A stout and ornamented clock struck the last whole hour of night. Its panels were ivory and delicate red orhalchem, and its chime was whisper soft.

The monster was watching, from the corner of his eye, as Acolyte Mimai neatly secured round glass bottles and brass accouterments into a carrying bag. She was kneeling on the floor of the hallway as Btiobhan and Tinc negotiated with one another.

The conversation was so vague and oblique, that Rhode mused the two of them might deserve some kind of perverse award for their gymnastic dishonesty.

The door stood behind all of them. A guard ran his hand carefully around the frame with a mien of distaste. The wood was bowed slightly, with upturned splinters peeling up. The brass hinges were noticeably bent out of place.

It had been perfectly intact, not ten minutes ago.

Out of the seven (and plus one) soldiers at hand, two were considering the cost and consequence of being their guard. Rhode’s tight-lipped escort from earlier had unreservedly declined. Barber Noffet had volunteered for relegation, actively and without invitation.

“It’s going to be dark in there,” Bt□obhan said. He must have finished with the gardener.

Rhode shook off his daze and took hold of the lantern the acolyte offered him. It had a loose metal ring on its top, and he hooked one pinkie finger through it. He let it dangle casually at his side.

The guards were beginning to ask pointed and specific questions. “Shut up,” Tinc interrupted them. “Nobody is getting offered a relegation. Ward Noffet, whatever conversations you may have had or expect to have – with respect, you can deal with them later. With the appropriate people.”

One of the soldiers was raising a finger, drawing up another query. Tinc cut him off. “Goodeman Douk, Villain Intunmeroonkunkt, you will be accompanying Ward Irving. You will not speak with Ward Irving, unless absolutely necessary. If he speaks to you, you may not respond unless it is a matter of safety. Ward Noffet, you will remain here with Ward…” He scowled. “With Ward… with the short one.”

Rhode tested his body; his range of motion. He inspected his limbs to compare his aches to his wounds.

He cocked his head as a thought struck him. “Tuv, can you make light with magic?”

The elf demurred. “Only as a side effect. And not for something that − listen, if the lantern is a problem –”

“No, no it’s fine.”

Tinc had raised up a white-tarnished tin case. The box sat in the gardener’s hand, about half the size of his palm. He displayed it to the gobs around him. “Each of you is going to take one of these pills. Like so,” he neatly popped the tin open with one hand and a metallic ting. The drug he removed was a blobby , pale violet glob the size of a fingernail, and he swallowed it deftly. “It takes a moment to kick in, so everyone takes their dose now.”

“What’s going on?” Rhode called over.

“Ser Irving, if you would please focus on your own preparations.”

Btiobhan patted Rhode’s arm. “That’s not for us. It’s a medicine that causes short term memory loss.”

Rhode scowled, failing to hide his reaction.

“I want you to know that I’ve been clear to remind the rest of the team that medicine like that would have unwelcome interactions with the rest of your care history,” the Acol■te cautiously explained. He looked away. “We know there’s been a lot of medication in your recovery plan. Maybe more than necessary. It’s something the team has been talking about for a while now.”

“Talking about,” Rhode murmured.

“… you have to understand, there’s only so much we can do. It’s… a big team. A lot of people involved in every decision.”

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“No, I get. I do. Thank you.”

Btiobhan tugged forcefully at his manacle. An automatic and unconscious motion. Mimai stepped to his side and swatted her unruly hair out of her face.

“Wet-kit is ready,” she whispered.

Btiobhan shot a passing glance over towards the soldiers. “Alright. Ser Irving, we’re going to let the guards clear the door before you head in. After that, it’s going to be harder for them to protect you.”

He took a deep breath.

“So let me tell you what to expect…”

---

Just as planned, the Hero Dreadlung stood hiding behind two goblins that stood half of his height and a sixth of his mass. Their eyes were slightly dilated with mind-adulterants, and with exhaustion.

They cleared the door deliberately, taking positions at the sides and holding spears at the ready in case of ambush. But as it flung open and smacked against the wall, the rooms beyond the door were thick with muffled dark and slumbering dust.

Rhode lifted his lantern and held it at a useful angle. The soldiers nodded at one another, and the rest of the group fell back.

“Clear breach,” announced the first soldier.

“Legs spread, and unders dropped,” snickered the second. Tinc swatted the back of the second soldier’s head. His laugh withered.

“Fine. Taking port,” the goblin grumbled.

“Follow, starboard,” the other soldier echoed.

The two of them vanished into the room, taking either side of the entry. Their spearpoints glinted as Rhode’s light moved.

The homunculus followed after, with Tinc at his back and Btiobhan behind him. Yellowing sheets draped over rows of stored furniture. Divans. Sofas. Cabinets. Bookshelves, packed tight. The room was carved up into aisles, with broken lines of sight and a thicket of cast shadow.

The □co■□te shut the door behind them and slapped the wood twice.

“Secure?” hissed the leftmost soldier.

“Yes. Sorry. Secure,” the □■□ confirmed.

“Check your lines, dipshit,” the right soldier growled, stalking further around the edge of the room.

“Fuck off, peepers. I’m an ear man,” spat the left gob as he edged slowly along the opposite way. His head was tilted just off center, his eyes half-closed.

Rhode lifted the lantern higher. The ceiling was comfortably high over his head. Playful scroll-work and simple pleasing patterns repeated over the wall-paper and cornering. A thick gray wool rug lay protectively over more expensive carpeting, under the wooden legs of heavy appliances. The walls on two sides were wide open into adjoining rooms.

“I can hear breathing,” announced the left guard.

“Sorry,” Rhode apologized.

“Someone else breathing. Foot rot take you, think I can’t tell the difference?” the soldier grumbled.

The homunculus suppressed a smile. He advanced and his fingers ran over fine cloth and the gentle curves of a grand armoire underneath. He cleared his throat. His voice came out scratchy and uncertain.

<> he called out. <>

The soft surfaces and irregular corners killed any echoes. Motes of dust drifted through the sweeping lantern beam. A creaking floorboard sounded from an uncertain direction. The problem they faced now was a challenge of area. The sealed space they were searching was not a single room, but a series of interconnected ones.

A dining area, a lounge, a play room, an open office. These were the old Malachite family rooms. Secluded and intimate, a place for Lords to shelter from the rest of the world. To raise and nurture their families.

The homunculus tilted a hanging glass chandelier aside. Its crystal pendants clattered and chimed.

The spearman ahead of Rhode nodded and waved him forward. The homunculus stepped forward into the nursery. A long, folding partition blocked off a good third of the small room, tall enough that he could peer over it only at an angle.

<>

Rhode’s voice raised louder with every word, until it began to crack and the phlegm in his throat took on the faintest taint of blood.

He wore a thin smile on his face and sighed. There was a richly stained wooden stool within reach, and he hefted it up. He judged the weight of that stool with a sense of resignation.

Moments later, it was what he used to block the knife.