Swick did focus, and he focused long and hard for all it achieved. The problem was, familiar with racket towns or no, the things were still bloody mazes. And a single man in all of that was a very small matter to be searching for.

But doable, most of the time. He was Swick the Swift after all. The major concern- the only real concern- had been doing it with seemingly an entire city out for his head, and the enchantment upon his face no longer working.

Swick had added it years ago, and at no small expense to himself. Some touch of mind magic meant to banish others from taking note of him. It wasn’t all-powerful, those who knew him, and those who were searching specifically for him, had low chances of succumbing to it, but for those who only knew him by portrait and reputation it served as a powerful deterrent.

Not a small advantage, with the bounty he had on him. But it hadn’t worked. That concerned Swick, and he devoted almost as much time to reasoning out why as he did to seeking out their Bal target.

The answer came to him on their third day in the city, hitting him between the eyes like a sledgehammer.

“Those mercenaries, the first group.” Swick noted. “They were after you.”

He directed his words to the Hand, who frowned at them.

“What makes you think that?”

“They can’t have been after me, my face repels recognition and memory unless a person has met me personally. The only reason you could approach me was because you didn’t mean to have me captured. Which means the bounty they’re talking about is on your head.”

Instantly, the Hand swore.

“Bugger.” He spat. “Fuck. So…Fuck. That means it’s the Dark Lord’s doing, then. It has to be.”

Swick had drawn the very same conclusion, but it still needled him to hear it. He’d been holding out hope that he was wrong.

“Best keep our heads down, more than before.” He decided. “We don’t know what else might be looking for us in this city.”

The Hand, for once, did not need any convincing.

Another day passed, and they heard whispered rumours of the one they sought.

Swick did most of the talking, now that they’d confirmed his magic still worked, and so information gathering went a damn sight quicker than it had before. They soon had a list of aliases, possible locations and living habits to go by. Not a bad haul, he decided. Shame he wasn’t charging his usual rates.

“When we find this Bal fellow, we need to take him by force.” The Hand noted. Swick glanced his way, baffled.

“Why the hell would we do that?”

“Because we can’t afford to risk your skyship’s repairs on him voluntarily saying yes.” Was all the man said, and his bearing suddenly seemed changed even as he said it. Back stiffer, face harder, hands flitting to a spot behind him as if they reflexively yearned to take some soldier’s posture.

Arbite, Swick decided, was not the sort of place he had any intention of visiting.

“I’m injured.” He pointed out. The Hand rolled his eyes.

“You’re a Hero, and I’m better than nine out of ten Knights. If some bloody treasure hunter can hold us both off at once then frankly I’ll be heading back to Abaritan and stripping each one of the palace guards of their position.”

He had a point, but still…Swick didn’t like charging into fights. For all he knew, this treasure hunter could hold them both off at once. Or had a bodyguard who could. For all they knew the Red Fingers had figured out why they were in Torib and were squatting around him ready to ambush Swick the moment he made his move.

Kicking down doors and cracking open heads was a fine strategy, sometimes. Make a habit of it, though, and one day you’d meet someone better at it than you were. And you only got to make that mistake once.

“Do you have any alternatives?” The Hand asked. “This man has been perfectly hostile to Kings and Queens until now, how exactly do you think that will differ with Shaiagrazni?”

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

Swick had to admit, he had a point. He was still connected enough to all the old rumour networks to know that the stories attached to his boss were rarely the good ones. For every anecdote about him abolishing poverty within his conquered territories, there were five more about the pain coat.

Sometimes it paid to rule in such a way as to not make one’s subjects think one was an insane murderous monster, apparently.

“Fine.” Swick conceded, feeling his nerves fraying as he did. “Fine, bugger it, we’ll do this your way. So long as you’re aware of the risks.”

“Oh, I am.” The Hand replied, fingers nervously resting on the pommel of his sword. “Believe me, I am, but I don’t see that we have any alternative choices.”

He was probably right there. Swick swore again, and then they headed out to find the treasure hunter.

The first two spots had been either bad information or just unlucky searches, because they didn’t find a trace of any Bal in either. The next, though, was altogether luckier. Third time being the charm and all that.

It was a warehouse, large and squat of the sort a Magus might purchase in the hopes of converting it to some arcane workstation. There was no touch of magic to the air now, fortunately, but Swick still got the impression of strange and complex goings-on within the place. The hairs along his arm stood on end, and his mouth dried.

“Looks like a trap.” He noted, and the Hand scoffed.

“Looks like a bloody workplace, I know traps.”

“You know military traps. A trap to you is something that stops a thousand men from turning around while they stand shield to shield, you have no idea about spotting a trap in a street.”

The Hand looked thoughtful for a moment, conceding the point with a nod.

“And you’re not just being paranoid?”

Was he? Swick sighed.

“I probably am.” He said at last. “But still, if I’m not…”

“Then it’s a bloody disaster.” The Hand finished. “Damn…We don’t have any choice, we have to get this man, trap or no.”

“Trap or no.” Swick agreed, and so they waited.

Fortunately, the treasure hunter named Bal was out of his workstation sooner rather than later. Swick’s muscles had barely had the chance to cramp when he saw the door open and reveal a wreathed man striding out, without a bodyguard in sight. Tall, lithe and…

Oddly familiar? Swick found himself frowning, trying to nail down where he’d seen the man before. It was no use. The memory would come back to him or it wouldn’t, but he had no time to waste on simply dragging his heels in anticipation for it. Now was the time to act.

They paused only a few moments more, waiting for the treasure hunter to move across the street and draw closer to their perch. It was a good spot, relatively far from the street’s centre and high up- which meant anyone shorter than eight feet would have no line of sight to them. The hunter closed, closed more. Finally closed enough.

Swick lunged, slitting his thumb and filling the air with an arc of blood as his body raced it down to the ground. Clearly the treasure hunter heard something- his feet on the roof or his clothes dragging against the air- because they turned just in time to evade him.

He landed right where they’d been standing, and twisted aside from the blow he knew was aimed at his back. Swick saw the weapon miss him by inches- a damned bastard sword, and a big one- right before a boot crunched into his belly and threw him back. He stumbled, righted himself, parried a swing with one dagger and slashed for the enemy’s wrist with his other. They swayed back just in time to avoid him.

The Hand was behind them, swinging too, but he missed the treasure hunter by a mile as they shot to one side, rolled and sprang back up onto their feet. Circling, now, cautious despite their power.

Swick’s leg throbbed. Whatever was wrong with it had stayed wrong, despite the few days of healing, and the fractional amount of mobility he’d regained was too little for an enemy of this strength. He sent a glance towards the Hand, who seemed to catch his meaning quickly. They split up, aiming to close in on the treasure hunter from two sides at once.

The treasure hunter moved first.

With a cry and a gasp, Bal raised his sword and just barely kept a swing from his enemy from reaching his gut. Swick moved to close and help, gritting his teeth against the burning of his wound.

He had to admit, the Hand really was quite good. For a pen-pusher. But his enemy was more than one, more than ten cuts above the Knights he’d so favourably compared himself to. Even backing off and giving up the very notion of offence, he was failing to keep his body safe from the sword swings that seemed to close in almost a dozen times each second.

Swick felt around, feeling his blood where it clung to the ground, decided it was worth translocating and tipping his hand. He appeared within eight feet of the treasure hunter, lunging with both daggers at once and clearly taking the bastard off-guard by how he retained his head.

Not off guard enough, though. Swick was still slowed by his leg, and the blade came up before his attacks could land. He felt metal screech on metal, stumbling back, hissing as his injury flared up again. The Hand was already encircling their foe however, squatted low and swinging for the belly.

A nasty wound, that, if it landed. It didn’t though. The treasure hunter whipped aside and slashed downwards.

Swords were bad against armour, at least with cuts and hacks. But there were limits to any rule, and apparently the hunter’s strength was well past the limit of that one. Swick heard links of chain snapping apart as steel ate through steel, turning the air crimson where the Hand fell back. He was moving a lot, and a glance told Swick the cut had been shallow. Lucky, nothing more.

He growled, sliced the back of his hand and whipped it out in front of him. The treasure hunter moved, dodging, twisting, but just barely letting a fleck of crimson catch his arm. Swick translocated before he could even notice the failure.