“You’re sure you’ll be okay handling things while we’re away,” Anna asked Stockholm for perhaps the tenth time since that morning. Harold had, of course, been more than understanding. Anna’s ‘job’ as it were often took her out of the country, sometimes for months at a time, but he was a loving and patient man. Besides, he had a business to run of his own, now didn’t he?
The Red Tribe Werewolf sat before the fireplace in his personal quarters, staring into the flames unseeing. His mind was far from the room, far from Anna, far from the Games. To tell the truth, his mind wasn’t focused at that moment on anything to do with the mortal realm. He was thinking over his dreams, and the letters he had been receiving from Hina Hinas in the Elven Kingdom. She’d been having much the same sort of dreams, it seemed.
“Stocky,” Anna said, breaking his reverie.
“Oh, yes, of course. I’ll be able to handle everything here, boss. Just be careful,” he admonished. “I don’t trust this Mr. Twitch of The Shades. We don’t have any information on him, other than that he’s been Headmaster for all of five years. The Shades weren’t even at the last Games,” he said.
“They were having internal trouble, as I recall,” said Anna, putting her hair up under her bandana.
“Indeed, and he was no doubt the source of that trouble. It takes time to break in a new order for a guild like this. Now, Anna,” he said, rising from his chair and heading over to his desk. He opened one of the drawers, and took from it a small makeup compact. He tossed it toward Anna, who caught it deftly in one hand. She opened it, and found herself looking at a mirror that showed no reflection, not of her, not of anything. It was as though a mist moved just behind the glass. “It’s enchanted. I have the matching mirror to it. If there’s any trouble, you can just open it and call my name. Mine will get warm. Same for if I want to get a hold of you while you’re gone,” he said, returning to his seat.
“Thank you, Stocky. What’s your take on Licht and Norbit,” she asked, referring to the two men she would taking along with Flint and Norman Adwar, the Hoods’ resident scientist. “Are they good choices for the Games?”
“Well,” Stockholm said, pulling open one of his many filing cabinet drawers behind his desk. He pulled out the two folders he needed, spreading them open on his desk top. “Calvin Licht, Jaft, Strong-arm Thug. He’s got a good record with us as an enforcer. I like the guy, personally. He’s talented, but not overzealous in his duties. Pretty intelligent too, for a Jaft.” He turned a couple of pages in the file. “Eighty-seven percent assignment success rate. He’s a good brawler, too, in a pinch. And then we have Jerry Norbit,” he said, looking at the other open folder. “Illeck Pickpocket. He’s part of our Artworks Division. Very keen eye for valuables, and intensely methodical. A good planner, very thorough man for a dark Elf. Ninety-four percent assignment success rate. I’d say they’re good choices, boss,” he said.
“Excellent. Tickets for the train?”
“Right here,” he said, handing five green plastic stubs to his boss. The train systems had only recently been repaired by the Gnome Unified Scientific Front, and over the course of the last year, enough successful runs had been made that the various city-states and kingdoms of the lands of Tamalaria began bidding to own certain rail systems and sections of territory around the track lines. Several new towns had even gone up seemingly overnight just to try and take advantage of their proximity to the tracks. So far, it was working.
“I’m telling you, this is going to be so much better than having to ride horses or march everywhere,” she said, stuffing the tickets into her shirt without thinking. “Oh, wait,” she said, pulling them out and putting them in one of her back pockets. “Much better.”
“The trains’ technology dates back to the late Third Age, so it’s trustworthy,” said Stockholm. “So long as they’ve replaced the stretches of track that were broken or bent out of shape, your ride should be just fine. And, Anna?” She had already started heading for the door, stopping to look back at her Guild Chief. He stared down into the fire, his eyes glossy, far-off. She worried that he might be tendering his resignation, effective upon her return. Lately, she found herself worrying about that a lot.
“Yes, Stocky?”
“Be careful at the Games. Don’t take any unnecessary risks,” he said. Finally, he folded his arms over his barrel chest, and half-turned toward her. His eyes still reflected part of the fire. “And don’t make any detours when it’s over. Come right back to the city.” She put a hand on her hip and gave him an expression meant to convey ‘What’s this all about?’ But he didn’t reply. Instead, he just headed back to his chair before the fireplace and sat down slowly. Anna found herself thinking he looked like an ancient old man sitting there, but the illusion passed quickly from her eyes and mind, and she slipped out into the hallway.
Out in the main meeting chamber of the guild’s headquarters, she found Norman Adwar and Flint seated at a round table, playing a game of blackjack. Norman, a plump, cheery Gnome scientist, tapped the table with one chubby finger. Flint turned a card over for him, and Norman groaned, flipping his hidden card to show he’d gone over 21. “Blast it all for gibbets if you isn’t cheatin’,” the Gnome grumbled.
“Of course I’m cheating,” said Flint, flipping a Jack of Clubs out of each of his sleeves, laying on the table’s surface. “The real fun is to see if you can catch me doing it,” he said. Anna cleared her throat behind him, and Flint’s smile immediately dropped as he shot to his feet, and gave her a bow. “William, sir,” he stammered, sweeping the cards up into a pile behind his back. “Ah, I can explain this,” he said, his eyes darting around the room.
“Liar,” she replied. She took a seat at the table, and snatched the cards from his hands. “If we’re going to play some cards while we wait for Mr. Licht and Mr. Norbit, let’s at least have it be an honest game,” she said, looking through Flint’s deck. She made a note of the miniscule lacerations along the edges of the cards, counting them and nodding to herself. He’d marked every card in the deck, so he’d know what number or face card everybody was holding. By angling the microscopic tears differently, he had even revealed what suit the cards were. “We can start by using a pack that isn’t marked,” she continued, putting a rubber band around the deck and tossing it to Flint.
“Hehe, you’re pretty good, boss,” he said. Anna pulled a deck of cards from her enchanted rucksack, dealing out the cards evenly for a game of poker. They were four hands in when the Jaft Strong-arm Thug named Calvin Licht and the Illeck Pickpocket, Jerry Norbit, came into the room, each man carrying a suitcase and a military-duty rucksack. The Jaft, blue-fleshed and bald like all of the men of his Race, had the look of an experienced brawler about him. His eyes shone with a sort of ever-present menace, and his bulging muscles, well revealed by his choice of a muscle shirt over black jeans, stood tense, constantly ready.
Norbit, by contrast, was a man of little bodily presence. Dark blue long sleeve shirt, black cotton pants, black foot wrappings and hair dyed a deep shade of purple, he could easily be little more than a moving shadow in the night. Unlike other Pickpockets, Norbit didn’t appear to be easily amused, nor did he smile much. Most times, he just looked at everything, as if assigning price tags to everything he surveyed. For the most part, that was true.
“Ah, you’re here, gentlemen,” Anna said.
“Headmaster Deus,” said Calvin, inclining his head slightly. His potent natural odor nearly overwhelmed Flint, Anna saw, who was trying to subtly shift his snout away from the Jaft’s direction. “I just wanted to thank you for choosing me to be a part of the team for the Games. I’ve been looking forward to this for a few years now.”
“How long have you been with us, Mr. Licht,” she asked.
“Seven years, sir,” he said. “Since your second year as Headmaster. Do we have a list of the events this time around, sir?”
“Not as yet. We’re supposed to pick up one of the judges along the way to Ja-Wen, and he’ll provide us with the details of the events and how things are going to be scored. Now, is everybody completely packed? Not forgetting anything?” Her four agents all checked over their mental or physical inventories (Norman didn’t trust his memory, so he wrote everything down) and gave her a series of thumb’s ups. “Very good then. Let’s head to the station.”
Thaddeus Fly led his group toward the Dasuna Corporation Train Station on the east side of the city, one of his rare appearances on the streets during the daylight hours with so many of his people. On his right walked Akimaru, on his left, Rage. Rage, an Orc Berserker, had calmed much since the chase for the Glove of Shadows. During the final battle in the ruins under the mountains, the mountainous Greenskin had been wounded by a shard of glass puncturing his left eye. Part of the shard had scratched a small amount of gray matter, but he had not lost any functions or reasoning ability. Quite the contrary, in fact, seemed to have occurred. He was more capable of grasping ideas these days, and was quickly working his way up to a college reading level with the help of Ms. McNealy.
Additionally, he seemed to have mastered the random furies he would be thrown into as a Berserker. The danger therein lie, however, the fact that he could also unleash that fury whenever he so chose. Fortunately for most people who ran afoul of Rage since then, he wasn’t a compulsive Orc. He’d usually let them go with a black eye or broken nose.
Behind them followed Niles Potts, a Gnome Pickpocket who’d apprenticed with Lee Toren a decade before. Unlike Lee, Niles kept himself in relatively good shape (for a Gnome), dyed his hair black, and kept his beard neat and tidy. Also unlike Lee, Niles was deeply interested in the political arena and its inner workings.
Walking next to him was Clarissa Weeks, a Human Rogue and Hunter. Skilled in the use of con artist techniques as well as the spear, the young woman had proven herself quite useful to the Midnight Suns. Through the clever manipulation of several of the city’s more successful businessmen, Weeks had secured several continuous flows of income to the guild. Mostly this was as a result of setting up timed cameras to take photos of herself engaged in certain, well, activities with these successful men. Men whose wives wouldn’t take too kindly to what they might receive in the mail, a dozen or so five-by-ten prints, you’ll pay five hundred gold pieces a month to keep this under wraps, right mister? Of course, you black hearted little gold-digging bitch. That had made her employers, her Headmaster especially, very happy with her.
The five of them approached the station, and Fly immediately started scanning the arched entranceway for Deus and her Hoods. Sure enough, he spotted them as he led his group inside the ticket lobby. “Akimaru, stay with the others here a moment,” he said. The white-clad Ninja bowed, and Fly pushed and weaved his way through the building throng of eager citizens trying to get on the trains for their first time.
When he tapped Deus on the shoulder, Fly put his left hand quickly down, grabbing her by the wrist as Anna spun on him, a small dagger pressed out around gut level. When she saw who it was, however, Anna relaxed, and sheathed the weapon quickly, looking around surreptitiously. “Thaddeus,” she said.
“William,” he replied, though he knew that was a lie.
“Heading to the Games,” she asked as if she didn’t know.
“Indeed. Yourself?”
“Likewise. What car are your people in?” Fly took out his ticket for the 12 Line and peered at it for a moment.
“Car six, private coach car. You?”
“Car eight, private first class car,” she said, a small trace of smugness in her tone. “None of my doing, though. Stocky got the tickets for us.”
“Big surprise,” he groused. “I get the feeling your Werewolf could get you into a private screening of a play before it was even finished being written.”
“Quite possible,” she said. By this point, Flint had taken up a position right behind her, letting his short swords show plainly on his hips over his urban camo pants and jacket. “Ah, we should be getting on now. They’ll be boarding the private cars first.” Anna moved away with her Wererat Prime, leaving Fly fuming. He stalked back to his group, and took Akimaru by the shoulder.
“Why didn’t you get us first class tickets,” he whispered to the white-clad Ninja.
“I thought it would be less suspicious if we were to take coach class. I made sure to get us a private car, though, sensei,” he said. Fly could not fault Akimaru his instincts. He instead led the Midnight Suns representative group to the loading platform, and waited for the announcement that they could board the train. Once on board, he knew immediately that he was not going to like the ride. Something about being boxed into this oversized rolling coffin put him ill at ease. He would have preferred teleportation, horseback, or even a boat ride. This just seemed, well, doomed from the start.
Thaddeus Fly opened the door to the private area of car they boarded, and eased himself into a comfortable passenger booth. The far end of the booth held three benches in a ‘U’ formation, and he saw that each of the benches also had pull-out mattresses underneath them. In a pinch, this car could sleep six people of average size.
When Rage pushed his way into the car, Fly was nearly pushed into the window.
In the quiet of a study in the Lakewood Estate manor in Ja-Wen, the building out of which the little-known organization called The Shades operated in near silence and almost total secrecy, Mr. Twitch sipped a tiny bit of merlot from a bell-shaped goblet. Though Human, Twitch had means by which to observe the slightest noise. He knew his man had come into the study. He even knew when the butler-dressed fellow fell into place behind his chair and a little to the left.
“Wayne,” said Mr. Twitch. “You’ve returned. Did you get the invitations out to all of them?”
“With the exception you instructed, yes,” said the butler, adjusting his monocle. “Is there anything else you require, master?” Twitch took the last sip of his drink and held it back toward the butler.
“Another glass of the merlot, Wayne. And pour yourself a glass as well. Celebratory times shall soon be upon us,” Twitch said as the glass was plucked daintily from his hand.
“As you wish, master. Oh, and master? Mr. Poe received a message from Desanadron via the signal towers. It would appear that we have dodged the proverbial bullet, sir.”
“How so,” asked Mr. Twitch, keeping the high back of his chair between himself and the butler, Wayne.
“It would appear that Ignatious Stockholm did not board the train with William Deus and his Hoods’ representatives.” Silence hung thick over the study, and Wayne moved out of the room, closing the door part way behind him. Mr. Twitch kept his eyes on the page before him, but thought to himself, excellent. We really didn’t need him sniffing around.
Jefe Gabriez sat on the driver’s bench in the front of the wagon, the reins laying dormant in his hands as he let the team of horses pull the Pack of Liars along at their own pace. They would likely arrive before any of the invited guilds from the west coast got to Ja-Wen, so he wasn’t in any rush. He hoped to get to the city only shortly before his cousin, Flint. He thought momentarily about Stephanie, the only member of the group who wasn’t related to the Hoods’ Prime in any way.
He hadn’t been able to woo her on any of his previous attempts. Neither had Gabe or Seth had any better luck, which was strange. Gabe could usually talk his way into the pants of any female he came in contact with. But Stephanie Claudis had been utterly unimpressed by Gabe’s advances, even with the use of his Rogue power known as the Silver Tongue. Nothing had worked.
But their cousin Flint might be in the market for a woman, he thought, watching as another farm rolled slowly by on the right of the wagon. In the back, his other four pack members sat in relative quiet, Stephanie and Esmerelda playing a game of rummy while the boys slept. Jefe looked back into the wagon a few minutes later, and found the four of them doing just the same thing as they had been before. But he also noted the dust trail some two miles behind them.
Only horses traveling at high speed would kick up a cloud of dust like that, he knew. Did they have pursuers from Arcade trailing them? Gods know we’ve made enemies there, he thought. If there was going to be trouble, though, he would have felt it coming. A sort of sixth sense had kept him alive for years now in the city of Arcade, and the dust cloud didn’t send him any warning signals.
An hour later, when he looked back again, the cloud was much, much closer. He could actually make out shapes in it, and his boys were up and armed in the back of the wagon. Seven, no, eight horses, he thought, each one mounted with a rider. Gabe had a small crossbow in hand, aimed skyward, and Seth had a pair of throwing knives at the ready, one in each hand. The girls also took up positions of readiness, Stephanie drawing an arrow from her quiver and notching it along her greatbow, Esmerelda drawing out two kunei, Ninja short blades.
When the cloud got closer still and started to split apart, Stephanie was the first to lower her weapon. Jefe breathed a sigh of relief, for hers had always been the sharpest eyes among the group. “Mercenaries,” Stephanie said as the cloud of dust now kicked up in front of the wagon, trailing back over the Pack of Liars. Jefe pulled a pair of goggles from a pouch at his hip, and Seth drew the flaps over the open portal between the driver’s bench and the interior of the wagon. “They’ll probably be breaking off toward Palen in an hour or so,” said Stephanie.
“Thank the gods for small favors, eh,” said Gabe. “We hardly need any mischief before we get to Ja-Wen. Let’s just relax and think about the Games.”
Sally Ridge and the four other Koikara Group representatives she had selected for the Games boarded the vessel at the start of the afternoon, and after much packing and movement from the crew employed by her company, the boat launched from the port into the vastness of the great blue.
The trip from the company’s corporate housing building in Blackwood to the port village of Husseid went smoothly, the five of them transported in style by a long, sleek black autocart with enough luxury in the back seating area to make most anyone jealous. They, however, were used to it for the most part.
Now onboard the Koikara Group’s most powerful naval vessel, Sally Ridge tried tuning out the random and stray thoughts of the crew working around her, careful to keep her guard mechanisms up. As a Psychic, she had always found it much more difficult to keep the stray thoughts of others out than to go peeking into deeper thoughts. Often, the reading of surface thoughts was enough to keep her in a position of advantage. But too many of them could intrude upon her own mind and swamp her in a deluge of excessive emotional input.
In her own private quarters, she lay on a day bed with a paperback novel in hand, dressed in a long brown skirt and a white silk blouse. The black bra she wore underneath stood out in clear relief for anyone trying to get a look. The blouse she’d purchased from Blackwood’s most expensive tailor. The bra had been a gift from Lester Joelly, the Koikara Group’s Head of Public Affairs.
Lester was a Wererat and a damned skilled Rogue. He’d talked the clerks at the lingerie store down to a price tag of only twenty-seven gold pieces for an article that they sold to anyone else at forty pieces, easily. On Sally’s thirtieth birthday a few months back, he had presented it to her via messenger, complete with a dozen roses. She knew he had no genuine romantic intentions. He was just being nice, playing the role of trusted corporate officer.
Whatever his real intentions had been, he’d become practiced in keeping them from her.
Victor Flant, her Head of Security Operations, passed by her room out in the hallway, his thoughts, as always, colored with the constant search for an excuse for violence. The Lizardman Thug was not like others of his Class in that he would not avoid trouble when possible; instead he went looking for it, if only for the opportunity to be a brutal, sadistic prick. She liked having him around, though. He didn’t balk at anything.
Stretching out with her third eye, Sally found Norbert Channel, the Gnome Pickpocket/Pyromancer, up on deck, in the pilot box. He ran through troubleshooting solutions should anything go wrong with the ship during her trip around the southern coast of Tamalaria and around north toward the port town of Valap in the Ja-Wen City-State.
The fifth and final member of their group, Mr. Turpin, she could only vaguely detect down in his private quarters below decks, locked in a meditative state. The Human Ninja worked for the Koikara Group as its Chief of Marketing. Tall, stately and beguiling, Turpin had turned up with advertising contracts faster than anybody else would have thought possible. How he secured many of the contracts for such low cost was known to Sally, but thankfully, not to any sort of law enforcement. He could be very persuasive with a weapon in his hands.
Sally lay back on the day bed with the book over her face, and relaxed. They had a few days at least until they reached Valap. She may as well enjoy the down time.
Harley Morerock punched the Elf attendant once more across the face with a vicious left hook, dropping him to the sawdust of the stables floor. The Jaft Thug reached to her left, her enormous, calloused hand closing on the throat of another attendant as the man tried to slip past her. Gagging and sputtering, the Elf managed to kick her in the thigh, but Harley didn’t even flinch.
She turned her eyes on the man, watching as his eyes rolled in his head. “Harley, I think that’s enough,” said a light, quiet voice behind the muscular blue woman. Harley dropped the second attendant, unconscious, to the floor. The owner of the voice stepped past the downed attendants, moving down the aisle of stalls, inspecting each of the horses critically. “Any particular preference for your sort of mount, Harley?”
“Just need something that can carry me without tossing me off, Yvonne,” replied Harley. Her own tone of voice left a lot of room between itself and the term ‘feminine’. “What are you going to do for yourself? You riding with me or Cailee? Because there ain’t a horse here small enough for you.” Yvonne, a Gnome woman, looked back over her shoulder at her blue partner in crime, and offered a slight grin, little more than a twitch of the corner of her beardless lip. While a Dwarf woman would hardly be easily told from a man, the Gnome Race’s females tended to keep their faces free of hair and their heads covered with some sort of hat or cap.
“You know I can arrange to alter that, sister,” Yvonne said. She waggled the tips of her left hand’s fingers at Harley, showing off the tiny tattoos patterned there; Focus Sites. “I’ll just make one of them a good size for myself. Speaking of Cailee, where is that Cuyotai woman?”
“Probably getting in a few more pranks while we’re still in town. Amanda and Miss Vanik should be here soon.”
“Yeah, if they can ever keep their hands off each other long enough to remember we have to get going,” Yvonne said with a grunt. “I’m not one to complain, usually, but don’t you think it’s a bit frustrating, having to always wait on those two?” She opened one of the horse stalls and brushed two of her fingers along the front right leg of a deep red roan. There came from the contact the scent of violets, and soon the horse Yvonne had touched began diminishing in overall dimensions until it was appropriately sized for her to mount.
“Sometimes, but I don’t let it get to me. I have other things to think about,” said Harley, taking a tack and harness down from an empty stall and putting them on another mount, a gray charger she’d been eyeballing since she’d downed the stablemen. “Like, what kind of restaurants do they have in Ja-Wen.”
“Is that all you think about? Fighting and food?” Harley started searching for appropriate mounts for Cailee, Amanda and Helen as she considered Yvonne’s inquiry. Finally, she nodded.
“Sure. What else is there, really?”
The 12 train upon which the Hoods and the Midnight Suns rode traveled onward for half a day before coming to its first appointed stop along its route. The behemoth vehicle was now beyond the Desanadron City-State border, well into the country of Marsten, stopping just within the limits of the town of Flank. Anna gazed out of the passenger window in the Hoods’ first class compartment, enjoying a steaming mug of cuppa as she paged through a copy of ‘Antiquity Now’, a popular antiques publication. She always kept up to date on what was really worth something nowadays.
As the passengers boarded the train and some got off into the town of Flank, she found herself worrying about Stockholm. He’d seemed so distracted lately, as though he could foresee some disaster just over the horizon, but couldn’t quite say what it was. Coupled with his possible age and all of the responsibilities he’d been saddled with when she and Flint took off for the Games, she wondered if he might not decide to just leave when they got back.
Add in that the man hadn’t held a single solid relationship for more than a couple of months, and Anna thought that Stockholm must be lonely, frustrated, and feeling rather doomed. She resolved to write him a letter and have it sent along via enchanted courier bird as soon as she could. She hated to think of him being alone and overwhelmed. He needs a boyfriend, she thought, somebody he can tolerate for more than a couple of weeks.
When the knock came on their cabin door, Calvin Licht, the Jaft Thug, stood and rolled up the curtain over the viewport into the hallway. He looked left and right, seeing nobody. He grumbled, then returned to his seat, folding his arms over his chest. The knock came again, and once more he went to the window to search the hallway for their visitor. Anna looked over to Flint, who tried very hard to stifle a giggle. She looked curiously at the door, and when she understood, she turned her face away, so that Licht wouldn’t see her childish expression.
Licht was about to sit down again when the knock came again, impatient this time. Calvin slid the door open hastily, hands clenched into powerful fists, looking ahead, left, and right. His legs wide in a splayed fighter’s stance, he never even felt Lee Toren slip right past, walking in a crouch between his legs.
Licht muttered a curse in his native tongue, closing the door and turning around. When he did, he spotted Lee, standing in the middle of the private cabin, looking at him with his hands behind his back, shaking his head like a disapproving professor. “Tut-tut, son. You’ve got to be more observant than that if’n you wants ta put up a foight in the Games.”
“How-,”
“You’re tall,” Lee said, turning toward Anna and Flint. “I have with me a list of the events, along with descriptions, rules, and a list of all the other guilds that will be in attendance. We don’t know exactly what agents are coming, except in a couple of cases, where there’s only five or six members to begin with. Here y’are,” he said, handing an envelope to Flint. The Wererat opened the slip and pulled out a packet of pages, along with a separate list. When his eyes were less than halfway down the page, he stopped and laughed aloud, a braying guffaw that took everybody by surprise.
“What’s so amusing, sir,” asked Jerry Norbit, the Illeck Pickpocket. He was presently reaching three of his long, narrow fingers into one of Lee’s pouches. When Lee whipped his hand back and smacked Norbit on the cheek without even looking at him, Norbit decided it might not be possible to steal from the Gnome.
“It’s the Pack of Lies,” said Flint through his chuckling. “I know them, or most of them at least. They’re cousins of mine.”
“You have an awful lot of cousins,” said Anna. “I thought you told me you had a cousin working for the Koikara Group. And a brother working as a police officer in the fiefdom of Lemago,” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“Si, that’s right. Werewolves and Cuyotai aren’t the only lycanthropes that bear litters, you know,” Flint replied. “Rat families are big. Big in the way you’d think of gods as huge. Lots don’t make it past the first few years of childhood, though,” he said with a wistful sigh. “My brother Steel and I, we had three other brothers from the same birth, too. None of them made it past four years. Just got sick.”
“Oi, I thought you people didn’t get sick,” said Norman Adwar, looking up from his ‘Popular Mechanics’ magazine.
“We don’t, not when we’re older and our immune systems have fully developed. But as kids,” he said, shrugging his shoulders and leaving the statement unfinished. He looked at the paper before him unseeing, wondering what those three brothers would have turned out like. He could only vaguely remember them. He was, after all, over two-hundred years of age himself. Of the lycanthropes, the rats tended to be among the shortest-lived, much like Humans for the humanoid Races or Kobolds for the Greenskin Races. But two hundred years is still a long time, no matter what your species.
“Sorry, mate. I didn’t know,” Norman said.
“Nah, don’t worry about it. So these are the events, huh,” he asked, flipping through the pamphlet for the Games. “Let’s see here. ‘Pick the Pocket of a Constable’ is the first event, very nice. Will we get a name of the constable when we get there?”
“Of course,” said Lee.
“Right. ‘The Knife Throw’. There’s going to be a lot of Ninja at this thing. We don’t have much chance of winning that one. Still, points for the first three positions, same as last time?” Lee nodded. “Good. ‘Timed Evasion’. What’s that?”
“They haven’t done that one in years,” said Norbit, chewing on a fingernail. “I’ve heard about it though. Each guild has a single contestant go out and hide in the city, while a Bounty Hunter paid to participate in the Games goes out and tracks them down. They’ll time everybody, see who stays hidden the longest, evades capture.”
“Very good, Mr. Norbit,” said Lee. “How are you familiar with the Games?”
“I was with the Bargoes of Fong about thirty-something years back,” the Illeck explained. “I was at the Games, but they weren’t using the event. Something bad had happened at the previous Games, I guess, a Bounty Hunter got a little too aggressive with the event.”
“Yes, well, not to worry about that,” said Lee, trying to put on his best ‘thing’s are going to be fine’ face. “We’ve got ourselves a very professional man doing the footwork this time, Mr. Portenda the Quiet.”
“Times should be pretty short this year,” Flint muttered. Ah, the Simpa, thought Anna. She’d met him only briefly two months back one evening, as William Deus. She’d gone to a tavern to get some information regarding the job she and Flint had pulled only the other night, and seated herself at a corner table. The Simpa, who kept a few buildings in Desanadron as well as a number of regular bounty contacts, had come in around midnight.
He’d come right over to Anna’s table and seated himself heavily with a mug of honey ale. He remained silent until a man came in a few minutes later, a burly half-Orc armed with several short swords and a spiked club. Anna recalled how the massive Simpa had taken down the bounty head; one punch, just under the arm, one knuckle protruding from the fist. The bounty had fallen flat to the floor, but the tavern was a rough place, and nobody seemed to notice.
Portenda hadn’t touched the ale, though Anna had decided to try some while he’d been taking care of business. When he came back to the table to lay down a gold piece for the drink, he looked her dead in the eyes. “For the drink and the company, Mrs. Deus,” he’d said. At first, she had only been shocked by registering that he knew who she was. But then, as he left the tavern with his unconscious bounty in tow, she realized he’d said ‘Mrs.’, not ‘Mr.’ He knew, and after only being around her for a few minutes.
Flint, meanwhile, had read off the list of the other events while she’d been lost in recollection. The events had such names as ‘Highest Value’, ‘Treasure!’, and ‘Protection’. She figured they’d be games based around the usual sort of routine business the Hoods engaged in, but she felt certain as well that the judges would be throwing in a few tweaks to make things more interesting. Certainly using Portenda the Quiet could count as one twist already.
The train chugged and chuffed, and soon after left the town of Flank behind.
Paul Stockton looked over the four men standing in the office the day after the butler fellow had delivered their invitation to the Games. Each of them a trusted employee in his machine shop, each one of them willing to do whatever it took to keep the business in the black. And lastly, each one of them feeling just as uneasy about the invitation as their boss, the Gnome Engineer/Pickpocket.
Robert Saffis, a Khan and Paul Stockton’s most trusted employee, shifted nervously from foot to foot. To his right stood Brailor, a Human Rogue who had first come to work for Paul after serving four years in the Ja-Wen City State Penitentiary for armed robbery. Brailor looked like the sort of fellow who could be easily lost in the crowd, a fact he’d taken advantage of for years as a professional thief. Brown hair, green eyes, average height and build. The only key feature that made him stand out among other average Humans was the inordinate amount of tattoo work he had covering his arms, legs, and chest. But dressed in his blue coveralls for work, he would pass as any other normal working man.
Next to Brailor stood Mr. Brady, whose specific Class was undefined. A handsome fellow in a rugged sort of fashion, Brady kept his blonde hair close cropped, a tightly trimmed moustache and beard bordering his windblown features. Corded muscles remained hidden under his loosely fitted coveralls, and his left hand, missing the pinky finger, constantly flexed and relaxed, closing into a fist and opening again over and over. Paul liked to keep him around for his knack with metalwork.
And finally, at the end of the line on the right stood Kenneth O’Toole, the other lycanthrope of the group. A yellow-brown furred Cuyotai, Kenneth didn’t necessarily fit the mold of a thieves’ guild per se, due to the fact that he was a Q Mage. But then, many guilds employed agents who were not of the thief archetype Classes. Using his magic to alter and enhance the abilities of his companions, the group always worked best when Kenneth was around. Shorter and more wiry than most of the town’s lycanthropes, Kenneth often found himself mistaken for a pup or adolescent, which of course made him a tad short-tempered. He was the second-oldest member of the group at two-hundred and eleven years of age, only twenty-four years Robert’s junior.
“Well, lads,” said Paul, holding up the scroll with the invitation. “We’ve been summoned to the Games. Now, the shop will be under the care of Steven and Carly Ford while we’re away in Ja-Wen. What I want to know before we start getting ready is this,” he said, pacing back and forth in front of the group. He stopped at the end of their line, keeping his eyes locked on the garage door to the side of the line. “Is there anybody who doesn’t want to go?”
Silence greeted his question, though he could feel the tension coming from his men. The one person it seemed to come off of the strongest was Brailor, but that came as no surprise. The man could be a bit anti-social when it came right down to it, and he might not want to be too closely associated to criminal groups after his parole period just ended only a year before. If he was caught again breaking the law, he might be jugged for some considerable time.
But as Paul turned on his heel and walked up the line, he also detected a bit of hesitation from Kenneth, as though the Cuyotai wanted to add something to the conversation, but wasn’t sure how. Paul stepped up in front of the Cuyotai Q Mage and looked up at his long snout. “Something to say, Kenny?”
“Well, it’s just that, I was wondering,” Kenneth stammered.
“How do they know about us,” Robert finally said, finishing Kenneth’s unspoken thought. It was a good question, Paul thought, because he’d been wondering the same thing. The Tacha Forus only had a reputation, that he knew of anyway, as a superior shop for the service and sales of mecha. Their illegal activities had always been low on the radar and swiftly executed. How, then, had this Mr. Twitch and his Shades, who were hosting this year, know to send him an invitation?
“The how of it doesn’t matter for now,” Paul replied, stepping away from the group. “What matters right now is that we get ourselves ready and get to Ja-Wen. I only hope they’ve got a place set aside to put us up for the time bein’. Don’t want to be dipping into the shop’s expense account too much. The Games are set to begin in six days’ time. Get yourselves ready before we head out. We’ll leave in two days,” he said, heading out of the shop.
As the others dispersed from the meeting, Brailor went to his locker in the changing room. The Human Rogue knelt down and reached into the lower section of the locker, feeling along for the package he’d taped there in case he needed a good story to tell the authorities. He pulled the package free, and ripped open one end of the fat envelope. Inside, he found his new identification card and papers, and a chemical tube that had cost him a pretty penny.
If they were going to the Games, he wanted to be somebody else for a while.
“The 12 train should be here in a few more hours,” Kazuya said to Jake Zero as the two of them sat in a coffee shop across from the boarding station in Ricco. Like many of the coffee bars that had gone up around the Fiefdom of Lemago in the last five or six years, the décor inside the building appeared to be some sort of attempt at blending class and sophistication in the art and displays on the walls with blue-collar furniture for the clients and prices that didn’t stab a person in the sensible part of their brain on sight. Thus far, Kazuya thought, they haven’t quite got it right.
“Sir, it’s my understanding that Koby has learned that two of our rival teams will already be aboard, along with the grand judge of this year’s Games,” said Zero. He sipped his coffee and let out a sigh. “He said they’re the Hoods and the Midnight Suns. What do you know of them?”
“Precious little, to tell you the truth,” rasped the Lizardman Ronin. He turned in his seat, keeping his eyes focused through the window next to their table, locked on the boarding station. “I know a few names, a few rumors, nothing more. The leader of the Hoods is William Deus, a highly experienced Rogue and burglar. He’s charismatic, intelligent, and has a lot of rules that his men have to adhere to if they want to stay in the guild. He’s hard-line about some of those rules, but he doesn’t have to worry much about enforcing them. That’s the job of another Hood, one whose name I imagine even you know, Jake.”
“And who is that,” asked the Sidalis.
“Ignatious Stockholm, Chief of the Hoods,” said Kazuya. Jake stopped with his cup at his lips, considering the name, and then sipped his coffee. “Yes, he’s a heavy hitter. What’s more, I’ve discovered that his name pops up a lot in reference books from the early days of the Fifth Age.”
“So he’s an old man, now,” said Jake.
“Maybe so, but our friends in Desanadron have informed me that he hasn’t appeared to have aged a day in hundreds of years.” He finished his drink and put his hand up to get the attention of their waitress. “I’d like to know what his secret is to pulling that off. Oh, another cup, please,” he said to the young woman he’d summoned.
“Sir, are you certain that we should be bringing Nobuo to the Games? He’s a Boxer, sir.”
“You’re a Soldier. I’m a Ronin. Our entire team has only a single actual thief on it, Jake, so what’s your point?”
“My point is, sir, that Nobuo can be a bit, well, overly aggressive. What are we to do if he attacks another contestant out of hand?”
“Simple,” said Kazuya, accepting his new cup. “We cut him off and let him deal with the mess he makes on his own. We’re going to Ja-Wen to compete, not babysit him. And if he brings heat down on us from the outside,” said the Ronin leader of the Lenak Petara, “we throw him to the wolves. In the end, we don’t need to be faster than our hunters, just faster than Nobuo.”
Jake Zero, though he wouldn’t say so aloud, thought his boss had just said one of the most sensible things he’d heard out of his mouth in a long, long time.
Mr. Twitch sat in his comfortable leather chair in his study, the flames in the fireplace roaring brightly, warmly. When the chill swept through the room, he assumed that Wayne must have opened a window out in the hallway. “Wayne, could you go and close that window? And do send Mr. Quiet in, there’s a good lad.”
“So his name is Wayne,” asked a low, toneless voice from the doorway. Mr. Twitch, unaccustomed to having to deal with intruders in his home, rose from his seat without haste, his left hand already reaching into the back of his waistband as he rose. “Keep your hands where I can see them, Mr. Twitch. I’m in no mood right now. Besides, you sent for me.” Twitch turned around, his hands out to his sides, and saw an enormous Simpa holding an unconscious Wayne over the floor by the collar of his vest and shirt. In his left hand, the werelion held a revolver trained on Twitch.
“Ah, so you’re Portenda, then,” said Twitch. “Would you mind setting him down?” Portenda dropped the butler to the floor with a heavy thump, keeping his weapon aimed at Twitch’s chest. “And for what reason have you incapacitated my servant?”
“Tried telling me to remove my weapons before I came in to see you,” Portenda replied flatly. The chill, Twitch realized, was coming from the Simpa, who now started approaching him slowly. Twitch didn’t move a muscle, but nor did he worry. Mr. Quiet had a reputation as an efficient Bounty Hunter, but not as a cold-blooded killer. He was perfectly safe, so long as he made no threatening moves on the Simpa. “I don’t remove my weapons for anybody I don’t know and trust,” Portenda said.
When he was a few feet away, he took another step forward and pressed the barrel against Twitch’s forehead. “Now, Mr. Quiet, you and I both know you aren’t about to do anything untoward,” said Twitch. “Please, if you could just holster your weapon.”
“You are familiar with my weapon,” Portenda said. “I shall assume that you have one in your possession as well.”
“Whatever makes you think that?”
“Only those familiar with firearms would use the term ‘holster’, Mr. Twitch,” Portenda said, putting the gun away on his hip. “You sent your man to me so that we could discuss payment for my services in your Games. While I can’t say I condone this tournament, I will not interfere while it is taking place. Afterwards, however,” he said, lowering his head until he was staring Twitch right in the eyes. “I can make no promises for what happens afterwards.”
“That’s the best that can be expected,” said Twitch, moving away toward the fireplace. “Wayne, would you please offer, Mr. Quiet a beverage?” The butler, just then getting to his feet, shook his head and blinked at his master and the imposing Simpa standing by the master’s chair.
“Of course, uh, sir. Mr. Quiet, what would you, ah, like? Perhaps a nice port?”
“Coffee, heavy cream, heavy sugar. Lace it and I’ll kill you,” Portenda said over his shoulder. The butler scuttled away, off to perform his duties. “Now, about my payment,” he said to Twitch. The Human turned away from the fire, his hands clasped behind his back, smiling at the Simpa in a way that told the Bounty Hunter that this man thought he had an ace up his sleeve.
He’d learned over the years that the ace usually turned out to be a five of clubs or some other useless card.
“Ah, yes, always the professional, aren’t we? You and I are quite a lot alike, in our way,” said Twitch, sauntering over toward a heavy standing safe. The safe had been specially designed by a Ninja from the Obura Ninja Clan several dozen years before, so that only a single key could ever get a person inside the safe. Made entirely of titanite, the safe easily weighed half a ton, and anybody attempting to destroy the door or the walls of the safe would find their weapons and tools broken, and their spells useless. Enchanted with magical engravings on its surface, it was impervious to all known spells in the realms of Tamalaria.
Well, most, and that would do for Twitch’s purposes.
“We are nothing alike, Mr. Twitch, and I would appreciate it if you never made such a comparison again,” rumbled Portenda. Twitch placed his multi-sectional key into the lock, and began turning it, flipping a dial around next to the keyhole in synchronized timing with the turning of the key.
“Ah, but we’re both professionals, both of us men with no attachments except to ourselves and our fortunes. Neither of us will ever likely settle down into lines of work other than our primary income earning jobs,” he said, making another turn with each hand. “And neither of us has much use for sentimentality. You’ve quite the reputation as a cold-hearted fellow, Mr. Quiet.”
“Perhaps so,” said Portenda, reaching blindly to his left and taking the cup of coffee from the silent butler. “But I have friends, Mr. Twitch. Or shall I call you Arthur?” Twitch ceased his activities with the safe, immediately standing bolt upright and glaring murderously at the Simpa. Portenda offered him an icy smirk. “Numbers and money are your tools, Mr. Twitch. Information and skill are mine.”
“Who the hells do you think you are,” Twitch growled, all composure lost. He didn’t concern himself with Wayne, who had already taken himself out of the chamber at the earliest opportunity. “What do you know about me?”
“I know that you’re a murderer,” said Portenda. He sipped his coffee, Twitch now fuming only two feet away. “I know that’s an interesting shade of red your face has turned. I know about the fires, Mr. Twitch. And I know about Sarah.” Twitch’s face fell, his color quickly turned ashen, wasted. “None of which I will discuss with anybody else, rest assured. I just like to know who I’m working for or with, especially if they’re of the unsavory sort. You fit that bill and then some.”
Twitch returned to the safe, finished unlocking it, and reached in for Portenda’s payment. A small velvet pouch lay inside, and he tossed it carelessly toward the Bounty Hunter, who caught it deftly without so much as dribbling his coffee. “There. Your payment, as promised. Now finish your coffee and get the hell out of my house, you freak.” Portenda set his cup down on a lavish end table.
“You should be careful with that term, Mr. Twitch. I DON’T CARE MUCH FOR IT, AND YOU WON’T USE IT TOWARDS ME AGAIN,” he rasped, his voice carrying a quality of twin harmony, as though two voices spoke from a single throat. Twitch barely registered the words, but something in his mind warned him that he should never call Portenda the Quiet a freak again. “Have a nice day.”
And with that, Portenda left Mr. Twitch in the silence of his study with only the fire to keep him company. The beautiful, endless fire….
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