He didn’t stick around. Nor did he contact the police. This was Captain Miggs’s precinct, and if the man wasn’t already fully bought, then he was certainly for rent. And he had a personal dislike for Anduron. Any chance that came his way to stick something to Anduron, no doubt Miggs would take it.

Better that he simply hadn’t been at the office when those shots were heard, if anyone had indeed called them in. Better to handle this himself. And he certainly wasn’t going to go back, or to his apartment, when someone had a death mark on him.

No. It was the streets for now. He walked at first, out of the little pocket of quiet in which he rented his office space, and mulled over the known facts. Then he spotted a taxi, and then did the mulling in a musty and much-worn back seat. The driver was the chatty type, but a couple of monosyllabic replies got the message across, and Anduron was left in peace.

Cars. The whole concept still hadn’t fully lost its alien-ness. Not to someone who remembered the days of horses and dirt paths. Once, this had all been green wilderness, in which he’d walked and hunted. Now he was moved past building after building, with speed and relative efficiency, but no grace or life.

He could just barely glimpse an area that had been left untouched; the city authorities had hemmed it in with a metal fence and called it a park. The sight of the green through the bars, like a prison, triggered something in Anduron that he had no words for. But soon after the taxi came to a stop, and he was back on the job.

He paid the driver without comment, and walked down a long flight of stairs. There he found a row of dark houses, and strode for the only one that had a light burning above the door.

The two guards standing outside weren’t the sort hired to greet guests with a winning smile and an offer to take their coats. They were hired for their mean faces and hard hands, and a proven track record.

“Good evening, boys,” Anduron said in a neutral tone. Confrontation or false cheer would get him nowhere. “Have I been formally exiled?”

He pointed at the door. The bigger and meaner-looking of the two held his response for a while, before moving that brick he had for a jaw and speaking.

“No,” was the plain and surly response.

“Is he in?”

“Yeah,” the man replied, as if Anduron had just insulted his entire family.

“Well, then.”

Anduron touched the brim of his hat, and took the doorknob.

“No trouble,” the other one said.

“No trouble on my part, boys.”

He didn’t mind the attitude, on this night or any previous one. The clientele were the sort to necessitate men like this. The door swung in, and he was blasted in the face with the scent of tobacco and strong alcohol.

The Mineshaft was a bit of an oddity; it had all the elements of a cheap dive one would find in a poor neighbourhood, where one would see the same faces every night, drinking away the misery of the day before going home to rest for more of the same. But the Mineshaft had far more floor space than the usually cramped little cubbies that were its cousins. At night, such as now, the limited lighting cast much of it into gloom, giving a bit of privacy to meetings at the spread-out tables. What bits of the interior that were out of easy reach of angry drunks were also quite well built, many decorated with panels of finely-carved wood.

On the wall behind the bar itself, a shelf was set aside for a large phonograph, which provided ambiance in the form of one of those odd hybrid music styles that had formed in the clumping-together of cultures that was this city. It was another thing Anduron didn’t care for; not the music itself, but what was being done to it. What was a purer expression of emotion and the spirit itself, than music? And here it was, bound in a disc of scratched plastic, as if by some wicked necromancer, and pushed out of a metal funnel that did to music what telephones did to the voice.

But he could not stand against the march of time, and so he wouldn’t embarrass himself by trying.

Instead he strode up to the bar and ordered a seltzer water. The bartender was the sort to visibly disapprove of his choice, but Anduron had bigger concerns than that. Such as holding onto his wits during this night.

Excuse for being there in hand, Anduron started strolling around. He stayed away from the lights as best he could, and took in faces and voices, searching for familiar ones. He saw one and heard another that both might spell trouble, but didn’t guarantee it, and so he risked staying. His weaving walk gradually led him to the bottom of the stairs that led to the second floor. It was flanked by two men much like those outside.

“Good evening,” he told them. He had never bothered to learn their names, and wasn’t even sure they knew his, despite his previous visits. But clearly no one involved cared. “I understand the man of the house is in.”

“He is,” one of the guards said, in a voice slightly more mellow than that of his colleagues.

“I have a rather urgent matter to discuss with him. Is he receiving visitors?”

“Not right now. You’ll have to wait.”

“Do you have any kind of schedule on hand?”

“No we do not.”

That was the evident end of it, and Anduron didn’t push things. These boys pushed back. And they had the backing of their colleagues at the front door. And another pair at the back door. And sometimes some extra upstairs.

Instead he went back to his shadowy drift, exploring the other half of the bottom floor, beyond the staircase. The tables were more well-manned there, and the figures at each were more hunched over and closer together. The usual topics were sins past and future, and the underworld’s current winds, and being spotted listening in could be dangerous. Thankfully, somehow, even after all these ages of familiarity, humans still tended to underestimate elven hearing. So he was free to be a mere shadow in the distance, receiving gossip and dark topics without much risk. One never knew what might be relevant to a future case, and so he made a habit of this. But right now, he needed to know why someone had had a reason to send a three-man hit squad after a nobody like Marcus.

Anduron had been braced for trouble from Kenton, or at least his orbit. But he couldn’t see how Marcus might have gotten himself involved with a big-leaguer like that. His mistakes had never been that elaborate.

Finally, he spotted a familiar face he didn’t mind spotting him back.

“Bridger.”

“Ah! Look who it is!”

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They didn’t share a deep friendship, but there had never been any clashing, and the plump man was alone at a table, clearly drinking out of boredom. He indicated the chair opposite his own before Anduron could even ask.

“What are you drinking?” Bridger asked, and tapped his own pint of something dreadfully dark and bitter.

“Justice,” Anduron replied with a little grin.

The man barked out an alcohol-powered chuckle. It was one of the little-noted upsides of being sober among drunk people; one could pretend to have an amazing sense of humour.

“Justice, yeah.”

Bridger let out an exhale, and had himself a hearty swig.

“I did my shift at that conveyor belt.”

“You haven’t thought of getting back?”

The levity visibly bled out of Bridger, and Anduron regretted asking. The man had always kept quiet about what drove him out of activist journalism, but it had been sudden and terrible. Or rather, someone terrible.

“No. I… no. I don’t have your running speed, elf. I’m happy just putting food on the table.”

“Do keep yourself fed, Bridger,” Anduron said gently.

“But I do still hear things, of course. At the bars, at the barbershop, at work.”

“I know you do,” Anduron said meaningfully.

Bridger wasn’t too drunk to catch on. He had another big swig, possibly to help alleviate that.

“You aren’t just here to drink and chat, are you?”

“I am not,” Anduron told him. “I have a problem. Personal, not work-related.”

“I am…” Bridger shrugged, “... not surprised. Word has it that you’ve stepped on some dangerous toes recently.”

“Or rather, the results are recent,” Anduron said. “Have you heard anything with substance to it?”

Anduron saw the veil being drawn over Bridger’s spirit. A veil made of dreadful fear that had become a habit. But he also thought he saw the man fight against it, a hint of the person he’d once been.

“You haven’t considered just getting out of town for a while?” the human asked. “Hunker down until the winds stop blowing?”

“I feel I gave it due consideration, but… no. I’m staying. I am quite invested here. I have personal reasons.”

“Sure. Sure. But… ah!”

It was a grunt of surrender.

“You asked me about substance. I don’t think I have it. Nothing you could put in one of your case files, or call on in court. But people are saying, in that way that they do, that there is a mark on you. A freelance mark, in light of…”

Bridger fell silent, and took a quick look around for anyone within hearing range. He was checking for human hearing range, even after all these ages of their people interacting, but Anduron hadn’t spotted any other elves here.

“In light of how badly things fell apart for the outfit. You-know-who.”

“I do know. Although I do stress, Bridger-”

“That you don’t discuss your cases. Heh. Sure, elf. Sure.”

“Sure.”

The policy was a matter of deniability, but Anduron did allow himself to return Bridger’s knowing look.

“It might be just a rumour,” the human went on. “Someone’s drunken musings carried on the wind and out into the city. But that wouldn’t make you safe, Anduron. A rumour of a reward might be all it takes for someone dumb, greedy and cruel to take a shot at you.”

“I realise that. I also suspected something like this was passing around. Now I have confirmation.”

He sipped his seltzer. The tickle of bubbles in his mouth was one of the things he definitely did appreciate about this era.

If it really was just a rumour, then it would fade away over time, as the trial and its consequences faded from public memory. If it wasn’t, and if Kenton did indeed have a little nest egg stashed away somewhere, then Anduron was entering a dangerous new era.

Drink tended to reveal character, and Bridger, stars bless him, was wearing concern ever more openly as the beer hit him.

“Anduron…” he said, with the air of a man about to make a desperate plea. “I really think you should-”

Anduron held a finger up as a call for silence.

“Wha?”

Anduron’s ears warned him of footsteps, approaching him from behind with an attempt at silence. He put one hand on the table and twisted the chair around. Now opposite him was a familiar fellow, hatless and clad in a very typical dark coat. He wasn’t particularly big, but radiated the sort of drunken, angry energy that could add a lot of force.

“If you have some business with me, Simon,” Anduron told him. “Then have the grace to do it to my face.”

“Your face?” the human replied. “Oh, I might do something to your face, elf.”

Anduron didn’t turn his head, but raised an arm and pointed to his left.

“You too,” he said, to the unseen but quite heard other figure. “I know you’re there.”

Both of them had stopped, but Anduron knew that could change in a moment.

“What’s the problem, Simon?”

“My problem?” the drunk goon answered in a mocking falsetto. “You know my damn problem, elf. You caused my cousin a lot of trouble.”

“I did nothing to your cousin,” Anduron replied evenly, and it was true, in a way. He’d never confronted the man directly. Just dug around for information, as he’d been hired to do.

“Orc shit,” Simon insisted. “You’re trouble. You’re a… you’re a pest, drifting around, poking through garbage like a rat.”

“Go back to your seat, Simon.”

“I’ll go when I’m damn well ready, elf!”

“Well, get ready. This rat bites when it has to.”

“Rat…” Simon chuckled. “Well, maybe I’m the cat who’ll eat the rat.”

Anduron launched into rhyme.

The foolish cat found the rat,

Said I’ll eat you, what say you to that?

Little enough, said the rat as it spat,

For to this rat, you are no cat

Just a lesser rat, a fool, and a brat,

That is what the rat thought of the cat.

Simon glared at him, as his drunken brain went through some confusion.

“Yeah, you’re really clever. You’re really, really clever. You…”

Anduron’s plan for this confrontation had been simple, and now it came to fruition. Two of the house goons showed up; the fellows from the bottom of the stairs.

“What is going on here?” one asked, though he knew perfectly well.

“I have some business with that one,” Simon said, and slightly reined in his belligerence as he pointed at Anduron.

“Do your business elsewhere,” the guard told him in the firm, menacing voice of a professional fist.

“Elsewhere…” Simon growled, and started turning a deeper shade of red. The booze he’d pickled his brain in was making him foolish, but fools could be dangerous, of course.

“You know what I think?” he went on. “You know what? I think-”

“I think you should stop thinking, Simon. You haven’t the talent for it.”

The rather powerful voice belonged to the dwarf who’d joined the scene without anyone but Anduron noticing. He wore a suit vest and matching pants, leather shoes that shone like mirrors, and an easy, menacing smile. The piss and wind started leaking out of Simon. Still, he couldn’t keep some sullenness out of his voice.

“Just talking.”

“My rules are not for breaking, Simon, and nor is my furniture. Go. Go cool your head outside. Let’s give it a month before you come back here.”

Simon hesitated, and the dwarf’s smile faded away, leaving only the menace.

“Last chance, Simon. Tuck your tail before it gets tucked.”

Sense won over drink, and Simon slunk away towards the front door. His companion made himself scarce amidst the other patrons.

“And that’s that,” the dwarf said, and the smile returned, as insincere as it had been the first time. “Anduron, my fine fellow: Why are you here?”

“To meet you, Faeler.”

“Of course. The best reason to visit The Mineshaft. Come along.”