Spousal Ring was stained again in the sound of bitter resentments, and the smell of loosened teeth. The heavy texture of a megalithic breathing abraded the bones of the inner ear, and the lining of the bowels. A platoon of soldiers gathered. A scant few minutes turned.

Then Rhode Mortimer Irving emerged from the wall in his great quantity. Thump on marble. Thump on carpet. Thump. Thump.

Thump.

A score of goblins skidded to a halt just under him. They carried iron-knobbed clubs and wire-coiled wands. In a band, they had left their own little barricade behind to storm the larger one.

The homunculus regarded them. He had a goblin hanging from his grip, face-up with no more care than for a parcel from the grocers; unceremoniously from the lapels of the man’s coat. That gob’s heels dragged along the floor behind him, and he groaned pitifully.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Rhode said.

The soldiers hesitated. None of these were wearing provincial livery. They wore sturdy metal helmets and the paint of war runes on their skin. Light burned more intense about them: a stinging, scalding radiance, just outside the visible.

“That means step aside,” Rhode said.

The soldiers looked at one another.

“Glowy guy,” the homunculus stabbed a finger out, “whatever you’re doing, shut it off. Yea, that’s right. You.”

The soldiers parted. The aura evaporated. Rhode stepped through.

A commanding officer had arrived and taken charge, collecting the other officers about him. The goblin’s suit was jet black, and sharply trim. It was sliced up one side in sunset by a precise vertical stripe.

“Oh, look,” Rhode mused, “it’s you again.”

Intelligence Officer Weidle neatly adjusted his black leather gloves. His hair was parted, and slicked with pomade. The Viper cataphract stood at his left, and the Illuminance force-adept to his right. His smile went no higher than his nose.

“Rhode,” he acknowledged. “May we expect your associates to yield, as agreed?”

“Hm. So what’s your real name, man? Is it Weedle? Whine-dy?”

“No one knows my real name anymore, Rhode. It’s a feature of the service. Now, are the malcontents subdued, or not?”

Rhode swung his goblin forward, and dropped the Diving-Bird Lake sergeant onto the floor at Weidle’s feet. The back of the man’s skull bounced off the floor, and Rhode felt obliged to wince after a brief delay.

“Here’s the deal. The labor guys have put together a good setup. It’s secure, it’ll be sealed. You’ll be able to put guards at all the entrances.”

“Why would – keh. You can’t be this thick. We’re not going to do that, Rhode.”

“I’m not budging on this, Weid. I’ve got more important things to do, things that your boss has personally asked me for, and I’m tired.”

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“Ah, I see. You’re tired.”

“No, man. I’m not talking about needing a leg rub and a cup of coffee. I mean I’m down a pint or two out of my cardiovascular. I mean I’ve got bruises on my stitches. I mean I’m overdue for magic naptime and I’m on the verge of lights out. Once I go? I’ll be out for days. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m holding – for as long as I can. But this Level thing is a pathology.”

Weidle snarled soundlessly. He wavered.

The Illuminance made an effort to appear self-possessed, and disdainfully superior. He kept getting snagged on his ruined shield chains. The Viper horseman felt no need to put on airs. He tilted his head and made a series of low hand gestures for Weidle’s benefit: a message that was unwelcome as received.

“If you’re changing the conditions of your arrangement,” Weidle declared, “a concession is in order.”

“I don’t consider it changing anything, man. Me and the Prince didn’t shake on a lot of specifics on the how.”

“Hold on, now there is – the Goodeman has misspoken, there’s no reason to believe that the Prince is in any way directly associated with –”

Rhode waved off the rebuke. “Come on, man. You’ve got the uniform on. Who else was it gonna be?”

A grumbling chorus of goblin voices exclaimed in disappointment. “Aw, I bet a half-royal this was a Lady Samina plot,” grumbled one.

“Gods blight it, I coulda sworn this’d be the sort of scheme the Fourth Duke’d do,” cried another as she fished out a handful of misshappen, dull coins to settle her own wager.

“Honestly,” shrugged Rantikar Nine-Fingers (who sat disgraced on a stool, the breast-flap of his coat unbuttoned and open), “could’ve been the Throne. Using their issue as proxies when their will is impolitic.” He shrugged and raised his shackled hands to dab someone else’s blood off his face. The guard at his side raised a cudgel nervously. “What? ‘S happened before.”

Weidle glared bloody knives at Rantikar and the others. Talk ceased.

“Oh? So we’re gossiping again? Is that what we’re doing? Goodeman Irving, regardless of the party with whom you… ASSUME to have treated with – the hows of fulfilling your duty? Are always implied.”

Rhode squinted and fixed his lips in a flat line. “Naw man, hows are the thing that you always get in writing.”

“Enough, Rhode –”

“Also, I’m going to need you to hook the prisoners up with supplies for a few days. Food, water… I guess you’ll have to work something out for bathroom breaks?”

“The criminals are going to keep themselves prisoner. And not only are we going to feed them, they have half the kitchen staff and cleaners –”

“Huh. Yea, sure. Won’t kill you to scrub and cook.”

“And let them out at their convenience.”

“Supervised? Or like work out a disposal schedule? Whatever, man. I’m sure you guys can work something out.”

Officer Weidle pinched the bridge of his nose and turned to pace away. He muttered curses for a good quarter minute and then returned with a smile that was all knives.

“Rhode. A good number of gobs died tonight. Seditious disrespect set fire to an elven palace. Malcontention is still smoldering, unpunished right there. If you want us to agree to your terms, there must be –”

“Sure,” Rhode nodded, “I agree.”

“– payment in blood tonight.” Weidle’s sneer vanished. “No, Rhode, I’m saying we must make an example from the prisoners before we can consider –”

The homunculus forestalled him with a chop of his palm through the air. “Cool. Take this dude.” He pointed at the sergeant groaning on the floor between them.

“We’re going to kill him.”

“Okay. I assume you will. Meantime, I need you to get me a copy of the carpenters' contract. And I want a list of all the crimes that these people are accused of. Be specific, and I want to know the normal punishments for that too. And I want it all in writing.”

"I can't -"

"I don't mean now. Just get it to me by the time I'm awake."

“What we will do to this man: it will not be kind.”

“Man, I heard you. I said yes. This guy is Bird Lake, right?”

“...Correct.”

“They kill anybody tonight?”

“...Most likely.”

“And this guy here was in charge of them?”

Weidle did not reply.

“So, excuse my language, but I do not give a shit,” Rhode said. “You got him. He can get wrecked. It’s a deal.”