H - 72: We're in This Together (Patreon)

It was more than an hour before midnight, so the cafeteria of the Verdi Herons was relatively quiet; the public houses were still open, so the various night owls who later in the early morning could find nowhere but adventurer guilds to congregate had not yet appeared. At this hour, only members of the Herons were about, and of those, only the handful who preferred being awake at times like this, and those whose recent or upcoming missions had made a mess of their usual schedules.

The Lone Wolves of Destiny were not night owls.

“I propose a new party rule,” Lilith said, her voice muffled by her hat and too tired even to be performatively hoarse. She was slumped back in her chair, arms hanging listlessly at her sides and hat pulled down to cover her face. “No more bears.”

Greg flicked his fingers, making a two-tone chime of approbation sound from his musical suit. “Seconded.”

“You’re sure it was a bear?” Riocco asked, not for the first time. “That thing was…”

“Do they really not have bears where you’re from?” Greg asked, tired enough that the soft clatter caused by raising his head was discordant.

“Of course we do, and they’re very dangerous. They’re also half the size.”

“This is dragon country,” Lilith mumbled into her hat. “Everything’s bigger. If we weren’t so used to dragons, the bears alone would keep us up at night in fear.”

“Wait’ll you meet your first Highland lynx,” Greg added with a weak grin.

“Let’s hope they never meet a lynx,” Lilith groaned. “The whole problem with those is you never see them coming!”

Riocco picked up their teacup, considered its empty status and how far they’d have to reach for the now-lukewarm pot, and set it back down. “All right, well, that’s two votes anyway. No more bears.”

Lilith remained slumped in her position, but the other two looked up at the approach of four padding feet. A huge capybara, close to twice the species’ normal size and heavily gray around the muzzle, stepped up to their table. A cat and two crows were riding on the creature’s back.

“Oh, hello, Bronzmun,” Greg said, waving one hand and producing an ascending arpeggio of chimes in greeting. “You’re up late. Want some…oh, crud. Sorry, we didn’t get anything vegetarian, did we?”

“We had potatoes,” said Riocco, “but Lilith ate them.”

“You were both scarfing down the potatoes!” Lilith snapped from beneath her hat.

“You finished them off!” Riocco retorted.

The capybara stepped up to the table and rested its chin atop Riocco’s hand. They relaxed noticeably, reaching across with their other to pat its ears.

“Bwonzmun, c’mon,” protested Kiff, pausing as he passed by with a tray of dishes, both his ears going flat. “You can’t keep bwinging aww youw fwiends in hewe! You know how the cook is about animaws and sanitation! She’ww beat me and wock me in the pantwy again if she sees!”

“OI!” shouted the night cook, leaning out from the kitchen door. “I heard that! Gods damn your fuzzy ears, Kiff, nobody in this place has ever laid a finger on your lying little hide! You keep slandering your bosses and you’ll be out of a job before you can wiggle your tail! Seriously, though, Bronzmun,” she added in a much more restrained tone, “you know the rules. Familiars and combat pets are okay, if trained. We can’t have every street animal you befriend in the cafeteria.”

The capybara lifted its head from Riocco’s hand and turned it, making a soft whuffing noise and gently nuzzling the birds perched upon its back. Both crows immediately stood up and took wing, fluttering to the door—which was helpfully held open by a passing witch with the amused expression of someone who had done this many times before.

It took a second nudge to get the marmalade cat to get up, which it did slowly, stretching and yawning.

“Oh, Bronzmun, you found ‘em! Thanks. Hey, guys, how’re you holding up?”

The man who approached them was in his middle years, with hair showing silver at the temples and predominating his short beard, but still fit and seemingly energetic despite the hour. His leather armor was in a similar style to Riocco’s albeit with the addition of a chain mail under tunic beneath the padded breastplate—less ornate than theirs, but of higher quality. Also in a more intact condition.

“Hey, Roscoe,” Greg said, raising a hand and causing another salutary jingle. “We’ve just finished refueling and will probably be heading to our rooms as soon as any of us finds the energy to stand up.”

“Can’t blame you,” Roscoe said, running a hand along the cat’s fur as he stepped up beside Bronzmun. The tomcat trilled softly and finally jumped down from the capybara’s back, making its unhurried way toward the door. “I just got a look at that bear you bagged. You sure you’re all okay?”

Riocco grimaced, glancing down at their armor, which was badly torn in several places and splattered with dried blood. “Well, we’ve used up our potion budget for the…month. Fortunately we have no greater complaints than that.”

“It was not our destiny to fall this night,” Lilith intoned into her hat.

“It looked like it was a slash across the throat that finished it off,” said Roscoe. “Did you do that, Riocco?”

“Hah, that’s not the half of it,” Greg said, pumping a small bellows under his arm and pressing keys on his opposite forearm to produce a fanfare which brought him irritated looks from every corner of the room. “They landed that blow backhanded!”

“Not for nothing are they the last living master of their sword art,” Lilith added, managing some of her customary rasp.

Riocco cleared their throat uncomfortably. “Wait, you saw the bear? When? We only got back an hour ago, I figured the Guild wouldn’t be able to retrieve it until tomorrow.”

“Yeah, luckily Pfasz was still up when you reported in. The clerk sent him to do a quick retrieval.”

Greg frowned, blinking. “Pfasz? I thought he was a…” He made an expansive gesture with both hands and tapped his foot to bang a drum on his back. “…explode-o-mancer?”

“On missions Pfasz is indeed a ‘general destruction specialist,’ which is the term he prefers,” Roscoe explained with a grin. “The way I understand it, he’s not versatile enough to be considered a proper portal mage, but he can jump to places he’s been within a certain range. That means he does a lot of post-mission retrieval, since he can hop to almost everywhere here in the city or Boisverd’s central valley. That’s the dream, kids—proper missions for the excitement and opportunity we all got into this life for, but a stable little niche gig that puts reliable bread on your table.”

“Those of us called by destiny concern ourselves little with bread,” Lilith said, finally straightening up and adjusting her hat.

Roscoe summoned the full weight of his self-assigned duty to mentor the Guild’s younger members and refrained from making a facial expression. “Anyway, I’m seriously impressed, and glad to see you guys in three pieces. Taking out a Vale forest bear with short swords is just nuts. That kind of job would normally need an archer, a halberdier, and a mage.”

Lilith tilted her head back enough to squint at him from under her drooping hat brim.

“A nature-focused mage, as a rule,” Roscoe smoothly hastened to continue. “You guys are pretty clearly specialized for humanoid targets; bears that size would normally be an R&D job.”

Riocco blinked twice. “Research and development?”

“Rangers and druids,” Greg corrected.

“I had words with the clerks,” Roscoe continued with a grim frown. “Forest bears are a generally reasonable task at about your level, but you should not have been sent on a mission that clearly out of spec. It’s not like they don’t know your composition and loadout, that’s their job. I made the point firmly enough you’re getting an exigent circumstances allowance, on top of the full materials bounty from the bear corpse, and the Guild’s covering Pfasz’s teleport fee. Not a cash allowance, you understand—that’d mean getting a mission clerk to admit they screwed up, and as an adventurer you’ve gotta know when a task is out of your league. But you’ll be able to restock your healing potions and get your armor fixed up. Just talk to the clerk tomorrow during business hours.”

“You did that for us?” Greg asked, for once too struck to make a musical accompaniment.

“I—thank you, Roscoe,” Riocco blurted. “You really didn’t have to go to any trouble.”

“No more or less than what’s fair,” he demurred. “Listen, I was looking for you guys for an unrelated reason when this bear situation came up. Glad I found you before you left the Guildhall again. There’s a…”

Roscoe glanced around, then grimaced.

“And she’s gone again. I dunno what I expected. Well, it isn’t complicated, I can catch you up on—”

“Stepping on my skirts again, Roscoe? For shame.”

The woman who interrupted him in a purring tone stepped out from directly behind him, where she had clearly not been a moment before. Nobody jumped at the sudden arrival; Roscoe was too used to her, the Wolves were too tired, and Bronzmun was serenity incarnate.

“Morvaine?” Riocco said, somewhat warily. “You were looking for us?”

“Not as such,” the tall redhead said, sauntering forward and leaning one hip against their table, which caused three pairs of eyes to shift momentarily. Her armor was also leather, but far tighter than was practical for combat, and open from neck to navel. The nature of the internal contrivance which kept it from falling off her entirely was a subject of perennial gossip around the Guild. “I did happen across a tidbit of intelligence that’s relevant to you three rascals. It was Roscoe who insisted you should know about it as soon as possible, as opposed to whensoever our paths happened to cross again.”

“Nobody is your match in cunning, Morvaine,” Roscoe said solemnly. “I content myself with common sense.”

She smirked at him and winked, the expression both flirtatious and sensual, and he smiled blandly back. That was how she acted with everyone. Including Bronzmun, along whose back she now traced her manicured fingertips. He closed his eyes, placidly enjoying the scratch.

“Since the subject is now raised,” Morvaine drawled, “in the course of my usual rounds I’ve been hearing whispers of interest regarding you three goslings. It seems you’ve gone and snagged yourself a plum contract with the Silver Hound Trading Company, concerning a mysterious and wealthy benefactor. Certain parties are very interested in learning what can be learned about the enigmatic Lady Roa.”

“Certain parties?” Riocco asked in alarm. “Who? Why?”

Morvaine clicked her tongue. “Why, so curious! I could probably find out for you, dear. Are you quite sure you can afford my rates?”

“There’s a careful balance here,” Roscoe interjected. “Guild members have to look out for each other, and especially the less experienced among us. Obviously that means passing you a warning when news concerning you directly pops up. It also means respecting each other’s livelihood. Intel is Morvaine’s thing, and she works as hard as any of us. She’s gotta make a living.”

“I…I see,” Riocco said, deflating. They glanced at Lilith and Greg, both of whom were wide-eyed with alarm and uncharacteristically silent. “How worried should we be about this?”

“Oh, not terribly, never you fear,” Morvaine said blithely, flicking her fingers in a dismissive gesture. “This is all very meat and potatoes for Boisverd. You’ll probably be followed around; some shifty characters may sidle up in the market and ask you prying questions. I only bothered to pass a warning because you kids are new to the job. One’s first brush with Evervale politics can be…startling.”

“You’re known members of a well-established guild,” Roscoe added in a reassuring tone. “None of the other guilds are going to start trouble with the Herons, and the other major players know better than to get on the wrong side of the adventuring guilds in general. It’ll probably be just that: trailing and questions. You’ll have to figure out how to deal with that yourself, it’s the least that’s expected of professionals. Just remember the client’s privacy and your duties. If anything more than that happens,” he added more gravely, “report it to the Guild ASAP. If the Silver Hound has set you up for trouble they failed to adequately warn you about, they owe us and more importantly you some remuneration. And the rest of us have your back if anyone tries something too…indiscreet.”

“Should you decide you simply must find out who it is that’s sniffing around your footprints,” Morvaine purred, “you let me know, and we can discuss terms for some proper investigation. That aside, dears, if I happen to stumble across anything else relevant in the course of my usual comings and goings, I’ll pass it along. We’re in this together, after all. Ta, poppets!”

She sidled back behind Roscoe, sliding into his silhouette as if he were a living door frame. With a long-suffering expression, he half-turned to look behind himself, mostly to reveal to the Wolves that there was now no one there.

“I fear I misjudged Morvaine,” Lilith rasped.

Riocco nodded. “I, as well. Rumor made her sound more…mercenary.”

“Oh, she is that,” Roscoe said seriously, turning back to them. “Mercenary, and smart. It’s much better business to do favors and make connections than to grasp and claw after every stray penny, and that’s true no matter what business you’re in. Meanwhile, don’t worry overmuch about it. You’re forewarned now; keep watch for people trying to trail you when you make your next delivery to that client. Morvaine was right, this will probably not become a big deal. I just wanted you to have some advance warning.”

“And we appreciate it very much,” Riocco said solemnly, bowing toward him from their seat.

He smiled. “Someday you’ll be the grizzled old veterans, and there’ll be fresh faces around who can benefit from your perspective. And so the cycle goes. I’ll get outta your hair, kids, you look about ready to collapse.”

“Night, Roscoe!” Greg said, waving as their senior strolled away. “And thanks again!”

Bronzmun gently pressed his forehead against Riocco’s shoulder until they scratched his ears again, then turned and trotted off after Roscoe.

Turning back to the table, Riocco heaved a deep sigh, their features falling into a scowl. “Well…here we are, then. I hate politics.”

Greg barked a laugh which prompted an echoing clash of tiny cymbals. “Oh, man, did you move to the wrong country.”

***

“Last night’s reports from the teleport platform,” Rosh said, placing the stack upon Madiin’s desk, “and a cup of the spiced milk tea you like.”

“Ah, thank you,” the newly promoted Commissioner of Shima Vaat’s customs office said, sliding the papers in front of himself—a small stack, it had evidently been a blessedly uneventful night—and not reaching for the steaming tea. “You really don’t have to bring me treats, Sergeant.”

“I know,” Rosh said with a faint smile. “Don’t expect me to do a snack run for you, Commissioner. But someone had a pot brewed in the staff lounge, I know it’s your favorite, and I was coming up here anyway. It would have felt rude not to bring you a cup.”

“I will certainly not turn up my nose at the consideration,” Madiin replied, smiling back. “Do please let me know whenever someone has this blend on the stove! While I’m still setting into the office, though, I don’t want to create the impression I expect the staff to do me personal favors.”

“I completely understand, Commissioner, I’ll keep it in mind next time.”

“Thank you kindly, Sergeant Rosh. I’d like to do an inspection of the west storage bay this morning, if you’d meet me there in an hour.”

“Understood, Commissioner.” Rosh saluted and departed the office. Madiin had already picked up the first overnight report to begin reading, but waited until his subordinate had left to pick up the tea. It was a tricky line to walk—consideration among the staff should be encouraged, but matters were different when there was an imbalance of authority. The personnel would grow accustomed to him in due time, and with familiarity the giving and receiving of little favors would be a boon for morale. He really couldn’t allow the impression that he expected to be personally catered to, though. An office run that way would fall to disaster perilously quickly.

It really was excellent tea, though, his favorite kind. Madiin couldn’t recall mentioning that to Rosh, and now had to wonder if there was a particular reason it had been brewed this morning.

“You’ll need Form FCI-22, with a yellow pin.”

Madiin froze, fragrant tea halfway to his lips, report in hand. His eyes darted back and forth, seeking the source of the voice which had just sounded in his office. There was no one.

Then his own shadow, cast across the row of bookshelves to his left by the reading light he had positioned behind the desk, set down its shadowy teacup and waved at him.

Mandar Madiin remained frozen in place, forcibly repressing a surge of fright.

“Do correct me if I have that wrong,” the shadow said, shrugging. “The Missari filing system is very methodical, but there’s just so damn much of it! If I remember correct, Form FCI is to report unplanned acquisition of military intelligence, version 22 referring to the source being a magical entity of uncertain classification, and the yellow pin indicating the information is unverified but should be followed up. Am I close?”

“That is…correct, in fact,” Madiin said, carefully setting down both the report and the teacup. And just as carefully projecting calm. He was in that habit for the sake of reassuring his subordinates in urgent situations; it was no less important when he was alone with a…

“Hah! Still got it!” his shadow cheered, pumping its hands overhead.

“And what sort of magical entity of uncertain classification have I the pleasure of addressing?” Madiin asked politely, one hand casually reaching for the discreet rune emblazoned under his desk—

Oh, damnation. He had that in his old office by the teleport platform, and in fact in every room in that part of the complex, because when dealing with portal mages one never knew where they might pop up. He’d meant to have one installed in the Commissioner’s office, too, but it had been a lower priority.

“That, I’m afraid, isn’t part of what’ll be going on Form FCI-22,” the shadow said cheerfully. “But hey! I’ll be really interested to see how close a guess the Sovereignty mages can make after they’ve gone over this whole place with the proverbial fine-toothed comb.”

“I see,” Madiin said as mildly as he could. “So, you have come to deliver military intelligence, then? I must say, you’ve picked an…idiosyncratic place to do so.”

“Yeah, I’ll have to grant you that. There are a passel of Shamissar’s spies who are much more interested than you in this subject, but alas! I’ve got this little personality issue where I far prefer to deal with honest people than professional liars, no matter how well-intentioned. And hey! It’s not as if it’s none of your business. Why, no less than the Sovereign himself specifically asked you to keep an ear to the ground, in case a certain someone came back through this very customs office.”

An entirely new layer was suddenly added to the chill continuously running down Madiin’s spine. He hadn’t realized such…layered chills were possible, but here he was.

“So of course,” the shadow continued in a merry tone, “I don’t expect anyone will be so daft as to just blithely take me at my word! Shamissar hasn’t built itself up to such a successful status by being that thoughtless. But don’t you worry, the Sovereign has plenty of eyes and ears to find the truth for themselves, once he has a hint where to look. And believe you me, Commissioner Madiin, Savasmittar will very much want to know exactly what Ar-Kaln Zelekhir is a godling of.”