By the time Jacks was finished with his steak meal, grey clouds had begun to whorl in the sky over Lindem. As he exited the Shattered Plate, Stepton in tow, a light rain was falling. Much of the crowds from before had dispersed at the sight of the dark, oncoming clouds which roiled overhead. The city took on a greyish-blue cast. Lamplight glowed behind rain-slick windows, glinting strangely and generating weird halos of light in the rainy dark.

Jacks stood under the awning out front of the restaurant. He opened his tobacco pouch and began to roll a smoke. Stepton sat next to his feet, looking up at him and licking his lips. Cleaning up the final bits of residue of their meal from before. Caught in his little doggy mustache.

Good dog.

He sparked a match and lit the end of his smoke.

The man with the golden earring was just standing several paces off, also under the cover of the awning. Turned out his name was Mosen. He was smoking a small-bowled pipe with a long, thin stem. Together, they inhaled, blowing out dense plumes of tobacco smoke and foggy breath.

"Should be here soon," Mosen said, talking over the patter of rain on the awning.

The man with the red glasses, Guntar, had left, saying he would send for a ride to take them to a more secure place where they could discuss the job. Mosen refused to disclose any more details until they'd met back up with Guntar.

He was on his second smoke when the carriage finally pulled up. Mosen put out his pipe, knocking ashy flakes from the bowl into the street. Jacks put out his smoke in the falling rain and flicked it away. He pulled his jacket tight and adjusted his hat before stepping out toward the carriage.

The driver, wearing a long, cloak-like coat and a black hat, dropped down and opened the door, bowing as he did so.

It was a bit fancy for Jacks's taste. It seemed like the type of ride you'd use to pick up a princess for a ball. But it was out of the rain. And it would take him where he needed to be.

He had to hunch to fit in through the door. He whistled, and Stepton jumped in after him.

Mosen came in last, shutting the door behind.

The carriage started moving again almost as soon as the door was shut. Jacks and Mosen sat opposite one another. There was enough seating in there for four people, maybe more.

Stepton stood on the floor between them. He'd warmed up to Mosen for some reason, and didn't seem all that concerned that they were all stuck in an enclosed space together. He was looking around, examining the space. Cocking his head. Probably listening to sounds and activity that Jacks himself would never be able to detect over the creak of the carriage wheels and the tramp of hooves on the street.

After they'd been moving for a bit, Stepton shook, shooting droplets of water in every direction. Mosen didn't seem to mind. He seemed fascinated by the dog, and Jacks's relationship with it.

Stepton hopped up on the seat next to Jacks. Sat.

Jacks sat back, resting his arm on the back of the seat.

“It’s an interesting dynamic you have, the two of you,” Mosen said. “As if you’re…partners.”

“Family,” Jacks corrected. “You ever have a dog?”

“There’s no such thing where I come from,” Mosen said. “Or at least, not the type of dog you would keep as a pet.”

“Where’s that?”

“A place far, far from here, Mr. Wellick.”

It was bait. He was trying to dominate the conversation. It was like a game. And here Jacks had thought they were just having a nice talk.

He didn’t ask where Mosen was from. Instead, he peered out the passenger window, watching the city scroll by.

“Have you heard of Zetakazet?” Mosen said.

Jacks had heard of it, in passing. He lacked a mental image of the place. Couldn’t point it out on a map. Couldn’t point out any particular nation besides maybe Alverand. And the parts that the Darovenians claimed were theirs. Basically, he knew enough geography to know the places he should and shouldn’t be. But he’d never been off the continent before. Didn’t plan to.

“It’s a wondrous place,” Mosen said. “We don't depend on crystal. Sapping energy from a dead god's corpse like leeches. And yet our technology rivals your own. We are richer. Our streets are cleaner. We are better to each other, compared to the people on this continent. It's a simple matter of...being civilized. That is my country.” He looked out the window. "You would probably hate it."

"You and that man with the red glasses," Jacks said. "You bark a lot. And not in an intimidating way. Like tiny little dogs."

"This coming from the man who had a gun to his head only an hour ago," Mosen said.

Jacks shrugged. "You caught me off guard. I'll give you that."

Mosen was still looking out the window. His eyes flicked back and forth, like he was scanning for something. "I think you deserve a warning. I know you won't listen, but I'll give it all the same."

"Generous of you."

"You think we should treat you as an equal. But let me ask you this. If you had shot Guntar earlier, right there in the restaurant, what do you think would have happened?"

A couple seconds passed. One of the wheels crossed over a jutting brick in the road, causing the carriage to rock and bump.

"I think you already know what I mean, but I'll spell it out for you all the same. The man already doesn’t like you, Mr. Wellick. Give him half a reason, and he could have you put down at any moment, with no blowback to him or his standing as an agent of the Federation. Meanwhile, if you were to kill Guntar, or attempt to kill Guntar, you would be hanging from the gallows within the hour. This is the difference between you and him. It is the way of things. As we move forward with this job, you would do well to remember it.”

They were on the outer edge of the city, passing a beautiful property lined with a black iron fence. Looking into it was like looking through the bars of a cell. But what Jacks saw on the other side reminded him a lot of his family's home plot, growing up. Hilly and lush with verdant grass and leafy trees.

"Tell me you understand, Mr. Wellick."

"Sure," Jacks said, only to get him to shut up. He could feel a smile playing at the corner of his lips. He was only one job away from ending his decade-long mission. One job away from finally being able to do right by his family.

What he would do after, he didn't know. The book was unwritten. But that almost made it more exciting. The unknowns. What would life be like with his purpose completed? The weight of vengeance for the death of his mother finally lifted. Where would he and Stepton go? What kind of life would they lead? How would it feel to finally put this behind him?

"This is it," Mosen said.

The carriage was turning, pulling into the fenced property. They came to a stop as the gate was opened for them.

Mosen faced Jacks. "We're here."

The carriage rocked as the driver hopped down to open the door. Mosen exited first. Jacks followed.

It was a wide, open estate. Estate was the word. Because unlike a homestead, the space wasn't being used for anything useful, like farming or ranching. It was just there to look lush and green and well-maintained. An open, hilly grassland spread in a wide circle around the house, fenced by tightly clustered copses of dark trees. The house itself was big, and spacious-looking, at least from the outside. Fashioned of grey stone bricks, with dark wooden accents on the roof and the frames of the windows. Two glowing lamps hung on either side of the wide front door.

Mosen, Jacks and Stepton walked along a cobbled stone pathway leading to the front steps. The stones where the size of Jack's fist, and were of various hues, some of them so pale they were almost white in color.

As soon as they were on the steps, the rustic, two-sided door opened, as if of its own volition. A servant who had been awaiting their arrival was on the other side of the doorway. A woman who smiled warmly, bowing to both Mosen and Jacks. Her smile dissipated as she spotted Stepton trotting in after us, feet pattering on the smooth, shiny, finished floor. After the door was shut, Jacks could feel the servant following them, eyeing Stepton's feet as he walked. As if the dog was capable of tracking more dirt in than anyone's boots would.

Jacks took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair.

They were in a large, circular landing. There two curved staircases, to the right and to the left of Jacks, leading up to a second floor. A woman stood there, looking down at them, one hand on a railing that connected both the stairwells.

She had a different look about her. Exotic. Perhaps from one of the eastern isles, though there was no way to tell which place in particular. She had dark hair, woven into a braid behind her head that hung down to her waist. Her clothes were tight-fitting, and reminded Jacks of a man's clothes rather than that of a proper lady. They accentuated her voluptuous figure. Her slim waist. When she moved, muscles rippled across her bare shoulders and arms, distinctly visible in the amber light of the chandelier. She rapped her long, manicured nails. A smile curved up at the corner of her lips.

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"What do we have here?" She said.

Jacks didn't speak. For some reason, he was waiting on Mosen, who clearly knew her. The dark-skinned man was looking up at her with some level of wariness.

The woman's smile grew. Her fingers gripped tight to the railing.

She did not walk down the curvature of the stairs, talking as she went, introducing herself, as Jacks might have expected. Instead, she heaved herself up over the railing, flipping as she fell, and landed on her feet directly in front of Jacks.

She was about the same height as Jacks. Maybe a little taller. But then, she was wearing black boots that came up to her knees, with high heels. A distinctly feminine touch that contradicted the rest of her attire.

Mosen made a sudden movement, about to step between them.

The woman looked at him and held up a hand, spreading her fingers apart, her nails appearing like a fan of knives. This defiant motion, for whatever reason, caused Mosen to stop in his tracks. Almost as if he was afraid of her.

“Leave him alone,” Mosen said. “He’s our contractor, not a plaything.”

“Why not both?” She said, turning back to Jacks. She had full lips and a soft face, but her eyes were hawk-like. Predatory.

Stepton was growling. It was that quiet, throaty, thrumming growl. The one so subtle that people didn’t always notice it right away. It was the most dangerous kind.

Jacks took it as an omen. And a warning. Call him superstitious, but he believed that dogs knew things people didn’t. Stepton in particular.

Not that he needed Stepton’s help to spot this kind of trouble. Despite the fact that there were things about her he found attractive. She wasn’t just another city girl, blushing and fanning herself so as not to faint from her overly tight corset, struggling to make polite conversation. This woman dressed how she wanted. Went where she wanted. Killed who she wanted. Bedded whoever she wanted to bed.

“You’d like to play,” she said, taking a step closer. Her voice was breathy and light. “Wouldn’t you?”

Stepton barked suddenly. Interjected between rhythmic growls.

“Can’t say I do,” Jacks said.

She moved yet closer, lifted her hand, her fingernails nearly brushing the skin of Jacks’s face. She cocked her head, eyes traveling from his face, down his body, and back up to his face again. “Why not?”

Jacks didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t avert his eyes. “My dog doesn’t like you.”

Her eyes questioned him. Was he joking? Was he serious?

After a moment, she landed on one of the two. Jacks didn’t know which. She smiled and winked. As she turned her back, she said, “You smell.”

There was no judgment in her tone. It was just a fact. Her keen awareness of the smell of his body.

It sent shivers running down the middle of his back. The bad kind of shivers.

More evidence that he was getting into something strange, here. With people like her floating around. She made Guntar seem…personable.

Jacks followed Mosen’s lead, crossing the landing and heading down a long hallway lined with strange paintings that looked more like chaotic symbols than art. He didn’t understand the appeal of them.

“Didn’t bother to warn me about that one, did you?” Jacks said.

Mosen shrugged. “Nothing I could have said would have adequately prepared you.”

Fair enough.

Mosen pushed open a swinging door which led to the biggest dining room Jacks had ever seen. A good section of it was taken up by a long, oak table with a dark finish, surrounded by dozens of high-backed chairs. A chandelier hung low from the ceiling, lighting up the faces of those who had been waiting for Jacks to appear. Attending this strange meeting.

Guntar stood on the far end of the table. He leaned an elbow against the back of one of the chairs. He held a small, short glass which contained some kind of dark, bourbon-y looking drink. He held up the glass, gesturing in Jacks's direction. "There he is. Our man of the hour."

There were two others in the room.

On one side of the table, a tall, blonde man with carefully combed hair turned and gave Jacks a curt sort of bow, legs close together. "Darl Erdenheim, at your service." He was strangely polite and sincere. A departure from Jacks's expectations of these people so far.

Darl wore an embroidered, militaristic looking jacket, with a dozen gold-colored buttons down the front. It was unbuttoned at the moment, a loose white shirt underneath. He had a sheathed rapier at his side, with a shiny silver hilt adorned in a fancy metalwork design that reminded Jack of flowers, in an abstract sort of way. Or some type of plant life, at least. The swoops and curves of it. It seemed more ceremonial than practical.

As Darl rose from his bow, a stray blonde curl fell, resting against his cheek. "I hear you're the man to help us with our...predicament."

"So I've been told," Jacks said. "Although, I still don't know what it is I'm supposed to be doing."

"Of course," Darl said deferentially, nodding with a rigid, jerking motion that reminded Jack of the bow from before. "We'll be sure to supply you with the details."

"We'll tell him only what he needs to know," said the other one, with a gruff, raspy voice. "Nothing more."

The man was sitting on the opposite side of the table from Darl. Slouched back, lounging in his chair. One knee higher than the other, braced against the edge of the table. A glass like Guntar's in his hand, with a finger of drink still left in it. He was looking at Jacks. Assessing him. He didn't seem impressed. No agreeableness to his expression. It was obvious that Jacks was not a person to him, but a potential tool. And nothing beyond that.

Not that Jacks much cared. Not if he got what he was promised him.

Still. He was no one's errand boy. He was the hunter Jacks Wellick.

"His name is Jacks," Jacks said. He looked at Guntar, across the table. "Have the two of them met?"

Guntar's face was unreadable. He was still wearing those ridiculous tinted glasses.

"I think what our friend Corloff means to say," Darl said, "Is that we are in the midst of a sensitive endeavor, some of the details of which we may not be able to share. But we'll tell you everything you need to know. And we'll answer any questions we can."

Corloff scowled and downed the rest of his drink. He set the glass back down on the tabletop, hard.

Jacks's attention was drawn to the tabletop itself. Spread out across it were a variety of connected charts and maps. He recognized a list of passenger train schedules. The maps themselves were of a dozen or so high-traffic areas, mostly in the southern half of Alverand. Certain locations on the maps were circled, stenciled underneath. Notes on the activity of some target it appeared these people were chasing.

He looked closely at the notes on the map nearest him on the table, taking note of the dates. "You know where the target it going to be...before they arrive?"

"Nevermind that," Guntar said. "Our intel is our business, unless we say otherwise."

Depending on how things played out, knowing where their intelligence was coming from could be important, but Jacks decided against arguing the point. Not right now.

He hung his hat on the backs of one of the chairs. "Is this a single person you're tracking?"

"Yes," Darl said. As he leaned over the table, his errant blonde curl hung down like a vine. "A woman."

"What kind of woman?"

"A dangerous woman," Corloff said. He had brownish-green, rusty-looking eyes. The straight, flat, acute slant of his nose cast a distinct shadow on one cheek. "A special woman."

"Her name's Harlowe," Guntar said. "Ring a bell?"

Jacks nodded. He'd heard the name. "Some kind of Federation war hero. A Deadeye. But why are you after her?"

"Does it matter?" Corloff said.

"No," Jacks said. "I was just curious. I'm assuming you want her alive?"

"Why do you say that?" Guntar said.

"You seem to be able to predict where she's going to be. Even a Deadeye can't stop a sniper's bullet, caught unawares. Your problem is getting in close. You’ve been made. You already tried nabbing her. Next time, she’ll see you coming. That’s why you need me.”

Everyone in the room besides Jacks seemed to be exchanging glances with one another. And the eastern woman, who was standing across the table from him, staring at him. She winked and waved. Jacks hadn't noticed when she'd come into the room. He tried to ignore her.

“We can get into the nitty gritties in the morning,” Guntar said. “I just thought you should meet everyone. Looks like you have.”

Close enough. He still didn’t know the woman’s name, but that was alright. He would be lucky if he never saw or spoke with her again.

Guntar took another pull from his glass. “We have a room set up for you upstairs. And a place out in the stable for the dog, if you like.”

Jacks shook his head. “Dog stays with me.” He grabbed his hat.

“Very well,” Guntar said. “Darl, would you be so kind as to escort the man to his quarters?”

“Of course,” Darl said. “Goodnight to you all. May our plans bear fruit. Success is within our grasp. I salute all of you.” And then he did. He actually saluted.

Mosen nodded. Guntar raised his glass. Corloff stared at nothing, running a finger along the rim of the empty glass in an endless circle. The woman’s eyes were still fixed on Jacks, like a cat eyeing the subtly moving contents of a fishbowl.

Jacks didn't bother with a goodnight.

Darl led him down the length of the dining room and through a door. They walked up a flight of stairs and down a hall. Stepton's claws click-click-click-ed on the hardwood floor. There were windows dotted along one wall, letting in cones of natural light from the east, where the sun had already begun to set.

"It seems Zakuran has taken a liking to you," Darl said over his shoulder. "Best to avoid attention from one like her."

"It's all cryptic warnings and advice with you people," Jacks said.

Darl smiled a little. "It makes sense that you would find us strange. We are adrift, the five of us. Our souls do not belong to this land. Perhaps not even to this era of time."

As much as Jacks wanted to poke fun at the poetry of it, it was a sentiment he resonated with. Everything in him longed for a time gone by. The life he used to have. A way of living he wasn't certain he would be able to return to once his work was done. The more the world changed around him, the harder it was to feel like he was truly a part of it. A dead ghost drifting through a living world.

But those were just thoughts. Things that kept him up at night now and then. Feelings were intractable, molded by anxiety and the unknown. Projections of perceived uncertainties. But action forged a path to concrete reality. To the truth. And that was what Jacks was doing now. Taking action. He would think later, once the consequences of his action had taken fruit.

Darl opened the door to his room. It was a small, comfy space, well-furnished. The walls were painted a bright green. The bed had a thick, luxurious mattress. There was an oil lamp on the nightstand, embroidered with fancy filigree. There was even a walk-in closet, with it's own door.

There was more space here than he could possibly need. Everything he'd brought with him would fit in a small stack next to the bed.

"If you need to relieve yourself, there's a lavatory down the hall," Darl said.

"Lavatory?" Jacks said. But Darl had already left the room.

As soon as the door was shut, Jacks scanned the place. He ran his fingers along the walls and floor, feeling for trap doors or secret spaces. In the end, he decided there was only one way in and out of the room. Whether that was a good or bad thing, he couldn't decide.

Actually, no. There was a window. The wood frame seemed thin enough that he could smash through it. And part of the slanted rooftop was visible not far below the window. The glass he could break first, before bursting through. It would be dangerous. A last resort. He checked to make sure the window was closed and locked.

He removed his jacket, satchel, and gunbelt, setting them next to the bed. He would be sure to keep his revolver and hunting knife close at hand.

He tried the bed. Immediately disliked it. It was too soft. Too malleable. Felt almost like it was absorbing his body. It was suffocating.

He stood, thought for a moment.

Stepton sat in a corner, watching with head cocked and ears erect as Jacks pulled back the covers and began to stuff some of his belongings underneath. Carefully forming a vaguely human shape underneath the blankets.

"I know," Jacks said, glancing over at Stepton. "It's a little silly." But there was no way to know if it would pay off. Even if it only bought him a couple of seconds.

He wasn't used to being easy to find. In the wilderness he liked to sleep under coverings of cut branches and bits of brush. He slept light, and the snapping of a twig would often wake him, giving him time to respond to an unwanted presence.

Everything was quiet, here. No nightly noises of the wild. Thick walls absorbed and obstructed the sounds of the rest of the house's occupants. Their footsteps, and voices. The opening and shutting of doors.

He was disappointed to find that the door didn't lock. Though perhaps even if it did, someone would probably have the key.

Still.

He sat down on the floor next to the bed. Stepton came up next to him, licking his lips.

Smirking, Jacks grabbed a finger-length section of dry jerky from his bag and tossed it.

Stepton caught it in his jaws. He chewed, one eye squinting. It was so tough and dry that he had to get down on the floor and hold the stick of jerky between his paws, biting off little pieces at a time.

Jacks scratched the side of his neck. He watched the hairs on the dog's mustache bristle as he bit down. "We'll be all right."