was about to step inside, when he stopped and turned back to Frank. “If anyone did any harm to Mz Ash, Mr Mynos, anyone, I want them brought to justice. Is that understood?"

Frank nodded. What else could he do?

"Ashley was a fine ... worker. And I ... respected her deeply. Here's my card. If I can be of any further assistance in bringing this matter to light...” He slipped into the car and the door closed and the Merc shot out and upward with barely a sound. I watched the faint yellow Manah trails in the darkening air. I didn't see where the elves had gone.

Shit, Frank, that was a close call. You could've been down in the dungeon getting groped by gorgons before you knew what side of the pillow to bite. 

"There's a time to run, Rhys, and there's a time to think things out."

There's also a time to cash in your jewels, Frank, and that's come right now. Let's get down to the Third National and pick up some Embalmer's swine. 

Frank used his freshly franked Guild charter to open an account at the Third National Bank (we're not friendly, but we make a profit) and immediately pulled out a hundred guilders. It felt like we were big time—high on the hog and looking for the applesauce.

I'm still having trouble sorting this out, Frank. The red-haired woman was the Ash dame, right? 

Frank nodded.

And she was on the Snee case so she was there to ask about HR, just like you were, right? HR stood for Head Registrar, but how did you... 

"That was the easy part, Rhys. It was a simple kryptic krossword puzzle really. The thought case was the Head, two thirds full of limpid pearls referred to Registyne, the only place in all the realms that farms the highly treasured limpid pearls, and two thirds of the letters, six out of nine, adds up to ‘Regist', and what does an angry lion do?"

It goes ‘rar'? 

"Exactly."

So what gives after that? 

Frank hailed down a wyvern and we headed back toward the Strip. The suns were down and the Strip magilights were flooding the sky with cheap primary colours.

"I can't be sure about that, Rhys, but I believe Mz Ash decided to use her newfound knowledge in a less than official capacity."

She was blackmailing Tightfish? 

"I believe so. From the files Crisp showed me, she was promoted three days after she started work on the Eribonn Snee case. Then promoted again in a month's time. It was a somewhat sudden and unusually meteoric career path. The Registry is certainly not well-known for its sudden staff moves. Also, Tightfish said ‘I can't believe this is happening again'."

So Tightfish fogged her to shut her up? 

Frank didn't answer. He had plenty on his plate, including what was going on with the kid. I think he was kinda hoping Bob had made his way back to the office, but when we got there, he was a no show.

He'll be alright, Frank. He probably just had some shit to sort out and now he's safely back with the stiffie stools where he belongs. 

There were two calling cards under the door. The first was from Tuttlesling. It gave his magifone number and had ‘call me’ scrawled on it.

He leaves us a card before or after he shopped you to the Watch? What a fharker! Next time I see that piece of puke, I'm gonna cut him a new nostril. I wouldn't be surprised if he was involved in this whole deal, Frank. 

Frank was still in a contemplative mood. The other card was from the Embalmers. It was Thurl's card, but Josepp Chant had written on it ‘call me with a progress report', and gave his number.

With the paperwork put together, Frank sat in his chair and knocked back some coffee. His concerns must've been bouncing from one horn to the next. The Ash dame, missing, presumed undead, her murder made to look like an accident, the Body Politic blackmailing, Bob, the suicidal teen, an advocate getting him thrown in the lock up while trying to rope him into the Hacker case, the Hacker still at large in the City, Vappid and the Guilstapo breathing down his trousers...

Look, Frank, you need to unwind. You need a little rest, relaxation and good time titillation. How about we blow this joint and see what song the Snout Ring bard is murdering tonight, huh? What's the worst that could happen? And don't answer that! 

"For once, Rhys, I couldn't agree more.” Frank straightened his suit and we headed down to the Snout.

The Snout ain't there anymore, so don't bother lookin’ for it. It ... well, that's a whole different and lengthy story, so I'll save it for another time. There's a Mr Whippy there now; one of those sado-masochism joints. Anyway, it was a decent sort of haunt on Parchers Lane, which runs east off Lincoln just before Main, far enough away from the Strip to stay out of trouble, but close enough to be near the pulse. It was a plain two story job of graystone and cheap wood. There was a bard on Turnsday, Freyday and Simsday nights who sang decent Bohb Dyllan covers, but not much else. And you could get a half decent feed for fifty twits.

That night in particular stands out in my mind because it was then Frank met Gertrude “The Grip” Bovyne. Gertie was a minotaur cow, who stood at least seven foot tall in flats with wide, steel inlaid horns and hands as big as cartwheels. Despite her physical appearance, on the night Frank met her, she was wearing a tasteful mauve evening gown with a thin pearl necklace and had a copious amount of makeup dabbed around her face, including a ‘terracotta dream’ lipsticked snout. She looked down her snout at Frank as he walked in like she was watching an insect on a tree.

"Who's the new door ... ah ... person?” Frank asked Bashful. “What happened to Danny?” Bashful Sonnyson had bought the Snout Ring twenty years ago when he'd made his money in iron mines. Not doing any mining, but playing cards. (Never play cards with dwarves, like I said before, but never, ever play cards with Bashful. His hands were like devil's triangles) He hated violence but kept a Huntmaster triple crossbow under the bar and employed some good people. Trouble was rare at the Snout but when it happened, Bashful was usually ready for it.

"Danny got torn up pretty bad last night. They think he's gonna lose the other eye, so I needed fresh security. Gertie was recommended by Gizzbitt. You know, Molly Malone's chief of security. She's won seven belts in the death wrestling leagues, plus she broke both of Herman the Merman's arms just last week. You know, that part-ork part-merman hard punk, who was running with the Dark Lords. You want your usual, Frank?"

One of the half elvish waitresses brought Frank's tomato and mushroom omelet over with a cup of ‘Yaarr!!’ Hot Sauce—a popular night drink with the minotaur crowd. Tantalynne, the alleged bard, was in the stage corner crooning his way through ‘Every Elf has his Throwing Darts’ while he strummed his lute. It wasn't awful, but it was knock, knock, knocking on the door. Several young bulls were knocking around in a back cubicle, occasionally cracking heads. A young looking sorceress was flirting with a middle-aged mercenary captain from the Iridian Plains. Pretty ordinary stuff for a Snout crowd, but Frank wasn't into it. At first, I thought it was the work getting to him, but then I noticed where his eyes kept turning. It didn't take me long to work out what was going down in love town.

Frankieee. You like the new cow? 

"Shut up, Rhys. She's a fine looking cow but I don't think I'm her type, you know."

Frankieee. Just go and talk to the dame. Hey, I'll talk to her if you like! I'll put in a good word for you and you'll be doing it doggy style in no time ... I wolf whistled. Loud.

You teach yourself these things over the centuries.

"Rhys! Stop it! She's hardly going to ... oh! She's coming over."

OK, I got her attention for you. Now you're on your own. 

"Are you whistling at me, little bull?” Gertie asked. Her eyes were sharp but calm.

"Ahhhh ... no ... well ... yes ... you see it was my letter opener and he..."

"Your leg opener?” The eyes went a lot sharper and turned a lot less calm. “What the fhark do you think I am? A rump steak?” She grabbed Frank by the front of his shirt and pulled him up out of the seat one-handed. Muscle rippled up and down her arm like twisting metal plates. We both got a good look at the tattoo on her forearm which read ‘MOO!’ and had a lightning bolt through it. The arm kept lifting until Frank was pressed against the roof. “Are you looking for trouble?"

"No! No! I just meant that..."

"Put him down, Gertie,” Bashful called out from behind the bar. “He's a regular."

The cow lowered Frank back into his seat. She snorted and walked back to the door.

"Sorry about that, Frank,” Bashful added. “She's fine at her work, but a little hard of hearing. A few too many clouts to the head, you know? Here, have another splash of Yaarr!! on the house."

Well, I think that went quite well, didn't it? 

I was expecting Frank to be sharp with me, but he was smiling. “She has lovely eyes, don't you think, Rhys?"

Ahhh, I don't know, Frank. I was too busy dodging the ceiling fan. 

"I think under that brash exterior beats a kind, warm heart."

Hmmmmmm, well, as long as she leaves yours beatin’ long enough to find out, maybe. 

Love is a funny old deity. I've got a few theories on the subject, but my case is always flawed. I mean, part of the whole magical sentience package are normal drives and desires—they come along for the ride—but, of course, you have no way of really acting on them (except for this one dancing scimitar made by a sorceress named Leslie with a rather novel hilt design ... ). It leaves you with a somewhat bitter taste for the subject, but Frank was a true friend and friends look out for their friend's love lives.

And yeah, I've seen the dame that usually plays ‘Frank's’ love interest in the cinemallusion sagas. She's a full-blood elf with a rack you could smother ogres in and legs as nimble as two fresh rose stems. Don't get me started on that crap again. Like I said, forget it. Wet your head in the ice cold bucket of reality.

Frank finished his hot sauce and we legged it back toward the office without further incident. Both moons were up in the night sky. One was full and just over the dark line of the Bulwark. The wind was from the east, so the fumes and smog from Westside were taken away and you could almost taste a smack of life.

And Frank seemed up-beat. “So what've we got, Rhys? We've got Ashley Ash drowned in the Bay and washed out into the Soup, or killed beforehand and dumped by four people, unknown."

I still don't see what's that got to do with where the stiff's gone, Frank. If the killers wanted the stiff, they wouldn't've dumped her. 

"Yes, Rhys, the killers and the thief or thieves appear to be separate issues, but the killers relate to something else entirely. Maybe the motive for the killing has a relation to the theft ... but that seems unlikely."

But what about the Hightown Hacker, Frank? It's worth ten times the swine and we keep foolin’ around looking for this missing, presumed undead dame. What's up with that? Frank? 

But it was no use yelling. You may as well hit him up the side of the head with a morning star. Nothing budged Frank when his mind was in top gear.

Frank climbed the stairs up to the office and went straight to the attic to crash with the night sounds of the City hanging in the air—the clatter of bread carts, the shouts of the drunk, the occasional scream of the pursued. The City is a hard place, not the sort of joint you want to be caught in without your breastplate or your codpiece. Frank wasn't martial, but he had a way with people that seemed to pull him through, and when that didn't work, he always had his genes. He always said that violence was the last refuge of the ... something or other, I don't remember. Either way, I figure you may as well get the last refuge out of the way straight-up and maybe save yourself the bother of going through the rest. Still, Frank's distaste for violence was a good thing, for the most part, but it left him vulnerable when certain situations came up.

A certain situation woke us up.




Chapter Thirteen: Badd

The situation was “Downright” Badd. Badd was a half ogre muscle-for-hire punk that lived near the Westside docks with his Auntie Florence (and don't let the name fool you—ol’ Auntie Flo could toss a battleaxe through a roof beam at thirty paces). Badd's human mother, Agnes Lavender Badd, was in and out of dungeons all her life (apparently, Downright was conceived in one) until she finally bought a ticket to the Lightning Chair for Grand High Theft and Murder. They say it took seven magi all arcing up at once to put her away.

You add those sort of genes to an ogre, well, you end up with something that's downright bad.

Downright picked Frank up by the horns and tossed him against an office wall to wake him. “Mornin', Stubby. Sorry ‘bout this, but I gots to hurt ya."

Frank hit the wall and fell to the floor in a heap. He pulled himself up to his knees and squinted at the thick, fuzzy shape coming at him. He didn't have his glasses on. “Ahhh ... Downright? Downright, what's going on..."

Badd wrapped one hand around Frank's neck, lifted him up, punched him in the stomach and let go. Frank dropped like a rock.

"Nuffin’ personal, Stubby. But I gots to hurt ya and give ya a message."

I'm just aiming for his eye, Frank... 

"No! Stay out of it!"

Frank! He's gonna kick your high grade rump. 

"You heard me."

"Yeah, Stubby, I heard you, but I've been paid an’ you know I gots me pride. Where would me pro-fesh-ee-nul values be if I lets punks off, hey?” It was almost as painful to listen to Downright pronounce a four syllable word as it was to have him punch you in the teeth. Almost. “You can fight back a little if you like.” He picked Frank up again. “It passes the time."

Frank let Downright thump him with a three punch combination to the jaw and dropped again. Blood dripped out of his mouth.

Frankie! 

"No, I understand perfectly, Downright. Believe me. I've got my own professional reputation I must be wary of."

"Ah, it's nice to do business with a man who understands the importance of commercial in-tan-ger-bils.” He picked Frank up by a leg and threw him into the desk, which collapsed in a pile of cheap wood and splinters. “If my clients come down Stripside and see Frankie Mynos walkin’ ‘roun’ without a scratch on ‘im, what are they gonna think? Are they gonna think they got value for their money? Are they gonna recommen’ my services to other po-ten-shall cli-yen-tell?” Downright stopped and bent over. “Awww, Stubby, your glasses fell off the desk. Where do you want ‘em?"

"Just over there, Downright.” Frank pointed and coughed blood on the floor. “Out of the way."

"Swell.” Downright placed the Hurghian specs carefully down and came back. “That should do it. Ahhh ... now, the message was ... um ... hang on ... I've made some notes, would you mind holding?"

"No, of course not.” Frank sat up slowly against the wall and wiped his split lips.

Downright reached behind his back and produced a yellow stik-it note that he'd attached to his rump. “Ah ... yeah, dat's it. Drop the Ash case or next time you'll end up bead."

Bead? What does he mean, bead? They're gonna wrap you around a hippie's neck? 

"I think that should be ‘dead', Downright."

"Oh, yeah. Ha ha ha. I'm always messin’ up me bees and dees, but I'm the only Badd dat's learnt his letters, Stubby. Auntie made me. She said it was ‘portant for me future."

"Yes, you've done very well, Downright. Could you hand me that towel? Thanks."

"Do you want a phys-ish-un, Stubby? It's not too bad. I've done a lot worse. Those lips will be fine in a day or two, but if you want a phys-ish-un, I can recommend Doctor Furth on Tellemore Street, he's the closest I've got to here.” Downright handed Frank a business card. “You get a five percent discount if you take that card in, Stubby, as an end user of my voh-cah-shun-al services."

"That's very nice of you, Downright. Do you do this for all your customers?"

Downright smiled a wide and hungry looking, broken toothed smile. “Yeah. I gots seventeen doctors ‘roun’ the City from Queens to Wes'side Upper Limits. I send me customers to ‘em and I get a five percent cut of all reck-a-men-dees. Last week, I made thirty guilders for nuffin'! Ha ha ha. I means, they gonna need a doctor anyways, so I figure, why not make a twit or two on the side? But I like you, Stubby, so I wen’ easy on ya ... without com-pree-miz-ing my pro-fesh-ee-nul ethics, of course..."

"Thanks, Downright. Thanks, I appreciate that.” Frank tried to stand up but slipped.

"Ahh, best to stay down for a whiles, Stubby. Jus’ let some air back in’ your head. You got a hard head, by da way."

"You're using plenty of big words these days, Downright."

"Ha ha ha. Yeah, I've been doin’ this business course, see, part-time. It's at the Public Access College. A Diploma in Business Prin-see-pulls and Com-u-nah...” He paused, an empty look splashed across his brawl-scarred face. “Com-u-nah ... Com-u-nah-cah-shun, that's it!” You would have thought he'd just solved the riddle of steel. “Auntie's so proud. She calls me ‘college boy'.” His face flushed pink with pride. “Anyways, I gots to get goin’ and break this guy's leg that owes ... oh ... hang on ... pro-fesh-ee-nul ethics does not allow me to dee-vulge this in-form-a-shun."

"How is Auntie Flo anyway?"

"Oh, she's doin’ great, Stubby."

"She still taking that potion for her stomach ulcer?"

"Yup, it's workin’ a treat."

"Who paid you to beat me up?"

"These two Guilded punks in Knaves...” Downright stopped with his cave of a mouth wide open. His eyes flicked down to Frank on the floor and for a tick, I thought he was going to put the boot in. I don't care what the bull had said, I wasn't going to let that happen. The only question would've been if I could've found a brain behind his eye to puncture. “You tricked me, Stubby!” He smiled again. “Ha ha ha. You're a tricky customer, Stubby. You ready to get up now?"

Downright helped Frank up and sat him on the chair.

"Sorry ‘bout the desk. Didn't mean to wreck the joint."

"Maybe you could start recommending furniture stores,” I said in Frank's voice.

"Yeeeaaahhh, that's a good idea! Stuff does get broke a lot. Oh, and I brought your paper in for you. Looks like that Hightown Hacker guy struck again last night, huh?"

"What did the two guys in Knaves look like, Downright?"

"Well ... Stubby! You know I can't tell you that. It would be a t'rrible breach of cli-yent-pro-vie-dah priv-lidge."

"I know, Downright, I know. But maybe you could just describe someone like them.” The half ogre muscleman fought a vicious inner battle, which was a battlefield he was entirely unused to. It was great to see an ethical businessman in the City. They must do swell work at that college. Frank called for reinforcements. “Look, Downright, some real heavy geysers want answers from me, huh? The Ursors, right? They're attached to the Bankers, right? We're talking about the Big Four. And then there's the Body Politic, the Head Registrar no less, and also the Guilstapo..."

"G'stapo?"

"Yeah. So you see, it might be in your best interest to play along with me. The wrong word in the right ear and you could have some serious strife coming your way."

"Are you shaking me down, Stubby?” Downright's brow furrowed. Frank dabbed at his mouth and felt his jaw. If it weren't for those minotaur bones, he would've been eating soup for the next six months.

"No,” Frank said. He forced himself to smile, friendly like. “I'm just giving you the dope. This whole Hacker business has got everyone spooked. They're looking for someone to put in the chair. Any excuse will do. I'm just trying to help you out."

Downright's brow furrows seemed to grow and cover his entire leather hard face. A half ogre riddled with an ethical conflict is a hell of a sight. I wished I had a magisnapper to get it down in print.

"Well, I s'pose I could maybe say that I may or may not have met two guys in Knaves yesterday afternoon at the Golden Keel..."

"The Keel, huh? That's upmarket."

"Yeah, I had to wear my best jerkin. The one with hardly any blood stains on it. And they may or may not have retained me to ad-min-oo-star a thirty tick, non-terminal, all body beating with no trimmings and single sentence message delivery, which came to fifty-two guilders and fifty twits."

"Hmmm ... your prices have risen."

"Yeah, I have to cover me overheads, Stubby, but to offset ‘dis, I have more consumer benefits and reward programs. You get half price on Guildsday and Ramsday afternoon. And I offer frequent beating points, or Cry Buys. Look,” he pulled out a leaflet from a pouch behind his back. “You can ah-kew-oom-u-late points and receive spesh-ell-ee selected items and discounts at various well-known, ree-spek-tah-bull and quality City estab-yish-ments."

He handed the leaflet over to Frank, who scanned it quickly. A hundred points got you a glass for the price of half at Molly's Mischievous Maidens. Three hundred points got you a Turghan scimitar knife handle (with genuine ceremonial scalp tassels).

"And I now accept Leech Card.” Downright balled up a fist and—sure enough—newly tattooed across his knuckles was the familiar green/yellow/blue Leech Card symbol. “Did you know that Leech Card is now accepted in over twelve hundred estab-yish-ments Citywide and over three thousan’ ‘cross da Known Realms? Leech card meets all your modern living needs from groceries to travel, from hit men to magical services. Nine out'f ten Crested Guildsmen agree that Leech Card is da credit choice of da canny customer. Don't leave your place-of-habitation without it. Do ya wan’ an app-lee-cay-shun form? It comes with an ob-lee-gay-shun free self-inkin’ pen?"

"No thanks, Downright."

"Awww. I had to memorize all dat stuff, ya know. OK, have a calendar anyway."

"Back to the Golden Keel, can you tell me what these two guys may or may not have looked like?"

"Oh ... OK, I s'pose I owe you that. Well, one of ‘em was a female hobgoblin, a little shorter dan me with light green skin and purple lips. Da other guy was short—a bit above me knees—some sort of City breed punk, but he was wearin’ a suit and smokin’ a Kuban. His eyes were red like an ork, but his face was kinda human. They didn’ give names or a-fill-ee-aye-shun or nuffin'. They paid up front.” He shrugged.

"Leech Card?"

"No, cash, but they did sign up for Cry Buys. I got their par-tick-u-lars here.” Downright rummaged around in his pouch again until he pulled out a small flat hand piece. I could see the Manah on it in light blue circles. In a flash of azure light, a midsize filing cabinet appeared in front of him, hovering in the air. Downright quickly rifled through the top drawer until he found the right file.

"Here it is. They're listed as Mz Uhr and Mr Slur. The address is 29 East Wharf Road, Knaves. Dey got two Cry Buy points.” Downright closed up the magifile and looked very proud of himself. “Office eff-ish-in-cee is da foun-day-shun of any suck-sess-full core-prat ven-char. Dat's what Mr Slopps says down at da college."

"You are indeed the picture of City corporate efficiency, Downright Badd. Your ma would've been proud."

Downright's whole head smiled. It was almost dangerous.

"Think about da Leech Card, Stubby. A business man like yourself could really..."

"Thanks, Downright, I will."

Downright Badd thumped his way down the stairs and was gone, off to find some poor sap's legs.

In the sudden absence of a desk, Frank smoothed the Kronikle out on the floor. The front page headline screamed:

HIGHTOWN HACKER HACKS AGAIN!

Hightown's murderous rogue has struck again! Last night, the City Watch were called to the house of Master Lender Alistair Toffyknott, a half elf Ursor of high standing in the business community. He was found dead, mutilated almost beyond recognition, by his wife in the basement study. The name of yesterday's victim was released this morning—Master Lender Adrian Skrew—leading to the obvious question: Are Ursors the target of this killer? Lieutenant Hoggwash responded:

"The Magicrime Analysis Division of the City Watch is proceeding with several leads in this case, one of which is the Guild connection between the two victims."

Advocate for the Ursors’ Guild, and well-known City legal identity, Master Sebastion Tuttlesling said:

"The Ursors’ Guild are taking all precautions a responsible Guild has available to them, including the retaining of a private investigator, to bring the people responsible for these horrendous acts to a swift and preferably terminal form of justice."

"Mr Mynos?” Sebastion Tuttlesling was in a dark blue Ar-farnie suit that particular Freyday morning, with matching gold buckled medusa skin boots. He let himself in and his little blue eyes glanced around with as much disapproval as they could manage at short notice. “Are you redecorating?"

He's got some hide showing his face back here! Let me at him, Frank, I'll cut that self satisfied smirk off his face in a liquid tick! 

"No!” Frank grabbed me by the hilt. “Ahhh ... no, Mr Tuttlesling, I've just been having a conference with a business associate who is a very physical ... conferer. May I assist you?"

"Yes, I ... you seem to be bleeding, Mr Mynos."

"Take no notice. Continue, please."

"As you say. I'm here in regards to yesterday's offer of retainment for your services as a private investigator. The Ursors’ Guild want you to begin work immediately..."

"Then why did you shop us to the Watch, you piece of..."

Frank cut me off. “...a puzzle. Yes, that did cause me some undue concern, Mr Tuttlesling."

Tuttlesling frowned an advocate's frown. “It is a common business practice to check on Guild affiliations when doing business in the City, Mr Mynos. My people discovered you were unaffiliated and reacted accordingly through my office. However, they had obviously been misinformed, it would seem. You naturally have a right to litigate if you feel your corporate intellectual property has been damaged by the unfair accusation.” He licked his lips. The idea of a fresh litigation probably had his soufflé rising neat and pretty. “But I have a duty to my client, the Ursors’ Guild, in this matter, which goes beyond such personal concerns. It's simply business."

"Yes, it would appear so.” Frank managed a wry smile. “Your predecessor this morning was telling me pretty much the same thing. Anyway, I'm working a case at the moment, but if you don't mind..."

"The Ursors’ Guild would like you to drop your current workload and concentrate completely on the Hightown serial killer."

Who does this little punk think he is? 

"Well, Mr Tuttlesling, I hardly think that I can just..."

He can't just waltz in here and... 

"They are prepared to offer you five hundred guilders a day with a ten thousand guilder bonus if you have the Hacker in custody within six days."

Silence followed. Thick, steamy silence you would've needed a machete to cut through.

Say what! I started vibrating. Frankie, if it takes us five days that's ... twelve thousand five hundred guilders!!!

I added an extra two exclamation marks without any problem at all, you could've used ‘em as a pair of crutches to swing across the page. That was some serious flattened out pigskin guilders. It could buy us out of a Lowtown cheese factory into a nice little office in a shady part of Eastside, maybe, with a Bay view and an elvish secretary with bazoombahs you could ski down.

And you can do it, Frankie. I know you can. 

"OK, but no indemnity contracts. I'll just sign my standard work agreement. Here...” Frank dug through some piles of rubbish and freshly splintered wood until he found one of his work agreements, while Tuttlesling waited and managed to ‘tut tut’ without making a sound. He signed on behalf of the Ursors’ Guild, then dropped the Guild endorsement letter on us. It had the Bankers’ red and gold Crest on it with the Guild emblem—a lock, a key and an anvil held tightly in a clenched fist. It would open doors and hold them open better than an ogre's studded warboot.

"I have a question, Mr Tuttlesling. Why is the Guild not happy with the Guilstapo handling these investigations? They were formed purely to represent Guild interests in all forms of law enforcement, so why am I needed?"

Tuttlesling's mouth squeezed together tightly and his temples coloured. He searched for words. “The Guilstapo is a fine and worthy institution, Mr Mynos, and worth every twit of it's massive, massive operating costs. But it has become somewhat ... um ... political in it's ... um ... way of dealing with certain very sensitive matters. The Ursors’ Guild wants the perspective of an outsider to provide a fresh and ... unpolitical analysis of this very important issue, without in any way passing judgement on the distinguished and tireless efforts of the magnificent Bureau of the City Guilstapo."

It was like he gave a speech. I think Frank almost clapped.

"And also, Mr Mynos, there's a necroview scheduled for half past hanahan today. You need to be there."

Mr Tuttlesling was gone, his medusa skin boots clip clipped down the stairs.

Yesss! We have hit the big time, Frankie. BIG TIME! So you're not gonna worry about the Ash dame until after the Hacker's safely locked away and we're rolling around in a stinking big pile of swine, hey, Frank? Frankie? 

"I need some coffee, Rhys."

Shit! 




Chapter Fourteen: Lock Down

After Tuttlesling left, Frank made coffee—three pots, no less—and drank them one after the other. It was enough to dissolve a pair of dwarven exaggerated axe heads. He read the Kronikle cover to cover while he drank and then filled in the ‘Killer Kryptik Krossword'. It was one of Darakk fon-Wurm's, recognised across the Realms as one of the three most insanely cryptic of crossword setters. Crossword fans refer to him as the Top Tot of Polyglot. Frank enjoyed his work and had that morning's particular piece done in about six tocks even, which is a huge compliment to the Wurm. Most mornings, he'd knock over the Kronikle Kryptik in three. For Frank, it was a way to limber up his mind. He hardly even thought about the clues. They were like a gentle massage for his brain while it cleaned and jerked the real meat. Frank never thought more clearly than when he was knocking down a ‘Kryptik'.

You never would have guessed he'd just had the ticker kicked out of him and then signed the biggest deal of his life. I started to think I might've dreamt the whole deal. I was looking around for someone to pinch me.

Frank finally put the paper aside and climbed up to the attic to rummage through his book stack. He came down with two thick, heavily bound books that could've housed a small family of ratmen. They were: City Guilds: compiled by The Office of the Body Politic Registry, and Who's Anybody: A Guide to City Guildsmen of Prominence by Rupert Ladiv.

What... 

"Bear with me for a moment, Rhys.” He flipped through Who's until he got to Master Lender Adrian Skrew. It was a standard Big Four Guildsman spiel. Skrew's affiliations (Hightown Faction, Ursors’ Guild, Bankers’ Guild, The Order of Extreme Prejudice, Knaves Boating Faction, Fhardharrs House), his political stance (damp centre right wing, third finger, ‘wiggy’ social realist—with a jar of marmalade), his wife and kids (married thrice, divorced twice and one's on the way, twelve children—five legitimate), his properties (too long to list ... ), that kind of tedious crap. But Frank found what he wanted. His thick finger jabbed down on the list of Body affiliations. Knaves Boating Faction.

"Something's going on here...” He sniffed through his snout and his ears twitched. He flicked forward some pages to the ‘T's. Todd. Toemyne. Tofanahue. Toffyknot. Master Lender Alistair Toffyknot. His Guild affiliations were: Ursors’ Guild; Knot, Knot & Byron Rubber Products Company; Knot House; Hightown Faction; Knaves Boating Faction.

So both of ‘em were Hightown Ursors that liked foolin’ around with boats. What's so twonky about that, Frank? Even Hoggwash said he was checking into the Ursors’ Guild links... 

"Yes, I know, Rhys, but I think you'll find there is a strange coincidence at work here.” Frank pulled out Guilds and ran through the Factions chapter until he found the Knaves Boating slate. The address of the Guildhouse was 29 East Wharf Road, Knaves.

That's where those punks come from that hired Badd to dust you up for chasing the Ash case! But that's got nuthin’ to do with the Hacker. What's up, Frank? 

"That's the ‘jinkees’ link, Rhys. Skrew at the Necroview said ‘by jinkees', if you remember, which is very similar to what was overheard by Winnow at the docks. This Hightown Hacker is dirty on the board of the Knaves Boating Faction, and the Knaves Boating Faction is dirty on me for snooping around the Ash dame."

So, we gonna head down for the Toffyknot necroview? 

"The necroview's a waste of time and Manah. Instead, I'm thinking we head Hightown way and check in on Bob."

The kid? Why the hell... 

"I need him for a little job I got planned, OK? I've got a bundle of facts but nothing to string them together in a meaningful way. If things pan out the way I'm hoping, we might just land that fifth bean to nail the flush."

I wasn't in the mood to argue and I resented him usin’ poker analogies when the bull flat out refused to play for money. He could've fleeced every card joint on either side of the law from the Westside Limits dives, through the glitzy Strip and out past the Queens Clan dens. ‘It's purely the mathematical inevitability I appreciate' he'd say.

Hah!

Frank gathered his hat and kicked the rubble of his office back into a ‘kind-of’ shape before he hit the stairs. Outside, it was a dark morning, the kind that holds on to the spirit of the night. There were patches of rain around the City and fog still gathered in alleys, hiding the punks that hadn't quite made it. The smell would eventually attract somebody, or something. Frank hailed a wyvern and it screamed up, and I mean screamed. If you're heavy on the mouth, they give out a shriek that can scratch glass.

"The Bulwark, thanks, driver."

"No sweat, pal.” The cab smelled like the inside of a halfling's guts after he'd eaten chili for three weeks straight. “But you won't be goin’ much further than that, I tell ya.” He yanked on the control stem and the wyvern pulled up and out onto the street, screeching like broken steel.

The cabbie didn't elaborate—probably because he thought he might lose the fare—but at the Bulwark, we found Hightown locked down. There were trarks at the gates and a whole crowd of punks. Some of ‘em were just gawking, but many of ‘em were workers. The cleaners, food technicians and knob polishers of Hightown, paid to do the things the wizards hadn't thought important enough to crank up a spell for yet. Frank managed to work his way to the front of the crowd and found himself near a trark with a face torn straight from a preparing-to-kill Perpetual Harmbeast of the Djubi Djubi jungle.

"What's going on here?"

"Total lockdown, by order of the Lord-liege Mayor. You ssscum aren't coming in. We have ordersss to kill on sssussspicccion of unressst."

Just as long as he doesn't say suspicion again... 

"But I've got a pass,” Frank pulled out his trark pass. The trark snatched it out of his hand and slapped it against the side of his face. It melded immediately back into his body without a trace, like a drip of water in a pool.

"Passs revoked."

"I'm investigating the Hacker crimes. I've got a letter from the Bankers’ Guild..."

The trark growled a low throaty growl. You could've cut the rubies out of a Shardinian statue with those eyes. He took the letter out of Frank's hand, looked at it, hated it, hated it some more, looked back up at Frank and hated him even worse, then finally motioned Frank to follow him into the Entry Pavilion Office.

These guys are really out there, Frank. Have I ever mentioned... 

"That you hate trarks?” Frank whispered. “No I don't think you have, but I inferred it, Rhys, I inferred it."

The office was separate from the pavilion itself, built onto the side of the Bulwark, just beside the gate. An ironbound door led to a joint even smaller than Frank's, with a table, magifone and two chairs. Two more trarks checked over and over the Bankers’ Guild letter with its shiny gold crest and talked in hushed guttural tones. Three separate fone calls were made. Eventually, another pass was produced.

"You have another three day passs, Msssr Mynosss. Ressst asssured, we are watching you."

Frank tipped his hat to them and we were allowed on our way. Hightown was quiet. Almost dead, you could've said. There were no bright yellow Phudds on the road—they hadn't let the cabbies in. Tony was probably on the top floor of the Elfarossa with a beer and a blazing dog giving us all the one finger wave. There was only the occasional magicar on the street. Most of the buildings hadn't opened. You could taste the fear in the wind like stale peanut butter.

Two punks get smoked in two days in Hightown and everyone goes orkan! There must be hundreds of killings in the City every night. 

"It's against the order of things, Rhys. People naturally want to know what the order of things is, even if they're at the bottom hanging on by half a thread. Hightown is not the place for grisly death. Hightown is the place for functional death. Death at the stroke of a pen or the flash of a spell. Death without entrails. It's quite plainly against the order of things and it's ruffled all the wrong feathers."

Yeah, well at least these Hightown slack-asses are running scared for a change. If you dropped one of ‘em out on the Westside Upper Limits late on a Simsday, they'd probably have a heart attack before they got to fill their britches. 

"This lockdown won't last. The Guilds must be going nuts. Anyway, looks like we've got a walk ahead of us.” Frank settled me in his belt and set his fedora snugly between his horns. It was cute of him to think of ‘us’ in terms of ‘walking'.

I tried my best to shrug, which isn't easy for a letter opener.

Frank walked the length of Hightown, right up to the steps of the Necromancers’ Guildhall. The cloud and the fog had lifted, leaving the place looking less eldritch in the light of mid-morning. The gargoyles looked cheap. The swirly bits seemed ... less uncomfortably swirly. There was no time to take in the Dark Fin Bay views or the Statue of Franchise with her face like a bent hatchet. Frank went straight up the stairs to the reception desk and asked to see Bob, the necromancer's apprentice.

The hunchback shook his ugly head. “Apprentices are not nooorrrmally available for..."

"Listen, I'm on Bankers’ Guild Business here,” he flashed his letter and the gold crest on the letterhead caught the light. “And I require Bob's assistance to pursue my inquiries. Is he here?"

The hunchback checked his folder.

"He seems to be cuuurrently serving a two week detention and draining for disciplinary reasons, Mr Mynos..."

Now the draining gyp isn't as bad as it sounds. It's like this, see. Every living thing produces Manah. There's a whole heap of thaumotological texts on the subject of Manah metaphysicality. I've never read any of it, so if you're that interested, go read ‘em for yourself. Personally, I'd rather watch steel temper. It's enough to know that life produces Manah and spells use it. A decent sort of sorcerer doesn't have to use his own Manah to power his spells, he uses what's around him, in the air, the tree, the whore he's been doin’ on the street corner. But sometimes, he might want a real burst of the stuff, or he might want to fill up his magicar to take his latest elven squeeze for a leg opening whizz down the Strip. So they collect and drain Manah from all sorts of things, like delinquent apprentices, for example. It doesn't hurt, but it can make you sleepy. What they get is pure, concentrated Manah. Now if they process this stuff, they get Manahvyne, which is bright yellow liquid guilders and can be used to power some very swish items, including magicars. But Manahvyne has drawbacks, other than the cost. It doesn't behave like a liquid. It ignores physics most of the time. Stuff like gravity or motion or even relativity. It doesn't have the hang of ‘em like we do.

Frank turned it on for the hunchback. He almost growled. “I want to see Bob right now or I'm bringing the Bankers, the Ursors, the Embalmers, the City Watch, the Trark Guard, the Body Politic Head Registrar, Lord-liege Mayor Takklehurm and the bleeding Guilstapo with me when I come back, and every one of them are going to ask you, not quite so politely as I am, to bring me Bob the Necromancer's apprentice.” The words got softer as he went and ended in the opposite of an exclamation mark. A declamation mark. And it was the very softness of the threat that made it all the more ominous. Anyone can shout. Anyone can swear. But if Frank whispered at you, you'd better line the kitty litter tray for two. His big brown eyes bored through the little hunchbacked clerk like a pair of meat hooks.

"Well, why didn't you say so the first time? I suppose he can have some ... time out. For good behavior."

"Has he been behaving then?"

"Hmmm. No. Not really. He came back yesterday and proceeded to destroy one of the storage holds."

"Destroy?"

"He just went mad down there. Broke three brand new clay sarcophagi. The maaaster was most displeased.” He seemed to suddenly remember he was meant to have a speech impediment. He blushed and lurched away down the hall. After the rattle of a few chains and some heavily eldritch metallic-sounding clacks, the clerk hunched his way back with Bob, dressed in his usual student finery, minus the shoes.

"You'll have to sign him out and it'll be your responsibility to return the..."

Frank signed every piece of paper the hunchback put in front of him and the three of us left the Guildhall without another word. The clouds had moved back in and the wind was cooling down.

Bob was quiet. His face was creased with crouching doubts ready to spring. Finally, he let ‘em go. “Listen, Frank, I'm sorry I ran out on you yesterday, but I had to see..."

"Can you turn the undead, Bob?” Frank looked into the kid's face.

"Well, yeah, I s'pose. On a good day."

"It's a good day, kid,” I added. A gust of rain hit us, making its own point.

Frank ignored the weather. “Can you immobilize them when they're turned? Can you re-dead them?"

Bob looked at Frank with a grain of worry in his eyes. Even his pimples went white. “I could ... I can ... I can use an unanimate cant that could return them. But that's a tough cant, a third rank, and I'd need an intimate knowledge ... but why? What's going on?"

Frank didn't elaborate, except to say, “I might need your help."




Chapter Fifteen: Under the Boardwalk

Frank hoofed it west with Bob in tow, out of the Corporate Precinct, and north on Cimmerian toward the docks. It wasn't far, but the weather made it seem like it was. The wind off the Bay was slap-happy. The streets were wet and empty. Friendless. The tallhouses were lost in the haze.

The docks looked different than yesterday. There weren't any dockers, thanks to the lockdown, and three wide-berth freighters were waiting for their return, bobbing and tilting impatiently at their moors. It was spooky. Docks are the kind of place that need to be busy. They need to have energy. When they're empty, it's like a hole in your hauberk.

Frank stopped at the first dock, the one opposite the dockers yard, and gathered up a coil of rope, which he proceeded to tie securely onto a shipping ring attached to the edge of the boardwalk. I didn't bother asking him why. Maybe I should've.

"Do you need to prepare your incantation?” he asked the kid.

"Um, yeah, but ... OK, hang on.” Bob sat down and started mumbling to himself, softly at first, but slowly getting louder. It was one of the Five Lost Tongues of Zagg, the learner languages of apprentices in every arcane school. I don't know which one it was, but I do know it had a far from dark mysterious brooding lilt. It sounded akin to five chipmunks being rubbed hard with sandpaper. But Zaggynese tongues work. As arcane lingos go, they're not gonna build you a vein-popping Deathbolt or a Black Wyvern's Inconvenient Utterance, but they function as very serviceable platforms for a beginning mage to practice the art of shaping Manah. It's not enough just to know the language, of course. Manah reacts to the sound, it pricks its ears up and says ‘how's your father?', but it's up to the mage to shape the Manah attracted ‘...via an effort of will and focus through the learned application of spiritual command, arcane desire, gesture and projection.'@

I watched the Manah build up around Bob. It was a dull yellow; weak, but swirling nicely. He wasn't doin’ a bad job—much better than I expected anyway. His fingers traced through the air several times and his voice lifted a pitch to strengthen the cant and bond it to his spiritual presence. Too early! It's the classic apprentice mistake. I watched the bulk of the Manah he'd fought so hard to build, slip away from him. He followed the pattern in the air over and over again until the small amount of remaining Manah worked itself into the lettering. With the bonding complete, even Frank (without the benefit of magisight) could see the cant letters glowing faintly in the air. Bob evened out his voice, let it die to a low moan, his eyes closed, his body relaxed to the point of feigning sleep ... then he snatched the letters from the air with two quick swipes. They stuck to his palms and continued to glow. All in all, it was a decent effort by apprenticeship standards, refined and deft, but lacking authority. It would improve with patience and confidence and would've been worth at least a Credit Plus at his rank two finals.

"Right, I'm ready."

Frank, I don't think he could drown an angry hamster with those toffee apple cants. They don't have half a twit of twonk in ‘em. What are we doin'? 

Frank didn't answer. He stood on the edge of the dock overlooking the Soup and smiled. It was a dangerous looking smile. I already knew it. Something unexpected was about to happen.

He grabbed Bob around the waist and said, “Right, let's go then."

And he jumped off the dock.

"I can't swwwim!” Bob shrieked.

But we didn't hit water. Frank swung under the boardwalk in a neat (but noisy, thanks to Bob) arc. He landed with a grunt on dark stony ground.

"Not many people know the docks of Hightown were magically dredged. That edge there,” Frank pointed to the spot just inside the shadows of the boardwalk, where the dark granite ended and the water began, “is basically a cliff face thirty jimjams deep.” I was glad Bob didn't bother asking how deep a jimjam was. It went back to some sailor and his theories about the sleepwear of aquatic titans. He told me all about it once, but I tuned out. Suffice it to say, the water was fharking deep, OK? “The docks themselves are built right into the dark granite of the City crust. It added stability and reduced construction costs."

It was dark under the docks. Light seeped in through the cracks in the woodwork above, but it was weak and uninterested. Frank was fine with that, being of a race accustomed to dark and dismal labyrinths, and I can see in seven different spectrums, which comes in real handy when you've lost your keys or you can't find the may-oh at the bottom of the icebox. Bob made the most of what he had by opening up his palms so the light from his canted letters cast a dull yellow glow around us. The underworld of the docks was populated by what seemed like thousands of thick stone pillars, like some sort of bizarre unnatural forest. Rats darted away from the light. Shadows moved. Creaks creaked.

What are we looking for down here, Frank? 

"Ashley Ash."

"What did you say?” Bob asked.

"I'm quite certain we're about to find Mz Ashley Ash down here. She worked for the Body Politic..."

"You're looking for Ash? My Ash?” It sounded like the kid had just been turned to stone. His voice was full of masonry.

I'm sure a number of things became very clear in Frank's mind right then, but at the same time, Ashley Ash attacked, so I'll have to come back to it, if you don't mind.

The smell hit us just before the axe whistled over Frank's head and embedded itself in one of the stone pillars. It was like a thousand and six moldy chicken heads.

Ashley Ash was at the non-business end of her second axe. Rotting flesh hung off her in thick strips so that dark brown bones were exposed in yawing cavities. Her eyes shone an undiluted green and her mouth was wide, broken toothed and snarling incoherent hisses of hate. She might have been as strong as ten ogres and as quick as half a troll, but she had, without a chance of contradiction, certainly lost her looks.

"Two axes, just like I thought...” Frank mumbled.

"The cant, Bob! Try the fharkin’ cant!” I screamed, loud enough to wake the dead (heh heh, couldn't resist that one).

"Ash?” Bob was in a dream. His face was blank and full all at once. He stepped forward like he was walking in his sleep. “Ash?"

"The cant, Bob!"

"He's not going to use the cant, Rhys. Mz Ash is Bob's unrequited love. How fascinating, and what a strange coincidence..."

That coincidence is about to unrequite Bob's head down the middle ... I was in no mood to contemplate coincidence gnats.

Frank lurched forward and pushed Bob out of the way of the rapidly descending axe head. The good lady Ashley keened a savage keen that could've stripped the rivets from an Ensorcelled Shield, and the brown gas that spewed out with it was poison. The kind that kills you, flat.

OK, time to get the fhark out of here, Frank. 

Bob was still in a dream. His mind was in la la land and his body wanted to be there too. Without active concentration, the precious cants slid off his palms and landed on the rocks, where they started fading from existence.

Duck! 

Ashley swung at Frank, who ducked, and the axe embedded itself in the stone pillar behind him. She screeched like ... well, like an angry undead thing I suppose. There's not much I can compare it to. The axe was stuck and she stopped to pull it out, which gave Frank a little room. He picked up Bob, who was in the process of putting wind back into his lungs from Frank's helpful nudge, and we headed for the edge of the docks, at speed, dodging the posts and listening to the hissing and screeching from behind.

Frank got to the edge, flexed his legs and leapt straight up. One good ol’ thick minotaur hand caught the edge of the dock and one good ol’ thick minotaur arm pulled us all up and on to the boardwalk. Thank Atlas, the god of Beefcake, for good ol’ minotaur genes. He was an unminotaur minotaur, but he was minotaur enough when it counted.

Bob lay there breathin’ heavy (and lucky to be breathin’ at all) while Frank struggled up to his feet and grimaced his best grimace. “You've got some explaining to do, Bob. I think..."

Ashley Ash burst upward through the dock with a crash of splintering wood and landed with a dull thud just an axe throw away. Just to prove it, she threw one at Frank.

It was a damn fine throw and would've hit Frank right in ‘the centre of seam body mass', which is just the spot to aim at according to military types all over the Realms. But hey, I'm not just a fharkin’ ornament here, you know, hangin’ around lookin’ pretty, opening bills, narrating and dishin’ out the occasional wisecrack. I may be small, but like my name says, size ain't everything. I'm still a Yhore blade and I know a trick or two.

I dropped the Scryguard and burned the Manah I had left in a bright blue flash. The approaching axe swerved off into the Bay and landed with a distant splash.

And I felt pretty damn smart about it.

Ash screamed a guttural bile-curdling scream. Devoid of axes, she readied her talons—each about as long as an orkan salami and as sharp as surgical saws. Her green eyes burned with the madness of the pit.

Frank stood firm. I thought he was ready for a last stand, but even as she came at him, she was slowing down.

Hafas al-Paneek has this to say about being confronted with an angry member of the undead persuasion. 'Keep calm and don't make eye contact. Even the most homicidal undead individual has vestiges of their former living self, so, try to engage them in polite conversation. Express your condolences for their loss. Offer them advice, traveling tips or a cup of tea. Tea is a marvelous calming agent.'

In the absence of a freshly brewed tea urn, Frank made do. “Who did it to you, Ashley?” His voice boomed out across the empty docks. “Toffyknott and Skrew were part of it, but who else. And why?” It stopped her in her tracks. Her face went limp for a tick and almost turned human. Her eyes lost some of that murderous green. A shadow of humanity remained. Her lips began to mouth a word.

"Krr. Krrr. Krrreee..."

"Ashley! I love you!” Bob shouted.

Ash's face went straight back to undead demonic. She screamed and opened her mouth wider than ever, spewing out gas, which the Bay wind whipped away. There were five rows of teeth in there, each bigger and more curved than the one before.

My, Grandmama, what big teeth you have. 

But it was the suns that beat her. One peaked out from between the clouds and she cringed and fell on her knees. In an eye blink, she was gone; scurrying back through the hole in the dock on all fours like a frightened dog.

Tell me, for the love of Arsbarm, the god of Serendipitous Flatulence, that we are not going to chase her down there, Frankie. 

Frank smiled. He actually smiled, and he calmly adjusted his hat and spectacles as if it had all just been a mild inconvenience. “First, I think we better talk to Bob,” he said.




Chapter Sixteen: Revelations

So, Frank had solved both cases.

Now came the hard part.

"I fell for Ashley at some Guild Function three months ago. She was just so beautiful. And clever. And her eyes just...” Bob was in the seat and Frank was beside the broken desk, sitting on a stack of leaflets. It was past ticktock, heading into the afternoon and the smell from a fresh pot coffee was fighting for airspace with the residual scent of old cheese and mud brought back from under the docks. “She was with one of them Registry, big-wig, smart-alec types. I don't know which one, and I don't even care, but when she looked at me across the table of buttered shrimp, I almost died on the spot, Frank. I'd never felt like that before! It was like floating on a..."

"Yes, yes, on a cloud or something, but get to the point, Bob. What happened?” Frank had the kid gloves off.

Bob dropped his head in his hands like one of those cheesy daytime saga stars, where everyone is screwing everyone and nobody stays dead. “I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it, Frankie! You gotta believe me!"

"I believe you, Bob, it's the Guilstapo you should worry about. Did you know by Charter that Ashley Ash, as one of the undead, is not considered a legal agent, which means, for all intents and purposes, she is just part of the axe? An extension of the handle, if you like. She's the weapon, Bob, not the murderer. The murderer is the person that wielded the weapon and, in this case, that would be the one who animated the corpse and I believe that is you. Bob."

Bob buried his head even further in his hands and began crying like a condemned princess.

Wouldn't that make us accessories, Frank? If we don't report him... 

Frank stood up and patted the kid's back. “I'm just telling you this so you understand the position you're in, Bob. You've got to tell me everything if you want my help."

Shit, Frankie. This is dangerous fharkin’ ground you're treading on here. Your little halfling psycho buddy's got that crystal ball, remember, and my Scryguard ain't perfect. 

"I'll tell, I'll tell you everything."

Do we really want to know all this? Don't we have enough? 

Through the tears, Bob continued. “She wasn't much older than me, Frank. She was twenty and I'm sixteen. We saw each other for a week. Every night for a week. That week is etched into my soul, Frank. She ... well, she called it off. Said I was coming on too strong. That I was too wet!"

No fharkin’ kidding... 

"Shhh, Rhys."

"Well, I was convinced it was that old Registry geezer, that he'd found out about us and made her stop seeing me, threatened her with the sack or something. And her job was very important to her, I understood that. I started following her around and spying on her, to see if any punk was leaning on her. I thought I could help out. When I discovered it was that old geezer from the Registry, I tried tracking him down. I don't know what I was going to do, but ... but his dark elf minders caught me and smacked me up. I told them to tell their boss to stay away from Ash, but they just laughed, and said the next time they caught me snooping around the old geezer, they'd cut off my ears. I kept watch on Ash though, and even tried to see her, but when I did, she'd get mad and tell me to go away or throw things at me, but I knew she was just trying to protect me."

Hmmmmm... 

"Then. Then, she just disappeared. I knew something was up. Ashley wasn't the type to go off schedule. I didn't know where to turn, so I went down to the Creamcake Café, where the Registry workers from Capi-toll Square go for lunch, and I heard the rumor. That Ash had been found ... in ... the Soup. Dead. Just like that. I couldn't take it. I went down to the Soup, but I missed them. I realised that she must already have been at the Embalmers and that's ... that's when I had the idea. That crazy idea. I was going to make it all better.” He broke down into sobs again and rubbed his face deeper into his hands.

"So you went in,” Frank continued his story, “re-animated her using the Automation Principle, got her back to your room, or somewhere similar ... the basement. Yes, of course, the basement you wrecked after you did your runner from me. So, in the basement, you tried to re-animate her as a mummy, the superlative form of the undead which has almost every physical and mental function known to the living. You did it so you could have her back. That was your plan, wasn't it?"

Bob nodded and bit his bottom lip.

"But it went wrong, didn't it, Bob? That's a very high level incantation the most learned necromancers have difficulty with."

The head went back to the hands and the waterworks redoubled. “No! No! I tried my best, Frank. I thought I could do it. I got books out of the library and even stole some of the right fluids and five pinches of foetalspit jelly, but I couldn't hold it together. The Manah kept enlarging around me and the harder I tried, the more it built up and squeezed me out. I didn't know what to do. I panicked and stammered and the next thing I knew..."

Foetal what? 

"She was a zombie.” Frank scratched his ear and looked out the window. “A mindless zombie."

More crying and more back-patting followed. It was worse than the annual rent-a-mourner grieve off.

"But ... sniff sniff ... she's evolved since then ... sniff sniff ... a zombie could never ... sniff sniff ... do the stuff she just did..."

"Yes.” Frank kept staring out the window, his mind elsewhere. “She's not a zombie anymore, Bob. She's gone way beyond that. Ashley Ash is now a fully functioning revenant."

"A ... sniff sniff ... revenant? But that means..."

"Yes, it would mean she had met with foul play. A revenant is an undead anomaly, whereby an extreme lust for vengeance taints the animation process and grants special powers and durability until it has meted out appropriate punishment to those involved. They are virtually unstoppable."

Well that was a great little story there, hey, Frankie? Very moving. Touching in a sort of sick, candy-floss-up-your-nasal-cavity kind of way. Now, let's go to the Watch and tell them all about it and let them take it from here, huh? Then we can collect on the ten thousand five hundred guilders the Ursors owe us, the two hundred and fifty the Embalmers owe us, and maybe take a holiday to sunny Tar Heetee, where I hear they serve cocktails in troughs full of little paper umbrellas ... Frank? Are you listening to me? 

He wasn't and I knew we were screwed.

"It's not over yet, Rhys. We've got to find out who killed Ashley Ash and why."

"Why the fhark do we have to find that out?” I said out loud. It was time for Loudspeak. “Who's payin’ us to do that? We got the Hightown Hacker and the Ash stiff. Sure, it's not gonna be easy to nail her down, but, hey, that's not our beef, lamb or turkey. We've done enough, Frank. We're smellin’ like two bunches of roses and a bottle of Poop!. Two cases closed. Grab your tanning lotion and flip flops. Full sail ahead to Tar Heetee."

"You've got a lot to learn about justice, Rhysoven-thael."

Justice? I know all there is about justice, I just couldn't give three figs about it. Justice is what other people do to help prop up their own little miserable ideologies. A blindfolded dame with a sword and a set of scales? Hah! We all know it's a crock. The guys with guilders own the scales and can pull the blindfold around the dame's throat whenever they want. And the sword is a blunt chuck of stone. Still, I shut my intangible trap. It would've only made things worse.

"OK, I got to make some calls.” Frank grabbed his fedora and headed for the door. “You wait here,” he said to Bob over his shoulder. “I'm the only fool in the City that's even close to being on your side, so don't even think about running.” He went down the stairs without looking back.

I was in a sulk factor nine. No one could touch me. I didn't even bother reminding Frank that if he'd just get his new magifone connected, he wouldn't need to use the payfone on the street. I'd even made up my mind not to listen in on his call. What did I care what the stupid bull wants to do for nothin'? He was on his own now. He could take care of his own moochachos.

Who was I kidding? I slipped into Frank's head just as he dialed Tony's string. It rang twenty-two times before Tony picked up.

"Yeah! Whatchoowan'?” the mouth piece at Frank's ear asked. It even managed to adopt the shape of Tony's mouth—wide and thick lipped with a left corner sneer.

"It's me, Tony. Frank."

"Stubby? How the fhark are ya? It's a great day for a fharkin’ holiday, ain't it? Can you believe these fharkin’ Hightown types? Two little fharkers get their hides ripped off their bones, and the whole fharkin’ place goes orkan! Ha ha! It's fharkin’ worth it I reckon!"

"You're probably right, Tony, but I need to ask you something."

"Shoot."

"You know anything about the Knaves Boating Faction on East Wharf Road?"

"Whew. Yeah. That mob's been kickin’ ‘roun’ since before I was even down from the fharkin’ forest. Go way back. They were just a bunch of boaters back then, foolin’ ‘roun’ in the Bay, sometimes takin’ people on the Statue tour, keepin’ clear of the Soup. The Soup wasn't as bad back then but, fhark a dead skunk, it was bad enough, if you know what I'm tellin’ you. Anyways, these days, the Faction's about as shady as a bucket full of Bollendorv brandy. Word on the street is they control almost all the traffic in the Toadshead. All the—whew whooo—Bob's your Auntie milarky. You know, the stern box discount stuff."

Trading ships don't have containers in their stern, so it's a rather obvious traditional place to stash a few items, the high value but low tonnage kind. The kind that attracts a stiff duty at the docks—gems, rubies, studded leather sex collars.

"I see..."

"And you know if there's any sort of action like that goin’ on in the City, the Clan's got a piece of it. I've also heard, and this is comin’ to you real quiet-like, that the Knaves Dockers’ Union has a piece of the pie. They're just slush, but they're an arm of the Westside Dockers, which is pinned. They got a lot of fharkin’ friends in the right holes, so don't go fharkin’ with them just ‘cuz they look small school, Stubbs. You're liable to end up a steer."

"You got any idea why the KBF is pinned, Tony? I mean, where's the justification? It must have happened on the quiet, because I certainly don't remember seeing a write up on it."

"Yeah, but you're asking the wrong beefcake. I couldn't give five fharkin’ fortunes about politics, Frank. That's why I'm into my sixth century and going strong. If I were you, I'd keep my snout out of it and stick to trackin’ down little old ladies pet dragonnes and the latest pie theft on Bakers Street."

"Thanks, Tony. You're alright."

"Hey, Stubbs, I know that. I can't help bein’ me."

The line went dead and Frank punched in another string of symbols. This set, I didn't recognise. Star. Star. Star. Pyramid. Tetrahedron. Manah symbol. Pentagon. Diamond. It rang three times and a voice answered.

"Tightfish."

Aha! 

"Mr Tightfish. This is Mr Mynos on the Ashley..."

"Yes, Mr Mynos."

"Ah ... yes, you mentioned if I needed any assistance from you in the course of my inquiries..."

"What do you need, Mr Mynos? I'm not a man known for beating about bushes.” You could picture his sour face on the other end of the magiline. The fone mouth was now set in that permanent grimace that was the slash above Tightfish's chin.

"There are three sheets of issued report sequenced data-sheets from file GVFrthreefourxv you might be able to provide me with from your central records office. They are fivefoursixfourseven—frseven, seveneightfoursixsevennin—txzero and sixsevenfiveseventwofourthree—lpnine."

Tightfish went silent. Heart-attack silent.

"Mr Tightfish?"

"Might I ask how you are able to request these documents, Mr Mynos?” And I had thought his normal speaking voice was cold. I think Frank's ear had icicles hanging off it.

"In my perusal of some Registry documentation, I noticed they had a basic alpha-numeric hexagonal logarithmic referencing code in the margins."

"Basic? I'll have you know, Mr Mynos, that coding system was devised by Wilson J. Pandekkt over three hundred years ago and has, to my knowledge, never been broken. It takes us six months of intensive training just to teach our staff the operational basics..."

"Pandekkt? Yes, I thought I recognised his work. It must have been during his early post-Dialectine period, which accounts for the simplicity of the single integer cross reference under-pattern. Once he introduced a multi-integer system, amongst many other startling and fascinating innovations, which broke with Dialectine cryptographic principles, the Pandekktian period of cryptography was born and codes became quite challenging. I can suggest a number of very interesting books on the..."

"I'll look into those files for you, Mr Mynos. Good day."

OK, Frank, you've suckered me in. What's up with these file numbers? 

Frank walked back down the street and up the stairs three at a time with a smug look on his face, despite the still obvious signs of a Badd beating. “I noticed the numbering system in the margins of the Ash Registry files. Once I cracked the system, I realised there were three pages missing."

Missing? 

"Missing, presumed removed, Rhys. I believe those files will contain the link."

But what if Tightfish is involved? He won't... 

"Then suspicion will fall most strongly on his head if he is unable to provide the files, will it not?” Frank looked through the hole in the door and found Bob right where we'd left him. I don't think he'd even scratched himself. “You hungry, kid?"

The clouds were finally gone and the sun was beating out a tune on the backs of the Freyday crowd in Lowtown. Frank and Bob walked the two blocks north up Lincoln and turned right on Poe Close. Poe's got a well cobbled sidewalk and a thin potholed road to service a bunch of food joints and townhouses that are so thin, three people can't stand side by side. Bob followed Frank through the iron grate into Edgar's Grille, which was about as upmarket as Lowtown eating joints got. The chairs weren't bolted to the floor and the floor wasn't packed dirt. The walls had patchy wallpaper on ‘em and somebody regularly washed the windows. You could get a decent feed and be pretty confident it would stay down.

"I don't understand why anyone would want her dead.” Bob was onto his third I-can't-believe-it's-not-a-prime-steak sandwich. Hunger can soothe the most grief-stricken teen.

"Yes, but you must understand that Mz Ash held a very powerful and sensitive political position, which I believe she achieved through a combination of raw talent, ambition, natural charm and less-than-natural blackmail."

Bob's jaw dropped and he almost lost half his sandwich. Almost. “Ashley would never have..."

Frank put a hand up. “These are speculations, Bob, but speculation is the mother of fact and at this stage, it's the best we've got. The link between the revenant and its victims is obvious, but we don't know who the other two people involved are and we don't know why they did it. I believe we'll find our answers in Knaves. Along East Wharf Road, to be exact."

Awww, I hate Knaves. 

"And to get there, all things considered, I think we might require alternative transport."

Once Bob had finished eating, Frank led the way out and hailed down a wyvern. As we traveled down Main through the Strip, I noticed the carnival atmosphere was turning apprehensive. Businesses all over the City needed the Hightown pulse. It was the black heart that pumped the black blood around to all the lesser lords of the black beast of City life. A Freyday afternoon is spent gearing up for the big Simsday crowds—tightening the chair nuts, watering down the wine, sharpening the crossbow bolts—but with business in Hightown shut down for half a day, already there were worries. There were concerned brows. There were twice as many muggings in the street. Tempers were not so much frayed, as heavily lacerated.

Frank directed the cabbie left off Main, northbound alongside the Upwerdd River until we hit Pentacle Prom. We alighted at the ‘small change’ river docks facing the un-drawn boundary between Eastside and Kings on the far bank. North of us was Lowtown proper, where lines upon lines of shanty-like homes littered the filthy streets. Smog, smoke and shattered dreams stank up the soulless suburb of lives ill-spent. On top of that happy reflection, it suddenly occurred to me what the ‘alternative transport’ was. Frank planned to take a Bay cruise on a river boat.

Bob thought it was a great idea.

I take back every other thing I have ever said I hate, Frank. But this. This, I hate. 

Frank laughed and patted my hilt. He found a Hurghian fisherman called al-Raquim bin Dunnee. He looked about as seacraft savvy as you could expect from a man with five thousand years of desert in his genes.

"Toadshead Cove? Why you want go there?” Al's dusky brow furrowed and concern bounced around his peat-brown eyes. Frank pulled out a greeny, a green twenty guilder chunk of pigskin, and every ounce of question vanished from our intrepid captain's face in the time it takes a camel to spit. You could have swung off his smile and hit both moons. “No problem! No problem! You boss! Ahhh, you tourist?” He nodded hopefully.

"My friend here has never been boating in the Bay,” Frank gestured to Bob, who smiled weakly. “And faraa'aakk rak kartaza'a'a min taqum rem'a rar'ar'ar."

Al smiled even more broadly and kissed Frank between the eyes. “It is indeed a sight for my sore ears to hear god's own speech in this godforsaken land."

Thank Giblet, the small god of the Middle Intestines, that you're ok, Frank. I thought you'd swallowed a wolverine! 

Frank and Bob climbed down into The Bearded Hamster. It was quite a fine vessel as far as clapped out, barely floating iron chunks of nautical insanity and magipowered death traps went. Al flicked switches and tapped jewels and brought the little Hamster to life. I saw gentle yellow puffs of Manah as the drives engaged the elemental. The boat pulled away from the dock with Al at the wheel, already singing a Hurghian ballad that had probably already mentioned an albatross or two. Clear of the dock, Al tapped another jewel and the Hamster shuddered up to full steam. The gentle yellow Manah was replaced by a thick dark blue that billowed up from below the rusty deck. The water elemental had been woken and was now being prodded un-gently by a range of maginological devices that amounted to only slightly less than acute torment.

"I've always wondered how these things work,” Bob asked. Suddenly, I wasn't the only nervous passenger. “I mean, the water elemental is kept below the water, isn't it?"

"Yes, inboard magimotors are fascinating,” Frank replied as he happily watched the Eastside riverbank scooting by. “The water elemental resides just below us in a very well constructed maginological pressure tank, which is completely safe and secure. I'm sure Rhys can barely see a single speck of Manah leakage."

Sorry, is that you, Frank? I can barely see you through all this DARK BLUE FHARKIN’ MANAH!!!!! 

"Don't shout, Rhys."

Bob went a little pale. “Is something wrong?"

"Everything's ... um ... fine, Bob. Rhys gets a little overexcited out on the water. It's a ... metaphysical reaction, I believe."

Frank, you can kiss my metaphysical butt! I just don't want to be sittin’ on the bottom of the Bay for the next five ice ages with nothing but your rotting carcass to keep me mentally stable. 

If a water elemental breaks free of its bonds while you're out on the drink, you better hope you've got a mean ass sword, or six barreled crossbow, or even a ghun. Because that way, you can quickly kill yourself before the elemental starts gettin’ its payback for several hundred years of enslavement and torture. They don't get bored quick like an air elemental. They can pull you to the bottom and slowly strip your body down, piece by piece, feedin’ you air so you don't drown.

Drownin’ is the least of your worries on a boat with an inboard.

We passed under the Ordinary Bridge and I couldn't help marveling at the thick iron girders that looked so wonderfully solid right about then. I'd sure prefer to have them under me than a terminally pissed off water elemental any day of the week. Al didn't share my pessimism. He waved and smiled as we putt putted our way out of the mouth of the Upwerdd River into Dark Fin Bay. The Statue of Franchise stood on her rock at the point of Hightown, as proud as a pennywhistle, but we stayed close to the Eastside shore, where the sparse cottages and meager yards competed for space with the ever-growing menace of commercial docks, sweatshops and polluted air.

The Bay had a little chop in it and the Hamster's weary hull creaked and groaned under the pressure. Al smiled a veiled smile whenever he was looked at, but he was sweating like a pig in a pie and kept glancing nervously downward. Down at the straining inboard. Bob turned a dull shade of green about two tocks after we hit the roll and pitch of the Bay and moments later, was emptying Edgar's best luncheon fare over the side. At least it cheered Al up, a little.

Two Steamers from the Eastern Realms were pulled alongside the Hightown Docks (east), full of spices, silks and marital aids fresh from those strange lands, resplendent in spices, silks and ... marital aids. The sounds of large, heavy objects being moved from point A to point B rang out across the salty, sea air.

"The dockers are back at work.” Frank commented to nobody in particular. “Article Five's been lifted."

We found out later that the Stock Exchange had suffered such a record low opening, that Takklehurm had been given little choice. The Guilds had put his stones between two house bricks and were just itching to do the monster mash.

South Scene Island slipped past in a dream with its neat, cultivated gardens surrounding the Citied Council Hall and the Lord Liege-Mayor's official residence. By tradition, the residence remains unlived in, since the first elected Lord Liege-Mayor decided it was too removed from “the pulse of the people” and more importantly, people noticed when he called whores in. The Council still meets at the Hall though, every double full moon, to dream up new and progressive ways of fharkin’ us all over.

We rounded the coast bearing east while Bob continued to dry retch, Al continued his nervous song and Frank continued to marvel at everything, from the contour of the waves, to the glinting afternoon sun off the far distant project buildings in Queens. The Eastside scenery got drabber and less pathetically pretentious the further we pushed along the coast. Less coats of paint. Less tiny patches of ‘parkland’ green. Less ‘shoppes'. The warehouses and private docks got larger and more functional. No false glitz. The place smacked of being used—quietly used. Used like polished work boots. At some arbitrary point, this decline in standards led to Eastside becoming Knaves. They say the only difference between an Eastsider and a Knaves resident is in the brand of their bootlaces—meaning how much more the little things count in Eastside. It's a load of wet waivers if you ask me. I hate both places, but for very different reasons.

"Toadshead Cove,” our tour guide announced with the first sun already starting to kiss the horizon behind him. He was sucking on the thickest, smelliest, vilest looking black-tar cigar you could imagine and smiling through it.

Frank scanned the coastline. Toadshead Cove is a wide-mouthed shallow inlet with two pillars of natural rock jutting out of the water. Back then, there was a bunch of cheap wharves methodically rotting into the sea that were serviced by a poorly pressed dirt road. The recent ‘Clean Up Knaves Project’ was designed to give the area a ‘new lease on life’ to quote the then current Lord Liege-Mayor, Balthus Simion, and it cost the City taxpayers seven hundred fifty thousand guilders.

They painted the rotting wood and pressed the dirt some more. Somebody sure Cleaned Up.

Frank found what he was looking for. He pointed. “Take us in there, would you, al-Raquim?” The boat chugged its way up to the wharves and pulled in beside a hunk of junk that made the Bearded Hamster look like the Blittannia with bells and whistles.

Frank helped Bob up the ladder. The kid was sure glad to get on steady earth again. He laid face down on the wood and managed to breathe. Frank said some gobbledeegoop in Hurghian to our intrepid captain, I think requesting he wait. Al smiled and nodded and waved.

Take it from me, never trust anyone that smiles, nods and waves.




Chapter Seventeen: Knaves Boating Faction

With the shadows lengthening, East Wharf Road was quiet, apart from a bunch of gulls that watched us in the calculating way peculiar to that breed of bird. The buildings were all large and businesslike, made of cheap stone and recycled wood. Broken bits of netting and cheap packing-wood splinters littered the place. There was a nautical cheapness about everything and the faintly nauseous smell of rotting fish.

"Well, you guys are smarter than you'se look. I'll give you'se that!” said one of the gulls.

I must have been distracted. Holding up a scryguard will do that. Once the seagull opened her beak, I saw the light green Manah trace in her, constantly shifting like bubbling mud. The bird was MARE'd up to her eyeballs.

"Why do you say that?” countered Frank. The gull hopped up on his shoulder. She wasn't big, but she looked as healthy as a well-fed quail. Although the Magi Guild does its best to limit Magic Application Residual Effects (apparently ... ), there's only so much you can do when you tinker with Manah—the very fabric of the cosmos—on such a regular basis. Innocent bystanders are gonna get MARE'd from time to time when the big spells are going down and the residual Manah backwash rolls across the city like an ugly wave of puke. Mostly it's a case of the odd dumb animal getting a little extra intellect and perhaps the power of speech, which can still have startling results, let me tell you. The Lady Doris Grownsnatch of Grownsnatch House once came home to find her four pet corgis walking on their hind legs, smoking gold leaf Coronas, drinking violet label Lumlian port and angrily debating the importance of a neoteric treaty with the barbarian tribes of the Barren Lands in relation, specifically, to trade variability code practices, at Guild and sub-Guild level, and, generally, to its potential affect on the Stock Exchange, vis-a-vis devaluation of red-rimmed stock ownership and level-playing-field industrial macro-reform in the northern Realms. Things turned sour when Pookie suggested Truffles had no concept of the current hyper-evolutionary socio-economic landscape in the north and wouldn't know a functioning quantitative econometric model if it jumped up and bit him on the tail. When Doris tried to intervene in the fracas that followed, she was nipped on the ankle and fainted when she saw that her blood was red, just like a peasant's. She bumped her head on a table and two valuable vases were irreparably damaged. Pookie and Truffles went without their supper and Grownsnatch House took the Magi Guild to court for Culpable MAREing and won an undisclosed pay-out rumored to be in six figures. Doris shared the swine with her corgis and they used it as start-up venture capital and now own and operate a Company (Woof Woof Timber and Rendering Company) that managed to monopolize the Red Fir trade in the north. So it all turned out swell for Grownsnatch House, just don't be in the same room as Pookie and Truffles if they've been drinking port. They still refuse to sniff each others butt and make up.

But sometimes, worse things can happen. MAREing isn't always so genteel. Powers can be granted that really should-not-be. Best to stay wary of anything you suspect has been MARE'd. That way, your insides stay on the inside.

What have I told you about talking to strange birds, Frank? 

"I heard ‘em talkin’ about a bull like you,” the gull continued. “They said that you would come, from the north, a bull of great strength. Well, no, actually they said a short one with glasses.” The bird kinda shrugged. “I heard one of ‘em say this bull was still sniffin’ ‘roun’ and such, and that if he came down ‘ere sniffin', they'd blow his fharkin’ snout off."

"Hmmm ... interesting."

"Yeah, that's what they said. And...” the gull cocked her head to one side and looked about as thoughtful as a gull could look. “Hang on a mo'. You're not gonna seize a throne and hold it against the red tides of war and treachery, are ya?"

"Um...” Finally, even Frank looked bemused. “...no, not that I know of..."

"So, you're not a thief, reaver, slayer, conqueror or humbler of kings?"

"No."

"Are you planning to crush the jeweled thrones beneath your sandaled feet ... or was it the serpents ... yeah, the serpents ... or the jeweled thrones ... something anyway. Are you plannin’ to crush anything beneath your sandaled feet?"

"Um, I don't wear sandals. I wear shoes.” Frank lifted a shoed foot off the ground and the MARE'd gull examined it carefully. We all did.

"Weeell,” she continued. “That's alright then. I hate that type..."

Don't ask me what the bird was on about, I still don't know. And anyway, who'd crush a perfectly good jeweled throne beneath anything? Everyone knows jeweled thrones are worth more in one piece.

Frank shook his head slowly and tried his best to ignore the MARE'd ravings. “And just who is this ‘they’ you mentioned?"

"What? Now I'm a fharkin’ public information booth, am I?” The gull managed to look as miffed as her beak allowed. “C'mon everyone, just come on down and talk to the fharkin’ seagull. She'll help you'se out for nuffin'."

"Just let me take off a drumstick, Frank, I swear it'll be quick..."

"Rhys! You'll have to excuse my over-excitable friend.” Frank grabbed Bob by the front of the tunic—he'd only just staggered to his feet. “Excuse me a tock, Bob.” He picked up the kid and shook him until about half a loaf of bread crumbs and three rats worth of meat chunks had come clear. I reckon you could feed a family of four for a week off the crumbs in the tunics of ten apprentices. Go on, prove me wrong!

The gull took a few pecks and must have liked what it beaked. It squawked for us like a true stool ... gull. “Couple of punks up at the Faction. That gray building up there, see? The one with the broken windows. But you didn't hear it from me, right? I think they got connections with the Clan. I saw one of ‘em's got a ghun. One of those little two shot Flosbies. Not a big fan of ghuns. They're bad for your health, you know. Only crazy fharkers use ‘em if you ask me. They aren't expectin’ you to come from ‘roun’ the back, so they got look outs on the road. So's you didn't hear it from me, see?"

"Thanks.” Frank shook Bob again ("Hey! Cut it out!") and we made our way carefully to the back lot of the Knaves Boating Faction.

Now I'm not normally one to listen to birds renowned for their ability to scavenge fried vegetables, Frank, but don't you think it might be time to cut our losses? For the sake of Khower, the godlet of Living to Fight Another Day, we know they're waiting to shoot our snouts off, so let's just count our blessings and make our way back into town. We'll have time to get the freshest cuts down at the Snout Ring and maybe you'll get lucky with that cow on the door. Killer or Heifer or whatever her name was. How about it, Frank? You don't like ghuns any more than talking seagulls do. I can't stop a bullet, Frank. There's limits to my powers... 

Well, you get the idea. I was in Frank's mind-ear all the way down that mud-soaked back-street, over the broken-down fence, through the back lot with its broken cobbles and bone-like weeds and up to the back door. The place was even less impressive up close. It looked like it was going to fall down any tick. Frank reached for the doorknob, and stopped.

What's up, Frank? 

"Have you noticed anything strange about this building?"

Bob shook his head.

No red carpet? 

"Look at the lock on the door. The door looks old and cheap, but there's no cracks.” Frank brushed his thumb along the door lock, dislodging the dust and grime to reveal clean, hard metal. “This is almost brand new, and strong as blazes. Look at the windows. Some of them are cracked, but look at the bars. All very functional. What we have here is a case of lamb dressed up as mutton."

Now that Frank had pointed out the lock, I spotted the Manah trace. It was dark black nasty shit. The kind of Manah that gave good Magi bad dreams.

Frank, we got some serious bang-bang-burglar canting on this here door knob. 

"Can you cut it out?"

Not without dropping the scryguard. 

"Maybe Bob can help. What are you like with Magelocks, Bob?"

Bob gave a sheepish grin. “Not the best, but I can put up a wall for you in case it goes off. Might shield us in the event of..."

"A Manah Wall?” I asked out loud. “Are you sure, kid? That's a premium cant you're talking there."

The kid pouted. His lips pursed together like two fifty twit bits. “I wouldn't've said so otherwise, would I? Rhys, you're not the only one who..."

"OK. OK. Rhys, you drop the Scryguard and try to hack the Magelock. Bob, you put up your wall. I got faith in you, kid.” Bob smiled a stupid grin. If I had a mouth, it would've looked like I'd just swallowed a sack of shit.

I dropped the Scryguard and it was bliss. Like putting down a bag of shopping that had seemed really light a tock ago, but had started to tear your shoulder out of its fharkin’ socket once you got ‘round the corner. Frank pointed me into the keyhole and he motioned to Bob.

I went for it. I put everything I had into a beefy Cleanse, which showed up a wholesome lemon yellow against the black Manah that oozed out of the lock like pollution. It was hard yakka, but it was working. The spell trip was corroding and any tick, it would ... then I felt the surge behind me.

Bob's Manah Wall went critical with a sudden whhhuuush and those of us with faces were knocked flat on them—which was just as well because it set the Magelock off and the whole backyard allotment was engulfed in a fan shaped jet of purple flame. About groin high it would've been, with enough heat to fry your fritter at least medium rare.

Every window in every building facing us crashed inward in what would've been quite a display if any of us were in a position to appreciate it.

"Fharkin’ A,” Bob muttered. His eyebrows were smoldering.

By the time we had our senses back, there was a pair of punks in front of us, one big, one little. The little one was a warty City breed in a suit too good for him. The big one, a hobgoblin, had a small black ghun pointed at Frank's head. A two shot Flosby.

"Nice of you to call, Mr Mynos,” she said. “It will save us further expense.” Her lips were purple and her tongue was green. Apart from that, she was really quite ugly.

They marched Frank and Bob through the door and into the very spacious and well-appointed warehouse. Frank had been spot on with the ‘lamb dressed up as mutton’ crack. The inside of the Knaves Boating Faction was as plush and pretty as functional warehouses can get. With night having fallen around us, smart looking magilights lit up the joint, which was full of neat packing crates in ordered rows and well maintained record bars on well polished walls. The facade of disuse ended at the fiery welcome mat. We went up some stairs and left into a neat meeting room with some desks and chairs and pictures of fish.

"So what exactly were you doing at our back door, Mr Mynos?” It was the little punk doin’ the talking now. He was barely past Frank's navel in height with enough indifferent racial traits to mark him as a genuine City mish mash breed. I thought I could see goblin, ork, halfling, dwarf and maybe a little human. A very little. He had tiny sharp teeth, like broken toothpicks, and no hair. Not one. His skin was covered in humps, like the beginnings of warts, and his eyes were too big for his head. He blinked them constantly, like he was trying to get them to fit.

Frank shook his head. “As I was saying, I had received information you had paid for a hired thug to beat me and dissuade me from continuing a case and I wanted to check the accuracy of it for myself. Is it true?"

"I think we have the right to be asking the questions here, Mr Mynos,” the hobgoblin dame piped up. She wasn't getting much value out of Frank, but Bob was just about wetting himself. His face was white. His pupils wide. The dame waved the black metal Flosby at him. With its stubby barrel and two shot drum tucked underneath, it was small as ghuns go, but the compressed air elementals in each bullet could still plop a chunk of lead through a stone wall at a hundred paces. And magic would have a hard time stopping it. “I think your young friend is a little concerned.” She smiled into Bob's face and waved the Flosby under his nose. “What's the matter, precious?” She put the barrel of the ghun into his mouth. “Cat got your tounge?” Bob was no longer just about wetting himself.

"Listen,” Frank stepped up and the hobgoblin dame swung the ghun around on him. “You've got no right to keep us here. I'm a Guilded Master seeking answers on a lawful point..."

"You were trying to break in our back door!” the dame yelled. Hobgoblins have a nasty rasp when they yell. You could trim edges of castle walls with it. “You are simple criminals, who tell fanciful stories of us paying hired thugs with no evidence and no..."

"Then how did you know my name?” Frank asked. A not so pleasant silence rang out throughout the Knaves Boating Faction Guildhall. The two corporate punks looked at each other.

The hobgoblin smiled. “I think we'll just top you now, Mr Mynos.” She leveled the ghun at Frank. “It's been a pleasure..."

"But hey,” I blurted out quickly. “Aren't you going to tell us all about your diabolical scheme before you do it, because it makes no difference now?"

They looked at each other again. “No,” they said.

Astonishing! Total disregard for narrative convention!

The dame pointed the ghun at Frank's chest.

I can't say I've ever been happier to see a marauding member of the homicidal undead come crashing through a stone wall than at just that moment. The revenant of Ashley Ash barreled into the room, screeching an undead screech of rage that could've split the spine of five hundred and four ogris berserker knights. She had an axe in each hand and she came at the hobgoblin dame like an orkan transvestite at an end of year clearance sale.

To her credit, the dame barely flinched. She swung the Flosby around and fired.

The experience of being beside a ghun going off in an enclosed space is probably somewhere between having a white hot knitting needle jammed through your eardrum and being slapped up the side of the head with a flat plank of wood. With nails in it.

The pill hit Ashley Ash just below the chest. She went down like a sack of salted pork and the ringing aftershock bounced around the room, but, more importantly, the gray smoky wind of the released air elemental from the ghun bullet blew around us, knocking Frank's hat off, whipping up loose clothing edges and messing up hair-dos. Its acrid, musty smell fought every nose in the house.

But all eyes were on the deathly-still undead face down on the floor amongst the wall rubble. In true suspense saga fashion, showing she mightn't have had such a disregard for narrative convention after all, the hobgoblin stepped toward the body. Another step. Another breath. Close now. She leaned down, slowly. She reached out. She rolled the undead body over.

SLLLUUUMMP.

The axe came down overhand with a sick wet slump and embedded itself in the top of the hobgoblin's head; right down between her big brown bulging eyes. Now, hobgoblin's brains ain't exactly were you expect them to be, but it still wasn't exactly a pin prick. She had enough strength left in her to level the Flosby and let off the second round, right into Ashley's face.

Another sound like a whole convention full of angry gods of thunder who didn't like the canapés.

"Nooo!” Bob squealed like a girl—like it was going to do the late Mz Ash any harm! Taking off the top of her head wasn't going to make her look much worse, for fhark's sake! Bits of her head splattered across the back wall and she dropped again. The hobgoblin dame tottered around the room clutching the shaft of the axe and trying to pull it out of her head. She bumped into the City breed, who looked like he'd just seen ... well ... looked like he'd just seen a murderous revenant smash through the wall and cut his associate's head in half.

Let's get out of here, Frank, while we got a chance. I think we're in for some serious recoil. 

"Right.” Frank grabbed the wet-crotched Bob, his dusty fedora and headed for the door at the closest he could manage to the speed of thought.

Ghuns ain't got no style, no elegance and no thought in ‘em. They're brutal, ugly little magichines for the homicidally insane, which, unfortunately, is a sizeable economic demographic in the City. Recoil is the main problem. That's why most ghuns only have two pill chambers, but even two shots, if fired one after the other in an enclosed space, can lead to some serious recoil. Air elementals are docile enough magicritters. You treat ‘em nice, and you can get ‘em to do just about anything for you—like run a hover disc or an elementavator up a tallhouse. But to get a ghun bullet to go quick enough to kill, you need to squash ‘em down. You need complete Magiforced Elemental Compression. Air elementals don't like being compressed. They get mad and then they get even. So if they don't dissipate quick enough after release, you need to ‘recoil’ away from the area as fast as you can before something nasty happens.

Frank got through the door and down the stairs. I heard the crates getting torn up first, a grinding, mashing sound like a force five tornado with an anger management problem. The bars on the windows started popping next. Plink. Plink. Plink. One scooted past us and took off Frank's fedora. He caught it with his unBobbed hand and scooted out the front of the building. Then the roof came loose.

Apparently, it landed somewhere in the Queens projects, where it became a sought after piece of real estate for many years to come. We got a cab back to the office and called it a night.

An almost terminal night.




Chapter Eighteen: The Clan

We might've called it a night, but not much sleep was had. Frank stayed up late reading through books from 'Fiend Folio—a Layman's Guide to the Undead (and how to remain not one of them)' by Arch Magus Fladnag the Faded Beige, to 'The City Clan—Unplugged' by Rufus ‘soon-to-be-deceased’ James. Bob kept waking up and pacin’ ‘round, eating bread rolls and cheese, but unable to sleep. When he did nod off, he'd wake up with a scream and a wild look on his face. With all the excitement, I didn't get no down time neither.

So when Hoggwash and that little pratt, Kris, showed up at the office door shouting, “Open up in the name of the Watch!” ... no one was in much of a mood for a particularly civil chat.

How about I open ‘em up in the name of the Watch, Frank? You only gotta say the word... 

"No, that's fine, thanks...” Frank brushed himself down and straightened his glasses. He was in the same suit as two days ago. Mz Hurmitage hadn't been ‘round to collect the laundry. She must've been having trouble with her bunyuns again.

"What do you mean ‘no?’ I'm not playing pussyfoot here, Mynos. Open up or I'll use the Watch Ram!"

Hoggwash was looking at Frank straight through the big square windowless hole in the door. He could've reached in and almost slapped the bull, but his first thought was for the Ram—the MAD cant that's meant to bust down doors 'allowing access to the most nefarious magicriminal lairs with the minimum of Manah expenditure', according to the introductory notes for the Watch Ram entry in ‘The MAD Operational Incantations Handbook Thirty-fourth edition'.

"No. No, I wasn't talking to you, Lieutenant. There's no need for that. The door's..."

It was too late. While Frank was speaking, Hoggwash had rushed through the cant clumsily and released without another word of warning. My Magisight gave me the pleasure of knowing a tick before everyone else what was going to happen. The stony gray Manah exploded its energy backwards and the Ram knocked both Watch officials straight down the rickety stairs, end over useless end. Kris landed bum down on the good Lieutenant's face. The cherry on the cake.

"...unlocked,” Frank finished.

Do we get dinner with this show? 

None of us moved. We listened to Hoggwash berating his batman all the way back up the stairs until they reached the door again. They both joined in our silence until, finally, Hoggwash reached out and turned the door knob. The door squeaked open.

"Good morning, Lieutenant.” Frank offered. “Kris."

In they came—Lieutenant Braindead and Mr Self-Importance. Hoggwash managed to get his arrogant, but vaguely vacuous, sneer back on his face as he crossed the threshold.

"What the hell happened here, Mynos? I thought you were rolling in swine these days. You been redecorating?” Kris laughed at the joke. It was in his job description.

"That's the second time a red-rimmed fharkwit has said that...” I mumbled. I don't think they heard me.

"You shouldn't believe everything you think, Lieutenant.” Frank grinned. “I'm just a humble City Guildsman, trying to turn an ethical Guilder."

"Hah! You're as crooked as ... as ... Kris, what's something crooked? Quickly!"

"Um..."

"C'mon, you bloody idiot..."

"Um..."

"Can't I rely on my batman for..."

"A brick!” Kris shouted.

"A brick? As crooked as a brick?” Hoggwash slapped the half elf behind the ear and knocked his felt hat off. “Bricks aren't ... you..."

"Bricks can be crooked!” Kris shouted like a spoiled kid under another barrage of slaps.

Hoggwash finally calmed down. “Well, you are as crooked as a brick, Mynos, and I plan on taking you down as soon as you put a hoof wrong, don't you worry about that."

"I shall take your sage advice then, and not,” Frank answered.

The Lieutenant's brow furrowed. Eventually, he threw the conversation in his mind's ‘too hard’ basket, which was almost at the point of splitting down its seams, and began a new one. “So what's been going on, Mynos? I know you've been chasing the Hacker like the rest of us and I know you were messing around on the Bay yesterday afternoon, so give us some dope."

"I'd like to help you, Lieutenant, but my case specific information is protected by client/provider privilege, if you'd care to peruse my Guild Contract.” Frank scratched his floppy ear and looked as earnest as a prefect. “I would be more than happy to reveal whatever my client is prepared to have revealed to you, but first I would need to consult with a representative..."

"Yeah right. Thanks for nothing, Mynos.” Hoggwash stepped up to Frank and leaned up at him, thrusting out his chubby, sun-red face. “Do you know what's going on out there, Frank? You probably haven't got a fharking clue, but I'll give you the drum right now! Business, Frank, business is suffering! Look, look at this,” he flung out the Kronikle and it hit the floor with a dull flap. “Stock prices are crashing, even the red-rimmed chips. It's all coming down and the Guilds are going orkan. All over two killings in three nights! How does it happen, Mynos? Everyone wants fharking answers and they want them now and they want them to the right fharking questions. I've been holding the press and the Guilstapo off your back,” and here he waved a finger, “but no more favors from me, bucko. I'm cutting you loose."

This guy is under a lot of pressure, Frank. I think he's finally flipped into nah-nah land. 

"With all due respect, Lieutenant, to you and to all your MADmen, I didn't ask for your protection. I'm just trying to represent my client as best I...” Frank stopped talking and his eyes sharpened. A minotaur's got big eyes so you can see it when their pupils harden. It's like black iron, fresh from the forge.

Even Hoggwash noticed.

"What is it, Frank? You just thought of something. What is it, Frank? In the name of Mutra, what is it, Frank, I'm desperate! Anything, give me anything! They want answers from me, Frank, and I don't know shit! I haven't slept in three days and my wife said...” He started to cry. I tell the truth, he started bawling like a bare-assed babe.

Kris stepped up and slapped him across the face. Not hard, but with a twist of lemon.

Hoggwash shook his head, balled up a fist and thumped Kris right between the eyes. The half fey hit the floorboards out cold.

"Thanks, Kris, I needed that.” The MAD Lieutenant wiped his eyes on his sleeve and straightened his tie. He breathed in deeply, like he could suck back in what remained of his dignity. “I'll be seeing you, Frank,” he said finally. He turned around, picked up his unconscious batman by the shirt collar and dragged him out the open door.

"Always a pleasure, Lieutenant,” Frank offered. The only response was the sound of Kris's limp feet slapping the steps.

"What was that all about, Frank?” Bob rubbed his eyes. “You got any food in this joint?"

I think Frank was a little unsure as to which was the most important question in Bob's mind, but he gave him a fiver and sent him down the street for bagels.

I've never seen Hoggwash like that. He's real spooked. 

"I think I've worked it out, Rhys. Well, some of it anyway. And it's all to do with this."

Frank gestured to the front page of the Kronikle.

EXCHANGE COLLPASE!

The City Standard Index dropped to a record low of one hundred five widgits yesterday before the Stock Exchange was prematurely closed by one glass and a half due to “a fire system malfunction."

Other parts, even in the normally rock solid red-rimmed bonded class, took severe beatings as trader confidence became the latest bloody victim of the Hightown Hacker.

"I would implore people to remain calm in this, the glass of Hightown's need,” Lord Liege-Mayor Takklehurm stated behind a phalanx of Trark guards. “There is no cause for alarm or undue fear. I have been informed that MAD officers of the City Watch have several leads on the Hacker situation and it will all be resolved very shortly."

When approached by a Kronikle reporter for further comment, a Trark Guard bit the reporter's arm off. He is now recovering on leave.

Master Trader Humphrey Tritt, a leading City economist, expressed his concern for the City's plummeting fiscal woes.

"At the current rate of decline, the City will be in a depression by tomorrow afternoon that will take years to recover from."

Seventeen factories were closed down this morning; job losses over the past three days are estimated to run into the thousands...

Bob came back with six steaming ham and pineapple bagels (he'd already eaten four) just as Frank finished reading about the mysterious destruction of the Knaves Boating Faction Guildhall. The body of one Faction President, Ursula Uhr, (a hobgoblin) was the only one recovered from the wreckage.

So they don't even know it was the Ash dame that topped her? 

"That's correct, and she's obviously still out there. And so is Union Leader Lintyn Slur."

The City breed? 

"Yes, and he'll be the fourth Hacker victim if we don't get to him before nightfall."

So what? Why should we care, Frank? These guys are into some seriously bad karkar with the Clan, plus, they topped Ashley Ash, not a bad dame by all reports. Why should we care? Why don't we just let un-nature take its course? 

I knew there had to be a reason.

"Because the City Guilds are going to want someone to fry over this, someone to fry in the Lightning Chair long and slow. And if all Ash's killers are dead, there's only one person left to throw on the barbie..."

We both looked at Bob, finishing his tenth bagel. There was melted cheese down his front.

"What?"

The two Clan punks came through the door without opening it. One was a full blood ork, barely out of the mountains by the look of him. He wore no shirt, probably to show off the ritual scars that criss-crossed his face and chest, and his eyes were still that lovely fresh colour of purple before the magipollution got to work on ‘em. He was short and wide and had arms like poorly mortared granite. His claws scraped the floor. The other punk was a human. Maybe he had some goblin blood, but maybe he'd just been beaten to within an inch of his life with the ugly stick. He was old school. The scars on his face weren't ritual. He had no hair and wore a wyvern leather jacket and tie.

The ork dropped the door on the floor and said: “Knock, knock."

"Can I help you, gentlemen?” Frank asked hopefully.

"I'm Spinecutter,” the human said, “and this here is my associate, Chreeeuuush. We've got a message for you from the Clan, Mr Mynos."

"Yes?"

"Die."

They both pulled out four bolted hand-crossbows.

Frank grabbed the table top off the floor in one thick bullish hand and thrust it out in front of him and Bob. Two bolts hit the hardwood with two heavy chocks and the tips peaked through like little black noses.

"I do so hate violence, Rhys, particularly first thing in the morning. It's so uncivilized."

Still holding the table top in front of him, Frank charged. It was a minotaur charge. I thought I even saw some steam come out of his snout, but I wasn't sure. He hit the Clan punks hard. The ork went into the wall with a sick smack and Spinecutter was sent through the open doorway and down the stairs with far more than the usual squeaking.

"I mean, I haven't even had coffee yet."

The ork moaned a not-quite-unconscious moan. Frank brought the table top down on his head. Bingo.

These guys are the real deal, Frank. I can smell it. I think we better make ourselves scarce, you know? 

There's plenty of pretenders out there—punks that strut around saying they're Clan so nobody better touch ‘em. It's not a wise career move, but hey, there's plenty of unwise punks around. Just look out your window.

"For once, Rhys, I think you're right."

Frank, grab the ork's bolter! It might come in handy. 

I thought I might as well try it on.

It was a Chummley & Company—the duck's guts of bolters—a real work of art. Made from blackwood and blackened steel with four interlocking high tensile bow strings on each side of the square stock and a selfloading, magiassisted ‘ride on’ magazine that held sixteen more bolts. You could keep firing the puppy ‘til you turned ‘em into a porcupine. Sure, they're not as powerful as a ghun, but you don't have to deal with recoil from elementals with a death wish (your death, that is) and they've got character. Chic. As Professor Chummley says, ‘Dead is dead, but style is Chummley."

Frank's hand hovered over the sleek hand-crossbow for a heartbeat or maybe two, but then he shook his head. Maybe it's style, but it wasn't Frank's style. “OK, Bob, I think the back exit might be in order this morning. And then we're getting some coffee."

Frank followed Bob up the ladder and into the attic, where he unlocked the barred grate and pulled open the window. Bob got through easily, but it took Frank a few huffs and puffs and squeezing to follow him. If he'd had normal width minotaur horns, he would've had no chance. The roof of our building joined three others in a big, cheaply tiled square of the corner block. From up there, we could see the far-from-clear Simsday morning vista across Lowtown and into the Strip. Simsday was big business for the pleasure dens of the City; on the Strip, the casino and bar owners call it ‘Bizday'. As the first day of the weekend, it's the traditional let-your-hair-down, party-hard, drink-until-you-puke and poke-something-sharp-into-somebody-else-for-love-or-money kind of day. All four activities are pursued with reverent vigor by Citysiders everywhere.

Frank led the way to the other side of the roof and climbed down the fire escape ladder onto Lincoln Street, just past Rotgutters alley. We were down and away before either of the Clan whackers knew what was how.

"Who were they?” Bob asked as we rounded the corner and ducked into The Snout. It was early, but Bashful did a fine Special Breakfast. I don't know what was so special about it, but it was cheap. Cheap meat and stale bread turned to toast.

"As my astute pal here pointed out..."

"He must have mindspoke it."

"Ah, yes, I keep forgetting about that. Well, as Rhys noticed, they were Clan."

"The Clan? THE Clan? The CLAN?"

"Keep your clam shut!” I said out loud for his benefit. “You don't go blurting out that word down this end of town."

Crime in the City comes in three basic varieties. There's the opportunity events like 'look, there's someone with two twits to rub together. Let's whack ‘im.' Then there's the amateur glass sessions, where a few sons of a ghun get together over an ale and decide, 'hmmm, let's go whack that guy with two twits to rub together.' And finally, you get the Clan jobs. They're much more likely to sit back and wait until you've got three, or even four twits to rub together, and then hit you and your family and your friends and nobody lives to tell the tale. The Clan are the criminal version of the Guilstapo. Just as mean, just as nasty, just as likely to crimp your kidneys—but on the other side of the law.

"Sorry. Hey, is that egg-fried toast?” Bob headed off toward the buffet.

He's got no idea how much karkar we're in, Frank. Have you? 

Frank pushed his glasses up onto his nose and sighed. “Yes, I've got a fair idea, Rhys. Trouble with the Clan is not something I take lightly, I assure you.” Frank pulled out the Kronikle, laid out the Killer Kryptic Krossword and knocked it over in two tocks flat.

Frank designed a crossword once and sent it in to the Kronikle. Instead of printing it, they sent it to Whimsa, the Secret Society for the Pretentiously Brainy. So far, nobody's got further than five answers and let me tell you, three of ‘em are wrong. To even get the easiest clue, you gotta know seven different languages (three of them dead), have a decent understanding of magiquantum mechanics, know all the poems by Tulloch Brash and be able to sing the third harmony line in a Rubenspiel choral round.

Bob came back with a brace of food and was quickly followed by Bashful Sonnyson, who was wearing a not-so-sonny look on his face.

"I'm good for it, Bashful..."

"No, Frank, it's not that.” Bashful grimaced and it's hard to spot a dwarf grimacing under all those wrinkles and bearding, so when you see it, you notice it. It's a real grimace. It's a grimace to hook your gauntlets on. “You wanna just come over here for a tick?"

"Sweet.” Frank followed the little guy behind the bar and out into the office. Inside, Gertie was sitting against a wall, snoring loudly.

"Frank, you know there's a contract out on you?"

"Is that so..."

"Yeah, that's the dope. Your hide is worth two hundred swine and it's Clan money. Whose fharkin’ pie did you step in?” Bashful wiped his brow. He was sweating.

"I'm not completely sure yet, Bashful, but I know two punks tried to reallocate me this morning just before I got here."

"Well, you've really bored into a gas pocket with this one. I've had some words in some ears, but I ain't got much say in things no more, karpeesh? You know not to fhark with the Clan, Frankie. I always took you for a smart bull."

"Well, sometimes, Bashful, you don't know what you've got until you've already sniffed the pepper pot. I can handle it though. I've got some notions..."

"Notions ain't gonna mean fhark to these guys, Frank. Notions will just get your snout..."

There was a crash from outside and a yelp in the unmistakable voice of one young necromancer apprentice. Frank ran out the front.

You cannot leave this kid for five ticks. 

There was “Downright” Badd. There was Bob. There was Downright holding Bob up by one ankle and rather gently (for him anyway) biting the kid's ear. There was blood running down both their faces.

"Downright!” Frank called out. “He doesn't taste half as good as he looks, I assure you."

The big half ogre dropped the kid and spun around. “Stubby! Jus’ da bull I'm after! Listen, didja know dat your pelt's worth two hun'red on the Clan market right now?"

The patrons of the Snout Ring suddenly fell into two very distinct categories. There were those who decided they had pressing business elsewhere—some of them as far away as Westside Upper Limits, and there were those (most of them minotaurs) who turned their chairs around for a better view of proceedings. And maybe grab another leg of ‘lamb'.

If I had a flesh body, able to be pounded, crushed, stabbed, slashed, killed and gesplatted, I would've been in the former.

"Nuffin’ personal, but I wouldn't mind collectin'. It's just business, you know.” He sounded almost apologetic. Downright approached slowly, his knees flexed, his fists clenched, his every thick, vein-popping muscle ready to do its bit.

"Oh, yes, swell, Downright. How about I just slit my own throat for you right now?"

"Oh, would ya? Dat would sure save me time an'...” He paused for a tick. Then he smiled. “You're jokin, ain't you, Stubby? Ha ha ha. You nearly had me dere.” The fact he worked it out at all was evidence of his human blood.

"Stand back, Downright,” Frank pulled me from his belt and held me between thumb and pointer finger. “I don't want to have to use this."

Now I'm sure the comedy of the moment is not lost on you, gentle reader. I can tell you, it wasn't lost on the latter variety of Snout patrons, who almost to a bull, erupted in a chorus of laughs that would've put the best saga can to shame.

'The bull minotaur drew forth the Mighty Letter Opener of Doom.' 

I think even Bob smirked. I made a mental note to cut him later.

As for Downright, he just looked confused. It was enough to put him off guard. Or so I thought.

"Don't kill him, Rhys,” Frank whispered.

I launched out of Frank's hand and went for the leg. The hammie.

Downright Badd might've looked like a simple brawler with no style or panache, but it turned out he trained with some mighty slick punks and even worked out with some serious pit contenders. I should've known by his professional looking fighting stance and his lack of dribble, but I took it casual and fharked things up.

His hand flicked out and caught me mid flight.

FHARK! 

"Nice trick, Stubby.” Downright looked me up and down. “Mind if I keep it when, ya know, you're gone?"

Then Bob the Necromancer made his move. He launched himself with a blood-curling scream and crashed head-on into Downright's stomach with every ounce of muscle and energy and adrenaline he could muster. It was inspiring. It was courageous. It was quite a performance.

Bob bounced off and fell unconscious on the floor.

"What was his problem?” Downright shrugged a four foot across shrug and approached Frank, holding me out in front of him like a torch. It was only then I realised he was going to use me to gut Frank and I didn't have the energy to resist. “It's just business, Frank,” he repeated.

He prepared me to lunge. I couldn't watch, but I had no choice. As long as Frank's eyes were open, I had to watch Downright's professional face. The face of City business.

He's gonna stab high, Frank. At the throat. 

In the blink of a blatherskite, Downright was flat on his back on the floor. Blood was coming out of his face and one eye was closed and already as black as a basilisk blood pudding.

"I don't like gettin’ woke up on down time,” Gertie the Grip said as matter-of-factly as five hundred pounds of right-royally pissed off minotaur cow could manage. “An’ I haven't even had time to put on my face."

Downright smiled and wiped the blood from his mouth. “Now dis is more of a challenge.” He dropped me and pulled out a wicked looking long knife with an edge that could cut hairs down the middle. He leapt straight up and slashed low. Gertie managed to dodge back and grab hold of the arm, twist, and roll forward. There was a snap and a shriek and then a long knife on the floor.

Gertie looked into the face of Downright Badd, who couldn't help looking impressed. “Moo,” she said and headbutted him into next Ramsday. The sound was sick. Vomit sick. She let go of her hold and the half ogre hit the floor and didn't move.

There were nods of appreciation from around the Snout Ring crowd, and I think an eight point five from the Daktarrian judge (them punks are hard to please ... ).

Gertie stared at Frank and gave him a derisive snort and a toss of her head. “You play nice with your pals from now on.” She lumbered back off to the office.

"Thanks, um..."

Fhark, Frank! The cow's got some tools, huh? Did you see that! Whew! I don't think Downright's gonna see straight for a week! Yeah! 

Frank picked me up and went over to check on Bob. He was groggy but still in one pimply piece.

"Thanks for backing me there, kid.” Frank helped him to a chair. “But you were a bit outghuned on that one. You should be more sensible.” He waved a hand in the kid's face. The eyes didn't focus. “You alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, Mum, but can I wear my brown galoshes to school?” Bob went limp and fell back off the chair.




Chapter Nineteen: Trolls

It was too hot to hang ‘round The Snout. As soon as Bob was half alive, Frank gave Bashful a nod and we hit the street.

The streets of Stripside Lowtown are ominous enough at the best of times, but when you know there's a Clan sheet out with your pajamas pinned to it and a decent sort of price, you really get a chill. Even I felt it. A poet once said the City was:

’ ... a concrete carnivore.

At once the scaly beast

Whose fiery lips sneer and pout in triumph,

And then, the unseen snake

That lingers on after all seems safe'.

Now I don't know much about poetry, but I know a thing or two about scaly beasts and really, they're not all they're cracked up to be. Graham, the Mildly Agitated Beast of the Akrid Wastes of Fligg, was an electrum dragon with a particular taste for fine pottery, but when you...

OK. My editor has informed me I should stick to the case at hand. Suffice it to say, appearances can deceive and deception can kill, but fine antique pottery crunches up nicely like peanut butter. Apparently.

Frank hailed a wyvern cab and we all rolled in, just to get off the street and give the bull time to think, I guess. He told the driver just to drive and sat on the backseat facing Bob, but without lookin’ at him. The kid still had a grilled pork sausage in his hand.

I reckoned it was time to start layin’ low. Real low.

So let's see, we got the Clan after us, plus every freelance goon from here to Isnotalbad, plus we got MAD chafing at the bit, the Guilstapo watching our every move and an undead dame runnin’ ‘round with a fistful of axes and Bob here a potential felon we're harboring ... let me know if none of this is regular, Frank. We gotta lay low. We gotta get so low, the gods of the fharkin’ underworld are gonna be sayin’ ‘hey, where are those guys? You know, the funny little minotaur with the glasses who should be dead and the necromancer kid who can't spell a spell to boil an egg'. We gotta get under them, Frank. Frankie? Are you listening to me? HELLO? 

"We got to find Slur before sunset, Rhys."

Frank. Frank. Frankie. Let's be reasonable. 

"We have got to see this through, Rhys."

What about the Embalmers, Frank? What about the Stiffies? What about... 

"We don't have squat without the Ash girl, ahh...” he paused and scratched his snout “...ungirl. We don't know where she is, so we have nothing, flat. OK? Meanwhile, I think we're going to pay a visit to the Tuskan."

The Tuskan? 

"Yes, Rhys, the Tuskan."

"Who's the Tuskan?” Bob asked, spilling sausage on the floor.

Trolls? Trolls? Frank, you know I got a thing about trolls... 

To understand the Tuskan's position in the City, you first gotta understand the role trolls play. For a start, trolls ain't what they used to be. They used to be a powerful, highly magical race—more than the elves even—but they've let ‘emselves slide over the millennia. The further removed they get from the source of magic (and I'm not gonna bore you here with a magiphysical meta-biology lecture), the more they reduce in physical appearance. Most City trolls are about the size of a dame's thumb. They never wear clothes but—and how can I put this delicately—they got no bits to hang your hat off anyways. Don't ask me how they reproduce either. I've never taken an interest. But it's the hair that gets to you. Troll hair comes in many colours (green, yellow, orange, pink ... ) but it's always bright flouro and always points upward in a thick mad-ass spire.

And they're usually smiling between tiny puffy cheeks.

Jolly little saps.

Being highly magical and highly nimble and highly low, they get the bulk of the most important and intricate magichinery work. The high paid sort. You buy a jet black Mage Kraft XL four door cruiser, and there's no doubt trolls were the ones connecting the high-flux Manah lode distributor leeches to the magioptic Manahvyne crystalline nanocables that make that little piece of the heavens scoot along two foot above the ground like an angel on a fairy cloud. It was probably some Westside sap who buckled the doors on for five twits a tock, but hey, everyone's got their talents, and at least the Westside sap ain't gonna be reduced to a pile of something resembling ripe cheese if there's a sudden Manah surge.

Hey, every silver lining has a cloud.

The other thing about trolls is, just as they're useful to the legit side of magitown, they're pretty darn handy on the darker side of the street—the ignoble art of magiburglary. Every rich sap worth a few swine has some whizz bang state-of-the-magi-art magical alarm system set up at their pad, so big crims, the ones that have the heavy swine to throw ‘round, they get the top trolls in on real important jobs. So yeah, there's a heavy Clan-troll relationship. Everyone knows about it, but what's the Watch gonna do? If the SMU (Specialized Magichinists Union) goes out on strike, then companies like Mage Kraft lose millions.

Yeah, millions.

The Tuskan was, amongst many other things, the President of the SMU. Don't ask me to tell you what he looked like—trolls all look the same to me—except for the hair. Tuskan's was pink, really bright pink. And I mean really. The word ‘really’ isn't enough, so I'll just have to leave it at that. Really pink.

He owed Frank a favour. Well, not really Frank, actually Frank's Pop. They went way back. Frank's old man saved the Tuskan when he was still just another angry young troll in the woods with a big fat cheesy grin on his tubby little face.

You can't go see the Tuskan dressed like that, Frank. You look like you've just stepped outah Bumsville. 

"Good point, Rhys, I'll drop in on Vinnie. Suit Yourself, thanks, driver, on Tailors Row."

"It's really annoying,” Bob observed, “how I only ever hear half of what's going on, guys."

Tailors Row is a short lane that runs north off Main. The Row had some fine clothing joints back then, one of which was 'Suit Yourself', owned by one Vinnie del Tundra del Sinnoh del Loopy, who was a Master clothier and could do magic (and I mean that literally) with a few rolls of Turghan mohair. Frank got all his suits there at a decent ‘friends only’ price ever since Frank tracked down The Divine Mz N, Vinnie's pet maltese dragonne. People are always losing their dragonnes. They make great pets—easier to house train than a dog and more personal than a cat—and, though they look like a baby dragon, they don't grow any bigger than a small lampshade. The trouble starts when they reach physical maturity and they get the ability and irresistible urge to fly.

And every now and then, they get a little dragon-breath, but fortunately, that's a rarity.

The cobbles on the footpath of the Row sparkled and there were deckchairs and little coffee serving carts where you could spend half a glass and get charged a bluey for a mug of white vaguely-coffee-smelling froth. Suit Yourself was built from the same burnt-orange brick as the rest of the buildings in the Row. The inside was decked out in racks of suits and shirts and mirrors, at least fifty mirrors, and bright potted palms. There was piped Spanko guitar music in the air and a thick scent of frangipani.

Frank spotted Vinnie as soon as he walked in. “Hi, Vinnie..."

"Murder!” Vinnie shouted, shrill and girl-like.

"Murder?” Bob jumped behind a rack of shirts.

"Murder!” Vinnie continued. “Senor Mynos! What have you done to my Velveteen Dove-Brown double breasted ensemblé!” Vinnie trotted across the shop floor with his olive skin flushed pink and his bald head bobbing up and down in disapproval. His eyes shone with hurt. “This is murder I tell you!"

"Ummm,” Frank said sheepishly. “I had a bit of a run in with..."

"Ah yes, it is always the same, is it not, Senor Mynos? You rough-house with your bully-boy chums in every gutter you can find with no thought to my creations. My art! My life!"

"Shucks, I'm sorry, Vinnie, it's this Hightown Hacker business that's got..."

"Ah ah ah ah ah ah ahhh.” Vinnie reached up and put a slender finger across Frank's snout. “Not another word. Hightown Hacker indeed! It is you that is the Hightown Hacker, Senor Mynos! You are the Hacker!” He stopped and pouted hard enough to melt cheese.

Frank smiled. “Can you fix it up for me, Vinnie? You're a wizard."

"Can you fix it, Vinnie? Can you fix it, Vinnie? You're a wizard. This is what I always hear. And you bring in this ... waif of a boy wearing some sort of ... what is this? A scrap of ... something ... I tell you this, the boy does not walk out of my shop looking like that.” Vinnie sighed and shrugged and finally smiled. “Of course, Senor Mynos, I can have it ready within the glass. Do you have something with you?"

"Well, actually, I have to patronise the Banshee Room this morning to meet ... someone, so I need..."

"Formal wear, Senor Mynos!” Vinnie squealed with excitement, bobbed up and down on his toes and clapped under his chin. “A bull in formal wear, my formal wear of course, is a sight to cry tears over, Senor Mynos, tears! Real tears I am talking about! This way, please.” He gently urged Frank deeper into the shop with a hand at the small of his back. He was about to do the same to Bob, but then recoiled in mock horror. “For you, my little waif, I shall need some help. Staff! Staff!” The denizens of Suit Yourself emerged. Frank and Bob were at their mercy.

Frank stepped back out of Vinnies and into another wyvern fifty swine lighter in a striking white dinner suit and black tie (no hat—Vinnie had held it up between finger and thumb as if it were going to bite him and asked, “Was this once a hat, Senor Mynos?") and Bob in a neat Chucksters runner-boy kit in Vinnie's patented aqua-marine blue.

"Why couldn't I get the fancy suit? Why do I gotta be the runner?"

The wyvern launched us down Tailors Row and out onto Main while Frank tried to explain to Bob the grammatical error of his conversational ways. The traffic was light. Simsday morning is the calm before the raging storm. Stalls were setting up. Casino steps were being polished. The Strip was stretching its legs and yawning and reaching for an Alka Seltza, but the Strip is never asleep. It just rests its eyes on occasion.

"I need you out front as ... a look out, Bob. You're ... undercover for me. Maybe you can ask around the other runners and see if you can find out any ... leads."

Bob didn't buy it, which only increased my opinion of him. He wasn't as stupid as he looked. He certainly wouldn't have gone for the invisible badge routine.

You're taking a big risk here, Frank. They'll be Clan at the Banshee Room, you know that. 

"Yes, I know that. But I don't think they want me bad enough to try anything in the Room. The trolls wouldn't like it."

Remember Sang Hie Limb, you know, that freelance punk with all the kung foo moves? They took him out right in the middle of the dance floor, Frank. Just last week. They never found his legs. 

The Banshee Room was an A-list Strip joint between Main and the Boulevard that got burned out in the Fifth Mage Crises of ‘34, so don't bother tryin’ to find it. It had the whole range of punks—the flamboyant Hightown types slumming it, the creme de le creme of Lowtown, the Faction leaders and the high falutin’ Guildsmen, rubbing shoulders with the currently successful thieves and punks who just scored big on some run. Maybe even the odd saga star in dark glasses trying like hell to get noticed while trying like hell to look like they're not trying. Sammy Tullip, the big deal on the ‘Young and the Feckless', had a footprint in the pavement out front and a face print in the wall out back (he got fresh with a Clansman's girl—but it's amazing what reconstructive magisurgery can do these days).

Frank got out, paid the driver, tipped the wyvern and we walked up the red carpet under The Banshee Room sign in blue magilight, already bright enough to boil an egg on. The door was flanked by a weasily looking guy as skinny and as ugly as a spinal chord and an orkris (ork-ogre mix) the size of a hill. They were the brains and the brawn of the Banshee welcoming and de-welcoming crew. The fact they were dressed up neat and tidy in tuxedos did nothing to spoil the image.

"Good evening, sir,” the weasel said. “Welcome to the Banshee Room."

"It's still morning,” Frank replied.

The weasel smiled. “It's always evening at the Room. It's where the night life never dies."

"Runners, through there,” the orkris grunted at Bob through a force five scowl. He jabbed a thumb over a shoulder.

Hah! They're playing good wise-ass, bad wise-ass. 

Despite the rise of maginology and all its wonders, runner-boys remain an important accessory to the upper crust, doing those little jobs like fetchin’ a new Mage Kraft holo-watch, or finding a half elf gymnast who'll whistle Dixie for a guilder, or cleaning this mallet which some punk has accidentally struck with their head thirty times ('and everything's gonna be OhhhKaaay'). They get put in a cloak room with all the ... cloaks and stuff. They usually look mean and underfed, but they're dressed neat and don't normally have fleas or other more dangerous parasites.

Frank walked into the Banshee Room with a nonchalant step and a purposeful set to his neck. Vinnie had even polished his horns, so he fitted right in. The crowd was mostly human and the place was in a pre-lunch lull, less than half full. There was a fountain in the center of the joint and lots of light blue drapes and fancy ornamental goop. The big band stage, where the likes of Queen Tessa and the Brass Nine would later play, was empty. For now, a black ork from the jungles of Ran Ran de Rikos was playing a bright blue piano with the Blue Banshee logo on the back. He was doing a tender job of some light background music piece—A Walk Through the Partially Dim Forest in D minor, I recall. He smiled and nodded at Frank.

"How you doin', Sam?” Frank asked.

"I'm doin’ right fine, Mr Mynos. And how's yourself?"

"I'm swell, Sam. You going to play that song?"

"Do you want me to, Mr Mynos?"

Frank nodded. “Play it, Sam. For old times sake."

The piano player ripped into a rousing chorus of “Good Golly, Miss Polly" that for some reason, didn't fit with the mood. Apparently, on the ship from Lumlia when Frank was on his way to the City, he met Sam and they both loved that song. It was a happy tune.

But Frank had too much on his plate in the present to sit around reminiscing. He moved on.

So where's the Tuskan hang out? I prompted him.

"In that side corral over there, just on the other side of that serpent statue.” Frank dodged quietly between the floor tables where the few punks and players were muttering their two-twit tales to each other, and every now and then laughing with nervous tension. Frank saw the two Clan punks before I did. He turned toward the bar and ordered a dry martini from the doubly dry barman wrapped up in a bright blue apron. We watched the punks approach in the mirror behind the bar.

"So what do you make of them, Rhys?” Frank whispered.

They're both Clan, or I'm a jackhammer. The scrawny lookin’ goblin with the long arms is the talker and he thinks he's got you fingered. The hard ass lookin’ elf with the slicked back pony tail is his offsider, and he'll follow the goblin's lead. He's a rubber neck—a head nodder. If you want me to eavesdrop on ‘em, I'll have to drop the Scryguard. 

"No, that's fine, Rhys. Keep the Scryguard up for our absent friends. I concur with your assessment."

Con what? 

The barman came back with the martini, which had a blue olive on a stick in it. Frank dropped a guilder on the counter and he went away.

"Concur, it means to..."

They're comin’ over, Frank. 

The goblin was smiling and the fey was trying his best to look real cold. The whole Elven avenger deal. I got a glimpse of a magical short sword down his right trouser leg. The Manah trace was like bright purple smoke.

"You're pretty small for a minotaur, bull.” The goblin said.

"And you're pretty pretty for a goblin, Kizmark'kx.” Frank turned around slowly and lifted his glasses up his snout, then had a pull on his gin.

I'm not too good with Goblin lingo, particularly the City gutter speak version, but I do know that Kizmar means male and the verb ‘to love’ is ak'kx. You get the picture.

The goblin's eyes flashed and his smile dropped off his ugly face. His right hand, with its inch-long nails manicured down to dagger-like points, dipped into his jacket in a reflex move.

"May as well take your hand off that heater,” Frank continued. “You know you won't use it in here. How come it's always the little ones that want to play around with ghuns? I read somewhere that its got something to do with them making up for something, but for the life of me I can't remember what..."

The goblin tried his smile on for size again and pulled his hand out. Slowly.

"You got some imagination, bull. Don't let it run away with your stubby little horns. You watch yourself, huh?"

"I'll watch myself if you get me a mirror.” Frank finished his gin and bit the olive and stared into both their faces over the top of his glasses.

They walked away.

What the hell was that about, Frank? ‘I'll watch myself if you get me a mirror?’ Really... 

"Sometimes, Rhys, you've got to talk the talk to blend in with your environment.” He put the martini glass back on the bar and headed over to the corrals.

The Tuskan and five other trolls sat around a dark blue table set up on a shelf above the normal sized furniture, not much bigger than a decent sized bookshelf. There were tiny shot glasses and little playing cards the size of lint. It was like a neat little dolly house set up for a particularly fastidious young dame, only even thinkin’ that way should make you nervous. If anyone heard you, you'd be very dead, very quick. All six of ‘em were wearing nothin’ but skin and spiked up, homicidally coloured head hair.

"So, you come to me for a favour,” the Tuskan said in a squeaky rasp, like a mouse trying to sound like the Mobfather.

"Not really a favour, Mr ... the Tuskan..."

"Please. Please, Frankie. Just Mister will do...” The six of them tittered. There's no other word for it I'm afraid. “Sit down, my bull, sit down. Take the weight off them prime steaks, won't ya."

"Ah, ok ... Mister.” They tittered some more and Frank sat. It brought the shelf up to his eye level. “It's not so much a favour, as a request for information."

"Well, Frankie, you know what's what. You got some nouse between them horns I've heard. You're a Guild Master now, huh? Your very own Guild, huh? Someone in your position ain't about to start tellin’ me information ain't important, are they? That a request for information ain't some sort of favour..."

"By no means, Mr ... Mister. I just need to know why the Clan's got a hit out on me. I'm usually careful to stay out of their digs, and if I've trod on any toes, I can assure you, it was not intended."

The Tuskan looked around at his fellow troll-kind and took a puff on a tiny cigar he picked up from a tiny ashtray. “Who does this bull think I am? Why's he talkin’ to me like I'm the Clan? Do I look like the Clan to you?” he appealed to one of his associates—let's call him Blazing Electric Green. “Huh?” He turned back at Frank. He kept smiling, but his eyes were little black pinpricks like cancer spots. “Are you talkin’ to me? Huh?"

I saw the flash of Manah—a very light yellow/lemon mist—and then the Tuskan was perched on Frank's shoulder. Very wisely, Frank didn't flinch, nor say a word. I don't think he even breathed.

"Frankie. Stubby they call ya, huh? On account of them horns? Hell, I know what it's like to be diminutive, so don't sweat. You're a smart bull, really. And I like you.” He stopped for a drag on his cigar, then he blew it into Frank's face. I barely smelled it. “I like you and I liked your pops. I got deep respect for your pops as one hell of a gobsmakin’ asskickin’ snap-a-punk's-spine-down-to-the-pelvis kind of son of a ghun. I remember back in the day, he and I went on down to this joint in Iridia with a couplah other punks that all got whacked ... ahhh, but anyways, I'm gonna cut you some slack, ‘cuz of your pops and ‘cuz I like you and I think you're the square deal, karpeesh?"

Frank nodded. There's nothing much more unsettling in all the realms as a full-on troll sitting on your shoulder. Once you know what they can do to your insides if they feel the urge.

"So I'll tell you a story.” He dragged on the cigar again and walked right up to Frank's floppy left ear. “It's all to do with that Knaves Boating Faction deal last night, apparently. There's a breed there representin’ certain ... ah ... interests, see? He wants you dead and he gets Tully the Fish to order the whack. Now I know Tully personal-like and I can assure you that this hit is teflon, karpeesh? It ain't gonna stick. You keep your snout outah the way before the second sun hits the Fingers, and I think you'll find you're lookin’ sharper than an iron spike.” He stepped back from the ear and puffed again. “Anyway, you're lookin’ sharp now, Frankie. You can dress, you know? You got style, which is one thing your pops never had. ‘Who needs style when you can swing an exaggerated axe in each hand?’ he used to tell me! Hah! What's he up to these days anyways? Still out on that island livin’ in a maze chasin’ virgins?"




Chapter Twenty: The Twin Blade Trouble

Frank had to down three more martinis and one Banshee Babooshka (on the Tuskan's insistence—"your pops could drink more than a stone giant!") before he could stumble his way out of the Banshee Room with the Tuskan's blessing. The two Clan punks could only glare him down. Frank made it outside and fell into a wyvern followed by a still disgruntled Bob and we were back on Main. The sky had cleared to a crystal blue above the brown haze washing in from Westside and the air promised heat. Traffic was picking up as the big joints started putting on their midday spreads. The Strip was breaking into second gear.

The cab dropped us at Vinnie's, where Frank struggled back into his mended suit and a freshly brushed fedora ("Must you wear that hat, Senor Mynos! It is a travesty! I have a white leopard skin Panama that would really bring out your eyes ... “) Bob's ‘rags’ had been thrown in the incinerator ('where they belonged') so he had little choice but to remain in the Chuckster's ('Don't pout, silly boy! You look cute, like a little piece of fairy bread! I could eat you up like that! I could eat you!') We skipped out of Vinnie's before he could start producing exotic hats or devour Bob and legged it down Lincoln to Edgar's Grille, where Frank and Bob ordered beef, bacon and beetroot burgers. Bob had five of ‘em, which was probably more dangerous than crash tackling Downright Badd at the Snout, but I wasn't gonna be the one to tell him.

Frank was quiet. He barely touched his burger.

So where we at, Frank? What's the next turn? 

"We still have to find Lyntyn Slur.” Frank's head was clearing thanks to three decent pots of coffee. “He's the key."

But he's the one who wants you dead. Even I worked that out. 

"Yes, that's true, Rhys, but from what the Tuskan said, Slur is about to fall out with his good friend, Tully the Fish. I think Tully's realised this whole deal has gone south. He's going to cut his losses and distance himself and the best way to do that would be to cut Slur and Soup him. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if it hasn't happened already..."

"Are you gonna eat the rest of that?” Bob asked.

Frank handed his burger over. “I've got a call to make,” he said. “You stay put, kid."

Bob nodded with his mouth full and beetroot running down his chin. Edgar had a public magifone in a wooden booth in a corner by the door. Frank punched out a string I wasn't familiar with and waited.

"Yes, I want to speak to Drak ... yes, that's right. It's a Mr Franklin Mynos ... yes, Stubby if you like ... I'll hold."

Why you want to talk to a scum sucking pearl dust dealer punk like Drak? 

Pearl dust was the big deal on the streets at the time for those who wanted to kill themselves slowly for a few tocks of fun. They've moved on to other gear now, but the sentiment remains the same.

"Our friend, Mr Slur, was quite obviously a user, Rhys. I saw and smelled traces of the stuff on his shirt pocket and recognised a few classic physical symptoms. He's obviously well to do, so he wouldn't be buying the cheap stuff, and if he's buying the good stuff, it's probably coming through Drak."

Daniel ‘Drak’ Dellhunter wasn't the biggest dealer of illicit substances in the City by any stretch, but he was the boutique type. He serviced the type of people who thought of it as just a hobby and they could give it up ‘whenever they wanted to'. Consequently, Drak tried to look like some sort of high-brow, I-know-how, intellectual type, but he was just the same as any punk dealer on the streets—the only differences being he drove a Lexican, wore Hurghian silk and listened to the Huprah. I didn't want to hear that slimy rat on the fone—there's no tellin’ what you could catch—so I got to work on my own little project elsewhere...

"Hello, Drak ... How are you? How's tricks? ... hmmm ... hmmm, yes, well it's tough all round, isn't it? Listen, I'm on a big case, Drak, and I need your lead ... yes ... yes ... yes, I know, but this is big, Drak. And when I say big, I'm talking dragononian ... yes ... yes, maybe you have a client by the name of Lyntyn Slur? A City breed with roots in Knaves? ... Yes ... yes, well the Clan are about to relocate his mortal shell unless I find him quick, so if you want to keep him as a top client, I suggest you let me know where I might ... hmm? ... OK, shoot ... aha ... aha ... yes, swell ... no, I'm not writing it down, but I'll remember ... no, Drak, that's elephants. Elephants never forget, not bulls ... right, but if he's not there, and I doubt he will be, where would this character go to ground, Drak? Where do you think he'd want to nest? ... Right ... right, I got it. Thanks ... no ... no, I don't require your services, Drak, but ... yes ... but, if I ever consider it, you'll be the first I come to ... thanks ... swell."

Frank put down the fone.

You get a lead, Frank? 

"Yes, a home address and a regular haunt. Where were you, if you weren't listening?” He picked up the fone again and started to dial the wyvern cab string.

Well it's funny you should ask ... I cut the connection with a twist of Manah. Listen, we're on expenses, right? With a Big Four Guild, right? So why don't we hire a decent set of scuffs? I mean we're in and out of these smelly fharkin’ wyvern deals, I just reckon it would be more convenient and ... ah ... a better use of our time and, therefore, our client's swine. What do you reckon?

"I don't know, Rhys..."

A kid not much older than Bob came through Edgar's arched front door and called out, “Hurtz Rent-a-Car for a Mr Franklin Mynos?"

Geez, Louise and a pair o’ capped knees, those guys from Hurtz were quick! Frank gave me a nasty look, but I knew he wasn't going to back out now. Hey, it's pretty damn easy for a Yhore blade like me to hack into these simple magifone lines and make a call here and there without anyone noticing. You gotta fill in those dead tocks between the action sequences somehow.

"Yes, Mr Mynos here,” Frank called back. The Hurtz kid swapped a receipt and a key crystal for a hundred piggies (that must be why they call ‘emselves Hurtz. A hundred guilders a day? Now that hurts!) and headed out on a hover disc. Frank paid the tab at the counter, grabbed his hat, straightened his tie and headed out the door.

Outside, our rent-a-car awaited. The sight of it stopped Frank in his hoofs.

Bob, still chewing on burger crusts, ran straight into Frank's back. “What's the matter?” he squeaked, probably half expecting Downright Badd and the Seven Legions of Dreaded Doom to be waitin’ outside.

Frank slipped his hat off and scratched his head. “Rhys, you are a son of a ghun..."

Outside, gaining its share of onlookers in Poe Lane, Lowtown, was a midnight black Mage Kraft XL GT ‘Fireball’ Sports, as ordered. The magicar sat there, waiting on its ground pinions like a beautiful black-scaled dragon from the deepest, darkest pit of the most exquisite plane of Hell. The bright silver grille gleamed. The rounded curves beckoned. I loved it. I loved it like a dame. And, for a moment, I was sure the Mage Kraft Valkyrie, the gleaming hood ornament, winked at me and blew me a kiss. Then I realised that she had! It was an illus-ikon.

Once Bob got around Frank, his eyes dropped out of his head. “Mage Kraft. There is no substitute.” He whispered the jingle with awe, the awe of a priest suddenly faced with his god.

"Rhys, this is a little excessive, isn't it? I've never even driven one of these things..."

"I thought you'd never ask, bull. Just perch me on the dash and we'll see what those wizards at Mage Kraft have done with this here chunk of iron, medusa hide and Manahvyne."

Frank did as he was told and slipped in behind the steering column. The seats were genuine black medusa skin trimmed with the fur taken from the necks of Turghan Harmbeasts. The paneling was dark brown Faewood, logged from the Incommunicado Forest. Faewood is unburnable, unstainable, undentable and has the most marvelous, constantly regenerating odor—the most perfect combination of new-car-smell, ripe peaches and freshly cut grass. The knots and lines in the wood flow like a gentle mountain stream. The stock price of Faewood on the exchange usually sits at around three times that of gold.

I jacked myself into the Magicontrol stem. What a rush! The start ikon lit up red. Five crystals flipped up silently from the Faewood, green and shiny. The Mage Kraft purred into life, kitten-soft, and bobbed up gently to it's regulation height—just over a dwarves’ head. Frank gripped the side panel. Bob hung over from the back seat, smiling like a pup.

"Let's punch this thing,” I mumbled, and I sent the Manahvyne into the Drive console.

Maybe a little too quickly.

Hey, I was rusty, so give me a break! The last time I'd used anything like a magicar was three centuries before on a dusty road in Rhuarmie Land. It was an old draft loader that could do about twice the speed of an angry kobold in double plate armour and was nothing like that piece of Mage Kraft puuurfection.

We screamed down Poe and turned left on Lincoln, fishtailing out into the wrong lane. Two oncoming wyvern cabs jumped the sidewalk and almost took the heads off some fey, who were standing around trying to look eldritch. One of ‘em eldritched his trousers.

And when I said ‘screamed', I meant the three of us were screaming, not the car. The Mage Kraft barely made a sound. It was silent, liquid quicksilver. There is no substitute.

In my defense, I got a handle on the dame before we hit the Boulevard and everyone was happy. Mostly happy

"You could've fharking warned me!” Bob sulked in the backseat.

"Keep your pants on, kid, you need ‘em!"

"Did you get the insurance, Rhys?” Frank's snout curled downward like a wilting flower on a restaurant table.

Insurance? “Yeah, no sweat,” I said, forgetting to mindspeak out of nervousness. “'Course I got the insurance.” Hmmm. “So, where we headed, Frank?” I changed the subject.

"Slur's home address is on Moorcock Avenue, Knaves, so we'll check in there first, but I'm not hopeful. It's the first place the Clan would look. The other place Drak mentioned is the Twin Blade Trouble, a Knaves joint on 104th Avenue..."

Yeah, I know the Trouble, and it's no mistake it's spelled with a capital ‘T'. 

The Valkyrie led the way down the Boulevard, where the Simsday Strip action was coming alive, despite the first sunset being a turn of the glass away. We didn't have much time before the undead dame formerly-known-as-Ashley would be out on the prowl again, letting her axes do the talking. We crossed the Ordinary Bridge into Eastside and I found Moorcock, a leafy little avenue which ran the length of Eastside into Knaves.

I gotta tell you, it was great to be out in style. All those Eastsiders, trying to look like they were the king Coladas and they saw a minotaur driving a Mage Kraft down their block every fharkin’ day. You could see ‘em sneakin’ a peak out of the corner of their eye. It was killin’ ‘em. I'm sure Frank enjoyed it, though I'm just as sure he wouldn't admit it to anyone, probably not even himself. As for Bob, he got over his sulks real quick. Most of the time, he had his head out the window and his tongue swinging in the breeze.

Slur's joint turned out to be a thin, two story brick pad with a neat garden out front, a garage door and a load of Clan goons milling around, trying to look like they just happened to be hangin’ around. I slowed the ‘Fireball’ down, but didn't pull up.

So what do you reckon, Frank? If Slur shows up here, his ass is a stingy little crouton in tomorrow morning's Soup. 

"Yes, it was highly unlikely that we'd find him here..."

In this incarnation anyway. 

"...and it's only a matter of time before the Clansters find out about the Trouble. They may move slow, but they're not stupid. Let's get there, Rhys."

You're the bull. 

I gunned the Mage Kraft down the length of Moorcock and managed a tight right angle turn without slowing down more than a whisker. I was completely in command of the control stem now. It was like a physical extension of my sentience, like Frank was to me, only the Mage Kraft actually did what I told it to. To the letter. It was divine. It was almost like having my own body.

I spun the Mage Kraft left around The Chuckster's Halfling Hole and headed north on 104th Avenue. The looks the Mage Kraft were getting on the street changed from barely concealed envy to ‘here's my meal ticket for the next eon'. The further north we went, the closer to Queens we got, and the closer to Queens you get, the shabbier it gets. Knaves is shabby, don't get me wrong. They can do shabby like a starved alley cat, but they seem to take a pride in it. It's a polished shabby. After all, even an alley cat licks itself now and then. The shabby in Queens is dark, dirty and just waiting around a corner to stick a shabby in your spleen.

The Twin Blade Trouble sat on its corner like an ugly concrete and ply wart in the shadow space where Knaves becomes Queens. It's still there—most of it anyway. I pulled up out front and the car drew some more stares. Hungry stares. Clouds were building up in the sky, which added to the dinge. Even so, you could see the dark, brooding Queens Housing Projects only an ogre's spit away—the poorly constructed wombs that birth tribes upon tribes of lowlife scum who would sooner cut your hand off and sell it to a pet food factory than shake the thing. What's that? Society's to blame? Well fhark that! See how much that helps you if you're caught out in Central Queens on a Ramsday afternoon without a splatter ghun or an orkan army. Blaming society's like blaming the gods. It's easy, it's neat, you can gift wrap it and stick it under a tree and you don't have to think about it.

"Stay in the car, Bob. You'll be OK. It's fitted with a Dragonne Breath Anti-Theft system, so just stay inside, OK?"

Bob nodded. “Can you bring me back something to eat, though? Do they have kebabs?"

We gotta get him wormed or something, Frank. I reckon he's got one of those big purple Hurghian suckers. I saw this guy bent over once and he..." 

"If we're not back in twenty tocks, Bob, get out of here, OK?"

Frank slipped me into his belt and stepped out on the street. The wind was in an afternoon rush, intent on sucking all the life and muck out of Knaves and onto the streets of Queens. Papers and chunks of cardboard flipped passed us like hurrying ghouls. Frank pulled his overcoat tight and secured his hat. He twisted the magicar's key crystal and two loud beeps beeped. A ghostly image of a small, mean looking dragonne came to life just above the Valkyrie and started floating purposefully around the Mage Kraft. It had the Dragonne Breath logo on its back and if you got close enough to read the fine print about ‘...terminal property protection rights...’ and ‘...legal forfeiture of life...', you were probably close enough to find out what it all meant. Which was too close.

Four punks with those hungry stares had spilled out of the Trouble and onto the street to see what was what. A Mage Kraft Sports is not your usual street donkey in these here parts. They were the usual suspects. You know the sort. Mostly human. Mean looking. Sharp. Not sharp as in snappily dressed or even overly smart. Just sharp, and looking for something to cut.

Frank approached them with casual ease. “Any of you guys know the whereabouts of a Lyntyn Slur?” Frank asked. “City breed. About so high."

The biggest of the four took the question in, sloshed it around his chick pea brain, and came up with, “Well, I ain't seen a Mage Kraft up this close, I knows that. I knows its whereabouts.” The rest of them murmured happily in a way I'm sure wasn't too dissimilar to a trio of crocodiles watchin’ some punk changin’ into a swimming costume.

Frank shook his scone, straightened his glasses and went inside the Trouble.

The Trouble looked big from the outside, but inside it was small, cramped and mean. Dirty mean. Frank told me it used to be a slaughterhouse, so the walls were thick to aid refrigeration. I told him it still was a fharkin’ slaughterhouse, it's just no one buys the meat no more. There was a bar and some stools heavily bolted to the floor and a few dark, dingy cubicles with the suggestion of life inside them. A malevolent suggestion. A suggestion like 'how's about you give me your guilders and I won't cut out your liver' kind of suggestion. The place reeked of it.

The guy at the bar was a dwarf. (Why is every second barman in the City a dwarf?) He had one hand on his hip and the other on the grip of a twin bolted crossbow under the bar. Every eye switched to Frank. Every eye started calculating, appraising. Only a few went much further than that. Four of ‘em went a lot further.

"Good afternoon, barkeep!” Frank announced. He took off his fedora. “You'll pardon me for leaving my coat on, but there did not appear to be a cloakroom in your lobby. Or a lobby."

No one breathed.

There was a flash of orange-red fire from outside the door and several varieties of scream. One “medium rare” and at least two “well done". To go. The smell of burned hair and flesh came wafting in through the door.

Guess they got close enough to read the fine print. 

Several eyes made some quick re-evaluations.

"Are you drinkin', bull?” the dwarf asked with his hand still on the crossbow. “Or did you just come for the cloak room?"

Frank's snout smiled. “I'll have a vodka martini, shaken not stirred."

The dwarf smiled back and eased his hand off the crossbow. “I'll shake or stir whatever you want, crazy bull, but it better be Krumm's General Ale, ‘cuz that's all we got, see?"

"Make mine Krumm's then,” Frank quoted the advertising. “And give me plenty of head."

Krumm's General Ale was about as cheap and dangerous as legal liquor got. It looked like sick brown puke and tasted not much better. The best thing about it was its weight. A bottle of Krumm's was the weapon of choice for nine out of ten sociopathic, drunken brawlers.

For Errrg, the god of Lower Intestine Pain's sake, Frank, don't drink it! 

Frank drank the ale and normal noise resumed in the Trouble. By normal, I mean furtive whispering and evil-sounding chuckles. A couple of punks particularly low on the ladder of life made quick exits.

"We don't get much drop-in trade here,” the dwarf explained while he ‘polished’ a wooden mug with a rag that looked like it had been used to clean out a rat infested bog hole. “Not many that come out breathin’ anyways."

"Thanks for the advice, Mr Bhump, but I'm looking for a City breed who might be one of your regulars. A Lyntyn Slur?"

"How did...” But Frank was way ahead of him and nodded toward the corner of the far wall behind the bar. On the shelf between a rusty tin tankard and an old brown chunk of glass was a small trophy shield, no bigger than your hand, with two crossed golf clubs on it. Frank told me afterward the inscription was written in Takuul Bakuul Huum, or Mid-Dwarvish as it's sometimes called, and read: Mining Crew Twenty-Six C Annual Golf Day, ‘56. Longest Drive of the Day—246 Axehafts—Number 78, Miner Hammfist Bhump.

Golf is a religion to dwarves. I mean that literally. What most of us see as either a sport or an irritating pastime, they claim is the Holy Re-enactment of Life and Creation, and was developed by dwarvish mystics up in the highlands of the Hatuul Galuul-uut Mountains as a form of worship. To put it simply, they see a single hole of golf as being symbolic of the process of life. The placing of the ball on the tee is infancy, the drive off the tee is adolescence and coming of age, the fairway shots are adulthood, the approach shots the wisdom of approaching old age and the putting on the green is the all important gaining of enlightenment before death finally places us in the hole and we are back at one with the gods.

All their gods have a dual sphere of influence attributed to them—one natural and one golfing. There's Azakuur, the god of Thunder and Two Wood; Kazuukal, the goddess of Mischief and Sand Traps; Hhuum-glen, the god of Misfortune and Slice; and, of course, the God of Gods, Dwar-at-uul, the god of Life and Death and the Great Green, just to name a few. There are, however, very few Realm-class dwarvish pro golfers and certainly, no dwarf has come close to the likes of someone like Dragon Woods. They approach the game too reverently, and the amount of rituals they need to perform before they even set foot on The Green, let alone take a putt, tends to slow up play.

Bhump waddled over to the shelf, took down the shield and gave it a wipe with his rag, which succeeded in removing the last of the gold paint off the golf clubs and replaced the thick coating of dust with an equally thick coating of ... the rag. He put it back up on the shelf and shook his head, before returning to Frank at the bar.

"I'd forgotten all about that thing,” he mumbled. Maybe some of that dust had got in his eye. “It was a long time ago."

Frank nodded and took another swig of Krumms. “You miss the mines?"

Bhump's eyes went large. “Kazuukal no! I wouldn't go back to the mines for all the gold in ... the mines! I'd rather be dead. But some of the old gang at the twenty-six C ... Sneezy, Rumpole and Blitzen ... them I miss. They were good ... fine...” He turned away, perhaps overcome with dust.

It's a common misconception that dwarves enjoy mining. Certainly the Dwarf Lords enjoy other dwarves mining, because it brings them lots of pretty, shiny, fine-ee metals to play with and sell and construct brand new sets of Dragon Woods signature edition ‘Master Mogul’ golf clubs. But the teams of dwarves with family obligations to the Lords who are sent down the holes to extract the ore and choke on the dust and suck in the fumes and probably get entombed in one of the regular cave ins—because safety standards don't buy no one golf clubs—ain't that fond of it, funnily enough. I thought Frank would've known better.

It was then I noticed them.

Frank! I just saw... 

"The two Clan goons that came to the office this morning?"

I hated it when he did that!

Frank had his eyes firmly set into the back wall. He hadn't looked over at the cubicles, and there were no fancy mirrors behind the bar.

OK. OK. How did you do this time? What was it? An aftershave? One of them doesn't wipe his crack thoroughly? The phase of the moon and the planetary alignment? What was it this time? 

"I saw them through the window before we came in, Rhys."

Ah. 

Bhump had regained his composure by the time he got back to us. He was smiling a warm smile his face had almost forgot. “Not many of my patrons can read Takuul Bakuul Huum, bull."

"Takuul at-uu barak ap-uun da atuuz,” Frank replied.

"Yes.” Bhump nodded eagerly. “Yes, but it makes me sad to hear it here. A nice sort of sad, mind you. Anyways, you asked about Slur, huh? He's a very popular lad all of a sudden is Mr Slur.” The dwarf's voice was low and even. His eyes looked away at one of the cubicles. The one with the Clan punks in it. “Don't normally hear boo about ‘im, but suddenly, Slur's the name on everyone's lips, huh? Mine are sealed, of course.” He looked at the cubicle again and turned away to ‘polish’ another mug.

Now you're not gonna do nothin’ stupid, are you, Frank? How about we just quietly make our way back to the Mage Kraft and... 

Frank wandered straight over the packed earth floor to where our old pals, Spinecutter and Chreeeuuush, were quietly nursing untouched tankards of Krumm's in the dimly lit cubicle. They looked about as happy as two fat cheeks on the ass of chili eater.

"How are you, boys?” Frank asked and sat down beside the ork. “No more messages for me? How's the head?"

The ork growled and looked at the wall. His forehead was bruised and his nose had a thin strip of plaster across it.

"You know how it is, bull,” Spinecutter answered for him. “It's business. The boss don't want you whacked now, so that's good enough for us. But don't go ridin’ us, huh?” He picked up his ale and took a sip. Frank and I both saw the hilt of his bolter under his jacket.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Mr Spinecutter."

"Call me Tarquinne."

The ork sniggered, but didn't turn away from the wall.

"What? What's wrong with Tarquinne? There's been some real hard men named Tarquinne..."

"Razga?” the ork asked.

"Like ... like ... I'm sure there have been. And me mum likes it."

"Zibazz dx Abar’ nak arazz, te bz.” The ork laughed like his tongue was made from gravel.

"Izz bax tabax,” Frank countered. “Izz Chreeeuuush tak Abar’ nak vidzz canakar'r."

The ork's eyes narrowed and his jaw muscles clenched, but he didn't raise a finger. He turned back toward the wall.

Frank chuckled. “It seems your associate, while ridiculing your name and accusing it of being as weak as a female kobold without limbs, has not told you that his own name, in Low Plains Orkan, means ‘the ear of a fluffy newborn puppy'. Have you had a physician look at those ribs by the way?"

Tarquinne shrugged and winced.

"I figured from how you're sitting you might have a cracked rib or two. You should get someone to look at them. Just stay away from cheap magileeches, they're more trouble than they're worth."

Frank, you better stop ridin’ these guys and get the hell out of here. 

"So,” Frank pulled out a peanut from his coat pocket, shelled it with one hand and tossed it up. He caught it in his mouth and chewed loudly. “You boys waiting on Slur then?"

The temperature in the cubicle dropped about three ice ages. The Clansters looked straight at the bull. They suddenly seemed very relaxed. At ease—like a pair of snakes in a hole full of mice.

"Pass me a nut,” Tarquinne the Spinecutter asked finally. Frank obliged. The Clanster rolled it around in his fingers. “You're a smart punk, bull. A son of a ghun, so I'm gonna give you some free advice. Keep your snout out of troughs you got no business with. You'll live much longer.” He threw the unshelled peanut in the air. “Chreeeuuush..."

The ork wasn't even looking, but a knife had appeared in his hand and he slashed out with it faster than you could think ‘Fhark, I'm about to die here'. The peanut landed on the table cut neatly in two.

I never found out what sort of subtle wise crack Frank was gonna answer that with. Probably something like ‘Your interest in my life is truly touching’ or ‘my snout is for hire you know.’ Something like that anyway. But he never got a chance. Things got very hot very suddenly and several things happened at once. Conversation stepped out for a breath of fresh air and was replaced by his distant cousin, Pandemonium.

One Mr Lyntyn Slur stepped through the door of the Twin Blade Trouble. His ill-fitting and watery eyes were still squintin’ away the afternoon sun. He was blind. Vulnerable. “The Hightown Hacker...” he started to say, for reasons that would become apparent later.

Then he got shot.




Chapter Twenty-One: Slur's Story

The two Clan punks stood up without a word and went for their bolters. These guys were pros. They weren't gonna fhark around in a place like the Trouble. Do the job and get gone. They had the calm, casual expressions of master craftsmen constructing a simple but functional tool.

But they'd taken their eyes off Frank. He came up hard from his seat and butted the ork right in the melon while splashing the tankard of Krumms in Tarquinne's face. He then punched the tankard into the face. The ork's shot went high and into the roof and Tarquinne's hit Slur's right shoulder instead of his heart.

Now Slur was a City breed and while that doesn't make you naturally witty or brawny or gifted in playin’ musical pipes in charmin’ forest glades, genetically speaking, it's a recipe for survival. All the toughest, meanest, bloody-minded, backstabbing, selfish little genes of the concrete jungle all bunched up together in a tight little fist. Putting a bolt through a shoulder ain't gonna slow a City breed down. If anything, it's going to speed the mongrel up. You want to kill him, you better make sure he's dead. Double dead.

So Slur didn't drop like a harem poonce. He turned right back around and went out the doorway and into the Queens afternoon air, with barely a squeak of pain, at the speed of five hundred and three hot headed and happening Hurghian horsemen.

Hafas Al-Paneek's ‘Emergency Response Advice’ has this to say about ‘being cornered by armed criminals intent on causing you physical harm'.

'When all is lost, do something unpredictable. Dance a jig. Twirl about mindlessly. Pull down your pants. Bray at the moons. You might buy some time for assistance to arrive and, at the very least, it will take your mind off things'. 

"I do so hate violence,” Frank mumbled while he grappled the ork's shootin’ arm. His glasses were bent in the middle, but they were still on his face. Tarquinne the Spinecutter was blinking through the caustic Krumm's and bringing his bolter around and aiming at Frank. It was time for me to step up to the plate. I slipped out of Frank's belt and plunged through Spinecutter's boot. He screamed. He convulsed. His arms swung down wildly and the bolter released its load ... into his other foot! Hot diggity doo! He screamed again. Louder.

Chreeeuuush stopped botherin’ about his shootin’ mitt and drove his free fist into Frank's butter box. The bull doubled over and fell across the table. The ork got his bolter free. He pointed it right between the bull's horns.

I was havin’ trouble summoning up the Manah to pull out of Spinecutter's foot. I wasn't gonna get there in time.

"Chichak adoob'ak,” the ork muttered.

"I don't know what that means, buckoh, but you better hold off right there or you're goin’ in tomorrow's Specialty Stew Surprise,” came the ice sharp words of Bhump the dwarf. He had the huge crossbow out from behind the bar and it was primed with a scatter load. It looked old and ornate, but also quietly functional, particularly from the business end. The guy in the cubicle next to us started eyeing his bowl of Specialty Stew Surprise with renewed suspicion.

"This is Clan business, little one,” the ork shot back. “You wouldn't dare.” Even so, he raised his bolter to point up at the roof. Frank rolled off the table and gulped down some air.

I finally managed to pull myself out of Tarquinne's foot (he gave a stifled yelp) and slipped back into Frank's belt dripping blood down his overcoat.

"Now, this here bull walks and you two take your seats, quiet-like..."

"Tully the Fish's gonna hear about this...” Tarquinne squeaked.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah!"

"Well, while you're at it, you tell old Tully from me that Black Dhann Bhump says ‘how's ya father’ and then tell ‘im about the trouble you've been causin’ his old pal down at the Twin Blade and see what sort of medicine he prescribes for you. Now sit,” he ordered the ork. “And you too, squawky!"

Tarquinne's face was white and sweating, but he sat down and managed not to faint with pain.

Frank gave Bhump a quick nod.

"Go on. Scoot!"

Frank hit the door at a run.

We can thank Jhill-ett, the god of Close Shaves, we got out of that... 

Outside, the Mage Kraft was gone.

The kid was gone.

And Slur was gone.

"This way!” Frank ran down the road following his snout. It was a fine snout, and once I slapped myself in the metaphorical face, I saw the Manah trail of the Mage Kraft's magidrive—a thin, cherry pink mist—running down 104th Street into Queens. Into the Projects.

Frank kept up the sprinting pace and once we cleared the rise, we saw the Mage Kraft pulled up on the sidewalk near the mouth of a dark lane. We found Slur in the gutter nearby, bleeding but breathing, and stripped clean. And I mean stripped, not clean.

Frank checked Slur's pulse. “He's not the best, but he'll live."

Oh joy! The scumbag lives! 

The car door opened and I tensed (which is difficult for something made out of star-geld, but I managed it, believe me). Bob's raggedy pimply head popped out. He was as white as a generic spiritual entity.

"I saw him make a run for it, so I tried chasin’ him but I've never driven one of these things before, so I had trouble stopping once I caught up ... Is he ... dead?"

"No, he's fine, kid,” I answered. “I'm sure this happens to him all the time. But where'd all his ... stuff go?"

"They just came out and took it after I ... after I hit him. There were too many of them. It was over in ticks."

What would they do with his used underjocks? 

I still wonder about that.

There were eyes in the darkness, not all of them human, not all of them non-human. Eyes, still watching. Calculating. Maybe making two plus two equal seven and a half.

Let's get the fhark out of here, Frank.

"Agreed.” Frank pulled Slur into the Mage Kraft (Don't get blood all over the ... oh no! That's blasphemy, that is! You're defiling a sacred site!) and I slotted myself into the drive. Back in my second skin, I spun the big black fireball around in a sharp twirl, went vertical up a nearby wall for a whisker, and we were gone, away from the calculating eyes.

We got back to the office near second sundown. Bob helped Frank carry Slur up the stairs and they put him down on the floor-bound table top. The joint didn't look like an office anymore. It was more like a room full of crunched up junk. It can't get any worse than this, I thought, then I realised the sin of narrative inevitability I had just committed.

Frank, remind me to apologize for somethin’ later. 

Frank nodded and went about dressing Slur's wounds and then dressing Slur's body. None of Frank's clothes would come close to fitting the little breed, so he cut a hole in one of the coffee sacks, slipped it over him and tied it up tight around his knees. It was a big improvement on the naked look, let me tell you. Meanwhile, Bob read the funnies on the back of the afternoon edition of the Kronikle while eating the leftover bagels and peanuts.

So we got this Slur low life, what's the next move, Frank? You gonna turn him in to the beat? 

Frank hung the fedora on its hook and ran his hand through the fur between his horns. Then he took off his thin spectacles and gave the lenses a clean. He'd bent them back into shape in the car. “You're maybe forgetting something, Rhys. Our troubles are only just beginning.” He looked out the window. Simsday night had fully descended on the Cityscape. The Manah fed lights of the Strip danced garishly in the distance like a series of poorly planned magical explosions. “Wherever we are, we should expect company now the suns are down."

The revenant? 

"I can never get these Magic Eye things,” Bob said. He was squinting and twisting and turning the paper around.

"You need to look through it, Bob,” Frank said, still staring out the window. “Get up real close and look through the picture. Wait until it's all fuzzy."

"Yeah.” Bob had his nose right against the paper. “Yeah, I got it."

"Then, slowly move away from it without refocusing."

"I got it! I got it! It looks like ... a ... a ... fist!” In a splash of cheap, pale yellow Manah, a magigrammed fist emerged from the Magic Eye and socked Bob in the nose. “Ow!” He dropped the paper and it landed front page up on the floor.

Frank turned around. “I should have warned you about that. They're rarely worth the effort, I'm afraid.” He looked down at the fallen paper.

So you think the revenant will be comin’ for Slur then, Frank? Frank? 

I'd lost him. He was staring fuzzy eyed at the front page of the Kronikle. He put his glasses back on and grabbed the paper off the floor.

HIGHTOWN HACKER ARRESTED!

The City Watch, in conjunction with the Guilstapo, have arrested a suspect, one Mr Pottern Gruff, in Westside this afternoon and charged him with the Hightown Hacker murders.

Mr Gruff is a City breed cleaner who has worked in Hightown for over thirty years. Recently, an industrial accident had left him with one leg and, while he had been permitted to continue working in a reduced role, sources close to Mr Gruff have stated he has held a grudge against “Hightown types” due to his treatment after the accident.

The Watch is remaining tight-lipped. MAD Lieutenant Reginald Hoggwash's only official comment was that the arrest was made “as a result of evidence obtained through extensive and exhaustive investigation and necroviews of murder victims, coupled with a distinctly identifiable revenge motive."

Due to the “political sensitivity” of the case, strings have been pulled at the Justice Dome to put Mr Gruff on trial at ticktock tomorrow. Rest assured, dear reader—the Kronikle will be there!

"That's what I was sayin',” Slur mumbled. “The Hightown Hacker's been caught.” He tried to sit up but it was too soon—even for a City breed—and his arms were bound inside the coffee sack. He slumped back down on the table top and the back of his head made a heavy thump.

Frank stepped over and crouched down beside Slur's head. His snout smiled. He was a friend. “Mr Slur ... or Lyntyn. Can I call you Lyntyn? We're all pals here, aren't we? Swell. Lyntyn then, I'm going to ask you about something and I want you to talk turkey, and I mean Real Deal's own triple-smoked turkey with cranberry sauce, OK? Your scrawny hide is the one on the line here. I'm trying to do you a favour, karpeesh?” Frank grimaced in place of a question mark. “Now, tell me all you know about the demise of one Mz Ashley Ash. And I mean all."

Bob's bottom jaw almost joined the debris on the floor. The twit had finally dropped and it had landed sunny side down. “You mean this is one of the guys who..."

"Yes, Bob. Unless I'm very much mistaken..."

But that was enough for Bob. He lurched up, dropping a bagel crust, and started laying his running boots into Slur's ribs. His face was screwed up with hate. Ugly hate. Frank managed to grab him around the waist before he could do too much damage and pulled him away.

"Geez Louise,” I muttered. “Wasn't running him down with the Mage Kraft enough?"

"That doesn't count!” He struggled against Frank, who had him pinned against the wall. “That wasn't on purpose! If I had've known, I would've been going faster."

"Now sit and stay!” Frank put Bob down. The timbre in the minotaur's voice made it difficult to argue with. It was verbal iron. “Slur's got enough on his plate and he's going to pay the price, either way."

Bob slid down the wall and sat, but his eyes lost none of that hatred.

Slur must've decided he'd seen and heard enough from the smooth talkin’ bull and the homicidal runner-boy in his upmarket strip. He was goin’ to take his chances. He got up in a flash and ran for the door-less doorway.

"Rhys!” Frank shouted, but I was already on it. The breed was giddy enough as it was. He shouldn't have even been on his feet yet, let alone sprinting while tied in a sack. I dropped the Scryguard for a tick and shifted the door out from under his feet. Slur went face down—SLAP—and even Bob winced.

Frank walked over, picked him up by the scruff of the ... sack and deposited him back on the table top. “Lyntyn, Lyntyn, Lyntyn..."

"I fink I've busted me nose.” There was a stream of blood running down the breed's ugly little warty face.

"Lyntyn, why do you want to run from me, the only sucker in this City who might help you out? Hmmm? Every Clanster this side of the Five Finger Hills is ghunning for you, not to mention the freelancers and that happy little revenant who cut up your good friend, Urusla Uhr. Even young Bob here wants to kick the snot out of you, and he's usually calmer than a prize bunny. Lyntyn, you're not exactly Mr Congeniality at the moment. Now if you want my help, you better sing."

"And we better like the song,” I chimed in.

Slur didn't look like he could even manage a whistle, let alone a song. He was still bleeding pretty bad and several bones weren't in the right shape, but he was a City breed and, like I said, the City breeds ‘em tough. He sat up slowly.

The pea inside his bruised head must've been doin’ cartwheels. Finally, he decided on what he was goin’ to say. Nobody liked it. “You got it all wrong, see. I didn't kill nobody. Yeah, I knew about the Ash dame and I knew what some of the guys at the Faction had planned. You know she was gonna knock us back? We all thought that Gold Crest was in the bag. Everyone'd poured money in and double mortgaged everythin’ ‘cuz we knew the share price would go through the roof once we got the Crest. It'd happened when we got the Pin and then the Star, and we all cleaned up, big time. But that was gonna be nuffin’ compared to this. But then, we weren't gonna get it and you know what happens when you get a knock back..."

"The stock goes through the floor,” Frank muttered.

"Yeah, and then some. Nobody wanted that. Particularly with some of the ... ah ... partners we had involved in certain ... ventures."

"The Clan."

"Hey, I didn't say that, and you can quote me."

"Here's a news flash for you, Slur. The Clan want your skinny hide in the Soup where Ashley Ash's ended up. That's who put that bolt in you."

"Hey, you're just trying to put the wind up me...” but his face had gone a sick, milky white shade of green.

"You're persona non grata, soon to be persona non persona, if you know what I mean,” I added, and laughed at my gag. Hey, someone's gotta.

"It couldn't be soon enough,” Bob muttered from the corner.

"What the fhark is the kid's story?” Slur tried to stand up and fell over again. Frank let him drop—not because he didn't care, but because his mind was elsewhere. He was crunching the numbers.

I could see the problem and for Frank, it was a doozy. On the one hand, he had the kid, who in legal terms was the Hightown Hacker, but certainly, in Frank's mind anyway, didn't deserve the slate. Then he had Slur, the last guy left attached to the dumping of Ash in the Soup. Could he get that to stick? Then on a third and very shaky hand, he had some poor sap called Gruff, who was gettin’ stitched to shut Hightown up and get the Stock Exchange to stop bobbin’ in the tide. Now I couldn't give a Hurghian pie what happened to any of the punks, but Frank was different. He had a certain ... class about him. Class was about as rare in the City as golden finger nail clippings.

"What I don't understand,” Slur managed from the floor. “Where's your in, Frank? I mean, you're nosin’ around the Politic woman's stiff disappearin’ from the Embalmers. We didn't have nuffin’ to do with it. Sure, we killed ... I mean I didn't kill her, others in the Faction drowned her and dumped her in the Soup, but that's got nuffin’ to do with you. Why did you have to go messin’ with our beeswax? It's got nuffin’ to do with anyfing. We even try to give you some gentle persuasion and where does it leave us? The whole warehouse leveled and some crazy zombie ... what did you call it? A revenant? What was with that anyway? Was the revenant with you?"

He doesn't know it was her, Frank! 

"Interesting.” Frank said. He scratched the underfur of his snout.

There was a big ominous noise from downstairs. One of those monstrously unsubtle entry routines only used by punks that really couldn't give a stuff who got in their way.

Frank... 

But Frank was way ahead of me. “Let's go, Bob.” He picked up Slur and threw him over his shoulder. The little guy barely squeaked.

Bob looked quizzical, so I explained. “Uninvited guests downstairs."

There was a whole list of people that could've been coming for us by this stage, so it was mutually understood we shouldn't hang around to find out. Frank led the way back up to the attic and the ‘emergency exit’ onto the roof. The déj�  vu was palpable. He pushed Slur through the window easily enough and started squeezing himself through, deliberately between the kid and the breed.

As soon as Slur touched the roof, he was up and running, heedless of blood and bones. The little punk must have been almost orkan with pain, but he went for it anyway. I don't care what you think about the guy, you got to admire him for that! He just never gave up.

Frank got after him as quickly as he could, but he'd already lost him in the black City night. The magilights flashed on and off in garish reds nearby. The only way down was the fire escape ladder. He ran for it. The wind was still blowin’ hard and it plucked Frank's hat from his head, but he kept going. Bob was close behind.

But the fire escape ladder was empty.

No one around.

Nobody.

Where the fhark did he go? He must've jumped, the crazy little... 

"Ahem.” It came from behind us. Frank and Bob turned around slowly.

The tiny head of Director-General Vappid Reamer was peaking over the edge of the roof. He raised slowly up on a Mage Kraft hover disc. In one hand, was an unconscious Lyntyn Slur, in the other, was Frank's fedora.

"I believe I have some or your property, Franklin.” The little punk smiled behind his monocle. His trenchcoat flapped in the wind. “Your coffee seems to have grown legs and tried to run out on you. You really should be more careful.” He stepped lightly off the disc and I could see the pale brown Manah he was burning to hold the breed so easily. Vappid dropped him at Frank's feet and reached out with the hat to put it back on Frank's head.

Frank snatched it off him and tossed it back through the window into the attic. “I'll get it fumigated, thanks anyway."

Vappid laughed an inky little laugh.

"Is he dead?” Bob asked and gave Slur a kick just in case.

"My, my, your friend is a little more bloodthirsty than you usually like them, Franklin. But no, I just gave him ... a little something to calm him down, dear boy, that's all."

"Shame."

The halfling laughed again. “That's my kind of kid.” He looked Bob in the face. “Ever thought of a career with the Guilstapo? You'll be all you can be ... tell him, Frank. Tell him about your Bureau days."

Frank ignored him. “What are you doing skulking around here, Vappid? You got your Hacker, so you don't need to worry about me anymore. Jump back on your little flying plate and go down to the Justice Dome and maybe you can put a bean shoot under Gruff's fingernails for me. Have you got him to confess yet?"

"Hah, it's not that simple, Franklin, as you well know. But then again, interrogation was never your strong suit, was it? It was the only reason I beat you for the Cadet of the Year. Ah, but that's all water under the Great Bridge. You've been lying low lately, since our last meeting. Your toy sword has been doing quite a commendable job of keeping you hidden, most of the time. But then, he has his lapses. I was very interested in what you were doing over at the Knaves Boating Faction and the spin in the Mage Kraft was something to behold. Anyway, I just thought I'd check in and see what sort of game you were playing. It seems you're losing your touch. You're meant to be finding a dead body for the Embalmers or the Hacker for the Ursors, and yet, all you seem to have is a soon-to-be-dead low life crook and a young delinquent apprentice necromancer."

"I don't answer to you, Vappid. Not anymore.” Frank stood up straight. He was flexed.

"Oh, but I think you do, young bull. I think you do. You know the Action Charter of the Guilstapo. If I remember rightly, you've got a mind that doesn't forget things easily. Anyway, I can pretty much walk up to Takklehurm's wife and kiss her on the lips she doesn't kiss with if I deem it to be in the interest of maintaining an orderly social bed for the sound operation of City Bodies’ Politic. Isn't that how it goes?"

"What you got in mind?” Frank said quietly. The wind almost stole the words.

"I'm not sure what your game is with this kid and this City breed, Franklin, but I'm figuring you might be planning to upset the orderly social bed I've just made with nice tight hospital corners. I don't want that to happen, Franklin, and I'm not gonna let that happen.” He reached into his trenchcoat.

Frank lunged for the halfling, but he must've been expecting it. A blast of purple-blue lightning punched out of the little guy's trenchcoat, knocking Frank backwards and into Bob. The two of them fell down together in a heap. Frank blacked out for a heartbeat and the fur in his ears was singed. It was powerful stuff. I'd seen the dark, dull gray wash of Manah, which had generated the Shock Pulse and was glad the Director-General had been in such a hurry and was, therefore, unable to fully focus his efforts.

No more Scryguard. No more Mr Nice Letter Opener. Time to party.

I shot out of Frank's belt and went straight for the little fharker's throat.

"No, Rhys!” Frank shouted.

But it was too late.

I wasn't underestimating Reamer like I did in the Snout with Downright Badd. I was traveling faster than physical objects had a right to in a universe governed by vectors and trigonometry with rules and formulae. In fact, nothin’ bound by such rules and formulae could've stopped me I reckon, and that's flat.

It swooped out at me not inches from Vappid's beckoning neck. It was like a claw. A claw of compressed, dark green A-grade Manah and it snatched me out of the air like a frog with an insect. It put me straight into Vappid's open hand.

He had me. The little guy was full of magical tidbits. His tiny little brown eyes ran up and over my shaft like the cold eyes of a god. “Star-geld and Yhore made. Nice, Franklin. Nice.” His brown eyes flashed. “And who am I to argue with a name like Size isn't Everything?” He looked at Frank, who was just standing up. “Can I have it, Frank?"

A shiver blew through me and it wasn't from the wind, which was getting stronger by the tick. To explain, once a sentient blade has bonded with a ‘master’ (and I use the term in its very broad thaumatological sense) the bond cannot be broken, except through the express will of said master. Not the greatest Wizard from the greatest College of the greatest Guild can break that bond. But at the simple say so of one tanked-up punk, you could be spendin’ the next few centuries with the homicidal version of an overstuffed, monocled teddy bear.

I just wanted to cut that little halfling's little head right from its little neck.

"Ah ... no, Vappid.” Frank's voice was deep and true. I loved that bull. “I've kind of grown accustomed to his belly aching."

The buffeting wind and the sound of the Simsday Strip crowd not too far down Lincoln filled in the silence on the roof. Vappid looked me over again and shrugged. “Shame...” he shrugged. “No problem, Franklin.” He tossed me back to Frank without another look. “I'm no petty thief after all, but I do want to know..."

That's as far as he got.

The unmistakable blast of a ghun shot boomed out across the windy night from the attic window. It rattled ears and window panes. It woke things best left asleep. Frank hit the roof and pulled Bob down with him.

"I'm gonna kill the lot of you fharkers!” Tarquinne the Spinecutter had a Remingsplatt two shot in each hand and a face so full of unprofessional rage, it bordered on insanity. At the very least, it was in the same ZIP code. Fortunately for Frank or Slur or Bob or whoever the Clanster was aiming at, the combined injuries of the day's events conspired to alter his accuracy to the degree that he well and truly missed whoever he was trying to blow apart. At least it was outdoors and it was windy. Not much chance of Recoil.

Two more halfling Guilstapo agents bobbed up from below the roof line on hover discs armed with compact little six string bolters. They started returning fire with silent precision. Another ghunshot rang out.

Let's go. Let's go. Let's go. 

Frank grabbed Slur by the thick ear and started crawling for the fire escape ladder. Bob was smart enough to follow.

"GUILSTAPO! GUILSTAPO!” Vappid's voice rang out. “CEASE AND DESIST!"

I don't know whether those Clan boys didn't hear, or whether they were just so fired up, they didn't give a hoot. But they kept coming. Frank looked back over his shoulder and saw Chreeeuuush pop his head up for another shot. A Guilstapo bolt hit him between the eyes and green ork blood splashed Frank's book piles. Neither of ‘em were gonna be happy about that.

Frank made it to the top of the ladder and looked straight into the stupidly smiling but heavily muscled face of Downright Badd.

"Hey, Stubby!” He had plaster over half his face and one arm wrapped up in a sling. “How's tricks? Ya know dat the Clan's got five hun'red swine on your City breed frien’ dere? Did'ya know? You were prob'ly gonna take ‘im in yourself, huh?” He pulled himself up another rung with his one good hand. Almost at the top now. “No hard feelings about this morning, huh? It's just business. Dey don't wan’ you anymore. Dey wan’ ‘im, and seein’ as he was da one dat wanted you topped anyway..."

Frank looked back toward the attic. The Spinecutter was still there, trying to force his way out of the window while another Clanster covered him with his ghun. The Guilstapo goons were bobbing up and down on the hover discs, taking cover and poppin’ off shots. The place was going nuts. There was no going back.

"No problem, Downright.” Frank turned back and rummaged in his pocket. There was a gleam in his eye. “Could you just hold this for me?” He produced a bright, shiny fifty twit piece.

"Sure, Stubby.” Downright let go of the ladder rail with his good hand and took the coin.

"Sorry about this, Downright. It's just business.” Frank put his palm on Downright's forehead and pushed. The half ogre fell backwards thoughtfully, still holding on to the fifty twit piece. He realised what had happened halfway down to the street.

"No worries, Frankkkiiieee...” THUMP.

Full stop.

Best fifty twits you ever spent. 

Frank was about to mount the ladder when the closest of the Guilstapo halflings had his head remade into something like a poorly prepared stack of melon balls. Very messy. The body sailed off down to the street level and the hover disc wavered in the air.

In these sorts of situations I've found it's best if you don't think too much. Even if Hafas al-Paneek had a whole chapter devoted to 'How to Avoid Death in the Middle of a Clan versus Guilstapo Ghun/Crossbow Shootout on the City Rooftops When Everyone Seems to Want You Deader than Dead', you wouldn't have time to sit around thinking about it. (And all he'd probably say anyway is something like ‘try to take the blows in non-vital areas, such as the shoulder, and keep calm and think encouraging thoughts of continued life and general pleasantness'). Thinking about things only gets you left behind. There's just no time to mull it over, crunch the numbers and magifone a friend. You just gotta know. The next event has got to follow on as naturally as lunch follows breakfast. Take it in your stride. Move on. Frank preferred to think about things, but when there wasn't time, he was just as good at knowing. After all, thinking is just Applied Knowing—in Frank's case it was, anyway.

Frank knew. Lickity spit, he put Slur under one arm, Bob under the other, took three crouching, deep, deep, running strides and leapt over the edge of the building.

And disappeared into the night air.

Bob's scream cut through the wind like a garrote.

The recently vacated Guilstapo hover disc hit Frank right in the chest.

Hover discs are advertised in The Great and Grandiose Ramuta-aan's Katalogue of Wondrous Wares as “The novel, cheap and indispensable tool for light travel needs. Tired of searching for elusive and expensive City parking? Float down the Strip and stow the hover disc under your arm!—picture of handsome, vaguely asexual women smiling inanely with hover disc under arm—Take it shopping! Take it to the dance! Take it on holidays! Just TAKE IT!"

Now for a start, the Great and Grandiose Ramuta-aan Wa-Alakazar Di-Rakawoopwoopweee was born in the Westside Limits as Rodney Fick (apparently, they called him Spotty Pig for reasons I've never divined) and though he's made a packet since becoming an Arch-Mage and branching into Wondrous Wares, the guy is about as ethical as a red blooded barbarian with a vial of Knockout Drops at an Investal Virgin ‘Meet & Greet'—Dinner, Dance and Charades night. Fortunately for us, he wouldn't sell shonk to the Guilstapo, or he'd soon find his Wizard's staff cut off at the base, so the disc we rode on that night didn't just make a phit phit phit sound and drop like a stone with heavy weights attached.

That's not to say it was a walk in the canary cage. A City breed, a young human and an adult minotaur were now atop a hover disc calibrated for a halfling, singular. We bobbed uncertainly in the air for a tick or two. Just enough time for Bob to stop screaming and all of us to think 'hey, this is actually fharkin’ working' before we started to drop.

The gods like their fun.

The disc didn't drop straight down. It began to spiral wildly in ever increasing circles. Bob started his girly scream again and it stayed constant. It was almost comforting. It meant we were still alive. The wind whipped at us and Frank held on for grim death. The circles got faster and faster and wider and wider until it was obvious we were heading for the brick and mortar wall of Hahdrann and Haddawatch and Sons Fine Pottery and Paper Proprietary Limited across the street. Bob's scream went up an octave, but he needn't have worried. Frank took the impact where a minotaur's built for it, right between the eyes. It was a sickening thump, the sound of a coconut striking a cement board. The disc slid backwards and spun around in the air—feet forward now—getting faster by the tick. By the heartbeat. It was like being a heavy leaf in a very bad autumn.

Bob's scream kicked back up and we finally hit the ground with a disappointing clack right in the middle of the street.

A wyvern cab ran over us.

Unluckily for Slur, it ran on him. Its big, wide chicken-like foot caught him right on the head.

Wyvern's weigh at least two ton, and that's not counting the cab on its back, so no matter how tough a City breed's genes, this could easily have meant a very sudden headstyle ala pizza. But wyvern's are sure-footed critters, even with their wings tied back. It's another of the many reasons they're used as cabs. So the foot felt the ‘uneven ground’ and made the in-stride adjustment needed to keep on trucking with little more than a lurch in its gait and a scream from its serrated beak.

We scrabbled to the sidewalk.

"That was close.” Frank said.

"Easy for you to say.” Slur muttered, shaking his bean.

"Can we do it again?” Bob asked.

"NO!” the three of us answered.

Frank led Slur by the coffee sack string along the sidewalk and headed Stripward. I could still hear the shootout going on overhead.

The Mage Kraft, Frank! We could... 

Then I saw the Mage Kraft.

The fallen Guilstapo halfling had gone straight through the roof. There was glass and twisted metal and broken gearing. However, the Dragonne Breath Anti-Theft system was still working fine, the angry little dragonne was frying the bits of halfling that had punched through the roof and most of the interior of the car to boot.

Frank walked quietly past, but the Mage Kraft Valkyrie illus-ikon saw him and stared us all down accusingly with her hands on her hips.

"Sheez,” Frank muttered. “Nothing doing there. Lucky you got the insurance, Rhys."

Yeah ... Yeah, it sure is, huh? That problem could wait.

"Who were those guys up there anyway?” Bob asked. “And why doesn't anyone seem to like us?"

"Maybe it's your aftershave.” I offered.

Frank shook his head. “Looks like we got everyone offside now. Almost everyone that is."

Where can we go, Frank? I mean, you can hide from the Clan someplaces, but there's no hiding from the Guilstapo. I can't keep up this scryguard for good. 

"We're down to our last roll of the dice, Rhys. I've got a notion, but first ... first, we need some muscle."




Chapter Twenty-Two: Capi-toll Square

There was a solid, Simsday night crowd at the Snout Ring. The tables were full, the bar was busy and it was standing room only around the bard singing ‘Miss Hurghian Pie’ in the corner. All the regulars were there, plus the usual Simsday night blow-ins.

those that either didn't want the attention of a Strip joint, or were just working their way up to it. On most nights, you could see, hear, smell and even taste the Strip from Bashful's sturdy seats, but on a Simsday night, you could feel the Strip. It came up at you through the floorboards like a snoring ogre under your feet. The Strip jumped, but the Snout was for serious drinking. Drinking as its own reward.

"But I need her tonight.” Frank was at the bar talking to Bashful.

"Frank...” Bashful waved his hands, pointing out the crowd. “I need her here. It's Simsday night for Dwar-at-uul's sake."

"Bashful? You owe me. Remember those frilly undergarments..."

"Right! Yes! OK!” Bashful had turned bashful all of a sudden. “And I told you before, they were my sister's ... um ... nightwear. She'd left ‘em behind when she was visiting the year before."

Five sets of Passion Pink Hurghian silk panties, corsets and over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders, with black lace frills that could've blown the top off a star-geld teapot, had been stolen from Bashful's laundry. Frank had found ‘em and kept it all real quiet-like. It was cute to see Bashful still sticking to the sister story. It was one of those lies that's so obvious, it's more fun going along with it than challenging it.

"I know. I know. I never said otherwise.” Frank couldn't suppress a grin. I suppose he was wondering the same thing I was. Was Bashful wearing one of those sets right now, under his stained linen apron and tunic? It wasn't a pretty picture, but hell, it was funny. “You could call in your brother, Difidentt."

Bashful stroked his beard. Gears were turning.

"Just for tonight, I promise. I need some muscle to make sure this City breed doesn't run out on me and Gertrude fits the bill. What do you say?"

Bashful cast a dubious pair of eyes over Slur, who stood beside Frank looking about as miserable as a beaten, bleeding little punk wrapped up in a coffee sack could. “OK,” he finally answered. “But I'll need to put Difidentt on call out rates, you know. It's very short notice and..."

Frank dealt out five twenty guilder notes. They disappeared quickly down Bashful's leather pants. I wonder if they found his panties? Either way, good swine don't deserve to be treated like that.

"Gertie!” Bashful shouted over the din. “Gertie! Got a job for you."

Gertie the Grip lumbered over from the door. “Yeah?” She had a full spread of cosmetics wiped across her mug, with bright red ‘On The Prowl' lipstick, and was wearing a white sleeveless gown with a striped cotton undershirt, and a round hat, like an upended bowl on her head, from which her horns protruded. The designers had somehow managed to turn a size eight dogwalk model ensemble from Mylan into a size thirty-four large cow dress. Maybe they'd just joined three together? I don't know, but they probably had plenty of incentive. I'm sure a lass like Gertrude would get pretty much anything she wanted once she leaned over the department store counter and said ‘moo'.

"You're going with Stubby here tonight. You gotta stick with him, see, and not let this little City breed out of your sight. If he tries to run, break a bone for every step he takes."

Gertie shrugged and tilted her head. I guess it meant yes.

Slur took one look at those hands—the size and weight of two full smoked hams—and those horns—at least four feet across from steel inlaid tip to tip—and he decided then and there, he wasn't going anywhere. Gertie was the kind of minotaur you only ran away from if there was no other choice.

"Where you headed then?"

"Ahhh, best I don't tell you that, Bashful, for your own sake. And if anyone asks, I was never here. For your own sake."

Bashful chuckled. “You are a son of a ghun, Stubby, but you're gonna come to a very sticky end one of these days, you know that, don't you? And you're a good kid, so that'll be a shame."

The sad part is he was right on every count.

"Yes ... ahhh ... thanks for that, Bashful. We'll be on our way.” Frank went to tip his hat, but there was nothing there. He waved his finger instead.

Gertie bent over and gripped Slur around the ankles in one meaty fist and let him dangle like some sort of bizarre novelty handbag. He didn't even grumble, let alone complain. We hit the street and started walking down Lincoln toward the Strip. It was dark and the wind still wanted to knock the breastplate off your back.

"So, what's this all about, little bull? Anything to do with that punk that came after you this morning?” Gertie's snout smiled, revealing several gold teeth—one with a tiny blood red gem inside it.

"Ahh ... yes, something to do with it. Ummm ... Maybe it would be best if you let Mr Slur walk beside you so as not to draw too much attention to..."

"Do I tell you how to do your job?"

"Ahhh ... no. No..."

"Fine then.” Slur stayed swinging from the big cow's fist.

"Actually, it's not so bad,” he managed.

"Are those horns real?” Bob asked.

Gertie glared at Bob and if looks could kill, he would've been reduced to a pile of ashes in an eye blink.

We were a spit away from the Strip proper, where Lincoln cuts into Main, when Frank stopped and picked up the public magifone out in the front of Warryn and Chifley Towers: Personal Kwality Residences for sale. Warryn and Chifley were two of the biggest real estate owners in Stripside Lowtown and as big bikky business types went, they weren't so bad—as long as you didn't get in the way of a re-zoning application they were punching through the Citied Council. Then you'd likely end up as a permanent under-feature in the foundation of their next kwality establishment.

Frank dialed a string in the near dark. The lamp in front of the kwality building was out, but the green and red magilights of The Crippled Crown Casino on the corner did the trick.

The stone mouth at Frank's ear answered. “Yes.” The voice was clipped, cultured, creamy and male. Familiar.

"This is Mr Franklin Mynos. The bull investigating the Ashley Ash..."

"Yes, Mr Mynos. What is it you want from me this time.” It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

"I need protection. In particular, I need your protection."

"And why do you think I would want to protect you, Mr Mynos?"

"Well, I know who killed Ashley Ash and I know why and I know where and I know how. There's just a few ... associated loose ends that need to be tied up. I'll give you all my dope on it, gratis, if you can hook me and my three associates up, tonight."

"I don't know..."

"If I get Souped tonight, Mr Tightfish, you won't have squat."

Silence. The magifone lips went still. The wind whipped up Frank's trenchcoat.

"Are you there, Mr Tightfish?"

"Yes, I am here, Mr Mynos. You've got some nerve. You've got a mighty chunk of nerve..."

"I'm not blackmailing you, Mr Tightfish. That other issue ... I'm a bull of my word, so even if you turn me down here, I won't squawk."

"I appreciate that, Mr Mynos. I appreciate that. Exactly who are you running from?"

"The ... ahhh ... highest and the lowest in the pack, sir."

"The highest?"

"The highest."

The lips gave a long, deep, resigned sort of sigh. “OK. OK then. Look, can you get to Capi-toll Square?"

It was Frank's turn to look worried. “If I hurry, yes."

"Right, if you can't, I can't help you. Not from ... the highest anyway. Even the Registry has its limitations, you know. Security will be prepared for your arrival."

The mouth turned back to stone as the line dropped out. Frank slowly hung the piece back up on its brace. “We gotta get to Capi-toll Square. And we gotta get there fast."

If only we still had the Mage Kraft. 

"What about the subway?” Gertie offered.

"No, it's too unreliable and slow. I can't risk getting stuck down there."

Good, I hate the subway. Anyway, the Guilstapo will clam up the Bulwark. The trarks won't let us through. 

"That's why we gotta be quick, Rhys. In the next few ticks, my name's going to be on every poo-list in town."

Gertie tapped Bob on the shoulder and poked a thumb about as thick as a man's neck at Frank. “Does he always talk to himself like that?"

"It's a private conversation,” Bob answered, smirking.

"We'll have to use a cab.” Frank whistled his whistle, but there was nothin’ doin'.

Gertie put two thick fingers in her snout and whistled. Loud. Two nearby windows cracked down the middle and if I had eyes, they would've watered. But sure enough, around the corner came a cruising wyvern cab. They got the critters trained to respond to whistles when their cab's empty, and the louder you can whistle, the more chance you've got of attracting one.

Everyone climbed up into the cab. Frank and Gertie sat in the back seat facing forward and Bob in the front facing back. Slur was put down on his head and gripped between two legs of prime beef.

"The Bulwark, thanks, driver, and make it snappy.” Frank said.

"Sure thing, bull. I know when a client's in a rush...” The cabbie tapped the pedals and the wyvern lurched up to its feet. “...and I sure wouldn't want to hold up a client in a rush...” He took down the handbrake. “...especially if it's a real important issue, you know, life and death, as it always seems to be...” He began to press the acceleron, slowly. “...even if it's not really worth my while, fiscally speaking, to press my beast hard. People don't understand the wear and tear involved in..."

Most cabbies are good sorts. They're happy to take you from A to B as long as there's enough C for them at the end of the journey. Some of them are even real regular sons of a ghun, like Tony. But then you get the real wise guys, the ones that'll try to screw you just a bit harder than most and expect you to sit back and take it with a smile. The kind that expect a few extra guilders just to let you breathe the same air.

Frank pushed a twenty guilder note through the ‘Tips ... thank you!’ slot and the City breed driver looked at it carefully.

"You know how far a greeny will get you these days, I mean..."

A well constructed magically enhanced and balanced High Noon crossbow bolt, the kind the Guilstapo uses, makes a very distinctive sound when it hits the back of a wyvern cab. It has a vaguely metallic ring combined with a sort of bone slapping thhoinnnkkk that's enough to get most cab driver's attention. We lurched into forward gear and the wyvern screamed a protest that ripped through the whole block.

"Friends of yours?” The cabbie inquired.

"Not exactly,” Frank said, looking over his shoulder. “Actually, we'd rather like to lose their company before we reach the Bulwark, if that's at all possible."

"Ah well, now we're getting into some real blue ribbon treatment, huh? I'm already in the hole for the bolt that's hangin’ out my rear end and you want me to start runnin’ all over town..."

Gertie leant forward and mooed. Then she drove her head straight through the protective screen that separated the driver from the poor shmoes in the back. If you'd ever heard a minotaur like Gertie the Grip moo, then you would probably think the latter act was more violent than the former. You'd be wrong.

"Do what the fhark he says, or I'll eat your face.” She stared straight at the cabbie as if she was sizing up the meat quality.

He turned a whiter shade of white. “Charmin',” he muttered. “Charmin'. What's a guy gotta do to earn a decent living in this here town?” He sighed. “You got it, cow. Sit back and enjoy the art of Sadak, son of Squimwish, the twonkiest driver in..."

"Just do it!” Gertie's eyes blazed. She looked hungry. Face hungry.

"OK! OK! You shall now bear witness to the Sadak Sewer Shake and Bake in the Lake. Watch and learn people, watch and learn. First, we need some speed."

Sadak floored the acceleron so that the pain impulses drove right down the central nervous system of the wyvern underneath us. It screamed loud enough to bend spoons and started lumbering down Lincoln at an ever-quickening rate. We turned north, away from the Bulwark, did a figure eight around the block, still building up speed, and hit the Strip with the wyvern's head down low and its thick corded leg muscles pumping for all the swine in Swinland. People scattered out of the street and angry shouts and curses were laid out like scaly unwelcome mats.

Frank looked around nervously. “Ahhh, this was a little more attention than I was wishing to attract Mr..."

"Keep your leather on, bull. Wait ‘til you see what ol’ Sadak's got in store for our friends back there.” Another bolt wizzed by the window.

"Here..."

The wyvern was a scaly magitorpedo

"...we..."

and we were the warhead.

"...go!"

Sadak pulled down hard and to the right on the control stick and the wyvern let off a shriek that still gives me chills today thinking about it. We turned right up a street, I got no idea which one—the scenery was a blur—and the wyvern went straight up the wall, five awful steps. We could see the night sky. It was only then I noticed everyone was screaming. Even Gertie. You couldn't hear it over the wyvern. Five steps up the wall, and then the wyvern turned its head and launched upward and over in a loop the loop arc that took us, upside down, over a squat Stripside roof. We were in the air and underneath a flightless creature the size of a siege engine that would sooner rip your entrails out with its dew claw than give you the time of day.

At that point, I'm sure that all the flesh and bone passengers thought they were going to die and were going to do it very, very shortly. There was no way this wyvern was going to level out before we hit the street on the other side of the building. It would land on top of us and not even Gertie the Grip was gonna walk away from that.

But a funny thing happened.

The street never showed up.

We passed into inky blackness and, though I'm sure everyone else had their eyes closed while they communed with their relevant makers, I saw the whole deal. And I must admit, I had to hand it to Sadak. He put the twonk in ... some other word that has twonk in it.

"What happened?” Frank asked.

We're in the sewers. Sadak took us right over that building and straight down an open industrial sewer valving! With the wyvern stretched out, we cleared the street with about a fae's fanny either side. Quite a twonky bit of driving! 

"Ahhh, great. Thank you, Mr Sadak, very ... um ... invigorating. But, how soon can you get us to the Bulwark? It really is quite important we get there as soon as possible."

"No worries, chum, no worries. I know just the place."

The wyvern's eyepiece headlights cast two thick yellow beams of light in that subterranean world. There were rats and other moving shapes too big for rats, but still strangely rat-like, that managed to dodge the light so you never quite saw them.

"By the way,” Sadak said. “Never come down here on foot."

Still, it wasn't so bad down in the sewers. It smelt ripe, but hey, I'd already been privy to worse, like a Queens project building on an Afterpex morning, or a Westside Limits abattoir at ticktock (in both cases, after the blood has dried). The City is a collection of smells just as much as it's a collection of buildings. In about three tocks, Sadak pulled up beside a moldy looking ladder that led up into the blackness. “This'll set you neatly up about twenty paces from the Bulwark gate on the east side."

"Thank you, Mr Sadak. How much do I owe you, factoring in the damage to your rig here.” Frank leant through the Gertie head-shaped hole and smiled an encouraging smile.

"Fifty swine should set it up fine, bull. A hundred swine and I never set eyes on the lot of you.” His little green eyes twinkled with a little greedy light.

"Done!"

Frank! A hundred swine! Just get Gertie to give the little fharker's neck a twist and... 

But that was no use, of course. Frank handed over the pig skin and the whole party climbed down the cab steps. There was some movement in the dark, but the wyvern hissed and rolled its head and all was quiet and still again. Frank led the way up the ladder as the wyvern sloshed off down the sewage duct.

"You know all the classy joints to take a cow, don't you, Mynos?” Gertie grinned in the darkness.

Oh! So it's ‘Mynos’ now, is it? 

Sure enough, when we popped the streethole cover, we found ourselves in a little alleyway off the Boulevard about two stone throws from the Hightown Entry Pavilion.

Frank did his best to tidy up his suit and straighten his tie. He set his glasses up high on his snout and licked his lips. He paused. “Gertie, it really might be best if you could..."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know.” She swung Slur around and stood him up, keeping a hold of one hand. The little guy staggered, but was soon in walking order. “Now listen here,” she explained. “You even squeak out of turn, and I'll pull this arm straight out of its catch and you'll watch me eat the thing. Got it?"

Slur nodded dumbly.

"Right, let's go,” Frank said. He walked out the alley and up to the Pavilion, as bold as polished brass.

The two trarks stared the lot of us down with the sort of contempt most people reserve for foul rotting meat they discover at the bottom of the magifridge. “Yesss?” one of them said, and the tone suggested that it really meant ‘Give us a reason not to kill you' (with a lisp).

"I'm Mr Franklin Mynos on official Guild business. I need to conduct further inquiries in Hightown.” Frank handed over his trark pass, plus all the paperwork from the Guilds.

"I sssee. And who are thessse?” The trark gestured with a steel-sharp talon. Translation: ‘OK, you're all right, but hurry up and give us a reason not to kill everyone else' (with a lisp, too).

"They are part of my further inquiries."

Nobody moved a hair.

"I sssee.” The trark said finally.

The other trark had been looking very closely at Slur, whose face was sweating. I saw the little fharker nod his head toward Gertie and roll his eyes, trying to get the trark's attention.

"What'sss wrong with the breed?” The trark asked.

Gertie's snout smiled and she grabbed Slur around the shoulders and squeezed. “We're on our honeymoon.” She slapped a smoochy kiss on Slur's warty forehead, then she leant toward the trark and whispered, “I think he's a little nervous.” She smiled again, a beaming first-time-bride smile.

Inside the Bulwark office, a magifone started to ring. It was answered.

Frank, if that's the Guilstapo or the Watch or the Clan or any number of pissed off padutas, our collective asses are collective grasses, you know that? 

Frank didn't move. It was no use running now. Running now was the quickest way to die.

In a strange sort of abstract reflective moment, I wondered how Gertie was going to handle the trarks. I wondered if she'd take any of them with her. She was big and quick and her horns were as nasty as rat poison, but trarks are full of edges and...

"They've all got clearanssse,” trark number three lisped loudly from the office bench. “They have a meeting ssscheduled."

The two trarks looked like they still might try and kill everyone, but then again, that's how they always looked, so it was hard to tell what it meant.

"You may enter, and have a nissse evening."

Three Phudds were waiting at the other end of the Bulwark tunnel. Frank opened a back door and everyone piled in.

"You owe me for that little performance, Mynos,” Gertie mumbled. She wiped her lips on her sleeve.

"Capi-toll Square, thanks, driver,” was Frank's response.

You a little jealous of the little breed, hey, Frank? Smoochy, smoochy, moooooo?" 

"Shut up, Rhys.” Under his fur, Frank was a bright enough red to paint a herring.

The Hightown streets seemed subdued after the madness we'd left behind. The lights seemed dimmed. There was traffic on the streets again, but nothing like the Strip. There were trarks at every corner, looking and glaring, glaring and looking. The high alert status remained.

"They know they don't have the real killer,” Frank mumbled.

We made it to the Square without further incident. Frank paid the driver and we bundled out at the foot of the second biggest tallhouse in the known Realms.

Out the front of the wide, magiglass doors, two thick set punks in dark blue private security uniforms were waiting for us. One of them spoke into his sleeve and I saw the flash of Manah. Signaling the boss man, no doubt. Frank nodded to them and they nodded back. There was another flash of Manah at the guys ear. He motioned us through the door, into the dimly lit foyer and led the way up to the elementavator.

Inside, everything was made of magiglass—plain, smoked or rose-tinted—and dark marble quarried from the Iridian Plains. There were potted plants tastefully set in corners, and empty tables. I saw little Manah traces everywhere, in the air vents—chilling and perfuming, in the fancy, medusa skin chairs—ready to adjust to the weight and contour of the sitter, in the walls—looking at us, spying. The joint was a monument to modern office maginology, and was worth more twits than I'd bother figuring.

The inside of the elementavator was mirrored magiglass, so you couldn't see out, but everyone else could see in. The floor numbers above the door ticked by quickly until we hit the top—number one hundred seventy-six. Still no one had spoken. One of the security punks led the way down a thick carpeted hallway toward Meeting Hall A. I could see the Scryguard and Manah detection equipment before we got to the door. It was all top shelf stuff and practically magimpenetrable. Very secure. Deathly expensive.

The door opened and Frank walked in, followed by Gertie—who had her ‘husband’ by the feet again—and then a wide-eyed Bob. Luxury. Pure happy-days luxury. The room was drenched in it. I mean, there were paintings and sculptures and all sorts of trinkets worth the kind of swine you could buy a southern kingdom with. The magiglass walls gave an uninterrupted view of the benighted Dark Fin Bay with the Statue of Franchise and her fat-as-five-fhantasms torch lighting up the skyline. And all across Eastside, there were tiny little lights illuminating the lives of tiny little people living tiny little City lives and Gaylord, the god of Useless Queries, knows what sort of throats were being cut under those lights right then and there. It was easy to feel like gods from that high up. Kinda scared and powerful all at once.

The room was dominated by a table, a huge, perfect oval slab of trans-agated Iridian marble, worth more per ounce than silver. It shone a dark swirly ochre-like red with understated magnificence. The only thing that spoiled the scene was the heap of corporate punks packed into the place, all in expensive imported suits and all wearing similar grave frowns on their similar faces. They all looked blandly human and as dull as over-fried fish.

"Mr Mynos,” Tightfish announced from the far end of the table. “Glad you could make it.” He didn't look particularly glad at all. I don't know exactly what he looked like, but it wasn't glad. “You made it in thirty tocks. Impressive. The Guilstapo are already trying to get Takklehurm on the magifone to complain about the Registry harboring ‘dangerous fugitives from the law'.” The old, but somehow young looking, City official smiled a weak and humourless smile. “It seems they were misinformed regarding his whereabouts. I also have those files you requested...” He gestured to a thin folder in front of him on the table.

No chairs were offered so Frank, Bob and Gertie (with the inverted Slur) stood with their backs to the wall and waited.

"I still fail to see what all this has to do with the Registry,” a boring little runt cried out. He looked like Hoggwash, only shorter, fatter and wearing a better suit. “This can only reflect poorly on us and tarnish an otherwise..."

"You have already made your objections known to me, Master Brownfinger, and I have noted them.” Tightfish stared the little man down with eyes that could have filleted a fishman. It was obvious that being ‘noted’ by those eyes was not a good thing. “But the Registry has already had its places reduced in the Citied Council over the last fifty years and seen its powers lessened via numerous statutes and ordinances presided over by numerous interests. Some might even say a few instances of corruption have come before the Board when before, this was unheard of. When our undersecretaries die in mysterious circumstances and our Guild appointed officials seem unable or unwilling to deliver satisfactory responses, then we must look to ourselves and other alternatives,” he gestured at Frank, “and create opportunities where none before existed..."

While Tightfish continued rattling on to his Board, Bob tapped Frank on the shoulder. He'd been hiding his face since he came in like some sort of wannabe superspy. “That's him!” he whispered, pointing at Tightfish. “That's the guy that was always hangin’ out with Ashley."

"Yes, I know..."

"But don't you see! He's prob'ly in it up to his nostrils."

"...I want to hear Mr Mynos’ story,” Tightfish was wrapping up. “And then, this Board will decide on our next move. Mr Mynos, you have the floor."

Frank stepped forward and gave them the lot, with extra cheese. “I have reason to believe the undersecretary Mr Tightfish was referring to, Mz Ashley Ash, was murdered by representatives of the Knaves Boating Faction when they discovered she intended to decline their Gold Crest application.” Around the table breaths were intaken, faces were frowned, eyes were widened—the usual stuff. You fill in the gaps. “The Clan, and perhaps the Guilstapo, were handling illegal operations through the Faction, but were unaware of the link between the killing and the Faction officials until recently. Mr Slur...” Gertie hoisted Slur up by his feet like a trophy head and he smiled at the frowning faces weakly. “...was on the board of the Faction and is a witness to much of what happened and, as such, is being highly sought after by both the highest City law enforcers and the lowest City thugs in an effort to terminally silence him. If you want the truth to emerge regarding the murder of Ashley Ash and thus, re-establish some form of respect and sacrosanct for Registry officials, his skinny hide better be down at the Justice Dome tomorrow, alive, and in good singing voice."

A guy, who looked strangely familiar, stood up at the far end of the desk. Two ticks later, it struck me. It was Crisp, the guy from the Strip Body Politic office with the kobold.

"May I address the Board?"

Tightfish nodded.

"I agree with Master Brownfinger. We should cut these people loose and allow the rule of law in the City to take its just and proper course. We are not part of the legal system and should not dabble in it like amateur sleuths in some sort of cheap saga series."

There were a number of nods around the table and more frowns and at least half a dozen raised eyebrows. The mouths started chatting amongst themselves.

"You!” Tightfish's eyes had finally focused on Bob. “What are you..."

"Yeah,” Bob responded. He stepped forward with his shoulders squared. “Me! Why don't you tell us what you know about Ashley's death?"

The meeting had already been at flashpoint and Bob's shrill voice was the spark to send it into an inferno. Voices were raised. Fingers were pointed. Men got to their feet. Pandemonium was loose and she hadn't stopped to tie up her boots.

"Hang on a mo'.” Slur was pointing at someone in the verbal melee. He was about to say something, and it seemed like it was going to be important but, as it happened, “hang on a mo'” ended up being his last mortal words.




Chapter Twenty-three: Death on the 176th Floor

The magiglass they put up the sides of fancy tallhouses like Capi-toll Square is tough gahoonas, let me tell you. For starters, the glass is made real thick, then it's treated with a special dye to cut down glare and then, a bunch of magiwork on each pane, building up a Manah covalence flow that bonds the thing together like plated steel. You could throw a chair at it, swipe it with an exaggerated axe, even smoke it with a pair of Piecemakers, and you're unlikely to hurt the tint, let alone break the thing.

Which was probably why everyone was so surprised when the stuff exploded in on us in an almighty, shattering roar. It was loud, but not loud enough to hide a noise some of us in that room found familiar. Frank, Bob, Slur and me. We knew it well. A familiar keening screech.

Ashley Ash landed in the centre of the transagated marble table and screeched again, swinging two exaggerated axes—one in each hand—like mayflower twigs. She was looking worse for wear. Bits of putrid flesh were falling off in chunks to reveal the dark rotty-looking bone beneath. Her head was barely human, apart from the general shape. A purple forked tongue emerged from the black mucous hole that was once a mouth, and dark, murderous eyeholes shone with dark, murderous light.

"Hi, Ash,” I chirped. “You lookin’ for your long service leave?"

The two security guards that had accompanied us to the top floor came through the door with swords drawn and leapt on the table. They had poise. They had training. They had muscle. I admired their guts and, very shortly, everybody in the room did too. In particular, the lower intestine of guard two and the stomach contents of guard one.

I think he had brackwurst for dinner. You got to do your bit to alleviate the stress in situations like this. How about we get the fhark out of here, Frank? You messed with this dame twice before and almost got fogged both times. It was reasonable. It was measured. It was fharkin’ well the square deal.

But it wasn't Frank.

"Watch Slur!” he shouted at Gertie. “We've got to get him out of here!” Frank picked up a chair and threw it at the revenant, which had the one and only effect of ruining a rather tidy looking chair.

Ash finished tearing the guards into neat piles of table-top security stew while Frank tried to figure out a way to get past her. The revenant, and a pack of screaming Politic men, were between us and the door. We needed a diversion.

"Quick, help me with this.” Frank hefted on the edge of the table and Gertie joined him. Bovine muscles strained. Veins popped out of arms. With a groan of weight and a tear of carpet, the table flipped up and over, right on top of the undead dame. It crunched the chairs and suitcases to pieces and slid into the back wall. The wall collapsed. Dust and wood chips filled the air.

Gertie looked pleased with herself. She wiped her hands. “Well that's..."

"That is not that!” Frank shouted. “Get Slur out of here, she'll be back up in a tick.” Frank was right. Frank was nearly always right.

Gertie grabbed Slur and headed for the door, along with most of the Body Politic guys who had the sense and legs to run.

The table jerked.

"Bob. Bob!” Frank grabbed the kid by the shoulders and shook him much too gently. “You've got to try starting that cant up again. Bob!"

Bob's face was blank and his eyes wide, the pupils like fifty twit bits. The kid was catatonic.

Give him a slap on the kisser, Frank! 

"Bob! Bob! If you really love her, you've got to get that cant going. You're the only one who can do it."

"That's true,” Bob said through a haze. It was like he was talking in his sleep. “I'm the one that reanimated her, so I'm the only one that can extinguish the necro-pulse within her spirit bond..."

"Well, kid, she's all yours."

A nasty smile spread across the little spotty apprentice. “I won't do it!” He sat down on the debris covered carpet. “She's here to avenge her death against Slur and prob'ly that old Politic geyser, which I got no problem with. I won't re-kill my one true love, not for you or anyone.” He turned his head and pouted.

Yes. Pouted.

I had to respond to that. “This isn't a ‘clean-up-your-room-you-naughty-little-boy’ kind of situation here, Bob. Nor is it a ‘eat-your-vegetables-or-they'll-be-no-fharking-apricot-pie’ situation. This is the Hightown fharkin’ Hacker and she's YOUR FAULT!” I shouldn't have bothered. It was no use reasoning with him for two very good reasons. Firstly, he was a completely unreasonable teenage git and secondly, the Ash dame was already back up and comin’ to make our acquaintance.

She'd stopped the keening screech, so we must've got her attention. She came at a slow lope with both axes ready. Frank stood very still and shielded the dumb ass kid sittin’ crosslegged on the floor. I tried to generate a Flame Jet—ripe undead can burn like a treat—but I couldn't manage it. My Manah sink was drained from keepin’ the Scryguard up.

You're on, Frankie! Brilliant scheme straight out of the ol’ fedora. Right about now. Anytime. 

"I don't think I'll need one, Rhys."

Ashley Revenant stopped and turned her head to face the blank timber wall. She sniffed the air. For just the briefest tick, there was silence in the room. Then she dropped both axes and plunged her hands straight through the wall like it was treacle candy. She grabbed hold of something, jerked with effort, then brought that something back through the wall in a tight, bloody grip. It was hard to see what it was right away through all the dust, but it soon became apparent.

It was Slur's head. Bright red blood was still pumping out his neck and onto the floor.

She'd torn it straight off his body and through the wall.

He sure looked surprised.

Gertie's head followed Slur's, but it was still attached to her body and fuming with the kind of rage that's special to hardcore minotaurs when they're especially pissed off. It's not like she liked Slur. It's not like she cared two moos whether the breed went with or without a head at any other time. But the point was, it was her time. This Slur head was her head.

Gertie was coming to get some.

She came through the wall and rammed her head into the revenant's face while it was still looking at Slur's freshly harvested one. It was a direct hit. Bones cracked. The two of them rolled off together on the floor with those deadly steel inlaid horns slashing this way and that and those revenant talons slashing that way and this. Dust, debris, chunks of broken furniture and security guard were thrashed around the room. Moos, huffs, puffs and screeches cut through the air like a thousand badly tuned pianos.

Frank! This is our chance! Let's LEG IT! 

Frank didn't move a muscle. Security staff erupted through the door and various holes in the walls. They had ghuns this time.

"Don't shoot!” Frank shouted at them. He put his arms up and got in the way.

Gertie must have heard him. She was bleeding bad and must have been in a fhark-load of pain, but she managed to slip under the revenant's arms and grapple it into a classic souplex. She lifted the undead high up in the air where it screeched and slashed, then dropped it down on the floor and rolled away.

Frank hit the deck.

And the ghuns fired.

Ashley Ash, still holding Slur's surprised head, was blown out the hole in the magiglass and into the night.

Now maybe you can forgive the guards for bein’ a bit trigger happy and fortunately, due to the hole in the magiglass, there was somewhere for the released air elementals to go. The problem was that the somewhere was one hundred seventy-six floors above the City and released air elementals sure like company.

someone to play with on the way down to ground zero.

Two of the security punks were picked straight up in the Recoil and dragged off after Ashley. The cracked marble table and all the debris, living and dead, started swirling around the room like a pile of well raked leaves in a sudden autumn wind.

Gertie was in the middle of it.

Wrong way, Frank! Too late. Frank jumped into the mini tornado. He grabbed Bob by the arm and threw him out into the hallway. Then he turned back, but the wind had built up. An elemental's windy fist reached out and grabbed him by the ankle, picked him up and slapped him playfully onto the floor. Then it spun us around and around and around the room at bowel-wrenching speed. Frank scraped along the roof and the world was a jarring blur. Now fortunately, while released air elementals can be vindictive, they also get bored real quick (unlike water and earth elementals that are as patient as only oceans and mountains can be). Frank was dropped on his rear with a bruising thump. Then, like everything else in the room, he started skidding toward the hole in the side of the tallhouse.

Gertie was right at the edge, holding on to a broken edge of magiglass. She should've been unconscious, but she was just too mean. Frank was heading right at her along a slippery trail of bovine blood.

There was nothing for him to grab.

"When I say now, dig into the floor, Rhys."

Frank... 

"Now."

Frank punched me down into the floor like a piton and I dug in with every last bit of Manah I had left in me. He held on to me, reached out with his other hand in the still howling, elemental filled vacuum and caught Gertie by the forearm.

The big cow looked him in the face. Her frock was torn to pieces, her lipstick smeared, her hat only hanging on by the horns. “This is where ... I say...” She winced and spat blood out of her mouth. “...that you took ... your ... time ... Mynos.” And she passed out.

The Recoil in the room reached its crescendo. The last of the remaining elementals all pushed out at once to find their freedom and kiss the City night sky, and the two minotaurs, something close to five hundred pounds of roughly intelligent bovine, were lifted off the plush carpet with only me as an anchor. Frank held on, but I could feel his fingers moving. Quivering. Wanting to give it up. Throw in the towel.

Just as I thought he wasn't gonna hold it any longer, the elementals were gone. The vacuum died. Suddenly, gravity became the most pressing issue. Gertie, who was still hanging out the hole, swung downward and slapped the side of the tallhouse with a wet sounding splat (if you look carefully, you can still see the blood silhouette—minotaur blood stains a treat). Frank grunted with the sudden weight. She was a big girl. I looked down the side of the second tallest tallhouse in the Realms through Frank's watering eyes.

"A little fharkin’ help here, guys!” I shouted to the boffins still cowering in the hallway. Frank was on his last legs ... or fingers. How about this for déj�  vu? You know, it's moments like these that you really should wonder about your career path, Frank. I here floristry is booming in Eastside.

Finally, the security guys showed and pulled Frank and Gertie up into the wrecked meeting room. Frank checked her over for a pulse and found one, but she was in a bad, bad way. She was bleeding from almost every inch of her body and the fancy frock was a write-off. Frank's hands were wet with her blood.

He was about to pick her up when a team of nurses arrived with a stretcher. They checked her Guild affiliation tags and took her away. The clean up crew was close behind them. Frank sat in Gertie's blood trail and looked out at the Cityscape through the hole in the magiglass as the first morning sun turned the eastern sky a dull pink. The clouds were purple-blue. The wind had died and it looked like some sort of prize-winnin’ portrait.

peaceful, like a sleeping snake.

Well, we made it. 

"We didn't make it, Rhys.” Frank scratched his ear. “We did everything we could, and we didn't make it."

Don't feel too bad, Frank. You came out of it with your leather intact. For a while there, I wasn't too sure you would. 

Bob tiptoed through the cleaners sheepishly and sat beside Frank. “I'm sorry Frank. I...” He stopped and looked down at his feet. “I ... just couldn't do it. Not to her."

"That's alright, Bob."

Fharkin’ dimwit! 

"It doesn't matter now. Slur was our last chance."

Bob joined Frank's stare out over the City. “Is Gertie gonna be OK?"

"I expect so.” Frank rubbed his chin and straightened his glasses. His back was slumped and his suit as crumpled as a freshly skinned goblin.

Um, while we got some down time, Frank, could you see your way to gettin’ me out of the floor here? I can't promise you the crown of all Merrie Angleland, but I would be right happy. 

I had so little Manah left in me, I could've hardly split a peanut shell. Frank had to lever me back and forth and then Bob helped him pull me out. Shortly, I was back in Frank's belt, which was like throwing off a monkey suit three sizes too tight and slipping into a silk kimono.

And we lost those files in the wind. I mindspoke, making small talk. They'd be out in the Bay by now.

Frank's back stiffened.

What is it, Frank? 

"Bob,” he said quietly. The morning breeze ran through the short hair between his horns. “Tell me what you know about revenants."

"Well, I don't know what you mean. They're almost impossible to kill. They smell ... um..."

"No. Tell me what happens once their revenge motive is fulfilled."

"Oh! Well, with revenants, the unlife necro-pulse is linked incrementally to the thirst for vengeance. I mean, it's the thirst for vengeance that fuels the unlife, so when vengeance has been achieved, the necromantic spirit bond to the original thread of carnal normality is severed. As far as I know, they just sort of collapse in on themselves as soon as all those responsible for the...” his voice trailed off. “But Ashley didn't..."

Frank was headed for the door. “Quick! We got to get to the Justice Dome for the Gruff trial. We've got one last chance."




Chapter Twenty-four: Beyond Justice Dome

The City Legal Court of Justice and Functionary Centre (Book your function mid-week and receive a free ham!), or Justice Dome, or simply the ‘J', is situated on the Upwerdd River in the north precincts of Eastside, not far from Watchhouse One. The building itself is an enormous, magically inflated concrete dome, built at the same time as the Guardome in Hightown, but on a much grander and blander scale. It is a statement building, designed and built at a time when magi-engineering required a statement to shut up all those pesky critics of the sheer unstoppable commercial ascent of Maginology. Which was fine. Just don't talk too loud about the Civic Dome that collapsed and killed eight hundred seventy-six people (fifty of them were Guilded!) unless you want to draw the wrath of the Magi Guild.

On the morning of the case of Pottern Gruff versus the City, just getting to the ‘J’ was gonna be strife. Getting in was gonna be harder. Getting anywhere without Frank getting de-horned and put into pet food cans seemed almost like a dream.

Why can't we just come clean, Frank? 

Frank didn't answer. He hit the Hightown street in silence and whistled up a cab. The cleaners had already been through. There wasn't a single sign of debris from the one hundred seventy-sixth floor far above.

A Phudd picked us up and we were gone.

"Surely Gruff can't be the Hacker if the Hacker attacked Capi-toll Square last night,” Bob said. “They'll have to drop the charges."

"Kid, you're not thinkin'.” If Frank was gonna play the strong and silent type, I was gonna have to educate the boy. “Did you see any badges up in that building? Did you even see a trark guard? The powers that be don't want the financial boat rocked anymore. I'm sure if they had any idea how it was gonna affect people, they would've hushed it up before, but now? An attack on Capi-toll Square plastered across the Kronikle and the City Sentinel would probably send us into a full-fledged, two-hundred-swine-for-a-loaf-of-bread, eek-oh-nomik depression. Nobody's ever gonna know what happened up there, and you can quote me on that."

We headed down First Avenue northbound towards the Bulwark. Once we got a look down the Upwerdd, we saw the gridlock on the Ordinary Bridge into Eastside—cars, carriages, hoverdiscs, horses, carts, you name it. Nothing was moving and you could smell the aggravation. Road rage ain't pretty in a magical City.

We ain't gonna get through that before the trial starts, Frank. And the PeeWee's too far. The only other way to cross the Upwerdd is miles upriver on the PeeWee Bridge joining north Lowtown and Kings.

"We might have to try a boat crossing...” Frank replied.

"Nothing doin', bull,” the cabbie said as he pulled up at the Bulwark. “Takklehurm's got the Upwerdd blockaded, and I just heard the Subway's broken down again. Kronic Elemental Fatigue they reckon. Four guilders, I reckon.” He put his hand out.

Since the Subway pellets are powered by a ‘Constant Vacuum Balance', if any one particular section of the Tube system becomes more busy than the rest, like say, when an army of punks want to head down to the ‘J’ for a particularly promising trial, it unbalances the Balance. The air elementals run out of puff. The whole system cuts out. And you're stuck half a mile underground in a cramped shell of tin, feeling like a busted suppository and waiting for the dribbling half ork next to you to go nuts with a rusty cut throat razor he's got hidden in his boot.

"Do you think...” Frank began.

"No I don't think,” said the cabbie. “I ain't goin’ out into that,” he pointed in the direction of the Ordy, “for all the swine in Swinland. You know what my insurance premiums are like for this thing?"

Frank handed over the swine and we alighted. The tunnel through the Bulwark was strangely empty. The bank of Phudds along First avenue was full. Hightown was dead calm.

It ain't hard to work out where everyone's at. The biggest show in town's at the J. 

"Which would mean...” Frank crossed the road with Bob in tow and ran down the line of cabs, looking in each window. Finally, “...Bingo!"

"Stubby, you still kickin’ ‘round Hightown!” Tony opened his passenger side door. “How's tricks?"

Frank slipped in the front and Bob the back.

"Tricks are tricky at the moment, Tony. I got a plateful of them. What I need to know is, can you get me to the Justice Dome before the show starts?"

Tony's eyes went wide, but they also went thoughtful. He mopped his brow and took a deep swig on his bright green tin of Chuggalugg Lager. “That's a big ‘un, Stubby. The J's ground fharkin’ zero of an Interplanar Fireball from the third plane of Hell at the mo'..."

"I know, Tony.” Frank's eyes twinkled, his droopy ear twtiched. “I know it's impossible. But can you do it anyway?"

"Well..."

"Listen, A working man, such as yourself, is going to get smoked by the Hightown heroes if I don't get there. It's a matter of life and death."

"And unlife and undeath,” I added.

Tony drained the rest of the Chuggalugg and dropped it at his feet. He belched so loud, I thought he was gonna erupt. “Fhark it,” he said when he was done. “Impossible? I'll give them fharkin’ impossible.” Then he flicked the drive crystal. The Phudd bobbed up. “Time to boogie."

We checked out of Hightown through the gate under the usual trark scrutiny, and turned right on Main. Even the Strip seemed subdued. It was Afterpex morning, of course, which meant many Strip regulars were still Simsday night affected and seeing pink elephants marching through the sky on the back of musical clams playing bright orange sousaphones.

"You're gonna owe me for this one, Stubby."

"You're not gonna do a Sadak shake and ... fake in a ... snake or something, are you?” Bob asked from the back. “I don't know if I could handle that again so soon."

Tony had the Phudd cruising north and east through a series of little used alleys in Stripside Lowtown, avoiding the banked up traffic at the mouth of the Ordy, but heading always toward the Lowtown bank of the Upwerdd. “You mean my shake and bake in the lake? Where you see that done, kid?"

"A Mr Sadak assisted us earlier with that particular maneuver,” Frank said.

Tony frowned and belched again. “Sadak! Hah! I taught that to his grandpa, Squimwash Senior, about a hundred years back. I don't mind them doin’ my moves, but for fhark's sake, they shouldn't go puttin’ their fharkin’ names to ‘em!” He turned the Phudd right on Baggyns Street and cut southbound on the Lowtown edge of the Upwerdd where the under parts of the Ordinary Bridge blocked out the suns.

Now Tony went to work. He prised open the Phudd's dashboard and pulled out three of the drive crystals. Bright, golden Manah leaked out of ‘em and into the cosmos like arterial bleeding. That much concentrated Manah, rich in Manahvyne, could really do some damage to your sense of reality. As if he was reading my magimind, Tony said, “Keep your scabbard on, Rhys. It's only for a tick.” He held the crystals in his fist and went through a quick cant, pulsing dark green Manah through ‘em that was thick and tightly sculpted. Tony knew what he was doin', though he had just dumped on the Phudd factory service warranty and City Cab Insurance contract big time.

He slipped the crystals back in. “It was innate, huh, Rhys? Completely fharkin’ innate. Not a word about it to the Guilds though, karpeesh?"

"My figurative lips are sealed, Tony,” I answered.

The punishment for ‘UnGuilded Magic incanting’ was anything from a quick, tidy death to a slow, disorderly death, depending on the mood of the Judge-Magistarr. The trouble with that, from the Guild's perspective anyway, is that certain races, such as elves and trolls to name two, are innately magical. They're not gonna be able to avoid doin’ the odd magical turn now and again just from hangin’ about and bein’ ‘emselves. So they're given a certain leeway if detected manipulating Manah in an unGuilded manner. Naturally, a full on cant like Tony just did would NOT come under such a legal heading—it was a deliberate spell—but they could melt me down and call me ‘Ingot’ before I'd squawk on a regular guy like Tony. He was the real deal.

I couldn't tell exactly what Tony had done to the drive crystals, but the car felt different. It was slower and seemed to be laboring, like it barely had enough power to pull us along.

We were about to go under the Ordy when Tony turned to Frank. “This here maneuver I call the ... I don't know. I've only just thought it up, so maybe you can fharkin’ name it for me if it works."

"What if it doesn't work?” Frank asked.

Tony smiled a wide, heavy drinker's smile and shrugged a wide, heavy eater's shrug. “If it doesn't work, Stubby, no one here's gonna be namin’ anything for quite some time.” He turned the car toward the concrete bank that ran up to the underside of the Ordy and gave it the juice.

The Phudd cleared the curb and labored up the bank, getting slower and lower to the ground as it got higher and higher. Manah leaked out the magimotor and the magichinery made a disturbing grating sound. “It might be a good idea to put your hands on the roof, OK?” The ground pinions were scraping the surface of the concrete. We were grinding to a halt through lack of power. The underside of the bridge was just above our heads.

"Here we go,” Tony said, and winked at Frank. He twisted the drive wheel.

With a sickening flick, the magicar flipped over. Stomachs churned. Even I felt it. But it worked. We now sat, upside down, magiattached to the underside of the Ordinary Bridge at a little below the regulation Phudd hover height when right side up.

"Ha!” Tony shouted with one hand on the roof taking his weight and the other on the drive wheel. “Ha! Never a doubt! Never a fharkin’ doubt in my mind, Stubby!” He kicked the Phudd into forward and we made our way across the underOrdy.

"You doctored the drive crystals for dual-polar temperance!” I was impressed.

"You got it, Rhys."

"You are the ... elf, Tony!” I quipped.

"Who's the elf?” He laughed back.

"You're the elf!"

"Everyone, who's the fharkin’ elf?"

"You're the elf,” we all responded, with differing levels of enthusiasm.

I don't know if any of the Watch cruisers on the Upwerdd noticed us crossing the bridge above ‘em. If they did, they didn't bother raisin’ the alarm. Tony laughed all the way, drinking beer and spilling it over his face until he got used to the upside down milarky. “This Chuggalugg goes straight to my head!” he announced, and laughed like a thunder god.

Frank smiled and nodded and enjoyed the scenery while Bob, by the half-way point, got into the mood and decided it would be easier to sit crosslegged right-way-up on the inside of the roof. Which was fine, until we got to the Eastside end of the bridge and Tony flicked the Phudd back over. Bob landed on his head, but found a relatively untouched blazing dog (with extra onions and double chili) under the backseat which Tony must've forgotten about, so he was happy enough.

The kid would eat anything.

Tony took the Ring Road around the riverside. The Eastside shore looked like a picket fence of uniformed watchstables.

"Why's security so tight?” Bob asked between mouthfuls of week-old dog. “I mean, what do they think's gonna happen? An invasion?"

"It's all part of the show,” Frank said. “The modern City legal system has nothing to do with justice and everything to do with a good show."

Nothing depressed Frank more than City law. Probably because he knew how it worked better than most. It all breaks down like this. First, a Judge-Magistarr decides whether you should stand trial on the basis of a preliminary examination of the charges made against you, the dirt the City has on you, your City status and your wealth. Then, a trial is ordered, attended by a Judge-Magistarr, as many advocates as you and the City can afford and six ‘Prominent Guildspeople’ as a jury who may, if required, decide whether you're guilty or not (again, pretty much based on your City status and wealth). The jury's services are not often required, however, because if you feel a guilty verdict is imminent (and it's usually pretty obvious by how much time the court is giving to your defense advocate), or if you can afford a baristarr, you might decide to risk everything on Final Floor, which is what the crowds come for. A fight to the death between the accused (or their barristarr) and the City baristarr to ascertain guilt. It isn't normally as close a contest as the death pits, but it has this marvelous pathetic slant to it. The hopelessness of it all. And every now and then, a dark horse would get up and really make everyone's day. The City baristarrs are some of the meanest hombres this side of the Fingers, so you either gotta be real desperate or real guilty to rely on the Floor.

Court officials nicknamed the system ‘the humble, then the rumble'.

Law in the City wasn't always like this. Frank told me about it once. There was once this thing called a Justice System and the laws were part of how it operated—tryin’ to connect the right body with the right crime and generally let the good guys get on with their lives. It didn't always work, but it had a sort of system about it. I can't really remember much else. But it all went downhill once magic got involved. They started using sorcerers as judges. These sorcerers had mind control spells that could tell if people were lying. One hundred percent accurate. No mistakes. It was hailed as a ‘new age of indisputable justice for all citizens'.

Like pretty much anything that gets ‘hailed', it was a crock. After all, it was the Judge-Sorcerer who said who was lying and who wasn't. They became more bent than a dwarven beer horn. It was one of the many social ingredients which led to the Third Great Uprising of Thump, and don't worry, I ain't gonna lay a load of City history on you that probably put you to sleep back in school. Suffice it to say that the Thumpians banned magic from the law courts and had the court floors sucked clean of Manah. They became Damper Zones, so no magical fiddling could take place. Of course, once the Thumpians became as corrupt as everyone else and the Guilds took over the City, they took over the justice system too. The justice was sucked out of the system along with the magic, and only the laws remained. Hopelessly bendable. So close to a joke that if you laughed, nobody noticed.

So the Guilds figured, ‘if we gotta go through with this charade, we may as well make it a show and turn a pig over'. They introduced the Final Floor and the Baristarr system and Rule of Law became Rule of Floor.

Tony pulled up at the corner of Ring and Eastside Avenue, where the traffic off the Ordy was bumper to bumper to horse bum to hover disc.

"Nice work, Tony.” Frank opened the door. “You are truly elegant."

"Hey, as I've said before, I can't help bein’ me."

Frank smiled. “How much do I owe you?"

"Forget it, Stubby. You can owe me a favour, huh? Anyway, you go and nail those Hightown punks, and put in a boot for your ol’ pal Tony."

Frank said he would and Tony was gone. We legged it down Eastside Avenue and, in about ten tocks, we were a part of the carnival crowd outside the Justice Dome gates. The joint wasn't open for business yet, but the festival had already begun. The Hightown Hacker memorabilia industry was at a glorious peak. There were all new T-shirts available ('Hightown Can't Hack it!’ and ‘Choose Hack’ were popular). There were one legged dolls, lunch boxes with little axes on ‘em and everywhere there were half raw/half burnt sausages on stale bread for sale and ale cup dispensers and minstrels and bards and jugglers and pickpockets—all of ‘em criminals and all of ‘em looking for a twit or three.

The morning newspapers were on sale, but Frank didn't bother. The Kronikle headline was ‘HANG ‘IM HIGH!’ And the City Sentinel was ‘HACKER FACES THE HACK!'

The level of City journalism was as healthy as the Dark Fin fish in the Bay.

The smell of food woke Bob's stomach and it screamed for justice. We found a stall to feed him which also claimed to have ‘genuine Hurghian Brewed Coffee', which turned out to be instant City standard and was little better than heated up puke. Frank drank it slowly. It was only slightly better than nothing.

"Good morning, Director-General,” he said suddenly and turned around. There was Vappid, in his black leather trenchcoat, about to tap him on the back.

The evil little snot smiled a thin, frosty smile. “The sun's are in front of me, Franklin, so there was no shadow, and I don't wear aftershave and I know how you feel about the use of magic. How did you know I was..."

"Your Randah skin boots make a very distinctive sound. Size six and a half, juniors, if I'm not mistaken?"

"Yes.” His smile didn't waver. “Yes, you are impressive, Franklin. Your funny little games should've attracted the attention of some sort of traveling show by now. I suggest you find such a show and travel with it to whatever hellhole it takes you. And stay there. Your Registry friends can't protect you forever, you know. After this trial, I feel I'm going to have to take you down. Your poor excuse for a Guild is causing annoying little ripples in the balance of City politics. Unless, of course...” Vappid's tiny eyes opened up as wide as they went. “...you feel inclined to return to the Bureau.” He cocked the eyebrow under his monocle.

It seemed to me like the whole crowd went quiet and held their breath. Frank stood very still for about five ticks. “Nothing doing, Vappid.” His body shook with tension or anger or a little of both. “I can't believe you even bothered asking me that. You know the bleeding answer."

Vappid smiled and held up his hands in mock surrender. The crowd breathed out. “Hey, I admit you have some talents, Franklin. Talents the Bureau could use, but ... have it your way. We were friends once, and that's the only reason I've put up with your foolishness so long..."

"Is that so?"

They stared each other down.

"That is so, Franklin. I am resisting the temptation to tell you that you are way out of your depth. It would seem so cliché, that it would hardly be worth my..."

"He didn't do it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"He didn't do it. Gruff isn't the Hacker and you know it, and you're happy to send the poor sap down for it. How do you feel about that?"

Vappid pulled out a little black pipe and stoked it up. “I feel radiant, Franklin. I feel positively radiant."

Frank's nostrils flared. “How do you sleep at night, Vappid?"

"How do I sleep?” The halfling puffed a mouthful of Toredor tobacco smoke into Frank's face. “I sleep between strips of magisoftened Hurghian silk, breathing chilled and rose freshened magiconditioned air with my choice of a large cadre of women, whose beauty would make a Westside worker break down and weep with envy.” He walked away, then stopped and pulled something out of his trenchcoat. It was a dark brown and battered fedora hat. He threw it to Frank with a flick of his wrist. “I had it fumigated for you."

Vappid flashed his pass at the gate and disappeared into the Justice Dome yard looking about as smug as a halfling could. And halfings’ wrote the book on smug.

Sounds like he sleeps just fine, Frank. He's a little ray of sunshine, ain't he? You guys were pals, huh? 

Frank didn't answer. He settled his hat down between his horns. He was miles away.

The ticket boxes opened with a clatter and we lined up. Bob rejoined us with five sausages-on-sticks and a ‘super’ crazy dog-on-a-stick the size of a small battering ram. We got Gate Three, second row, centre right seats, which Franklin charged to the Ursors without blinking an eyelid.

Eight hundred and fifty big ones, Frankie! Whooooo! We gonna rub shoulders with the season ticket holders! 

Frank stayed quiet. Hey, I was only tryin’ to lighten the mood! We waited in silence in the crowd for the yard gates to open and then headed for Gate Three of the Justice Dome.

"You ever been to one of these deals, kid?” If Frank wasn't gonna gab, I'd have to move on.

"No,” he answered, spilling sausage down his front. “Heard about ‘em though."

"It's an experience, no doubtin’ it...” I was drowned out by the approaching Watch vans with their lights flashing and horns horning. “The Hightown Hacker” was somewhere in one of them and the crowd jeered and hissed as they went by, as was expected of them. Frank didn't even bother lookin’ up.

A young kobold in a black tie ushered Frank and Bob through the gate and down the long aisle to the second row. We were inside the ‘J'. Bob's mouth dropped as he marveled at the size of the Dome. The topmost point of the roof was so high, you could barely focus on it. There were whole families of bird life up there that hadn't known sky for over a hundred generations. Once he was all marveled out, he bought a wad of pink sugar floss-on-a-stick and five candy canes for afters.

Even though it was Frank's eyes I was looking through, the Manah Damper Zone over the court floor played hell with my vision. It was a gray, smoky sort of shimmering sensation—hard to explain to the non-magisighted. I could still see the wide oval shape of the court floor and the raised seat at the back for the Judge-Magistarr. There were two banks of tables and seats to either side of the Judge-Magistarr's, one blue (defense) and one red (prosecution) and on the far side, was a small box for the jury. An aisle led from behind the ‘stage’ to out back, from where the ‘players’ would emerge.

Frank was edgy. “This thing better get started. We don't have much time.” I asked him what the rush was, but he kept quiet. I had no idea what he was up to. As far as I could figure, the only way he could save Gruff was to drop Bob in the clam, and I didn't think he'd do that.

The Justice Dome filled up fast. The place could seat five thousand at a push, in five separate banks of raised seating, not counting the floor seats up front (where we were) or the Guild boxes that ringed the court floor. The hottest show in town was warming up.

With a sudden pre-magirecorded fanfare of trumpets, Judge-Magistarr Hermann Hattlefilger was led out to his chair by two bailiffs in bronze armour. There was a smattering of perfunctory applause. Sure the guy was in charge, but he was just the referee. Behind them were the six ‘prominent Guildspeople’ almost everyone hoped wouldn't be needed. As they say in City justice circles, 'they're here for the beer and more of the Floor'.

"Great seats, Frank!” Bob was now chewing on popcorn, though I didn't remember him gettin’ it. The kid was a food magnet.

Frank looked at him. There was a sad sort of glint in his eye.

You're not gonna... 

Frank put a finger up to his mouth and pointed at the Guild box directly in front of us. I hadn't recognised the backs of the heads, but now that Frank pointed them out, I saw who was there. Director-General Vappid Reamer sat on the right with Commander-General Wendel ‘the Whop’ Assbetter (Commander of the City Watch) and the newly promoted MAD Captain Reginald Hoggwash on the left. In the middle of ‘em, smiling like his face was frozen in a perpetual publicity magisnap, was Lord-liege Mayor Takklehurm, like the fattest, angriest wart in the center of a cluster.

Frank didn't want me to mindspeak with Vappid so close, but it was obvious now.

He was gonna shop the kid.




Chapter Twenty-five: The Show

Another trumpet fanfare split the air, more ominous and foreboding. The crowd started stamping its feet. The lights dimmed. The tension mounted.

A single, strong-beamed magilight picked out the ‘Hightown Hacker’ being led down the aisle. Gruff hobbled along swiftly enough, with the aid of a bone coloured crutch, surrounded by a team of six thumpin’ big watchstables. He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit and his face was as pale as pearl dust. People jeered and booed and shouted abuse. It wasn't personal. It was just part of the show.

"GOOD MORNING, GUILDSPEOPLE AND LESSER PEOPLE,” a voice boomed out through the magisound address system, a voice that managed to combine the authority of a god with the feigned joviality of a door to door carpet seller. “THE COURT OF JUDGE-MAGISTARR HATTLEFILGER WELCOMES THE DEFENDANT IN CASE 456C, THE CITY VERSUS POTTERN GRUFF..."

The stamping increased and wild shouts were added, pumped fists and even the occasional kidney-piercing whistle.

"...mmmMMMM LET'S GET READY TO HHHUMBLE!"

Loud, rib-splitting music pumped out of the magisound speakers and spear-thin magilights of at least thirty different colours danced around the dome airspace. People screamed louder, whistled louder, pumped their fists harder. It was performance controlled mob frenzy and it worked like a Yhore charm.

More players came out onto the scene while the lights flashed, the music pumped and the people screamed. The six well dressed jury-men climbed into their box. The prosecution team of five advocates that looked like clones in dark gray Ar-farnie suits. And behind them...

Look, Frank! It's Ghimp! 

...none other than Frank's man, Uunda Ghimp. Ghimp did occasional Court Appointed work for the Justice Department. If it was ever in doubt Gruff was already as good as smoked, that doubt now had five crossbow bolts through its chest and was bleeding on the grass.

The Court Baristarr came in last of all and sat quietly behind the Judge-Magistarr. It was Nazzgar Uup, a half ork I'd seen fight in the pits. Real mean. Real deadly. He had more fight in him than a barrel full of bitchin’ barracudas, and what he couldn't do with a spiky ball on a stick was ... well, it was unable to be done. As a pit fighter, he was known as cruel, and to be known as cruel in death pit fighting is to stand out as hot amongst a steaming load of magma. I once saw him cut open this punk, snatch a handful of intestines, climb up to the roof of the Pit and drop him like a yo-yo.

He almost walked the dog!

The lights came back on for the charges to be read and the Prosecution was asked to open. The number one smug-punk advocate look-at-me-in-my-five-hundred-guilder-shoes called on Hoggwash to give City evidence. The new Captain approached the Judge-Magistarr's chair, then told his tale. His thick, raspy voice came through the magisound system for all to hear, though no-one was particularly interested. It was rushed through in five tocks flat. Necroview recorded one legged man as killer. Gruff was in Hightown at time of killings. He has one leg. He has a problem with corporate types. Sworn testimonies. Case closed. Tough Gruff.

The Judge-Magistarr looked over at Ghimp. “THE DEFENSE, PLEASE PRESENT."

The crowd groaned. Sometimes, a defense advocate would get up on his high horse and try to cheat the crowd of their Final Floor with some sort of argument against the prosecution, but it was good for hot dog vendors. If Final Floor was interesting enough at the end, it all balanced out. Within reason.

Of course, the Justice Department appointed Ghimp because he was hopeless and at the very bottom of the Advocates’ Guild. The goblin stood up and tripped over his chair. Then he dropped his papers. The tension seemed to be drowning him.

"Ummm ... well...” Ghimp spoke so softly, the magisound system hardly picked him up. “...I do have statements here from several people saying that ... ummm ... where was I ... ummm ... that Mr Gruff was at home during the estimated time of death of..."

"OBJECTION!” shouted the Prosecution Team, like they were a five man choir. They all stood up together and their green dragon skin ties slapped their chests. “HERESAY!"

The crowd roared approval.

"OBJECTION SUSTAINED!"

"I have ... um ... witnesses..."

"OBJECTION! RELEVENCE!"

"SUSTAINED."

Ghimp looked around at the baying crowd and swallowed hard. He took a sip of water and spilled it down his pants.

"IF THE DEFENSE RESTS...” the Judge-Magistarr muttered.

A sausage hit Ghimp in the head.

"Um..."

"Point of order!” Frank shouted as loud as he could. People around us turned and stared, but the crowd drowned him out. “Rhys,” he said. “Can you get me into that noise machine?"

Sure thing, Frank. But do you really want to... 

"Do it."

I burned some Manah and spliced into the sound system like a wooden spoon into the treacle pot. Hey, you teach yourself these tricks over the eons.

"POINT OF ORDER!” Frank's voice erupted around the Dome and startled him almost as much as everyone else.

Judge Hattlefilger looked down his nose like he was smelling troll droppings on his Hurghian boots. “GUARDS, REMOVE THE MINOTAUR CAUSING THE DISTURBANCE."

"POINT OF ORDER,” Frank continued (with my help). “I HAVE INFORMATION CONTRARY TO PROCEEDINGS UNDER STATUTE 2345 ‘A’ OF THE LEGAL PROCESS CODE AND ARTICLE FIVE OF THE NECROMANTIC-WATCH INVESTIGATIVE CHARTER.” He took a deep breath. The next bit was gonna cause him personal pain. “AS A CHAIRING GUILDSMAN, I AM PERMITTED TO APPROACH THE BENCH WITH MY INFORMATION UNDER STATUE 13X*41J^45 AND ORDINANCE 34TWZ2 SUBSECTION E."

It was an unexpected and not unwelcome twist to what was normally the boring part of court process—the humble before the rumble. Some mad minotaur in the glitzy seats was shouting down the Magistarr! Hmmm, might grab another dog and see what happens to the punk! The approaching guards hesitated while Hattlefilger pulled out a book from under his seat. He read it carefully through his waxy glasses. He chatted to the chief Bailiff. He chatted to the Prosecution.

Frankie, what in the Otherworld are you doin'? 

He didn't answer, and I realised why. Vappid Reamer was watching us closely from the Mayor's Guild box. His monocled eye sparkled with interest and he waved a little wave.

Finally, Hattlefilger beckoned to Frank. “APPROACH."

Frank handed me to Bob and walked. He knew too long in an area with no Manah would put me to sleep, maybe permanently. He was on his own. Bob's mouth was still open in mid-chew. He was the kind of kid that never expected anything. I think each new intake of breath was a swell surprise.

When Frank stepped onto the court floor and into the Damper Zone, my sentience to him was cut, which in some ways, was a relief. Magical sentience is more pervasive than the attuned version. It's hard to explain, but I can see all around me simultaneously, and can hear almost everything at once—even the odd surface thought that floats past. Plus, I can shut down my sense of smell at will.

But I was locked out from Frank, so I didn't hear what was said between Hermann Hattlefilger and Franklin Mynos that morning. I watched him being placed in front of the Judge-Magistarr to state his piece. As a bone fide Chair of a Guild, he was entitled. Sure, the Guild of Especial Investigators only had one fharkin’ member, but they weren't to know that.

He was then led over to the defense bench with every ear in the dome ready to hear what he had to say. He cleared his throat carefully “POTTERN GRUFF IS NOT THE HIGHTOWN HACKER. THE HIGHTOWN HACKER IS ASHLEY ASH, WHO IS MISSING, PRESUMED UNDEAD, AND I PLEAD ON HER BEHALF, NON-SENTIENT RETROACTIVE SELF-DEFENSE..."

"OBJECTION! OBJECTION!"

"...AS SET OUT IN ARTICLE 45678 SUBSECTION D OF THE CITY CRIMINAL ACTION CODE. ALSO PERTINENT TO MR GRUFF'S DEFENSE IS THE EVIDENCE COLLECTED FROM THE NECROVIEW IN QUESTION, WHICH I ATTENDED, WAS TERMINATED UNDER ARTICLE FIVE OF THE CITITED COUNCIL NECROMANTIC-WATCH CHARTER, WHICH CLEARLY STATES THAT INFORMATION GATHERED IN SUCH A NECROVIEW TERMINATED BY ARTICLE FIVE SHOULD BE STRUCK FROM THE WRITTEN RECORD NOT TO BE SEEN BY NAKED EYE."

The Prosecution bench was in such an uproar, they were having trouble agreeing upon what they were actually objecting to. The crowd murmured and buzzed.

Judge-Magistarr Herman Hattlefilger padded down his sweating brow. It wasn't meant to go like this. This was meant to be a short, sweet, history-making session that would barely last ‘til morning tea and he could've been home pruning his rose bush hedge and drinking minted lemonade with just a dash of sloe gin. “THE PROSECUTION AND THE DEFENSE WILL APPROACH THE CHAIR."

"What's he doing, Rhys?” Bob asked me. He was shoveling buttered pork beans on a bun into his mouth. It never took his stomach too long to recover from a shock.

"I got no idea, kid. And I'm not sure he does either. I think Frank's rollin’ the dice.” Frank wasn't a gambler. He never touched a die in his life as far as I know, but in life, sometimes, someone has to give ‘em a roll. When people's lives are the stakes. When the only way to lose is to sit back and let the table run its course. Frank didn't like dice, especially loaded ones.

"These are real good.” Bob was talking about the beans.

Frank, Ghimp and the entire Prosecution Bench crowded around the Judge-Magistarr and heated words were exchanged. Fingers were pointed. Palms slapped with fists. A nose was picked (Ghimp's contribution). The crowd was getting restless, but the food sales were going through the roof.

Finally, they were sent back to their benches. Hattlefilger stood up. “DUE TO NEW EVIDENCE COMING TO THE COURT'S ATTENTION, I CALL A HALF GLASS RECESS TO CONSIDER THE DEFENSE POSITION.” He left his chair surrounded by bailiffs and Gruff was dragged away after him.

The crowd reacted poorly. Items were thrown. Mostly sausages, popcorn packets, cans of City Lager—nothing edged or pointed—so it could've been worse. Boos and catcalls abounded. Then the Elvish Prancer Dancers (Brought to you by Leech Card) came out in their bright silver and blue skirty costumes and the mood calmed. They weren't really elvish, of course. Female elves are rare in the City for a number of good reasons, which I won't go into now. Suffice it to say that the Prancer Dancers were leggy, chesty and ear-ry, which was enough for the punters in the cheap seats. They danced and flung each other around and generally showed a complete disregard for the normal sinew constraints of the human body. Some of them could kiss their own ass goodbye.

Bob's eyes fogged up. He almost forgot about eating. Almost.

"Calm down, kid,” I told him. “Now you're eating all the eye-candy."

The girls were just about spent by the time Hattlefilger made his return, looking all the more solemn and serene. He took his seat. The crowd went silent.

"OWING TO NEW EVIDENCE SUPPLIED BY MASTER FRANKLIN MYNOS, CHAIR OF THE ESPECIAL INVESTIGATORS GUILD, AND OWING TO THE GROSS INCOMPETANCE OF THE CITY WATCH'S FLAWED AND ERRONEOUS TESTIMONY, ALL CHARGES AGAINST POTTERN GRUFF ARE RESCINDERED. HOWEVER, THE COURT WILL NOW REQUEST THE TESTIMONY OF ONE ROBERT SAMUEL DISHDOWNER."

"Who the hell is Robert Sam...” then I noticed Bob's face. It was the colour faces go when they've just realised their future existence as a face might be in serious and immediate jeopardy. It's a scary sort of colour, even for a sentient inanimate object like myself. It's the colour of the absence of colour.

Bob pointed to his chest weakly and mouthed the word ‘me’ with a question mark attached to it.

"Ah."

Bob didn't put up a fight when the two thick-shouldered bailiffs came for him. They picked him up and his legs remained bent, like he was sitting in the air. He left me on Frank's empty seat but managed to keep hold of his buttered pork beans. They took him onto the Court floor and sat him next to Frank at the defense bench.

"OWING TO THE NEW EVIDENCE,” the Prosecution number one advocate announced, “THE CITY WISHES TO INDITE ROBERT SAMUEL DISHDOWNER FOR THE HIGHTOWN KILLINGS AS A CULPABLE AGENT TO AN UNDEAD, QUASI-SENTIENT MAGICAL AUTOMATION."

OK, Frankie, I thought. Let's see what you got.

"THE COURT ACKNOWLEDGES THE CITY'S INDITEMENT,” Hattlefilger murmered. “DO YOU HAVE ADVOCATE REPRESENTATION, MR DISHDOWNER?"

Frank stood up. “I WILL APPEAR ON BEHALF OF BOB ... AH ... MR DISHDOWNER, YOUR JUDGEMENTALIST..."

"HE'S NOT A REGISTERED ADVOCATE,” number one responded quickly.

"...AS A SPECIAL ASSISTANT TO MY ASSOCIATE, MR UUNDU GHIMP, WHO HAS RETAINED ME AS AN EXPERT CONSULTANT UNDER THE CITY ADVOCACY CODE OF CONDUCT CHAPTER FIVE, ARTICLE NINE, SUBSECTION..."

"NO NEED TO QUOTE IT, MASTER MYNOS.” The Judge-Magistarr lifted an eyebrow at Ghimp. Frank put an arm around the goblin's corn-cob thin shoulders and squeezed. Uundu nodded weakly.

"WHAT IS THE DEFENSE RESPONSE TO THE INDITEMENT, MR GHIMP?"

Ghimp looked at Frank. “Ummm..."

"THE DEFENSE,” Frank cut in, “WOULD LIKE THE COURT TO ACKNOWLEDGE THAT MR DISHDOWNER HAS APPEARED IN GOOD FAITH, WITHOUT CRIMINAL CONCEALMENT..."

"ACKNOWLDEGED."

"...AS NEW EVIDENCE HAS COME TO LIGHT..."

"OBJECTION!,” number one shouted. “THE ACCUSED WAS AMBUSHED BEFORE HE HAD THE OPPORTUNITY TO..."

"...AND THAT MR DISHDOWNER'S INTENTION WAS UNCRIMINAL AND CONTAINED NO MAGICRIMINAL INTENT, INSOFAR AS HIS INCANTING WAS MOTIVATED BY GENUINE AFFECTION AND AN EFFORT TO PROLONG A ROMANCE WITH NECROMANCY. HE ADMITS TO COMMITTING ACTS OF BODY LARCENY AND SEVERAL MISDEMEANOR LEVEL BREACHES OF THE CODE OF MAGIC PRACTICE, TO WIT: THE APPLICATION OF RESTRICTED NECROMANTIC RITUALS AND DEVICES WHILE UNLISCENCED. FOR THESE CRIMES, HE PLEADS GUILTY."

"...YEAH,” Ghimp added, finally loud enough for the sound system to pick him up. “WHAT THE BULL SAID."

The crowd, which had remained silent for some time, was becoming increasingly interested. Murmurs abounded and some cheers were cheered. I saw a fist pumped in row GGGGX. They could smell an underdog when they got the right prevailing wind, and at that moment, the underdog needed a scratch behind the ear.

The prosecution team conferred. Number one broke from the huddle. He had a hard set to his face now. The supreme confidence it once stank of was now replaced by sheer, pitbull fight. “WITHOUT DESCENDING TO THE SEMANTICS INVOLVED IN THE DEFENSE'S PERIPHERAL ARGUMENT, WHICH ARE MANY, AT THE HEART OF IT, IF THE DEFENSE WISHES TO APPLY THE RATHER PERVERSE LOGIC OF NON-SENTIENT RETROACTIVE SELF-DEFENSE IN THIS CASE, THEY MUST PRODUCE A CULPABLE PARTY TO THE ORIGINAL CRIME. IF THE REVENANT ACTED IN NON-SENTIENT RETROACTIVE SELF-DEFENSE DUE TO UNAVOIDABLE NECROMANTIC HOMICIDAL INSANITY, THEN THE DEFENSE MUST PRODUCE A KILLER AND, QUITE OBVIOUSLY, THE REVENANT ITSELF. IF THIS CANNOT BE DONE, THEN IT MATTERS NOT WHETHER MR DISHDOWNER'S ACTIONS CONTAINED ANY DEGREE OF MAGICRIMINAL INTENT. HE IS CULPABLE FOR THE..."

"I don't think the defense will have to,” Frank muttered, but only us in the expensive seats heard him. All through number one's rant, he'd been gazing up at the roof. I thought he was just thinking, but he'd noticed something. Something strange.

The first thing I knew about it was when I heard a scream. Several chunks of the Dome roof fell in and landed beside the Prosecution Bench. A little to the left, and number one would've been one very snappily dressed pulpy mess of pink bits. He screamed like a young girl and echoes of the Civic Dome debacle, the stories from the few survivors, surfaced in most people's minds at just the wrong moment and general panic became the order of the day with extra anchovies, hold the pickles. Five people got trampled to death in Gate Three alone.

But the roof didn't cave in. Instead, something fell from it and hit the floor with a nasty wet slap. It was Ashley Ash. She left a good few chunks of her rapidly rotting body where she landed.

"I think she's going to,” Frank finished.

She looked around and wheezed. Just a pathetic wheeze somewhere between an asthmatic dog and a constipated gnome—nothing like the ear-wrenching keening we were used to. But while her singing voice wasn't scary no more, she still had her looks, which could've scared the pants off a steel trousered Knight of the Squared Chair. All the punishment, the ghun blasts, the fight with Gertie, the fall out of Capi-toll Square, the tables and the buildings collapsing on it, had finally taken its toll, so much so that she must've worked out somehow she wasn't gonna last ‘til nightfall, so had crawled out in the sunlight that was like a slow acting acid to her undead skin. She'd crawled and climbed and wheezed her way to the target. To finish the job.

And now she crawled across the courtroom floor and sniffed the air.

The bailiffs and the watchstables drew swords and crossbows and approached, cautiously.

"STOP,” Frank announced, and for some reason, they did. “IF IT SO PLEASES THE COURT, THE ONLY PERSON WHO SHOULD RIGHTLY FEAR THIS CREATURE IS THE FINAL KILLER OF ASHLEY ASH, WHO IS, AFTER ALL, THE VERY PERSON THE PROSECUTION REQUESTED THE DEFENSE SHOULD PRODUCE. AS THIS IS PIVOTAL TO THE INDITEMENT BEFORE THE COURT, I URGE THE JUDGE-MAGISTARR TO ALLOW THIS REVENANT AS A ... AS ROVING EXHIBIT ‘A'.” He looked up at the Judge-Magistarr. He knew the old man didn't have to do it. He knew it was probably easier for him not to. But he threw the dice with a hopeful look pasted to his snout and his wide minotaur eyes full of plea. A plea for justice in a world of law.

"THE COURT SO WISHES..."

"OBJECTION!"

"OVERRULED. THE CREATURE SHALL BE KNOWN AS ROVING EXHIBIT ‘A'. OFFICERS OF THE COURT, LET THE CREATURE BE, BUT REMAIN CLOSE AT HAND."

Most of the people, who hadn't been crushed to death, had returned out of sheer curiosity. The panic was over and now, the show was reaching a further peak. A crawling undead beast sniffing out a crook! This was high tragedy and drama in the true saga mold, only it was real! Reality saga! A slow clap started up in time to the shambling steps of Ashley Ash, while the watchstabulary and bailiffs crowded around her, ready to strike.

I saw Frank whisper something in Bob's ear and the kid nodded gravely. He quietly stepped back off the Court floor, out of the Damper Zone, and began a cant. I could see tears in his eyes.

The Ash dame crawled around in short circles, slowly getting larger, then quicker and more purposeful. She was on to something. The slow clap turned into a fast clap, peppered with cheers and the occasional fist. I saw where she was headed. Straight toward a Guild Box. One of the serviced ones with bubbly veno and little smoked squids on a stick. Specifically, the Guild Box of the Office of the Body Politic Registry.

I could see them all, the same ones that had bugged out on us last night faster than a dodgy vindaloo as soon as the patootah hit the fan. And right in the middle of them was the Head Registrar, Logan Tightfish.

Naturally enough, they all seemed pretty keen to bug out again. Most of them saw Ashley in action not a few tocks ago and would probably have nightmares about it ‘til the day they died. Even Tightfish lost his much vaunted cool. He spat out his squid and shrunk back as fearful as the rest of ‘em, despite the two elves dressed in black that had appeared by his side with curved magical swords at the ready.

But one of them did a little more than shrink. One of them managed to clear the back of the box while pushing his fellow workers in the faces and elbowing them in the chins in his hurry. As soon as he cleared the back of the Guild Box, he scooted for Gate One in a fever, just on the business side of abject terror.

It was Percy Antoine Crisp.

"STOP THAT MAN!” Frank shouted. He ran off the Court floor and my sentience suddenly returned to the bull in a nauseous rush. “Rhys!” he called out to me and put a hand in the air. I shot myself off the chair and joined him. Bob was following, the cant in his hands glowing yellow.

The two Watchstables at Gate One each got a hold of one of Crisp's arms. “I'll have you all scratched from the Registry for this!” Crisp was shouting at them. “I'm a Body Politic manager for JovJov's sake."

Ah, JovJov, the Hurghian god of Essential Oils and Mhyr. One of my personal favorites.

The watchstables dragged Crisp, kicking, screaming and spitting like a demonne, down the aisle toward the Court floor, but Ashley Ash was coming the other way as fast as her ruined unbody could manage. They were going to have to get past her before they got to the dais.

"KILL THAT CREATURE BEFORE IT REACHES HIM,” the Judge-Magistarr announced. “I WON'T HAVE UNLAWFUL BUTCHERY DONE IN MY COURT."

Of course not. All the butchery had to be lawful, if not awful.

"Now, Bob!” Frank said as they ran up the aisle behind the revenant, past the rows of fascinated court fans. “For the love of whatever gods you have, do it now!"

Bob, still thick with tears, let his spell go with a hopeful jolt. The yellow coloured canting washed away from his hands into a dark orange, smoky looking spell. It wrapped itself around his ungirlfriend and suddenly, she was rooted to the spot. She wheezed that pathetic wheeze but she couldn't budge a talon.

"Not bad, kid,” I muttered. “A tight and tidy Hold, with very little Manah splash on release."

The watchstables holding Crisp had stopped five steps away from the wheezing revenant. Frank passed Ashley and grabbed Crisp by the collar with such authority, they let him go. He squirmed and shouted and threatened, but Frank ignored it all. He took four and a half steps and put Crisp's face right up into the face of the revenant. It spitted and wheezed and strained for all it was worth, which was barely a half twit piece.

"Splice us into the sound system, Rhys,” Frank whispered.

So I did.

"IT WAS YOU, WASN'T IT? IT WAS YOU, MR PERCY ANTOINE CRISP..."

"I DIDN'T KILL NOBODY!” All his self-righteous decorum had been blown out the window like yesterday's pizza smell. Crisp was blubbering white with terror.

’ ... NO, YOU DIDN'T ACTUALLY KILL ASHLEY ASH, BUT YOU WANTED HER DEAD, DIDN'T YOU, MR CRISP? SHE WAS RISING TOO HIGH, TOO FAST, AND TOO FAR AHEAD OF YOU, SO WHEN SHE TOLD YOU SHE WAS GOING TO REJECT THE KNAVES BOATING FACTION GOLD CREST APPLICATION, YOU DECIDED TO LET THEM KNOW IN ADVANCE, DIDN'T YOU, MR CRISP? AND YOU KNEW WHAT THEY'D DO.

Crisp nodded weakly. Bob strained with his cant. The symbols in the air were fading. He kept redrawing them, but he was losin’ it. I was surprised he even had it.

"ONLY YOU DIDN'T FIGURE ON HER BECOMING A REVENANT AND EVEN THEN, YOU DIDN'T FIGURE ON HER COMING AFTER YOU. BUT THEY MUST'VE TOLD ASHLEY WHO INFORMED ON HER BEFORE THEY KILLED HER. IT WAS ENOUGH FOR HER UNDEAD MIND TO MAKE YOU A FIFTH MURDERER. THEN, TO TRY AND HIDE THE LINK BETWEEN YOUR OFFICE AND THE DEATH, YOU LOST YOUR COPIES OF THE KBF FILES, BUT SHE HAD ALREADY LODGED THE ORIGINALS WITH THE HIGHTOWN OFFICE."

"BUT THAT DOESN'T PROVE..."

Frank thrust Crisp's face right into the revenant's. She bit the tip of his nose and blood flowed down his face.

"YES, YES. IT WAS ME! IT WAS ME! NOW TAKE IT AWAY! TAKE IT AWAY, FOR THE LOVE OF JOVJOV!"

There was a happy but nervous round of applause around the Dome. Frank motioned to the court officials and they carried Crisp past the salivating undame and away down the aisle just as Bob lost his cant. Released from the pressure of the Hold, Ash lunged at the now empty space Crisp had occupied, fell forward and collapsed. With the tip of Crisp's nose still bloody and fresh in her mouth, Ashley Ash redied.

The crowd ‘ahhh-ed'.

"Ashley!” Bob ran over to the worn out putrid remains of his love. She wasn't budging an unmuscle.

Frank didn't follow the bailiffs and the watchstables back to the court floor. He put a hand on Bob's shoulder and kept his back turned. “THE DEFENSE MOVES TO HAVE THE PLEA OF NON-SENTIENT RETROACTIVE SELF-DEFENSE ON THE BEHALF OF ASHLEY ASH RECOGNISED AND RATIFIED AND ALL CHARGES AGAINST MR GRUFF AND MR DISHDOWNER DECLARED NULL AND VOID."

The crowd erupted. They were on their feet and cheering like all the gods had come down to yak it up and put on a light show. The Hightown punk was gonna get it in the neck!

You did it, Frankie! 

Frank still hadn't turned around to face the court. “No, Rhys,” he whispered, and I could hardly hear him over the noise of the crowd. “Now we need some Lady Luck."

The Quiddity Trinity of Lady Luck, Father Fate and Kid Kinky is one of the most prayed to, beseeched, teeth-gnashed-at and outright cursed clusters of gods in the City. The trinity business is a rough set, and seems to attract more than its fair share of off-the-wall-and-across-the-ceiling maniacs. Frank was no religious nutter, but if he ever prayed, it was probably to the Lady. He never relied on luck to win him the wagon, but, as he said to me once, “a little luck never hurt anyone."

"IF THE PROSECUTION HAS NO FURTHER CLAIM,” Hattlefilger announced once the cheering had subsided. “THE COURT WILL..."

'OBJECTION,” shouted prosecution number one.

The crowd ‘Ooo-ed'.

Frank turned around. Crisp was standing with the Prosecution team and now that the Ash dame was redead, he had regained his swagger quicker than a wizard after a witch's wand. His face radiated equal measures of sudden confidence and blind relief that was blindingly bright, even from where we were up near the cheap seats.

Father Fate had just stepped into the building, and he wasn't very happy.

"THE CITY MOVES FOR FINAL FLOOR."

If I thought the previous crowd reaction was an eruption, then what happened next was the end of the universe. The Big Splat. The sound of the gates opening for the Three Horsemen and one Angry Pedestrian of the Apocalypse. The chorus of the Kazoos of Ended Eternity.

They can't do that, Frank! Can they? 

"UNDER ARTICLE EIGHT OF THE CRIME CODE,” number one continued. “WHICH STATES THAT IN THE EVENT OF A REDIRECTION OF INDITEMENT IN DUE COURSE OF TRIAL, THE PROSECUTION MAY MOVE FOR FINAL FLOOR IN THE CASE OF THE SEPARATE AGGREVIED PARTY, MR CRISP DEMANDS TO BE RECOGNISED AS THE SIGNIFICANT RESPONDANT."

The mob wasn't even listening. The magisound system was almost drowned out. All they knew was that they were going to see Final Floor at the end of the most remarkable piece of courtroom drama for an eon. It would be talked about for years and years to come around bars and church halls and dungeon blocks, and they were in it. Right now.

"MR DISHDOWNER,” the prosecution was continuing against the tide of noise, “MUST DEFEND HIS POSITION ON THE FLOOR AGAINST THE COURT BARISTARR OR MR GHIMP, AS ADVOCATE, MAY APPOINT HIMSELF OR ANOTHER AS BARISTARR FOR HIS CLIENT."

The Judge-Magistarr shrugged and turned to the defense bench. If Ghimp had shook his head any harder, his neck would've snapped clean through.

Nazgar Uup stood up and stretched his shoulders and neck. He hefted his spiky ball in one hand and smiled a very nasty, toothy smile. Two watchstables grabbed hold of Bob and ‘assisted’ him in returning to the Court floor.

"I was hoping it wouldn't come to this,” Frank said. He followed them down the aisle and walked back to our seat.

What's going on, Frank? Doesn't Crisp have to fight Uup? 

"No, Rhys. The Prosecution has disallowed that under Article Eight of the City Crime Code, which states that in the event of multiple inditements for a given crime, the higher Guildsman gains Significant Respondent status, and draws the protection of the court. Between Crisp and Bob, a Master Guildsman and an apprentice, there's no contest in the Guild status stakes."

Frankie. 

Frank had a strange set to his snout and I didn't like the feel of it. He was gonna do something stupid...

Don't even think about it. You did your best. You pulled out all the legal angles. You ran a great race, but you can't win ‘em all, huh? Let's just take a runner up on this one. Lady Luck didn't smile. This ain't your race no more. Uup is a killer. He could probably break Gertie's back. Let's just walk away. Slowly, one foot in front of the other, you know how it's done. 

But I knew it was useless. I may as well have told the City to grind to a stop and start pickin’ posies.

"I'm on the defense team, Rhys.” Frank stood at his seat but he didn't sit down.

Frankie, you fharkin’ dumb ass bull, just let it go! Let it go! 

"Sorry, Rhys, nothing doing. This is the moment of truth."

You said that truth is for poets, Frank. Remember? You're not a poet. 

I'll never forget the look he gave me just then, right at that moment.

a quirky little twist of the snout and a flick of his floppy left ear. It was all Frank. He took off his fedora and his glasses and placed them carefully on the seat, then he pulled me from his belt, and sat me in the groove of his hat.

And then he said it: “The truth is, Rhys, when it comes down to it, we're all poets."

He didn't give me the chance to wisecrack back. He walked away and out onto the Court floor, so I lost him. I watched him walk quietly up to the defense bench and say, “I WILL BARISTARR FOR MR DISHDOWNER,” as if he was ordering a bag of potatoes.

"HE'S NOT REGISTERED FOR THAT,” Crisp screeched.

"MR MYNOS HAS ALREADY BEEN NAMED ON THE DEFENSE TEAM AND SO HAS THE OPTION TO BARISTARR.” The Judge-Magistarr was either coming around or he just wanted to see Frank hit in the face with a spiky ball.

It was set. An unknown stubby minotaur named Frank, who'd jawed the best Hightown advocates to a standstill, was gonna Final Floor with one of the nastiest killers the City death pits had seen in living memory.

It was too much.

The crowd went completely orkan.




Chapter Twenty-six: Final Floor

Final Floor was where the closing remarks of a trial could be made and they were made with sharp bits in ‘em. I think originally, the idea was the gods were meant to aid the just cause and give victory to the ‘right’ punk. Now, I've seen a lot of the Realms in my many centuries and the one thing I know for sure is that the gods, if they do exist, have about as much interest in justice as I do in playing ‘Ahoy there, Captain Whinke' on a penny whistle at the bottom of the Bay. I don't mind swearing by whatever god you got, but, if anything, the gods seem far too interested in how much butt-ugly pain and suffering they can cause everyone to worry about some poor punk who's been done wrong by some Guild. ‘It's all part of the plan’ the priests say. Great plan, guys. Really. I mean, you'd think if they managed to create the universe, they might've come up with something a little less ... pointy?

The big blank oval in front of the Judge-Magistarr's chair was the Final Floor. Frank was led to one side by two watchstables while Uup made his way to the other—casually swinging his arms around. This was just another easy day at the office for a City Baristarr. I don't think he was even planning on breaking a sweat.

The watchstables offered Frank a weapon from the Court rack and I saw him shake his head. The two of ‘em smiled. I s'pose they figured it would be over quicker and they could get back to whichever Watchhouse they'd been dragged out of and do what they do best—sit on their useless asses.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” The Court announcer announced. “WELCOME TO FINAL FLOOR IN THE CASE OF THE CITY VERSUS POTTERN GR ... I MEAN, ROBERT SAMUEL DISHDOWNER. TODAY, THE CITY WILL BE REPRESENTED BY A BARISTARR, WHO REMAINS UNDEFEATED IN MORTAL COMBAT. YOU'VE SEEN HIM AT THE PITS, YOU'VE SEEN HIM ON THE FLOOR, YOU'VE SEEN HIM ... AT ... WELL, WHEREVER YOU'VE SEEN HIM, HE'S PROBABLY BEEN COVERED IN BLOOD AND GRUUUSOMELY KILLING SOMEONE! SO, GIVE IT UP FOR THE ONE, THE ONLY, NAZGAR ‘THE STALKIN’ ORKAN’ UUP!"

Uup stepped onto the oval court floor and lifted his spiky ball on a stick to acknowledge the crowd. A halfling kid behind me, about as big as a large vegetable and dressed in a ‘Stalkin’ Orkan’ T-shirt, stood up on his seat and shouted, “Stick it Uup him, Nazgar!"

They grow up so quickly, don't they?

"REPRESENTING THE DEFENDANT, THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY, A BULL WITH THE GIFT OF GAB, BUT DOES HE HAVE THE GIFT OF STAB?” Polite laughter tittered around the Dome. “WELL, WE'RE ABOUT TO SEE. A CHAIRING GUILDSMAN, WHO'S CHOOSING TO FIGHT UNARMED, YES, YOU HEARD ME RIGHT, UNARMED, GIVE IT UP FOR FRRRANKLIN MYNOS!"

The Dome went past nuts and right into tropical fruit. Dust and chips of cement came down from the roof. It was a wall of noise and it was coming down on your eardrums.

"mmmMMMM LET'S GET READY TO RRRUMBLE!"

The coloured magilights flashed. The music pumped. Hattlefilger put his black cap on and brought out the ceremonial hammer. When he struck it down, Final Floor would begin, and I was certain, certain beyond the last shred of sanity, Frank didn't stand a chance against that monster. And everyone else in the place knew it too, but they loved it! That this bull would step into the unstoppable Death Bolt when he didn't even have to! It was a rare moment of something someone once called humanity, and it was being displayed by a stubby little minotaur with twisted little horns. Hah! Humanity! I could've given you a mouthful on that topic right about then.

But I wouldn't have had the chance. Somethin’ happened. Hattlefilger didn't drop the hammer. A bailiff came running over to him and handed up a note. He picked up his glasses and read it carefully. Then he took his glasses off and looked up at the roof. Then he sighed.

The crowd made restless noises.

The Judge-Magistarr directed four bailiffs to take the message to Crisp, who was sitting smugly beside the prosecutors, smokin’ a Corona. I watched his face as he read it.

all the colour drained out in a great gushing rush, like a ruptured bladder.

The Judge-Magistarr began to speak. “THE COURT HAS JUST RECEIVED AN URGENT MISSIVE FROM THE HEAD REGISTRAR OF THE OFFICE OF THE BODY POLITIC REGISTRY. IT WAS ADDRESSED TO THE COURT AND MR CRISP AND IT STATES, QUITE SUCCINCTLY, THAT ‘MR CRISP'S MEMBERSHIPS IN ALL BODIES POLITIC ARE HEREBY SUSPENDED'. THUS, THE NOW UNGUILDED MR CRISP IS NO LONGER THE SIGNIFICANT RESPONDANT, DUE TO MR DISHDOWNER'S CURRENT STATUS AS APPRENTICE TO THE GUILD OF NECROMANCERS. THEREFORE, UNDER ARTICLE EIGHT OF THE CRIME CODE, MR PERCY ANTOINE CRISP, YOU SHALL STAND FINAL FLOOR."

Another roar went up with the latest twist in the drama. Crisp made a run for it, but the bailiffs were ready for him. You should've seen how quick those prosecutors were to distance themselves from the newly unGuilded slush. You would've thought he had the Pinstripe Plague.

While the watchstables were putting a broadsword in Crisp's hands he could hardly lift, Frank and Bob were quietly ushered away from the defense bench and allowed to resume their seats.

So Tightfish dumped Crisp and suddenly, you're out of the hot seat. Is that the way you figured it would happen? 

Frank shrugged. “I had a notion."

But what if it didn't? 

Frank never answered. He didn't need to. He picked up his hat, his glasses, and me and headed up the aisle.

Aren't we gonna stay for the finale? I wanna see what colour that fharker Crisp turns when that spiky ball... 

"No, Rhys. We're not staying.” Frank climbed the aisle with his back turned to the action. People were laughing and pointing, probably at Crisp trying his best to hold a sword before he got the mash. Frank ignored them all, and they ignored him. Further up the aisle, we found Bob collectin’ the pieces of Ashley Ash in an empty Ogre Chief size tub of popcorn. There wasn't much left of her. The necromantic entropy had stripped her mortal remains to their barest materials. Frank helped him pick up the last few chunks of rotten bone and hair.

The kid was crying a river. “She ... wasn't really like ... that you know. She was such a...” but he couldn't keep going. Frank patted him on the shoulder. There was nothing much to say. She was gone.

Frank got me to call up for a hire car. I went for a stretch hearse with all the trimmings and Frank didn't seem to mind. I drove it slowly up Eastside Avenue and over the Ordy, into the Strip and up into Hightown, where we returned the remains of Ashley Ash, with her thief in attendance, back to the Embalmers’ Guildhall. The case was closed.

And it all seemed worth it when I thought about the guilders.




Chapter Twenty-seven: Wrap Up

In the morning, I helped Frank draw up an account for the Embalmers and the Ursors, including all the bonuses. I even managed to talk him into claiming two hundred sixty guilders worth of new office furniture, which, as I argued, was required due to a directly case-related incident, after all. (We got a five percent discount from Fantastik Office Supplies on Downright's recommendation). Bob was holed up in the office attic, though he was still eating so Frank didn't think he'd do anything stupid. He let the kid mourn in private.

Then we went to visit a friend.

The Saint Huthbertte of the Divine Hemorrhage—Infirmary and Medical Crisis Point (We Care#) was a sweet joint as far as hospitals went. Clean linen. Decent physicians—not a magileech in sight. Very few screams cut the air. A nurse the size of a siege engine with a face like a bronze knuckle duster took us down through numerous spotless corridors to a spacious room that contained none other than Gertie the Grip. The cow was lying in a hospital bed (minus mattress, of course) covered in magibandages and readin’ the Kronikle.

"Hey, Mynos,” she said, real casual-like. “Says here you saved us all from a ... what the fhark does it say ... ah, that's it, a ‘grievous miscarriage of justice that went undetected by all three of the City's official crime investigative agencies'. Ain't they gonna be pleased? You're gonna be a popular little bull around the block. You might even need some professional protection.” Gertie smiled. Before Frank could answer, she continued, “Also says Takklehurm is considerin’ nominatin’ you for a City Grand Duck Award."

"Yes, I know ... um...” If you could've seen under Frank's fur, the blush would've blinded you. “That's all very unnecessary, of course..."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just doin’ your job, huh? They for me?” Gertie pointed at the bunch of yellow flowers in Frank's fist.

"Yes, I ... um...” he handed ‘em over.

"Thanks, Frank.” Gertie gazed at the flowers lovingly. “I love carnations.” She opened her mouth and swallowed half the bunch in one bite. She gnashed her teeth around thoughtfully. “Petals are on the dry side, but the cud will sort ‘em out. And the fodder they dish you out here is fharkin’ worse. Thanks.” She took another bite.

Nudge nudge, Frankie! Wink wink! You got her on the ropes now, pal! 

"Shut up, Rhys."

Gertie looked up sharply. Her eyes narrowed. Her snout snorted. “Did you just say I've got fleas?"

We got out of Saint Hemm-ies quick smart (Frank did a great job of dodging that hospital bed) and, by the time we made it back to the office, it was time to leave for Mz Ashley Ash's long postponed funeral. Bob came down from the attic red-eyed, but dressed smartly in his runner-boy clobber. Frank selected his darkest brown suit and we hit the street for a wyvern.

The service was performed at The Church of Perpetual Indulgence, the big one in Hightown with the spire and the three golden horns. It was dedicated to the Quiddity Trinity, but it also doubled as short term pay-by-the-glass storage space. Tightfish was a regular, apparently. It was a moving service, if that's the sort of trip that moves you. Lots of people spoke about Ash's ‘tireless work ethic’ and her ‘professional dedication'. We all ‘had a lot to learn from her example', according to Tightfish anyway.

Bob wasn't invited to say anything, and I don't know if he could've if he had been. After it was done, he was allowed to approach the gold edged casket and have a few moments alone.

"Glad to see you once more, Mr Mynos.” Tightfish extended his hand and Frank shook it.

"Likewise, Mr Tightfish, and I'm here in one piece thanks to you."

Tightfish attempted a smile. It almost worked. “It was nothing personal, of course. It was simply the most public way of handling a corrupt Body official. We cannot have that sort of thing happening, Mr Mynos. I hope it sent a very firm message to all potential miscreants."

Frank nodded.

They say that a friend is just an enemy you don't know enough about, but the reality is, in the City, no one is your friend and no one is your enemy. It doesn't matter if they're killing you or even saving your patoota, it's nothing personal. It's just business.

"She never liked him you know.” Tightfish gestured toward Bob kneelin’ beside the casket. “She kissed the boy on the cheek as a joke when she was doing a routine check down at the Embalmers’ Guildhall. Someone had dared her to kiss a stiff, but she said ‘the kid was even uglier'. That's all. Then he started following her around, standing outside her apartment in the rain, for Lady Luck's sake. I tried to scare him off, but it wasn't any use."

"Was she blackmailing you, Mr Tightfish?"

Tightfish didn't try to smile again. He frowned, which was the standard set of his gib. “She may have used certain ... leverages, but that's just part of common business practice, Mr Mynos. I held no grudge. We came to an ... understanding of sorts. Let me leave it at that.” He looked down at his shoes as a range of unbusiness-like emotions ran around in the heart of Logan Tightfish. “And I miss her,” he whispered.

The four bearers had picked up the casket and were walking it down the center of the congregation. Frank saw him before I did. I felt his eyes focus on the face, and I focused with them. One of the bearers was Crisp!

"I thought it only fitting,” Tightfish said in Frank's ear. “And the undead temp people gave us good swine for the body."

What was it that Chant had said? "You don't have to pay ‘em wages and they're damned hard workers." Well he was right. They were damned, and perhaps in Crisp's case, it was deserved. I must admit, he made a fine zombie. There was stitching down the side of his face, but otherwise, he looked pretty fresh. Uup must've gone easy on him.

The rest of the afternoon was spent chasing up the accounts, finally getting the magifone connected and setting up all the new office furniture. We got the door fixed and even had a pane of glass put in the window.

The next morning, it was like nothing had happened. The City was the same old City. Soulless, pitiless and quietly calculating, but the suns were up and the day looked fresh, like a well-rolled loaf. There was no sign of Bob. He'd headed quietly back to the Necromancers after the funeral. Frank sat back in his new orkhide chair behind the new mahogany desk and took his first mouthful of coffee for the day.

There were two items on the desk. One was a nasty looking letter from Hurtz magicar rentals, which was probably gonna mention something about the halfling hangin’ out the roof of a certain Mage Kraft XL and the non-payment of insurance. Fortunately, Frank went for the morning Kronikle instead.

HIGHTOWN HACKER REDEAD!

The remains of Mz Ashley Ash, the prominent City clerk who had stalked the streets of Hightown as a murderous revenant, have finally been put to rest in a private service at the Church of Perpetual Indulgence. The threat to the City is officially over.

After the high drama at the Justice Dome yesterday morning, where Percy Antoine Crisp, a Body Politic manager, was found fatally guilty during Final Floor proceedings, the further ramifications of this bizarre story continued unabated.

An Office of the Body Politic Registry Board of Inquiry found Mr Crisp posthumously guilty of Information Insecurity, and sentenced him to perpetual damnation and hard labored unlife. His information leaks to the Knaves’ Boating Faction, which led to the murder of Ashley Ash, the Hightown Hacker, were considered “the most serious breech of Registry trust and protocol in living memory,” according to Master Logan Tightfish, the Head Registrar.

The sentence was in stark contrast to the lenient three year good behavior bond given to him for his culpable murder convictions. Lord-Liege Mayor Takklehurm was unavailable for comment.

Master Denton Riolli of the Knaves’ Boating Faction praised the harsh sentencing of the undead Mr Crisp.

"The new Faction Board condemns all the nefarious and underhanded activities carried out by the previous Board. We are now an open book for the Watch or the Registry, and will continue trading proudly into the new year with renewed vigor and integrity,” Master Riolli said this morning.

Last night, Master Riolli and the rest of the newly inducted Knaves’ Boating Faction Board were celebrating the Registry decision to award the Faction its much sought after Golden Crest status, despite recent events.

"The Registry is satisfied with the reforms put so swiftly in place by the new K.B.F. board of directors. They have fulfilled all Gold Crest requirements,” Mr Tightfish said.

An Inquiry into the state of the City's investigative services has been put into motion by the Lord-liege Mayor's office, which will include an external review and potential restructuring of core principles. Several key members of the City Watch and Guilstapo have already been severely disciplined over Judge-Magistarr (now retired) Hattlefilger's finding of ‘gross incompetence’ in their handling of the Hightown Hacker investigation.

So they got their Crest after all! The sly fharkin’ sharks! I don't believe it! 

"It's nothing personal, Rhys.” Frank smiled. “It's just business."

Just business. Yeah I know. 

We heard the squeaks on the stairs long before the knock on the door. Tap tap tap, as tentative as a well-fed rodent.

"Come in, Bob,” Frank said.

Bob opened the door and took a step in.

Well, I was pretty darn close with that ‘well-fed rodent’ simile.

What was it? The weight of his steps? His smell? The bio-magnetic flux of an apprentice in the space-time continuum? What? 

"Just a lucky guess, Rhys.” Frank winked. “How you doing, Bob?"

"Swell.” The kid flopped into in one of the new seats facing Frank's desk. One of two seats. With stuffing in them. “The place is lookin’ great, Frank. You must be rolling in swine with those bonuses. I never did have time to ... you know, thank you. For what you did in the Court. I thought I was..."

"Don't sweat it, kid.” Frank smiled and put his feet up on the table. “Here, have a peanut.” He pushed the bowl over with his foot. “It's the most perfect food in all the Realms."

Bob shelled a peanut and looked around again. It was only then I noticed he had a bag in his hand. Not a big bag, but not a small one either.

certainly a bag big enough to carry all the worldly belongings of a first year apprentice. “It's sure looking swell."

"Have you figured out what you want to do, Bob?” Frank drank down a snout full of coffee.

"Yeah ... The Necromancers said they'll have me back. They said I showed the poise of a Fourth Rank Necromancer at the ‘J', and they'd even let the ... stuff I did slide on account of my ... um, state of mind."

"That's real big of them.” Frank didn't bother telling him Tightfish had a word with ‘em. A rather insistent word. “Looks like your life is back on track then, huh?"

"Well, no.” He shelled another peanut nervously. “The thing is, like I said before, I don't think I'm really cut out for necromancing."

"What do you think you are cut out for, Bob?” I asked. It gave him the opening he needed. The opening he was searchin’ so desperately for. Sometimes, I could just stab myself.

"Well, I've enjoyed this time with you guys. I mean, it's been pretty weird, but I like this whole investigatin’ deal..."

Uh oh. Frank! I think I know where he's headin'. We don't need this bumblin’ kid runnin’ around our feet ... well, your feet ... and messin’ things up...

"...so I thought maybe I could..."

...turnin’ the clients off and generally smokin’ our whole deal. He's a blunderin', deadheaded, magical retard that only makes life harder... 

"...apply to be the Guild of Especial Investigators..."

...and ... and ... and fharks things up! 

"...first apprentice?"

Frank looked down at me, then he looked at those puppy-sad teenage baby blues surrounded by their sea of strugglin’ pimples. He shook his head and drained the rest of his coffee. Then he shook his head again and snorted. “Between the two of you, I don't know how I even manage to get my hat on straight, and that's regular.” He smiled at Bob.

Frank! I hate apprentices! 

The End