The nettling tap of hammers, and the chuff of saws had started up again. Even with all their levels, the troublemakers would surely wear themselves out soon.

Weidle was tempted to turn his [Ear to the Ground] in their direction, but the skill demanded his full concentration. [Keen-Eye] did him no favors either, and he tried to put them out of mind.

He was a professional gob. Dedicated. Practical. And under fair-weather circumstances, a quick, adaptable thinker. But situations were not ideal. Management of the vulgar rank-and-file was not his specialty, and his best work was never done in uniform. So far, [Intrusive Suggestion] had won him nothing but a condemned man he didn’t need. [A Shoulder to Lean On] was backfiring in unexpected ways. And leveraging [Deeper In Their Cups] would be nothing less than a disaster, given his target’s pharmaceudical state.

This wasn’t what he did.

The spy made another decent attempt or two to entrap the Hero, to extort him through guilt or threats. But clever knots are meant for snaring hares. Twine and conspiracy can do little good more than to tie a bear a shoelace. Metaphorically.

The problem was, the [Brawn] Hero was simply… in a rotten kind of mood.

“Actually, Weid, how about you go send these guys here to fetch up more wood.” Rhode clapped his hands gingerly, held in broad, echoing cups. The void between his palms made for a particularly soggy and sucking kind of clap that perturbed. “You, you, and you.”

Rather than argue over every point (for example, the very sensible and reasonable disarmament of the seditionaries), the monster simply escalated his own demands. His preconditions were growing more extreme instead of less. A dozen soldiers had been sent off to already: pretending to “collect food” to appease him.

The tendons strained along the back of Weidle’s hand as he curled a fist down at his waist. There were a score of spears, and seven wands which answered to him in this moment. If he gave the order, this farce would finally be over. He bit the tip of his tongue behind his smile; just the minimum to bleed.

“You lot may collect some debris from Exhibition Hall,” Weidle resented relented. “Be reasonable. And don’t feel the need to hurry,” he hissed in a [Focused Whisper] at the trio of his gobs as he sent them off. He brushed at his trouser leg, and tried again. “In exchange, I think it would be in the best interest of the safety of the individuals if we stationed some of our guards inside –”

“Who are those guys?”

Rhode’s arm swung up and goblins leaned to avoid his point. A door had swung open into an adjoining chamber. Four kneeling figures wavered drunkenly on the floor. Half-rotten burlap sacks covered their heads. Soldiers grabbed the ropes which tied the prisoners together in a chain from their wrists, and yanked them teetering onto to their feet.

Weidle turned, slow and deliberate. “Those are the persons who tried to kill you in the garden, Rhode,” he said flatly.

The homunculus nodded and hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “Okay, they go behind the wall too.”

Weidle choked. “You can’t possibly be serious.”

“Well then, stop asking me for stuff I’m not gonna give you.”

“You cannot send every single idiot free just to spite us.”

“Man, don’t misconstrue. Send. The. List. Of. Crimes. Everything else waits. End of conversation.”

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

Merchant Ux of Horse Hoof Creek flinched as the bag ripped off his head, and rough fibers cut his cheek. He stood alongside his living brother, and two of his surviving cousins. Their bodies were a canvas of blunt trauma. Their eyes looked out blankly, and they shivered feebly.

“That’s so unnecessary – okay, can you guys behave yourselves for a few days?” Rhode required of them. “We’ll set you up with folks who’ll take care of you a bit. They’ll patch you up some, and make you a place to sleep. Now, I’m not setting you free. I just want to make sure that whatever you’ve got coming to you is fair. We’ll talk later, okay?”

“Thank you Ser,” Ux slurred, “thank you.”

Weidle protested, but at this point it was just for appearances.

He and Rhode watched as the men were escorted to the wall, and as a brace of Malachites in their pajamas appeared. The pair brandishing sewing needles to take custody of the merchants and retreated just as quick.

“We done?” the homunculus growled.

The spy stood at attention by Rhode’s elbow. They faced out, oblique to each other. “I’m going to have to order battle-mages to do menial scribe work. But yes. We’ll have the materials you described delivered to your room. Happy to comply, surely you will find no impediment whatsoever in being unable to read.”

“Thanks, Weid. I’m sure I’ll figure it out.”

Ending the matter, Rhode placed a hand on the shoulder of the Prince’s man. The gob rocked unhappily under the weight.

Rhode Mortimer Irving was feeling peaceful. Or maybe, just so blindingly angry that he’d reached into negative numbers and wrapped around to reverse. It was functionally the same. He watched as Officer Weidle snapped out orders. Corporal Bned had not returned from the wall yet, which left the Hero without another escort. Goodeman Tinc of the Black Service was called out, as was Ward Noffet of Viper.They were smart selections. The barber had “treated” the homunculus before and was familiar to him. Tinc had been caught up in Rhode’s procession, and carried himself with a working-class demeanor.

A single spear-gob was assigned alongside them: a stranger. His tabard was faded and weathered, but his weapon was honed razor sharp. That was true of his gear and self generally: a man losing his tint but not his edge. Rhode would never get his name. The man spoke near to nothing. He refused any overtures or conversation, and followed at a watchful remove at all times.

The arrangement wasn’t worth fighting.

An arriving runner wove through soldiers to reach them. “Sers,” coughed the page, slowing to a stop. “We’ve procured an invalid-chair.”

Rhode allowed his barber to handle him. To check his bandages. He smiled in amusement as a broad wicker love-seat appeared. The thing had been nailed onto a square pallet, but that pallet glowed in flickering violet light along its edge. The squire of Illuminance made a circuit around it, tapping each geometric rune with his rod. The gap between the flat bottom of the platform and the floor was less than a pie-crust. But it was hovering nonetheless.

The Dreadlung let himself be settled into place. He closed his eyes, and inhaled a deep and steeling breath. Then he turned in his seat, and punched his arm towards the sky.

“Thanks for your hard work, everybody. Have a good night. Betray me and I’ll squish you.”

Ser Irving faced forward as his minders pushed him away. With a bit of distance, he suppressed his shudder as he felt the insidious claws of Weidle’s skills lose their grip on his brain. But he’d faced worse, and he’d face worse again. Closing his eyes, he reminded himself again that he wasn’t alone. Then he reached into his breast pocket and waited.