That was what happened, at the time that it did. And even though there were some small conversations and quiet warnings that came afterward, it is quicker to summarize them:

1. Hold here. Guard the walls.

2. Do not willingly surrender unless I come back. Ask for me.

3. Cooperate in every way possible that won’t break with the prior two requests.

4. I will be gone for a week. Maybe less, but hopefully not more.

5. I’ll try to send help if I can.

6. Gross. Don’t chew on that.

Since we have already visited the moment when Rhode forthed out the barricade with his prisoner in tow, we will spin the dial ahead: through his exchange with Weidle, and progressing ‘round about seventy-two degrees of Spousal Hall.

Rhode flicked at the inert tines of his [Relay]. It made a hollow, short-lived plunk. Then he reached over and flicked a fingernail across the back of his other hand. Dulled by his medication, his tiny little flagellation didn’t have the desired effect.

The homunculus’ eyes were still shut. His breathing was slow and heavy. “Hey Noffet. Goodeman, do you have any hobbies?” he asked.

The barber’s face pinched in confusion at the change of subject. “What? What do you mean, Ser Irving? Why?”

“Hobbies. Like, things you do for fun or relaxing. In your spare time during holidays, vacations, or rest days,” Rhode spoke precisely.

The marble and carpets below them gave way to creaking hardwood floors at the intersection of Leisure Ring, and then back to the cold echoes of stone as they crossed back out. There was a sound of shuffling arms and armor, the swift snap of a salute. But Rhode’s companions were alone in making footsteps. The acrid haze of half-spent fires irritated his nose, mixed up with the chemical solvents that had snuffed them out. But there were no bustling sounds of repairs or cleanup as Rhode closed on his destination.

Tinc was trailing behind and sulking. He kept spinning his trowel in his grip, making a game or an exercise of it. Still, he was listening. “Holy day,” the gardener murmured. The phrase was clumsy and longer in their language.

Ward Noffet huffed. “If you’re asking about what we do for festivals, I’d say it depends on which one.” The barber paused. He whispered a half-formed question to Tinc. Then he went on to explain more clearly. “Some are parties. Some are serious. The best ones, you drink. Almost all of them have food. But it’s a different question if you’re asking if I practice a hand-craft. I like carving whistles? My neice has a few kids now. They make decent presents. I like volunteering for mutilations too. Amputations and disfigurements. Little things. You know, for public service and all that. I hate doing eyes, but fingers are fun,” he droned.

“Uh huh,” Rhode said.

“Those are rare,” Tinc added suddenly.

Rhode’s face was impassive.

“It is true,” she assured the homunculus. Her hand patted Rhode’s arm gently. “It still happens, but it is pretty rare, most places.”

But the trailing soldier chose that moment to comment. “Happened to my cousin,” he offered casually. “Tresspass in the Baronet Nursing-Dew’s garden. Stole some fruit. Schwip, pop! Snipped his feet off at the ankles, real neat-like.”

Mimai’s hand withdrew and became unimportant.

“Hmmm,” Rhode said.

Shards of porcelain crunched underfoot. The larger pieces were caught in the lip under Rhode’s platform; fragments wedging beneath it. They chimed as they were kicked free aside. The goblins argued about whether a baronet had broken the law in punishing a villain under his authority. They raised conflicting opinions on who was responsible for holding the baronet accountable if he’d overreached. They came to the edge of shouting, but to no conclusions.

Rhode opened his eyes as his conveyance ground to a halt. The walls had grown narrow, still rich but less grand. The ceiling was completely open up into the second floor. A gallery style landing with looked down on him, unlit and gloomy. Either side was lined with a bright copper bannister rail and bridged by occasional narrow walkway crossings. On the ground level, quaint cabinets with shattered glass faces spilled out small ceramic mementos of family pets, long dead. Dessicated old flowers curled out of glass vases. On an unbroken shelf in an otherwise crumpled vanity, a golden, filigreed medallion presented on a dainty stand right next to a battered and cheap wooden toy. Fine treasures set next to knick-knacks. This part of the palace wasn’t meant for impressing guests. It was personal. It was intimately familial. Still, these qualities (like all things) are relative. Even ignoring all the damage, the place was still filthy with inlaid pearl nacre – still studded unnecessarily with semi-precious stones.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

A rack of huge ink paintings were unceremoniously stacked against the wall. A hole had been punched into the lower corner and straight through the lot of them.

“Finally,” croaked Father Oud.

The portly goblin wore his silk nightgown, draped hastily over with a coat. Though the man was accustomed to excess, and his station, now the color of his cheeks was drained, and his whole presense was wrung out and hollow. Seven soldiers were behind him arrayed guarding a narrow door. Four of those were seated on the ground playing a silent game of cards over a small pile of coins, but their eyes were hard and their poleaxes were near to hand.

Oud’s folded thistle-down kerchief was embroidered with a salacious image of one of his mistresses. He wiped his forehead with it, and tucked it away.

“Is he functional?” demanded the priest, ignoring Rhode.

“I’m alright, Oud. Managing, anyway. Thanks for asking,” the monster said.

Father Oud pinched at shut eyes, and exhaled a steadying gale from his nose. He glanced at Noffet, and then directly at Mimai.

“Good,” the priest said. He reconsidered. “That is well, Goodeman. ” He reached back and waved to usher a tall figure forward.

An elf was present and carried something under his arm. The acolyte mussed with his hai■ and gave Rhode a h■ggard lo□sid□d gr□n .

“Ward Prisoner Btiobhan. Help them get the Hero on his feet,” directed Oud.

“Alright,” Rhode groaned. Hands from all sides lifted and tugged and cajoled him upright. “I got it guys, thanks.” He waved them away and adjusted his shirt. “So I’m here. I was told…”

Rhode steadied himself again. He regarded a religious authority whose rank and status he didn’t understand. He examined the multiple solid, rich hardwood doors on either side in various directions. But he was drawn to the soldiers, with their guisarms, and the one finely carved, but unassuming door which they barred.

“Goode Father Oud,” Rhode inclined his head. He crooked his knee just to dip a quarter inch and spoke awkwardly. “I was told that I might meet with the Third Hero. I would really appreciate it if you might direct me to them. Thank you.”

The priest’s face slackened, but as he reconstruced his calculated, disdainful air, it was softer. “It is as if it is even worse when he tries,” he muttered. “Great Hornupant, greediest of all. Let no treasure or debt be hidden. I [Find What You’re Hiding] – Ward Prisoner Btiobhan, be seen. Ward Prisoner Mimai, be heard. Acolytes, you have permission and leave to direct the Hero from here. Goodeman Irving, I must… we can only trust you to use your best judgement. Please don’t screw this up. But… don’t take any risks you don’t have to. Hornupant in his guidance teaches us: spend not the coin for chance. Gambling is wickedness, heaven can only be achieved through informed strategic investment risk.”

The priest laid his hand on Rhode’s arm, and his brow crinkled with sagely concern. Then he stepped away.

“Acolyte Btiobhan will explain everything. Just remember to report him or kill him if he does any black sorcery or engages in salary negotiations. Same rules as usual. If you will excuse me.”

A dull headache throbbed in Rhode’s skull. He slurred a delayed and half-hearted goodbye to Father Oud before recovering himself.

“Hey big guy,” Btiobhan said. “Glad you made it.”

Rhode’s friend looked the same way he always did. Lanky, just a little uncomfortable in his own skin. Handsome, with dark hair. Charming and personable at ease, but unable to quite look a person directly in the eyes. His iron collar and manacles shifted heavily, and he often caught himself nervously holding them in place.

Mimai had her habit of titling her head to hide under a puffy mess of curly hair. But she peeked up at Rhode with a smile as if they shared some secret joke together. Her front teeth were slightly crooked and bucked, but her large eyes were earnest. Her extensive and garishly colorful tatooos peeked at her wrists and forearms, and flashed whenever her sleeves would slip.

When the two of them stood side by side, Rhode nearly chuckled. It was easy to forget how big the gap in their heights was. With clear eyes, he realized how thin and cheap their robes were, and mended in several places with off-color thread.

“Hey Rhode. I tried to get you water a couple of times. Sorry,” Mimai wrung her hands. Her fingers were narrow and bony: her nails cut short and chewed on. “Are you still thirsty?”

“Hey,” Rhode replied. He squinted. He grimaced. “Dang. Yea. Goddamn. No. Thanks Mimai, maybe in a second.”

“How are your stitches holding?” Btiobhan asked.

“Not great. Are you guys going to be able to handle that?”

“We hope so. We’re working on something to make it easier to work on you while you’re asleep,” Mimai squeaked quietly. “Goodeman Koggeran has some ideas. Do you remember him? He’s the clock guy.”

“Did your breathing machine,” the elf added, nodding.

Rhode dragged at his memory. Through the foggy, uncertain days at the start of his life and to the sputtering device that had kept him alive until Eloft. “Kog, yea. I think so. His grandkid got baptized and I guess it was a big deal that he missed the party for it.”

“Uh, yea. I mean, that was a while back though,” Mimai whispered uncomfortably.

The hornupants shot a glance between each other. Then Gardener Tinc was at Rhode’s side, appeared without notice. The acolytes cut off. Btiobhan cleared his throat.

“Hero Rhode Mortimer Irving. We implore your aid,” the elf bowed. His speech had sharply turned: becoming clipped and professional. “As you are aware, there were unexpected complications as we welcomed the Third Hero. The matter is restricted, so if you will accompany me into the secondary garnishery here so we may speak privately.”