Lowe had not spent much time in the Jewel District of Soar.

It wasn't that the denizens of those giant mansions did not commit crimes—no, not at all. Rather, he reflected, it was that those in a certain outcome bracket were dealt with differently.

In fact, he could probably count on the fingers of one dick the number of times members of the Security Services had crossed through the wrought iron gates that separated 'Jewel Town' - as it was known locally - from the plebs who pressed up against them, hoping for a glimpse of a better life. There was a rumour that a whole department at Cuckoo House - as the headquarters of Commander Benorth's city-wide force was known - was dedicated to rooting out corruption in the rich. If that was true, Lowe assumed it had access to all the resources of a particularly untrusted paper boy.

"How the other half live, eh?" Latham said, having successfully bullied the to let them through. Lowe felt he'd got to know the big man fairly well over the last few days, but even his pulse quickened when the raised his voice to a particular volume. All things considered, he was pretty impressed the spotty Level 24 managed only to urinate down himself. Twice.

"Half?" Lowe said, gazing at the first house on their left. He lost count of windows somewhere between 'fuckloads' and a 'shite tonne'. "I think we're in the presence of the top 0.5%."

After ensuring Ortel had enough ale to help his way to oblivion, it had been evident that their next stop needed to be Markian Ulton. Even taking into account the fact coincidences happened all the time in Soar - the goddess Fortuna lived for that shit - there were certainly questions to ask about the circumstances surrounding Lord Falyn's death and the subsequent execution of Ulton's brothers by the woman Markian was - reportedly - fucking. That the High Priestess herself turned up dead a little way later did not make this any less suggestive.

"Do you find it kind of odd that absolutely no one we've spoken to seemed to know that the High Priestess was performing the horizontal tango with this Markian?" Latham rumbled as they passed a veritable army of gardeners, ensuring the lush lawns were cut just so. A maverick part of Lowe had wanted to ignore the 'Do not step on the Grass' signs, but he didn't want to make these guys' days any harder. From their expressions, being a servant in Jewel Town was hardly 'living the dream'.

"Horizontal tango? What are you, twelve?"

"You don't have to swear all the time, you know. We have a vibrant and engaging language from which to draw."

Lowe gawped a little at that. "Have you had a recent blow to the head?"

"No. But one can be arranged for you if you would like." The glanced down at the piece of paper on which Ortel had scribbled an address. "Should be right up here on the right."

If possible, the 'house' they arrived at was even more imposing than any they had seen previously. It dominated the corner of the street, rising five floors into the sky. From what Lowe could see, there were more chimney stacks than he himself owned spoons.

"How the fuck does a middling afford this?"

Latham clicked his tongue. "There's 'afford' and then there's 'afford'. I have always thought that those with the right connections have access to different credit streams than the rest of us."

"And what connections does this dude have?"

"Other than doing the upside-down canary with the High Priestess of Gravalk?"

"You made that up, right?"

"Maybe."

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"Tell me, is there a Mrs - or Mr - ? I'm sensing some sexual frustration. Perhaps you should call the Gnome with the attitude from the Dungeon. You know, blow off some of this steam."

There followed one of those silences where Lowe could understand why the had lost control of his faculties. "Okay. So, moving right along . . . I've not seen anything suggesting d'Avec was bank-rolling this guy. She lived in the family home in the fucking Ash District and left all her money to charity. She wasn't anyone's Sugar Momma."

"You'd be surprised the value certain people put on contacts. I can imagine a set of circumstances where cleaning the High Priestess' pipes would carry a certain cache."

They approached what Lowe was determined to call a 'door' in the absence of a more illustrious word. With a little more iron, it could have pulled off being a portcullis.

"How are we going to play this?" Latham said, the pounding on the wood. "There's every chance this guy is behind Mr Law - or at least is in the same food chain around him. I'm not anxious for you to be your charming, normal self on his own turf. A wrong word here could have some significant repercussions."

"What are you suggesting?" There was the sound of hesitantly approaching footsteps. "You don't think you can handle a little heat?"

Latham turned to glare at him. "Little man, I'm pretty much fire-proof. It's your flammable arse I'm worried about."

Before Lowe had a chance to answer, with some effort, the door was wrenched open by a stooped old man in what appeared to coat and tails. His name was Jeeves, and he was a Level 43 .

"You've got to be shitting me!"

"And to think I suggested you might not be able to control yourself," Latham muttered.

"Can I help you, sirs?" Even the man's voice seemed to be straight from central casting. "Although it is lovely to greet new visitors, I do not believe we are expecting callers on this fine day."

Lowe decided to take charge. It was a one heavy cream tea away from pulling a hernia. How hard could he be? "We need to speak to Markian Ulton." And then, because he wasn't a dick. "If you please, Jeeves."

If possible, the expression channelled even more polite disgust towards the Inspector. "I am afraid the master is not receiving guests at the moment. Nevertheless, I would be happy to make you an appointment for an appropriate moment?" Jeeves's eyes were unfocused, and a calendar was suddenly projected outwards in front of them. Lowe could not help but notice the first available slot was in little more than a year's time.

"No. That's not going to work for us, I'm afraid. Security Service business, don't you know. Thanks for the offer, Jeevo, but this is a bit more urgent than that. I think it best we just drop in on him now." With that, Lowe moved to push past the little old man.

This proved to be a mistake.

Although it was certainly one of the more archaic of the servant Classes, was still very much in demand in the households of the more well-to-do. Or, rather, those known as the more-to-lose. Whilst the phenomenally wealthy wanted to feel safe, they did not really want to have a large number of guards cluttering up the place, making the antique furniture untidy and accidentally shooting the corgis.

Therefore, the answer to that particular conundrum was that it was far more elegant to have all your security needs packaged up in one well-spoken homicidal maniac with a fetish for silver polishing.

By the time Latham was able to move to intervene, even considering Lowe's recent upgrades, the Inspector had barely enough HP left to survive an especially stern frown.

"You okay, little man? Latham called over his shoulder, trying - with limited success - to hold the little ball of frenzied death that was Jeeves aloft at the end of an arm that was already cut to the bone. The crashed the into the wall a few times, but this did little to calm him. "Fuck's sake!" he swore as Jeeves tore off a strip of flesh with his teeth and then spat it back right into his face.

Lowe blinked as his body tried to deal with the colossal damage it had just received. Roll with the Punches was doing its best to keep him alive, but it didn't really know where to start: Jeeves had absolutely bodied him. He could sense his mana exchanging for health at a frightening rate, which made him realise that if he had found this lead a day earlier, before this Dungeon experience, there was no question he would be dead.

"Jeeves, I think I can accommodate these gentlemen. Feel free to stand down."

The voice from down the end of the impossibly long corridor, with various doors leading off it, had the sort of aristocratic smoothness that usually would have wound Lowe up. However, as he was doing his best to climb up from the drain he was rapidly circling; he was willing to let it slide on this occasion.

Especially if the voice was able to call off the rabid wolverine that was gouging chunks out of a .

Fortunately, the moment he heard the voice, Jeeves suddenly became instantly subdued back to his stooped, deferential demeanour. "Of course, sir," he said, hanging limply from Latham's bloodied grasp, "would your guests care for tea?"