“Give me one moment,” Wardship Captain Paresh said, holding up a hand. He stepped back a few paces to the desk to talk shop with the bookkeeper, and I took the time to glance at Lenya with the Analysis Card.

Name :

Lenya of the Hoary Gold, Level 15

Stats :

Str 4, Dex 8, Con 6, Mnd 17

Skills :

Elementalism Lvl 3 (Lvl 10)

Herbalism Lvl 1 (Lvl 4)

Influence Lvl 2 (Lvl 4)

Mysticism Lvl 4 (Lvl 10)

Survivalism Lvl 0 (Lvl 2)

Special :

Balance Power

Inventory :

Ritual Staff, Golden Talisman

Weakness :

Fearful of tight spaces

Home :

Fey Fields, Aricaeëth

Lenya! That seems massive — the potential to max out two Skills, including spellcasting and, in my understanding, some kind of prophecy-making ability. Though the consideration that off-worlders might all have similar projected Skills to these popped into my mind. I didn’t have time to think on it more, so put the knowledge in my back pocket for now. My already broken cheat item had become even more useful.

I also noticed she’d levelled up. Since she doesn’t know what Skills are, or doesn’t understand it in videogame LitRPG terms, I’m guessing her SYS hasn’t told her about Levels . . . or Stats, either. I couldn’t remember specifically her Stats, but it seemed to me they were unchanged between levelling. Looks like her SYS improves her Stats differently to mine, perhaps just allocates points where they make sense — assuming a lifetime of research, with little fighting, her high Mind makes sense.

Paresh turned to us with a sheet of parchment showing a detailed sketch of a man.

“This is the Ripper, Yariq Sahl, a Zoraki, in our tongue — Ishkali, desert-folk. He’s an exile known for extreme cruelty and ruthlessness in his pursuit of fortune and power. The Wardship captured him two weeks ago and we were in a long process of deciding what to do with him; no fewer than three cities have demanded he be released to them for justice for crimes of murder, torture and mutilation of corpses. That was, until yesterday when all of this provided the perfect cover for his breakout. We do not know how, but it is presumed he had help from outside, and you’ll be unsurprised to hear that, if that is the case, it is probably the work of the Shadow Prowlers.”

I studied his sketched face. Long, curly dark hair, the deep blue skin of the desert-folk, thin, wide eyes and a thin, straight nose. He had pale, symmetrical, jagged, zig-zagging tattoos stretching to the bottoms of his ears from each corner of his mouth, like the rise and fall of the blue dunes of the Breathing Sands.

“If you managed to catch him the first time, why has the Wardship now posted a bounty?” Lenya asked from beside me. She was brought up to her full straight-backed height, all regal like. The golden earrings glinted in the lamplight and the tear-shaped chalcedony gem hanging from the gold band on her forehead shifted as she jutted her chin out.

“It was not without a fight,” Paresh explained simply. “We lost two very good wardens, Thalri and Estra, the last time we managed it. We are sure he has not yet left the city, but with the chaos of the Scouring, we are spread thin, and many wardens are still receiving care at the Horizon Arena. And so, reluctantly but with open arms, we turn to you. His bounty, alive, is sixty copper. Forty dead.”

That makes sense, I thought.

“How can you be sure he has not absconded?” Lenya asked.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Paresh scratched the back of his neck with a long, leathery finger, beneath his leather cowl. “An informant has confirmed he is hunkered down in a half-ruined house in the Dwellship, that he’s been spotted there multiple times, perhaps hoping to flee once the dust settles.”

Sharing a glance with Lenya, who half-smiled through her veneer, I nodded.

“We’ll take it.”

“Do we have competition?” she asked.

“You are the first we have brought this to. There are bounty hunters in this city, but they are known to the denizens of the Dwellship and we are on . . . less than stellar grounds these days. We have decided to rely on newcomers to the city, and none fill the bill better than you three — or two.”

He then disappeared through the back door again. When he returned, he had in tow a small, wiry jungle-folk with tawny fur and wide green eyes, wearing a dark grey linen tunic, tied tight about her very small waist, and a brown cloak over her shoulders.

“This is Fara, she will lead you to the barricade before the rise to the Dwellship.”

The little jungle-folk inclined her head and nodded sharply, green eyes sparkling but serious.

“I’ll take you most of the way and point it out to you, but I don’t want to be spotted with you, if that’s okay. If word gets out that you’re with the wardens, I . . .”

“I take it you’re the informant?” I asked.

She shifted her weight with more than a little guilt.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.”

Fara exhaled heavily and clapped her hands together, “Then follow me!”

We passed through the Wardship and Guestship and climbed up the now warden-protected ladder that led to the Craftship and the other businesses. Fara moved quick on her feet and despite our difference in size kept up ahead of us easily, her tail swishing beneath her tunic.

As we went, I kept an eye out for Alator’s fiery red hair, but saw no sign.

“Talbot, it might be good to give him some time,” Lenya came to my side, seeing me glance around for the umpteenth time. “In all honesty, I don’t believe Alator is cut out for this type of work.”

She was right, of course — that 17 Mind Stat working its magic — at the first sight of danger, Alator would have leapt into full kill mode.

Repairs were still ongoing everywhere, with many jungle-folk (and others) waiting around or trying to entertain themselves with games, or covered in mourning shrouds. The people of Ith-Korr had a peculiar rite for the dead, known as gate-keeping, where one person of the deceased’s family volunteered to remain at their side in vigil.

Even in the short half-hour or so we walked, we passed dozens of covered biers by the sides of the streets, and a little jungle-folk solemnly stood beside each of them. Whenever we passed one, I couldn’t help inclining my head to them and bunching up my chin in a hopefully sympathetic movement that had become very practised over the past two days.

When we were in sight of the rise, the open portal that led up to the rubbish tier and further to the Dwellship, Fara stopped us both with raised hands. She quickly explained the position of the house on the Dwellship as best she could using landmarks and vague descriptions of the lay of the land and the trunks of the trees.

“If you find Yariq Sahl, try at first to command him to follow. If that fails,” she produced a thin vine-woven rope, “Tie him up. He is not loved by the people here, but as Wardship Captain Paresh intimated, it’ll be best to try to avoid any confusion.”

“Strangers entering a home and tying up its denizen, to then parade him through the streets. . . . No, I don’t think they’ll take too kindly,” I sighed, considering the right way.

Fara nodded glumly, then turned on her heels and headed back.

The rope ladder — or rise — to the Dwellship had been reinforced and barricaded. A mass of wooden spikes, similar to that protecting the Wardship barracks, were manned by two heavily-armoured wardens bearing glinting short spears.

“Talbot of the Flying Spear!” one of them said.

I raised a hand.

“We’ve warden business up top, Wardship Captain Paresh has granted us passage.”

The wardens nodded and together moved a heavy beam, then lifted out of place a broad wooden plank that acted as a sort of hingeless door, and bade us through, before closing it behind us again.

“Shout from there on your return.”

Heart in my throat, I climbed the ladder to the Dwellship for the first time since the Scouring. The air felt electric as we moved over the threshold and stood on the residential tier. The streets — mostly narrow alleys lined with ragged, makeshift homes of patchworked wood, vine and cloth — all bore scars from the incursion and the chaos that followed. Some were little more than splintered rubble, and many others were leaning precariously on one another, visibly bulging, threatening to buckle under twisted beams and blackened scorch marks.

We made off following Fara’s instructions, stepping lightly in a vague attempt to avoid drawing too much attention. There were pockets of people around, huddled together, makeshift weapons on show. Even the children had the gaunt look of survival etched onto their faces. At every few doors, monkey faces poked out and watched us with hard expressions, daring us to prove that we didn’t belong there.

“No wonder tensions boiled over,” I whispered to the elf princess. “The people here had nothing even before all this.”

Lenya nodded, and hugged her staff to her. The people of the Dwellship were not only resentful, they were on edge. Young men with flinty eyes sparking around presented a readiness to fight, and for a few streets at each point, we were tailed by one opportunistic group or another, before they decided against it, and left us be.

A few cautious steps through narrow alleyways, ropey vines overhead, watchful eyes always on us, we saw the house Fara described — a half collapsed shelter, barely standing; roof askew and walls thick with grime and decay, given up on well before the Scouring. A hushed chatter picked up around us then died down as our arrival drew attention.

Suddenly, in a practiced motion but not entirely in sync, ten or so Vyneshi slinked from the shadows or dropped down from the slack vines above us. Each of them bore a weapon — dagger, club or nail bat — and they set out at a wide semi-circle in front of the dilapidated house.