Smiling to himself, Bernt made his way down the street toward the lower city administrative district, ready to check the culverts and storm drains and clear out any obstructions before doing the same underground in the actual sewer system. In a more socially conscious world, this wouldn’t require a mage. Unfortunately, alchemical spills, mutated sewer denizens, slimes, and other, even more unusual problems plagued the city’s literal underbelly, mostly because of people like Julian the alchemist. Those needed the attention of a mage—if not necessarily a very good one.

Normally, running sewer checks was an arduous and boring task that could take days, but he had a secret advantage that would save him hours of trudging through filth.

Tugging on a mental connection that he’d forged two years earlier, he summoned his familiar. He felt where she was, the creature scampering toward him before she came crawling out of a relatively clean storm drain just a few meters away. She was a skinny, long-fingered imp dressed in a filthy rag and standing nearly two feet tall. Like his wand, Bernt had found her in the sewers.

She’d been even tinier than now, with gigantic, ugly-cute eyes that looked up at him in quivering terror. Regulations would have required him to destroy her, but he just didn’t have the stomach for it. Some idiot had presumably tried to summon something else and torn her from her home plane instead. She certainly hadn’t had a choice in the matter. He didn’t know what the demon plane was like, but he couldn’t imagine that being abandoned as garbage in a sewer was an improvement.

So, he’d decided to adopt her as a familiar instead. A bond with a demon would technically make him a warlock—if the bond actually came with any infernal powers, which it didn’t, thankfully. Still, most self-respecting mages avoided stepping anywhere near the line that separated them from warlocks. They viewed them as magical pretenders and amateurs, too weak and talentless to learn real magic.

That contrasted starkly with the stories that Bernt had grown up with. There, warlocks were portrayed bluntly as the very worst of humanity—soulless monsters who snatched children from the streets to sacrifice in their dark rituals. In either case, he did not want to be associated with them.

But… he’d kept Jori anyway. As it turned out, she didn’t actually mind the sewers very much. More importantly, she could move through them at astonishing speed, and with the familiar bond, Bernt received rudimentary impressions of what she saw down there. So, while he checked the storm drains aboveground, she scampered through the sewer mains below, looking for obstructions in the pipes and signs of pests and invaders.

“Hey Jori, it’s time to run sewer checks. Just follow along below, alright?”

The little imp chittered in response, displaying hideously sharp teeth. She couldn’t really talk, but he sensed her agreement through the bond as she flitted around his legs and nipped at his boot before disappearing back down the drain in a flash.

He walked his usual pattern, cutting through the maze of streets and alleyways with practiced ease to check every storm drain and access shaft in the district. Eventually, he felt a familiar psychic tug on his mind that drew his attention to his bond to Jori. She’d found something.

Through her eyes, he saw a mess of garbage, sticks, sludge, and something whitish—probably hardened cooking grease—that was starting to accumulate at a junction. It was already slowing down the flow of sewage in the main, which would deposit ever more material until the entire main was clogged. That could make an entire neighborhood uninhabitable for weeks, or worse, cause a disease outbreak.

Moments later, Bernt was descending down the nearest shaft, where Jori was already waiting for him, jumping up and down in excitement. Smiling at her antics, he tossed her a bit of spicy dried rat jerky, which he’d made himself. It was a recipe he’d often used as an underfed orphan, before the king’s magefinders had discovered him. Sometimes he still liked to have a bite, but mostly he just made it for Jori now. She jumped up, snatching the bit of meat out of the air with her teeth and chittering happily.

Her help was invaluable to him, because it meant that he worked almost twice as fast as anyone would expect of him. As a result, he could take time off to study, experiment with new spells, and improve his spellcasting basics.

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Of course, Bernt had already learned all of the basic cantrips at the Mages’ Academy and a fair number of proper spells besides, even earning his basic pyromancer qualification. But true mastery was a long road. It was the mantra of every advanced mage he’d ever met. Weaving a spell even slightly faster or being a little bit more efficient could theoretically save his life someday. He knew it wasn’t as good as actual adventuring experience, but working to save that time was something he could do right now that would benefit him in the future.

Maybe he should work on his basic force spells. He couldn’t blow a door off its hinges at a moment’s notice like Therion had done earlier, and that kind of thing could surely come in handy. Considering, he headed down toward the next storm drain.

***

At the end of the day, Bernt made his way back to the Halfbridge Underkeepers’ headquarters to submit his daily report and the citation. For the home base of an entire order of mages, it was tiny: just a main room for meetings and a single office in the back. Technically, all nine Underkeepers worked here, counting Bernt’s boss—the archmage of the Underkeepers. In actuality, they only came here to pick up their daily assignments and to drop off reports.

As soon as he opened the door, the man’s gravelly voice called his name from the back.

“Bernt, is that you? Get in here!”

Sighing, Bernt cast a quick cleaning spell on his cloak and hung it up. It wouldn’t remove the stains, but it would kill the smell. He’d done his boots before entering.

The owner of the voice was a crusty old fellow by the name of Ed. Opening the door to his office, Bernt was greeted by the customary cloud of pipe smoke that perpetually surrounded the man, followed by his equally customary scowl as the smoke cleared.

“Bernt! What in all the hells happened out there today?!” he barked.

“Ehm…” Bernt hesitated, but then decided to just keep it simple, holding out the report with the citation on top. “I finished the slimes in the Crafters’ District and started the rounds for the lower administrative zone. Why?”

Ed snorted and then wheezed out a rattling cough.

“WHY?” He took the proffered papers and waved them in Bernt’s face. “I had the damned magistrate’s secretary in here not two hours ago to tell me that they revoked Master Alchemist Julian’s license. The City Guard apparently raided his shop and arrested him to deliver the news. He’s currently in the dungeon for recklessly endangering citizens.” He took a breath, collecting himself.

“So now, I want to know,” he said, pulling the citation off the top of the stack. “What could you have possibly cited that old prick for to provoke that kind of response before I even got my hands on it? Do you even know what’s going to happen to you when the case gets thrown out? You have to be able to back up your citations! We don’t have the Mages’ Guild here to cover our asses in a legal dispute!”

That was almost a relief. Apparently Therion really did manage to get the word out to some influential ears.

“Relax, Ed. It’s fine,” he said, taking a seat. “It’s just a normal dumping citation. He confessed to it on the spot, and he’s not exactly a first-time offender.” That was an understatement. Julian and others like him were long known to the Underkeepers and their dumping misdemeanors were well documented, though their specific actions could rarely be linked to anything serious. But if Julian’s slimes were compared to samples from those that attacked Therion’s party and found to match… well, they’d probably already done their own tests.

Either way, none of this was on the Underkeepers. The palace was conducting this investigation on its own. Maybe on behalf of the magistrate himself.

Ed grunted noncommittally, before finally bothering to read the citation. After a moment, he sat back in surprise.

“What happened?” he asked.

Bernt did his best not to look smug.

“One of the alchemist’s wealthier patrons arrived as I was issuing the citation,” he explained, “and he didn’t seem very pleased with Master Julian when he saw what it was about.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Ed muttered. Then he shook his head. “Never thought I’d see the day…”

Bernt stood there for a moment, then cleared his throat when Ed didn’t say anything more. He just continued staring at the citation.

“If that’s everything,” Bernt said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Ed blinked and looked up. “Ah, one more thing.” He reached under the table and pulled out a smooth wooden box marked on top with an intricate carving. “The magistrate’s secretary left this here for you—said it was a token of appreciation from ‘the alchemist’s victims,’ whoever that’s supposed to be specifically.”

Curious, Bernt reached out to take it, but Ed didn’t let go.

“Bernt,” he said, his scowl suddenly radiating something more paternal than grumpy. “Be careful. You got the attention of some important people today. That sort of thing doesn’t end well for people like us.”

With that, he let go.

“Thanks,” Bernt answered. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Ed grunted and waved him out, back to his usual self.