It would be fair to say Lowe was not at his best in the immediate aftermath of his meeting with Arebella.

Indeed, he hadn't realised exactly how discombobulated he was until he found himself asking the small, wizened to repeat himself for the third time.

“Mr Lowe,” he sighed, speaking from beneath insanely bushy eyebrows, “do you have somewhere else you would rather be?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I’m sorry, I’ve been distracted, haven’t I? My apologies.”

Cadi Verahalim sat back and folded his arms, dislodging an avalanche of dandruff off his shoulders as he did so. “I hope you realise, Mr Lowe, that I bill for my time by the second. I am doing you a considerable favour by blocking out my calendar to assist the Security Service in its enquiries. My patience is not, however, infinite.”

Lowe bit back a response, reflecting that the old lawyer was justified for being a touch narked at his lack of attention. “Once again, sir, I am sorry for my behaviour. Please do continue.”

Somewhat mollified, the sat forward and smoothed out the document he had been referring to. “Fair enough. Never let it be said that I wasn’t a man to accept a grovelling apology when it was offered. As I was saying, the High Priestess was habitually altering her Will fairly regularly.”

“Is that unusual?” Lowe didn’t think he’d updated his Will since Cenorth had forced him to write one the second – or was it the third? – time he’d bled out on the job.

Verahalim gave a little shrug. “Avatars are not like the rest of us, Mr Lowe. I have often had cause to reflect that the closer my clients are to the gods, the more likely they are to have their eyes on their own demise.”

“That’s a fair comment.”

Verahalim’s face suggested that, at his level, it was somewhat pointless – indeed, spectacularly rude – to suggest otherwise. “Quite. Where, perhaps, the High Priestess was unusual is that she had no one really to leave her considerable wealth to. Her updates were to add various charities to the list of beneficiaries.”

“Charities?”

“I have said.” The was clearly reaching the very outer limits of his patience.

“Pardon me for casting aspersions, but it is somewhat against what would be seen as her public persona. Even her colleagues have been somewhat reticent in their praise for her personality. I am a touch surprised to hear that she would choose to dispose of all her estate in that way. Are you sure there is no particular person that would benefit in the event of her death?”

Verahalim scowled back. “It has been a point of principle to me over the years not to be overly concerned with my client’s personality.”

“So, all of her assets are, essentially, to be given away?”

The lawyer glanced over the Will. “Well, there is a consistent provision of a relatively small sum for her . I hesitate to tell you your business, but I have my doubts that two hundred and fifty pieces of gold would be sufficient to encourage an attempt in the life of a Level 67. Particularly by a glorified dustpan and brush.”

Lowe had investigated cases of murder where the sums involved were far less than two hundred and fifty, but he took Verahalim’s point. He made a mental note to let Mylaf know that she had been remembered by d’Avec – albeit in fairly minor terms.

“Is there anything particularly noteworthy about the charities?”

Verahalim looked like he had been asked to investigate a bucket of cat sick. “They are charities, Mr Lowe. Orphans. War Veterans. Young Carers. With each level-up, the High Priestess was in the habit of adding another one to the list.”

“And did any of them lose out because of the addition of another recipient?” Lowe was unsure whether he could see a crack squad of chugges hunting down the High Priestess for the snub of leaving them slightly less money.

“No, Mr Lowe. To be clear, Gianna d’Avec only came to see me to log a new Will when her wealth increased. She seemed curiously determined to ensure all of her money was allocated. It occurred . . . “ the little man’s face scrunched up in discontent. The effect, Lowe assumed of nearly giving an opinion away for free.

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“What occurred, Mr Verahalim?”

The steepled his fingers at his lips, considering. His whole body gave a little shrug as if casting off his reluctance. “It had occurred to me that she found something distasteful about her money. I wondered whether she was seeking to dispose of her wealth in this manner because she felt she had something to make up for.”

“But you never asked her?”

Verahalim paused. “I did ask her, not at this latest Will change, I would have you know, but some years back. Her answer has stayed with me.”

“Which was?”

“‘When you have so much blood on your hands, every bit of mercy helps.’”

*

There wasn’t really much more for the two of them to discuss after that, and shortly later, Lowe made his excuses to leave. He’d scanned the last five of d’Avec’s Wills into Grid Search, but he wasn’t sure what benefit that would be. It was basically just a list of worthy institutions, increasing in number with each new iteration.

Lowe paused outside the closed door and stared off into the distance. He didn’t know what to make of that. In his experience of murder cases, you followed the money and that led you to where you needed to be. But, unless Mylaf had lost her mind for a few months’ salary, there was literally no evidence of anyone killing the High Priestess over money.

And what the fuck was a High Priestess of Gravalk doing giving away all her money to charity?

Without realising it, he was spinning Arebella’s portal stone between the knuckles of his left hand. The sensible thing to do was to let her get on with her life. She was clearly making impressive progress, and the Tower of Law being what it was, a connection to a washed-up Classless with all sorts of scandals connected to them was hardly the sort of thing to enhance her career.

And yet. And yet. And yet.

He was so distracted by his thoughts that Lowe didn’t notice the approaching fist until it caught him on the jaw.

The impact spun him to his left, catching his knee a painful blow against the wall. The portal stone he was holding spun away down the corridor. Oddly, that irritated him more than anything else. He activated Slugger and flashed out a return punch – interrupting Roll with the Punches as his Mana drained away. Fortunately, those excellent points he’d dropped into Intelligence gave him a bit more of a buffer than he’d been used to: that and Mylaf’s goodies.

This turned out to be particularly pertinent as, when his swinging fist made contact with the stomach of his attacker, it stopped dead, and the bones of his hand shattered into quite a number of constituent parts. Unfortunately, the good luck didn’t end there. The power of Slugger, finding itself unable to transfer itself into the intended victim, stopped, then travelled back up Lowe’s arm, turning his radius and ulna into – literal – dust.

This stung a bit.

But not as much as the follow-up punch to the other side of his head, which briefly knocked him out.

As he came round, staring at the ceiling, his woes were added to by the all-too-familiar feeling of Mana exhaustion throbbing into a massive headache and Roll with the Punches spluttering off.

“Mr Lowe? No, please do not speak. I’m sure you’re not feeling at your best right now. For future reference, do remember that when you are not within the aura of your bodyguard, it is unwise to assault your betters. Are you still with me, sir? Blink twice if you are.”

Lowe tried to blink, but only his left eye responded. If by ‘responded’ you meant ‘filled with blood’.

“I imagine that will have to do. Now, for the point of this little confrontation. No one needs the death of Gianna d’Avec to be solved. Trust me on this. Surely you recognise that the whole reason you have been put in charge of this case is that failure is assured? No, no, don’t try to get up. I’m not sure you will survive me tapping you again. Instead, please do listen to the sincerity of my message. All that is required of you in this little performance is that you stumble around in your trademark, shambolic manner and, perhaps this time next week, come to the conclusion that you are defeated in the absence of any new leads. Groan, if you are following the logic of my argument.”

Lowe made a half-hearted gurgle.

“Excellent. It appears we are having a meeting of the minds here. Now, it is disappointing that you have needed to hear this message twice. However, I understand professional pride and the undoubted bravado caused by having a at your side. This, of course, was what induced you to be somewhat resistant to the request of my more junior colleagues. It is though,” and the voice drew closer to him, though the speaker’s face remained outside his vision, “important you recognise there will be no third discussion of this matter.”

Lowe felt pressure on his ankle and assumed his assailant was standing on it. To be fair, there were so many other demands on his pain receptors that he kind of considered this unnecessary effort. “One week, Mr Lowe. At which stage you will shrug your shoulders, report this as unsolvable and vanish back into obscurity.”

The pressure on his ankle continued to increase, the bone creaking. “Should it come to my employer’s attention that you do not comply with this request, there will be consequences.” Lowe’s ankle shattered, adding some further joy and happiness to his day.

“And let me be clear,” the voice was just next to his ear now and became a whisper. “I understand you may be tempted to damn the repercussions and accept whatever punishment I can deal out to you. Your reputation precedes you in this. However, please consider how many of your – I hesitate to say ‘friends’, perhaps ‘acquaintances?’ – your decision may impact upon. Should you disappoint me next week, you will live – however briefly – to regret it. It has been a pleasure, Mr Lowe.”

All that remained to be heard was the soft sound of footsteps moving away down the corridor.