The next morning the siblings were back at the manor. While the mob did not find anything in their pursuit, they weren't about to let two kids to remove a body and mop away the blood. Marcy, as the siblings had come to know the name of the mallet toting woman, had insisted they spend the night at her house. They accepted.

Ryan tried to ignore the lingering scent of blood.

"Uncle John should be coming today.", Mia said.

She wasn't wrong. Boyd had arranged for him to come and mind the two while he returned to duty, before that letter came. He arrived with a wagon and a cheesecake, which he nearly dropped when he opened the door. His eyes darted between them.

"Not yours.", he said.

The door swung shut on its own.

"The blood.", he added.

Mia looked relieved. So was Ryan, but not so much because of the cake. Well, that too.

And so, ten days passed.

* * *

Away in the capital, Boyd walked along the docks in the heat of the early afternoon. His Majesty, or perhaps he should say, his steward, had tasked him with determining where the kingdom's copper was going.

The obvious answer would be some kind of smuggling. Copper was a valued resource as it was equally effective at transferring mana as it was at channelling lightning. There were substitutes, but unless someone wanted their expensive enchantment to degrade, they used copper. Something about the nature of mana tended to cause hairline fractures in steel that only got worse over time. Silver was another good material, but it had no practical advantage other than flaunting one's wealth.

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So that is why Boyd was at the docks.

What Boyd did know is that one man had been arrested for substituting a metal known as grylis, which has a similar appearance, in one of the warehouses where it was kept. After some persuasion by members of the city guard, it was determined the copper had been loaded onto a small merchant vessel. Boyd had wished to see the man himself, but apparently his constitution had been too weak during questioning.

Damn guards. You'd think they could wait for the execution. A man's got a right to his last supper.

He didn't have much sympathy, though. For all he knew that copper was destined to be sunk into the grooves of staves, stacked up in some armoury in long rows. Perhaps those southern chaps were merely awaiting sufficient quantities before resuming the war that never quite ended.

No time for those thoughts now.

He frowned. He had reached the end of the dock. There were no more or less ships than expected. There was not much more he could do here, short of examining each and every hull. That was no way for a fox to find things.

He sighed. He'd have to roam the upper districts again that night, in fox form. Picking up the jumble of all that was said. If he heard begging again tonight, he wasn't sure what he'd do. He briefly considered leaving his weapons at the inn.

Six days. Just six days, and the fleet'll be gone. Then I'll drown him in the sewers.

He shuddered. Perhaps he should find a way to stay here for a month or so. Clean up the place before his kids came here. But he knew it would never end and that just like him, they would listen.

Gods, what'll they hear.

But this was what the Whitetips had agreed to when they chose to serve the King. Someone had to act as a liaison of sorts, and to give them incentive to leave their land alone.

John will be here.