"The Glove of Shadows" Chapter Six- On the Road Again

When Flint walked into the drinking hall, he found that he was the last to arrive for the pre-departure meeting. Styge, Norm and Anna sat around a circular oak serving table. Stockholm stood a couple of paces behind the Guild Headmaster, his arms hung loosely at his sides, his weapons already strapped to his belt and his broad back.

Flint noticed that the Red Tribe Werewolf had donned his usual sleeveless chain mail shirt, and his open-fronted vest. Stocky knew the company would be on the road for a while.

Anna looked up as Flint approached, and gave him a small smile. “Well, now that we’re all here, let’s discuss last minute details.” She looked around at the others. “Anybody know where exactly we’re heading yet?”

“The fishing village of Prek,” Flint replied immediately.

All eyes turned on him, and he gave them a wry smile. “Had breakfast with Lee this morning. He brought me up to date.”

“Prek, eh?” Anna said. “Can’t say as I’ve ever been there. You gents ever been?” Norm shook his head, as did Styge, but Stocky, ever the wanderer back in the day, nodded.

“Any thoughts, big guy?”

“Last time I was there, Will, the place was little more than a big fish market.” Stockholm cleared his throat. “Of course, that was about ten, eleven years ago. I’m sure it has grown in size and population since then.”

Anna thought it over.

“Okay, so that’s where Lee said he talked with his contact in Reynaldi’s company. Where might they go from there?”

Flint pulled out his old map of the continent, pointing to the marking Lee had made of Prek.

“My guess would’ve been the Order of Oun outpost northeast of Prek,” he said, pointing to the position of the old fort. “But Lee and I aren’t sure it’s even still in service. They could just as easily have gone east of us to Fort Flag.” The Wererat rolled the map up and tucked it away.

“We’ll have to check in Prek with the locals, find out which way they headed after leaving the village. It shouldn’t be too hard.” Anna stood. “It’s eleven, so we’d better start for the north gates. Norm, you got the autocart up topside yet?”

“Yeah, I had some of the boys take it up on the lift into the old stables,” Norman said. “You know, the place just next to the forth residential district?”

Anna nodded. “Good, that’s on the way. Everybody, get your gear and meet me at the stables. Let’s move out people!” Anna Deus darted out of the in-house tavern, leaving the remaining four members of the company standing or sitting at the table.

“He’s fast,” Styge said as he hauled up his own bag. He struggled with it a moment before Stockholm lifted it easily out of his hands, letting it hang off of his right shoulder. The Werewolf’s own bag was already secured on his broad back, but Styge’s belongings weighed nothing to him. “Thanks Stockholm.”

“Here then, mind carrying my things?” Flint jokingly offered his bag to the colossal Werewolf.

Stockholm sneered at him, harrumphing loudly.

“You’re young and able-bodied.” Stockholm moved out of the hall with Styge next to him. “You carry your own load, rat,” he called over his shoulder.

Flint looked at Norm, who shrugged his shoulders.

“It was worth a shot, mate,” the Gnome offered with a smile.

* * * *

Anna kept to the side streets and alleys, even though it was a clear and sunny day, leaving little in the way of stealthy cover. Though she knew her chances of remaining completely unseen were slim, she didn’t want to be seen by a Midnight Suns agent, particularly with a large traveling bag strapped to her. Word would travel swiftly to Thaddeus Fly, and he would ditch all of his preparations to pursue of Anna and her group. She didn’t want the Black Draconus to know she was gone until long after she made that a fact.

She got to the fourth residential district, in the northern part of the city, without incident. She ducked inside of the old, dilapidated stables, scanning the interior as best she could with her sun-affected vision.

In one of the broken stalls, the autocart gleamed in the sunlight that poured through a hole in the old thatch roof.

The thing could easily be mistaken for some sort of monster in the dark of night, she thought, taking in the sharp angles and spiked points that characterized the machine.

Not long after she sat down with her back to a wall, Stockholm and Styge showed up, the Werewolf carrying both of their bags. He set Styge’s pack down gently near Anna, taking off his own bag next and leaning against a support beam across from the Guild Headmaster. He crossed his arms over his barrel chest and leaned back, shutting his eyes for a moment and breathing a deep sigh.

“So, Norman and Flint still haven’t shown up yet,” he asked.

Anna checked her timepiece—twenty after eleven. They still had plenty of time. “Let’s hope they didn’t get sidetracked again,” he said, opening his eyes.

Gods, Anna thought, he looks so tired. This trip may give him a chance to get some sleep when we camp.

“What’s up,” he asked, seeing the look she was giving him.

“How’ve you been sleeping, big guy?” Her tone lilted up a little with genuine concern, and she was afraid for a moment that she sounded too feminine. Her appearance as a young man helped her convince most people that her high voice was an affect of her age. William Deus was only supposed to be in his early twenties, after all. However, when she showed too much emotion, she lost control of the masculine hint she infused her voice with.

Stockholm raised an eyebrow at her, but no more than usual.

“Not well, William, to tell you the truth.” He sighed again, then rubbed the bridge of his snout, between his eyes. His head, while lupine, had a very expressive face, much unlike many of his kinsmen.

He looks beat, she thought. “I was up until midnight taking care of disciplinary issues,” he said. “Then I had some final reports to finish. The usual business, boss.” His smile came off as a grimace—a rather frightening one, considering the number of teeth in that mouth.

“Perhaps you need a good break from the usual business, big fellow,” she said, taking a small bag of cookies out of one of her hip pouches. “I worry about you sometimes, you know.” She thought she saw him blush a little, but with his thick, crimson fur, it was hard to tell.

The three of them waited another six minutes, and then Flint showed up with Norm in tow.

Anna finished another cookie and stuffed the pouch away again. She got to her feet, brushed the crumbs off, and looked at the company. “Well, let’s get going. Norm, get the autocart rolling.”

The Gnome Engineer smiled broadly. He took his bag to the back of the cart, putting it in the cargo area. Styge brought his own bag over, and Norm turned and deposited it next to his. He climbed up into the pilot seat, and the old Illusionist hopped into the back with the luggage.

“Riding in style.” The old man smiled wildly.

Stockholm approached the front of the machine, which Norman had brought to rumbling life.

“You sure this thing is stable?” The big red Werewolf leaned down to get a close look at the autocart.

“Course I’m sure.” Norm beamed with pride. “I put this baby together from the ground up. Modeled it after the old ‘automobiles’ of the Fourth Age. I’ve tested it in the field a couple of times, rode it around the city,” Norm said, flipping a couple of metal switches. The rumbling suddenly became very low and quiet, barely discernable. “S’a silent mode, see? I got it working last week.”

“Have you tested it in this ‘silent’ mode, Norman?” Stockholm peered into the Gnome’s eyes. Great, he thought. Of course he hasn’t, but he’s going to lie to me and say he has anyway.

“Of course I have.” Norm’s eyes told Stockholm his suspicions were well held. “I’m a scientist, man. I never leave anything untested.”

A tad defensive, aren’t we, Stockholm thought. He slung his rucksack and headed toward the exit to the stables.

“Stocky’s got the right idea, folks. Let’s get moving.” Anna moved out behind the Chief.

Flint followed, and Norman and Styge, riding the autocart, brought up the rear.

They were maybe ten minutes away from the northern gates. Anna felt certain that if nobody had noticed them by this point, they were in the clear.

She didn’t see Akimaru watching them from atop the nearby church bell tower.

* * * *

Thaddeus Fly checked his clock. Eleven-thirty. “I should take a nap,” he whispered to the empty room. He had once again come to the basement training room, and tetsujin lay in ruins around him. His arms and legs throbbed from the exercise, but it felt good to release some of his aggression. Fly tested his breath weapon on a handful of them, and had been satisfied when the six metal dummies he struck with his lightning exploded.

He wiped his scaled forehead with a towel, and headed to the showers.

Fifteen minutes later, he found Akimaru standing amid the broken dummies, his hands behind his back, his legs slightly apart.

He has something to report, Fly realized. “Akimaru, what is it?”

“Sensei, I just spotted William Deus and four of his men heading for the northern gates.” The air temperature dropped a few degrees around the Black Draconus, and his heart skipped a beat.

He’s already heading out? Damn him and his Hoods!

“Get everyone assembled at the fifth residential district library.” Fly strapped on his weapons and tossing his towel to the floor. “No more delays, no excuses. I’m not going to fall behind William Deus this early in the game. Go!”

Akimaru bowed, and darted away, gone so fast Fly barely saw him move.

Fury spurred the Draconus on. As he stomped up through the halls of the Guild building, he snarled at every agent who stood in his way. The path cleared up quickly.

In his private chambers, Fly strapped on his rucksack, and took a final moment to make a prayer. As soon as he was finished, he left the Midnight Suns’ building, walking out into the light of day.

His building sat smack in the middle of the tenth business district, and the trip to the library in the fifth residential district would take him a good seven or eight minutes jogging. He started off, his legs moving him swiftly and deftly through the crowded streets, past street vendors and visiting adventurers. The handful of people who recognized him were quick to stay away from him, and even the city guards didn’t attempt to impede his progress.

Turn here, run down there, duck, jump, dodge.

He cleared the distance between the Guild and the library in six minutes flat, standing now outside of the library without so much as breaking a sweat. He checked his pocket watch.

Nearly noon, he thought, impatient to be off north after William Deus and his group. He couldn’t be sure that Akimaru would find all of the members of his traveling group in the Guild building, and that could cause further delays. But he didn’t think the problem would lie with Lain McNealy or Rage—they seldom left the building. It would be Markus Trent who would cause problems.

“Damn you Trent,” he grumbled aloud.

The doors of the library opened, and a young Human almost fell right on top of him.

Fly took a quick step to his left, helping the youth up off of his face. “You’ve got to be more careful.” He looked down at the stack of books the young Human had been carrying that caused him to fall.

The Human hadn’t been able to see around the stack, most likely, and thus hadn’t noticed that near the bottom of the steps leading up in to the library, one of the steps was shorter than the others.

“Sorry about that,” the young man said.

Fly piled books back onto his stack.

“I just get a little wrapped up in my thoughts.”

Fly recognized the bumbling Human—Jonah Staples, a local Alchemist with a store in the eleventh business district. His wife, an Elven girl, ran the shop most of the time these days, but apparently this was temporary. The books Jonah had appeared to be borrowing were theoretical research journals. Perhaps he was doing research for a new service?

“It’s understandable young Mr. Staples,” Fly said.

The Alchemist smiled. “So, you’re familiar with my work?”

“A little.” Fly set the last book on top of the stack. Fourteen in all. “I’m not exactly what you call scientifically minded, Mr. Staples. I don’t trust to science.” He decided to be honest with the young Alchemist.

“That’s too bad,” Jonah said. “I’m working on a theory for the basis of the ancient Focus Sites.”

At that point, Fly found himself in foreign territory.

“I believe that the actual source of the power of science and magic—” he stopped when Thaddeus Fly put his hand up to silence him.

“Sorry.”

“No need to apologize, Mr. Staples,” Fly said, grinding his teeth. “Just leave me be.”

Jonah Staples darted away as quickly as he could while maintaining his stack.

At around ten after noon, Lain McNealy showed up. One of her creatures, a skeleton draped in purple robes, carried her bags.

“My, aren’t we being lazy,” he shot at her.

Her face fell from a dim smile to a blank glare.

He sighed lightly, and let himself deflate. “Look, I’m sorry,” he said, waving her over towards him. “I’m just a little irritated. We’re already falling behind Deus and his men, and there’s been no word from Akimaru.”

“Well, Rage is a few minutes behind me.” Lain tried out her gentle smile once more on the Black Draconus. “Akimaru just got a hold of us. I don’t know where exactly Trent is, but he left the Guild earlier this morning. I saw him ducking out with one of the tracking agents.”

Fly thought long and hard about this little tidbit. He thanked Lain for the update, and checked his timepiece once more. Fifteen after noon. Nothing much that he could do about it, except wait for Trent. What would the troublesome little usurper be doing with one the Midnight Suns trackers? Unless...

He let the thought go unexplored, deciding instead to rip Trent a new one for being difficult to find.

Rage lumbered in as they took a seat on the steps, the undead skeleton servant standing a few feet off to the side of Lain. The city guards that passed gave the group suspicious looks, but since they weren’t doing anything illegal, they let the company be.

“Hey boss, hey Lain,” the Orc said in his rumbling bass voice. He scanned the area for a moment, his huge, rock-like head rolling back and forth. “Where’s Aki? Or Trent?”

“Akimaru is likely trying to find our truant Mr. Trent.” Fly rested his head on his hand. “For now, we’ve got no choice but to sit and wait for them. Akimaru would not make us wait. He is highly reliable and diligent in his duties.”

“Yeah, dat’s fer sure.” Rage hopped a squat on the dirt road in front of Lain and Fly. “Oh, Miss McNealy, it’s like dis, right?” He reached into one of the pockets on his huge black trench coat, the only article of clothing he wore on his upper body. He routinely wore shin-length leathers on his legs, custom-made by one of the more talented female agents at the Guild. The Illeck woman had been kind, he thought, and she’d only charged him twelve gold coins for the service. Lain had told him he’d been ripped off, but Rage didn’t know much about money. He could only count to ten, a matter Lain was trying to help him with.

He produced from one of the pockets a small notebook, and handed it to her. In large, childish writing, Rage had produced a single word-‘CAT’.

Lain smiled at him gently. “That’s very good, Rage. And it’s correct.”

Fly nearly rolled his eyes at the display. Still, he envied them both, because they seemed to keep each other going much better than others in the Suns. Once again, his status as a lone wolf loomed over him.

“You’s okay, boss?” The Orc took the notebook and pocketed it.

“I’m fine. Just getting impatient. Lain,” he said, catching her attention. “Do me a favor? Go over to that cafe and bring me a coffee.”

The Necromancer hustled off, her skeletal servant left behind.

He checked his timepiece again. Half past noon, he saw. Too far behind now to ambush Deus and his company, Fly settled in to wait for Trent and Akimaru. He had ways of catching up to the Hoods, and as he rubbed one of the pockets inside of his uniform, he smiled. There are ways.

* * * *

“It’s about toim you lot showed up,” Lee Toren complained. William Deus and his group arrived four minutes late, which normally wouldn’t have been much. However, Lee had become anxious, suspicious that someone would already be on their tails.

“Ease up Lee,” Anna said. “We’re leaving, now.”

Lee Toren took up the lead, marching out through the northern gates, between two Minotaur constables. Lee and Anna strode side by side, with Flint walking alongside Norm and Styge in the autocart, and Stockholm taking the defensive position of a rearguard.

The muscular but agile Red Tribesman turned and gave the guards a slight nod, which they returned in kind. The Hoods’ Chief had taken some time the previous evening to have a short conversation with these two gentlemen. He had warned them that a handful of dangerous slavers were after him and his friends for setting a Gnome captive of theirs free. The look the two guards gave Norman said it all when Stockholm nodded to them—they thought the Engineer had been the captive.

Stockholm couldn’t be certain that Thaddeus Fly and his group would come past the northern gates. If the Suns avoided the north gate, they’d have to go around the outskirts of the city, where smaller groups of bandits and toughs would be waiting for them, looking to settle old scores with the larger Guild. Either way, they had more time than Lee thought they did.

Flint looked east and west, enjoying the scenery. Verdant fields to the west, farmland to the east, crops sewn and reaped for the consumption of Desanadron’s residents. How much capital, he wondered, went into running a city? More than he’d ever see in his lifetime, and maybe that much just to keep the place running for a day. Desanadron’s population, according to the latest census conducted by the police, numbered 850,000 strong, and rising every year. Nearly ten percent of the continent’s populace lived in or around the metropolis of Desanadron. The only other city the Wererat could think of that supported nearly the same number of people was Ja-Wen in the far east. That city’s population was somewhere near a quarter that of Desanadron—around 200,000.

Tamalaria stretched vastly to the east and west, with small villages and hamlets accounting for most of the civilized societies.

Flint glanced ahead at Anna, who was looking back over her shoulder past him. She graced him with a brief smile, then faced forward again, locked in conversation with Lee Toren.

The Wererat admired the brave little Pickpocket—his meandering travels taking him far and wide into every corner of the lands. The Gnome took little with him in the way of weaponry or equipment. He relied largely on his wits and his fleet feet, conning here and evading there, constantly on the run from one body of authority or another. His skills in the field were remarkable. Add to that the fact that the Gnome never seemed to age, and Lee Toren stood as a truly wonderful man.

Norman Adwar listened to the quiet thrum of the autocart beneath him.

Styge kept asking his questions about how the “damned contraption” worked, but Norm only knew a little about the actual power supply system. He’d discovered a battery cell system of some sort, and had simply attached it to the mechanical cart. Before he’d equipped it with the battery, the cart had used a kinetic energy collection pump, which involved him, or someone of similar size and stature, using a set of pedals to pump energy into a kinetic energy battery his friend Jonah Staples had designed. This energy, Jonah had told him, could only be safely stored for a few days before it needed to be hooked up to a device and used.

For long trips, Norman’s calculations showed that the kinetic energy battery wasn’t practical. When it ran low, he’d have to manually pedal the cart in addition to using the storage pedals to gather up energy. He just couldn’t do it, and he didn’t have the materials to modify the seat and pedals to fit someone larger, like Flint, or even William Deus. In short, he’d had to go with the untested battery because he thought it would hold out longer. He certainly meant no offense to young Staples.

Anna, whom only Flint among them knew to be other than William, walked along with Lee Toren, keeping up small talk about his recent travels. “So you say that was about five months ago,” she asked.

“Yep,” Lee said, exhaling smoke. He took another long drag off of his cigarette. “Never expected to run into ‘im on such short notice. Portenda’s the sort to usually contact you a few days in advance. You ever met the man?”

“Can’t say as I have.” Anna felt glad of the fact. She’d heard of the strange Simpa Bounty Hunter, and if his reputation held even half true, she never wanted to be on the wrong end of a contract of his. Even she might not get away from him. “Anything else interesting about him?”

“Well, now that you mention it, somefin’ does stroik me as a bit odd abou’ ‘im.” Lee scratched his white, wiry beard for a moment before looking up at Anna again. “Aside from the usual stuff. Seems ‘e owns properties in three or four cities, apartment buildings. He’s a bit of a landlord.”

Anna raised an eyebrow at the Gnome Pickpocket.

“I know, I know, seems a bit wronky vat a Bounty Hunter would supplement ‘is income wif rental properties, dodn’t it?”

“I should say so, yes.” Anna once more looked out at the vast plains. The Upper Plains baked in the early afternoon sun, dehydrating everything in sight. The members of the company constantly took drinks from the water skins, and Anna hadn’t seen another traveler or animal on either side of their route for a half an hour. She checked her timepiece. “Well, it’s one o’ clock. How long until we reach Prek?”

Lee rolled his eyes a little, thinking. “Jus’ abou’ two more hours.”

Good. Anna wiped sweat from her brow where her bandana didn’t cover it. Too much more of this heat, and I’ll be a husk.

The company continued in relative silence without incident.

Another twenty minutes passed, and they reached slightly cooler flatlands, trees smattered here and there across the landscape.

Flint sped his pace for a minute, to approach Anna and ask for the company to take a couple of minutes’ break.

It’s moments like this, he would think later, that cause events to occur. The little, almost imperceptible moments when something is done out of the established norm. Had he continued at the pace he’d already set, he felt, nothing would have happened. But he didn’t, and so something did.

As he got a few feet in front of Norm’s autocart, the machine give a loud cough.

Norm’s eyes filled with panic.

As Flint took a split second to start his feet moving away from the group, the autocart bucked under Norm’s hands, and spun toward the Wererat, now moving at full tilt.

Oh gods, the Wererat thought, I’m going to be crushed.

Only seconds had passed, and already the rest of the company had fallen into confusion. Anna stopped dead in her tracks and watched helplessly as her Guild Prime and good friend fled from the rumbling, menacing machine.

The steering wheel had come off in Norman’s hands, and he was flailing and screaming, trying to undo the straps that secured him to the seat.

Styge, Anna saw, had bailed almost right away. He was rolling over in the grass, trying to bring himself to a complete stop before he struck his old head on something too solid.

Where’s Stocky? Anna’s mind raced as the world moved in slow motion around her. In times of panic, her perception slowed to a near crawl, allowing her to take in the most minute details around her.

As she swiveled her eyes toward Flint’s fleeing form, she saw a blur of crimson motion seeming to impose into the space between Flint and the machine.

As reality around her came back into full motion, she watched Stockholm bend low, letting the autocart’s front bumper flow over his outstretched right hand. As soon as it was over his lower arm, he clamped onto a block of metal, hauling straight up toward the sky.

The entire front end of the autocart lifted into the air, and Norman stopped tearing at his restraints, suddenly positive that getting out now could prove more hazardous for his health.

As Stockholm hauled up with his right hand, he shifted his body weight, throwing his left arm underneath the carriage of the autocart. With one more heave, the Red Tribe Werewolf lifted the churning, sputtering machine over his head—an impossible display of brute power.

Anna watched the muscles in Stocky’s arms and shoulders quake. She’d never seen such strength from a creature of mortal flesh and blood.

An instant later, the Red Tribesman lifted the machine up half an inch more, sliding out from under it.

As it hung in midair, he grabbed the back end, and slammed it into the ground. Parts flew off and got crushed under the force of the blow. The wheels stopped. The only noise issuing from the autocart was Norm’s low sobbing.

Flint, a few yards away up in the tree he’d marked as his safe retreat from rolling death, breathed a heavy sigh of relief. He’d been almost certain that the autocart was going to crush him, but of course, good ol’ Stocky had taken care of things in his usually rough manner. Close to a ton of moving machinery, and the Red Tribe Werewolf hadn’t even blinked at lifting it.

Anna rushed over to Norm’s side, undoing the buckles and lifting him out of his seat like an injured child. He groaned again as she carried him away from the smoldering, smoking machine, setting him down on the soft grass.

“Norm? Talk to me Norm.” She pulled a water skin from her hip and pouring some of its contents on his face.

The Gnome Engineer sputtered and splashed, waving his hands back and forth.

“I’m okay, I’m okay Will.” His eyes shot wide open as he looked at his damaged machine. The Werewolf loomed over it, pulling the bags from the back. “Crikey. I could’ve killed someone,” he whispered, horrified that Flint had only escaped by a few feet.

     “Yeah, namely me.” The Wererat hopped out of the tree, landing nimbly next to Stockholm, who was finished retrieving the belongings and was now pushing the cart over onto its side. “Where’s the old man?”

Styge, still lying on the ground, raised his hand from his side. He appeared to be stretching out for a nap, but Flint saw his other hand held his side.

“Styge, are you hurt?” Anna called over to the old Illusionist.

“Mostly my pride, youngster,” he called back, trying to sit up.

Flint helped him to his feet gently, handling the old man as if he might break like a vase.

Styge brushed his robes off, and gave him a crooked smile. “Now that was exciting!”

Flint patted him on the back as they walked over to Anna and Norman, who had one of his notebooks in front of his eyes.

He looked over, and watched as Stockholm ripped the battery unit out of the autocart, casing and all.

Mental note, he thought. Never make that man excessively mad at you.

The Red Tribesman stalked over to the group, and dropped the battery unit unceremoniously at Norman’s feet. “What’s this?”

“That’s a power supply unit.” Norm tried to keep his voice from cracking as he craned his neck almost entirely vertically to look into Stockholm’s scowling countenance.

“Who engineered it, Norman?”

“Um, not really sure. I found it in the field, down in some old ruins to the northwest.”

“What happened to Jonah Staples’ battery system? The last time I saw this thing in service, you had his kinetic energy unit hooked up to it.”

Norm blinked, surprised at Stockholm’s knowledge. Without mecha knowledge nobody should be able to tell the difference between the two systems, and Werewolves, regardless of tribe, tended to distrust technology.

“It, ah, wouldn’t have been up to the long trek.” Norm looked down at the ruined battery unit. “Of course, neither apparently was this thing.”

Stockholm crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head slightly. “This came from a vehicle in the Age of Mecha, Norman. The vehicle was called a Mass Transit Train.” Stockholm bent and picked up the power unit. He scrutinized the blacked harness casing, searching its surface carefully. “Says right here it shouldn’t be used for anything less than two metric tons.”

He lowered the unit for Norman to see. The Gnome, however, couldn’t understand the writing on the side of the unit. He marveled at Stockholm’s knowledge of pre-Fall civilization. Then again, hadn’t the Red Tribesman lived during that time?

“Um, I couldn’t read that.” He looked up at Stockholm. “I suppose I should’ve field tested the autocart first, huh?”

Stockholm hurled the battery unit into the distance.

“Look, big guy, Flint, Will, I’m really sorry about this,” Norman said.

Anna shrugged her shoulders.

“Everyone’s okay, and we’ve only lost a few minutes on this fiasco.” Anna turned toward the north. Lee had already departed, setting the pace for the rest of the trip. “Styge, get back on covering our tracks. Norman, try to keep up. I trust the rest of your gadgetry is in order?”

“Oh, quite sir,” he said, brightening. “Right as rain it is.”

“Good. For now, get in the middle of the pack.” She moved forward to rejoin Lee Toren. “Let’s move it people!”

Anna Deus’s company moved north once again, minus the heap of mecha left smoking near the oak tree.

Stockholm once more carried Styge’s belongings, leaving Norman to carry his own as punishment for his carelessness.

Thankfully, Norm thought, Flint didn’t yell at him, or seem to carry a grudge over the incident.

The Wererat himself couldn’t help thinking that the world would be better off if mecha had never been rediscovered.

* * * *

Fly’s timepiece struck one o’clock when Markus Trent finally showed up, Akimaru walking slightly behind and to his left.

The Black Draconus was on his feet the moment he spied Trent. “Where the mighty hell have you been, Trent? We’ve lost precious time waiting on you!”

The Human Ninja gave a mocking low bow, smiling toothily at his Headmaster.

“My sincerest apologies, Headmaster.” He looked up from his bow. “I was conducting some last-minute business before we departed from the city.”

Trent stood to full height, looking at the others of the group. “Everyone’s here, so shall we be going?”

Great, Fly thought, not even out of the city, and he’s already vying for control of the party. I may have to put him in his place sooner than I’d hoped.

“That we shall. Take point, Markus,” Fly said.

He waited for Akimaru to walk alongside him, then leaned close to the white clad Ninja as Markus took a good twenty-yard lead on his group. “What news, Akimaru?”

“I am not certain, sensei.” Akimaru didn’t take his eyes from Trent’s back. “He was conversing with a female tracking agent, Miss Noriko Shibata. Whether their discussion was personal, or Guild business, I could not tell. I could not risk getting close enough to hear them.”

Fly heard the suspicion in his favored agent’s voice. Akimaru didn’t appear to trust Trent either, a fact that Fly savored as Trent approached the northern gates.

Bringing up the rear, Lain McNealy worked with the Orc Berserker on his grammar. “Remember, dear,” she said, sounding more like a schoolmarm than a Necromancer. “’I’ is followed by ‘am’ when talking about oneself. So the sentence is, ‘I am going to the market’. Now, try again,” she said, looking ahead at Thaddeus Fly and Akimaru.

“I, am going, to the market.” Rage focused as hard as he could on the structure of his sentence. “Dat way, right?”

“Correct, deary. Now, let’s work on your pronunciation. It’s, ‘that way’, not ‘dat way’, all right?”

Rage shook his head, rubbing his temples as he thought over her lessons.

“Don’t know why she bothers,” Markus Trent muttered to no one in particular. “Like trying to teach a rock,” he said with an absurd grin.

As Trent walked through the archway of the northern city gates, two lumbering Minotaur policemen stepped out in front of him, axes held at the ready.

“What ho, gentlemen,” he said smoothly as Fly and the rest of the company halted behind Trent.

The Minotaurs looked at one another, and gave each other a brief nod.

“We have some questions for you people,” the one on the left said as Trent placed his hands behind his back.

Fly could see that he was letting a knife slip from his sleeve down into the palm of his hand. He’s good, Fly thought. Still knows standard Obura Clan procedure.

“Certainly, constable,” Trent said amiably. “Ask away.”

Another knife dropped into his other hand, and he gripped the tips of the weapons tightly between thumbs and forefingers.

One of the burly officers cleared his throat to begin.

“We’ve had some disturbing reports about slavers in the area. You folks wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Wait a minute. Fly took a good look at the guards. They had left deep impressions in the dirt of their posts. They’d been on duty a fairly long while, and should have been relieved by now. Why would they still be standing here?

Then he had it—Deus! The Rogue had obviously given these bozos a bogus story about slavers, and given the guards his company’s general description. He scanned the white clad Ninja. Then again, he thought, Aki does tend to stand out like a sore thumb, when he wants to be seen. His attention returned to Trent, as he began to speak once again.

“Slavers? Well, I can’t say as I’m surprised, gents,” the Human Ninja said casually. “Desanadron is a big city, and it would be easy for such fiends to hide out inside of her walls.”

As the guards looked at one another briefly, Trent looked back at his Headmaster, the question in his eyes. Fly nodded, averting his eyes afterward.

As the two guards turned their heads to face Trent again, the Human Ninja let his throwing knives fly, each finding their mark in a guard’s right eye, buried all the way to the hilts.

The bodies hadn’t even dropped before Thaddeus Fly and his party was through the gates and out of the city.

They ran for a clean mile before slowing to a walk, catching their breath. Akimaru and Rage weren’t even winded. Fly panted only from sheer rage and indignity at the setup he’d so carelessly walked into. Trent and Lain had started to breath a little heavily. Her skeletal servant appeared to be falling apart, and she took her rucksack from it before banishing it back to the soil, which opened up and swallowed the creature in seconds. Fly shuddered; the sight of her power still chilled him to the bones. “Damn him,” he growled under his breath.

“Who, sensei?” Akimaru asked.

“William Deus, who else? The little rat bastard knew we’d be following them out of the city, and he took some pains to ensure we were slowed down.” Fly looked at the assembled company, and wondered for the first time if his choice of operatives had been poorly made. Three Ninjas, a Berserker and a Necromancer. All in all, they weren’t a very diverse group, he realized with a bit of chagrin. Still, his decisions had been made. Let someone else question them. “Come on. We’ll head north, hopefully pick up their trail. Markus, take the point again.”

Once more they moved ahead, Markus Trent in the front, followed by Fly and Akimaru, with Lain McNealy and Rage bringing up the rear.

They walked for perhaps half an hour before Fly noticed that there were no tracks on the road ahead of them. Surely if Deus and his men had come this way, they would have left some sign of their passage.

“Trent, turn direction. Let’s head a little east, see if we can find their trail.”

The group followed his directions, moving directly east for another twenty minutes, before Trent came to a stop. “What is it, Trent?”

While normally hateful and distrusting of his Headmaster, once out in the field, Markus Trent was an efficient, if not entirely obedient, agent. He scanned the ground around him, shaking his head. “It’s the ground, Fly,” he said, not looking up from the grasslands around and beneath him. “It feels different. It feels right.”

“And on our original path?” Fly asked.

Trent shook his head vaguely, trying to think of the right words.

“The ground back west felt, disturbed. It was as though someone had taken a horse-drawn cart through the fields. Here, the soil is traveled as well, but I can clearly see it.”

Fly looked back in the direction they had come. Another hour wasted, by the gods, he fumed.

“Very well. Reverse direction. We’re heading back to where Mr. Trent says the soil was ‘disturbed’. When we get back in that area, keep a sharp eye out for anything suspicious. Let’s move people.”

Twenty minutes later, they were standing right back in the path they’d been taking before.

Fly scanned the area with his eyes and ears, but couldn’t see whatever had been making itself obvious to Trent. “What are we looking for exactly, Markus?”

“I’m not sure,” the Human Ninja said.

Lain had gotten down on all fours, and was running her hand along the ground.

Trent looked over at Fly, and suddenly shouted, “Stop! Stay right where you are Fly!” The Black Draconus tensed for battle, certain that Trent had chosen this moment to strike. But it was so soon, and besides, Fly thought as Trent approached, he hasn’t drawn any weapons.

Trent stood next to Fly, then crouched, placing his hand through the ground.

Through it, Fly thought, bewildered.

Trent’s hand disappeared without effort beneath the soil.

“What the devil,” Fly whispered.

Lain crawled over and placed her own hand next to Trent’s.

“What trickery is this?” Lain let a small amount of her magic flow into the illusion, dissipating it as she did so.

For miles north of them along the path, Fly saw the illusion fade, revealing a deep set of tire tracks, and several sets of foot tracks.

“An illusion,” Lain said as she stood. “A minor trick, performed either by someone with very little actual power, or a crafty Illusionist. If the spell were more potent, it would have been obvious to me from the get-go.”

“And me,” Akimaru said.

Was that a trace of irritation I heard, Fly wondered. Nothing escaped Akimaru’s piercing gaze, but apparently, something had, this time.

“The old man, Styge.” Trent shook. “I can’t believe he’s still alive.”

Thaddeus Fly was surprised, too. Styge was, after all, Human. Age should have claimed him by now.

“Well, at least we’ve undone his little trick,” Trent said, grinning at the Midnight Suns’ Headmaster.

“True. Let us hope that doing so hasn’t set off any more nasty little surprises.”

Fly’s company continued on, trailing after William Deus and his Hoods.

"The Glove of Shadows" Chapter Five- Preparation

Anna’s head reeled after her meeting with the three agents who would temporarily take over leadership of the guild. Coates, the Human Rogue, had an air about him much like her own—cunning, conniving. But Borshev had made it clear that he would not let her down, and had even made a few threatening comments about what would happen to anyone who tried to usurp and abuse his temporary position. He’d been very graphic, she thought, smiling as Coates had turned greenish in the face.

After dismissing them, she had been further comforted by the sight of Stocky taking Coates by the shoulder and leading him away from her office toward his own. Gods only knew what sort of violent promises would be made there, but she knew that unlike the Minotaur, Stockholm would keep those promises. Nobody in the Guild, or in their rivals’ Guild, wanted to suffer such a punishment as that.

She leaned back in her chair, taking it all in. The legendary Glove of Shadows. “I’d love to have that on my mantle,” she whispered aloud to the four walls. Sometimes, these walls stood as her best friends. They would stand there and listen, and wouldn’t talk back. They couldn’t judge her, couldn’t hold anything against her. Sometimes, she felt, a wall alone could say it was innocent. Unless it collapsed on someone, she thought with a measure of chagrin. She’d seen it happen before; damaged buildings whose large, ominous brick sidings had teetered and tottered just enough to fall flat on someone, crushing them flat. There really wasn’t anything for it. Who blames a wall for anything, except for prisoners who feel they’re too thick or sturdy?

Restless, now that nobody occupied the other chair of her office, Anna stood and stalked around the desk. Flint should be close to finishing his task, and soon the small chamber would be packed as Flint, Stockholm, Styge and Norman each made their way to be briefed on the mission.

The first knock came after only two circuits around her desk, and when Anna opened the door, she found the Wererat standing there, smiling faintly.

“You’ve told them all,” she asked.

“Yes’m boss,” he replied, bowing his head dramatically. “As I’m sure you may have suspected, Stocky thinks the whole idea’s mad to the core. Says you should just leave ‘im behind. I can’t say’s I wholly disagree with him, boss.” He closed the door behind him as he stepped in, the claws on his feet scraping the stones of the floor harshly. “It’s a little crazy to expect Borshev, Hollister and Coates to do the exact same job as us.”

“They aren’t exactly amateurs, Flint,” she said in the three men’s defense. She retook her seat behind the large desk, as another knock sounded, much heavier and with the quality of wood hitting wood.

She motioned her hand at the door, and Flint opened it, admitting Styge, the old Illusionist. He smiled wanly at Anna, one hand on his back, one on his walking staff.

“Maybe not,” the Wererat said, continuing his original argument without a word to Styge. “But they’re not exactly all-pro either. Sort of semi-pro, really.”

“They’ll handle it,” Anna said, putting the hint of masculinity into her voice once more. “Styge, it’s good to see you up and well,” she said to the elderly Human Illusionist.

He graced her with a smile that sent wrinkles over his leathery face.

“Likewise, young man,” he said.

Anna paused for a moment, wondering if perhaps, since he was an Illusionist after all, the old man saw through her disguise. She had to admit to herself that it wasn’t much of a disguise. No fancy makeup or artificial parts to enhance it. If he saw through her, though, he never let on, and she decided that that was well enough.

“You’ll have to remind our Prime here how to properly wake up his elders,” he grumbled, looking up at the grinning Wererat.

Back leaned against the wall, Flint had once again taken to cleaning his claws with a small dagger.

Another knock at the door, light and rapid, announced Norman’s arrival, and before he could close the door, Stockholm ducked down and squeezed into the chamber.

Hail, hail, the gang’s all here, Anna thought. “Close the door would you Stocky?”

As the Red Tribe Werewolf closed the door, she faced the four of them, now on her feet. “All right everyone, let’s get down to business. We’ve got the evening and tomorrow morning to prepare. However, I don’t want to set out any later than mid-afternoon on the morrow, as Fly and his compatriots won’t wait long themselves. With any luck, we’ll get out of the city ahead of them, take a good lead.”

“Where are we even going to go first,” asked Flint.

“Lee Toren will lead the way for the first leg of the trip.” She crossed her arms over her chest and stood as aloof as she could. “He’s already making preparations, so he can get a good night’s sleep tonight. After he’s taken us to our first checkpoint, we’ll have to utilize our information networks. This includes, of course, talking to everyone we can with similar professions as ours.” She looked at the group to gauge their reactions. “I understand that won’t be easy for you, Styge, or you, Stocky, but you’re going to have to socialize. Only enough to get us moving again,” she added, and saw Stockholm sigh heavily.

Styge didn’t seem at all affected by her plan. Old and crotchety though he was, the Illusionist made himself available for conversation and company easily enough. But when he came in contact with other Illusionists, he became fiercely competitive, and refused to speak to anyone until he proved he was the superior practitioner.

“Perhaps if Styge and Stockholm conversed with folks more along the lines of your and my trades, Will, they’d make better progress,” Flint suggested.

“Fine, whatever,” she rasped. “So long as everyone tries to learn what they can. Lee said the first village we’re heading to would be one of the stops on Reynaldi and his company’s path back home. Someone local will likely know where to direct us after that.”

“Hmm,” Stockholm rumbled.

All eyes turned and looked at the timeless bruiser.

“You know.” He moved to a map on Anna’s left hand wall, pointing at Desanadron. He traced his finger north, and then a little east. “There’s lots of little villages about three days north of the city on foot. Does Lee know exactly which one to lead us to?”

Anna nodded.

“Then so did Lee’s companion. The one who offered the information to the Midnight Suns. We’ll have to get one hell of a big jump on their crew if we want to get to the village and make out of there before running into Fly and his men, sir.”

Anna looked at the map, and cursed under her breath. Once again, Stockholm’s growling, bass voice had spoken the truth. If they wanted to avoid a confrontation with Thaddeus Fly and whomever the Black Draconus Ninja brought with him, they needed an alternate route to the village. But since only Lee knew where they would head, they’d have to wait to confer with him. The Gnome Pickpocket gathered himself for the journey even now, elsewhere in the Hoods’ underground lair.

“What do you suggest we do about that Stocky,” she asked. For once, he smiled genuinely at her use of his pet name.

“I suggest we stay the course,” he said, surprising her and Flint both. They stared at him, eyes wild and incredulous.

“What,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “I haven’t had a good fight in a while, and it would behoove us to get a fight with them out of the way as quickly as possible. We can slow them down with injuries, maybe make certain that they stay the hell out of our way for the rest of the trip.” He shrugged his huge, furry shoulders. “Just, you know, tossing the idea out there.”

“Well, I for one disagree,” piped in Norman, adjusting his taped together glasses. “I say we just take an indirect route to the village Lee wants us to go to.” The Gnome Engineer regurgitated the words that had only been thoughts in Anna’s head. “I think it would be most efficient if we avoided confrontations on the whole, particularly with such an unsavory bunch as our rivals.” He looked around at the taller members of the group, his eyes beseeching them to be reasonable, to listen for once to the intellectual of the room. However, the aye’s already had the vote locked—Stockholm’s course of action would be followed, come what may of it.

     “Sorry Norm, but you’re outnumbered on this point, four to one,” Anna said. “Very good. Now, everyone’s to meet here at noon tomorrow, regardless of how much prep work you have left. We’ll decide at that meeting how much longer before departure, but trust me, I’m not going to waste time. Get some prep done this evening, and early tomorrow morning. We should be able to leave in the middle of the afternoon, as I said before. Everyone,” she said, standing straight behind her desk. “You are dismissed.”

They all gave brief nods of the head before exiting the room, one by one, leaving her alone with her friends once more, the walls.

* * * *

Lain McNealy sat in her private chambers, all six of her black candles burning in a loose circle around her.

Her eyes closed, her hands resting limply on her knees, the waifish Necromancer focused her inner sight on the place she returned to when she needed to center herself.

Slowly, steadily, the image of a chamber set in a tomb settled around her mind’s eye. Her body remained still and cold, in the building that housed the Midnight Suns. Her spirit, however, now hovered lightly several miles away from Desanadron, deep in the earth itself.

Surrounded by a host of bodies, each waiting for its turn as one of her servants, Lain spotted one peculiarly garbed body, and floated over next to it for a closer inspection. The clothes appeared rather foreign to her, articles from an era long before any she’d been familiar with. Strange too, she thought, were the weapons the bones held fast to and the ones strapped to him.

Never mind that, she thought after a moment’s hesitation. The body piqued her interest, and so she summoned the magic necessary to force the earthen floor around the body to absorb it and its possessions whole, that they might be transported to wherever she stood when she opted to call it forth in her service.

When Lain opened her eyes and felt once again the soothing warmth of the burning candles, she realized someone stood in the doorway, waiting for her return to the here and now. When she looked, she made out the outline of the Guild Headmaster, leaning against the doorframe. “Headmaster Fly, do come in,” she droned, her body drained by the use of her magic.

The Black Draconus bowed his head to honor her, and stepped into the chamber. He didn’t bother to close the door behind him—where Thaddeus Fly ventured, few dared to eavesdrop.

“What brings you by,” she asked.

“Listen to me, and listen well, Ms. McNealy,” he whispered, glaring powerfully into her eyes. “I know not how long this trip of ours is going to take, but rest assured, at some point Markus Trent shall attempt another maneuver against me. I’m not going to ask you to take sides, Ms. McNealy. That would be,” his eyes roved as he sought the proper term. “Presumptuous of me.”

“How so, Headmaster,” she replied, her own voice low now on purpose, to match his tone.

“I would be presuming that you gave a damn about which of us came out of the conflict the victor. Your loyalties are to the realm of the undead, Lain. Your eventual destiny does not lie here, with this Guild. So it is folly to choose a side, you see?”

But she didn’t see, didn’t understand what exactly Fly was driving at.

“Sir, you have me at a loss,” she admitted.

Fly leaned away, taking a seat on the dirt floor. He stretched his arms out behind him and to either side, lounging.

     “Ms. McNealy, to make it simpler,” he said, his words light and quiet, but his eyes full of fire, “if a struggle occurs between he and I, quietly remain at a distance. Neither of us can then say afterwards that you had anything to gain or lose from your choice of alliance. I’d rather not have someone with your potential go by the wayside because of an internal power struggle in the Guild.”

Without leaving her the opportunity to say anything more, or ask any of the questions she had now forming in her mind, Thaddeus Fly left her chambers.

For an hour after his departure, she wracked her brain, trying to think of why he’d never been so candid with her before.

* * * *

The Black Draconus stalked down the west wing hallway up on the top floor of the ten-story building, the shadows pooled together in large sections. The word ‘murky’ came to his mind as Thaddeus Fly moved softly, silently down the hall, making his way to the only new door in the corridor.

Second from the end, on the right, he thought, turning now and facing the chamber. He didn’t like what he was about to do, but he could think of few agents in the Guild more capable of maintaining order in his absence. Akimaru or Trent would have made ideal and sensible choices, but as they would be accompanying him on his jaunt out of the city, only this man would do.

Fly took a moment and breathed deeply, steeling himself for this encounter. He raised his gloved right hand, and half a moment before he knocked, he heard from the other side of the door a muted, gruff male voice call out to him. “Door’s open.”

Fly sighed, and slowly opened the door, keeping back to avoid any traps the man inside the room had set in the entryway.

“Mr. Striker,” Fly said in greeting.

Striker stood at about two inches shy of six feet, with a wiry frame that belied his actual physical strength. The man stood partially hunched over, a putter in his hands as he lined up a small ball with a plastic cup across the room, near a seldom-used fireplace. His open black vest hung loosely over a simply white tee shirt, the sleeves ripped off, leaving tattered threads hanging off of his shoulders. A pair of blue pants, made of a material recently created by Human tailors called ‘denim’, was cinched around his hips with a long leather belt. His shaggy blond hair was covered with a dark blue bandana, perpetually tied to his head. He didn’t look away from the ball, and tapped it with the putter before he looked up at Fly.

The ball rolled easily into the cup as he leaned on the putter with one hand, the other on his hip.

“What brings you here, Headmaster?”

Striker’s voice reminded Fly of coarse sandpaper being rubbed against metal. The very sound of it made his legs tremble.

“Mr. Striker, you may not be aware, but I’ll be taking several members of the Guild on a mission out of the city,” Fly began, still remaining outside of the room.

Striker moved over to a dresser standing in the corner, next to a simple cot, and flipped a switch.

Fly heard several clicking sounds in the doorframe. He stepped through, unharmed. “Nobody of significant rank will be here to keep an eye on things. I think you may be aware of what I’m going to be asking of you.”

Striker said nothing, rubbing the short, coarse whiskers of his cheek stubble. He smiled at Fly as he went still, revealing a set of steel teeth.

“You need me to take the post of temporary acting Headmaster,” Striker said. He set the putter on his cot and shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “Sure, why not? Any idea how long you’ll be gone?”

“Not at this juncture.” Fly’s hand itched to reach for a weapon, if not to use immediately, then just to keep between himself and Striker. But Fly wasn’t prone to rash actions, and such a sign of discomfort would damage his already tenuous relationship with this man. “We depart tomorrow. Upon our leaving, you will be in charge here, and will have to maintain operations. I know you’re up to the task, Mr. Striker.”

Striker smiled again, wider. Gleaming, dagger-like in appearance, his teeth reflected the torchlight in his room perfectly.

“Very much so, Headmaster. Of course, I’m sure I have no choice in the matter,” Striker took another step toward the taller, reptilian Ninja. “I still have that debt to repay, after all.”

     “I wasn’t about to bring that up, Mr. Striker,” Fly said honestly. “However, since you mention it, yes, you do. And it’s still a long time coming to be repaid.” He let a hint of superiority slip into his voice. “Until it is, we own you Mr. Striker. Don’t forget that.” He jabbed a gloved claw into Striker’s chest.

“Oh, I won’t, Headmaster,” Striker replied in a low growl. “I won’t. Best of luck on your mission.”

The door was shut with a loud echo through the corridor, and Thaddeus Fly once more counted himself lucky that the creature called Striker was good to his oaths. Because if he wasn’t, Fly knew, Striker would have left a long time ago.

And he would have left the Guild’s building a sepulcher.

* * * *

Among other things, Ignatious Stockholm didn’t tolerate stupidity. He had before him a young agent of the Hoods who fit the bill of ‘stupidest of the day’ perfectly.

Since taking a seat across from the Red Tribe Werewolf, Timothy Dent hadn’t said a word. This course of action alone kept him from being officially labeled.

“I want you to tell me what, precisely, you thought you were going to accomplish by this foolishness,” Stockholm rumbled patiently. He leaned forward, his fingers knotted together with his elbows on his desk.

William Deus had advised him to get some sleep, but the Guild Chief had too much work to clear up before they departed the next day. He wasn’t about to leave it behind for Hollister or Coates. Neither would be able to handle the task. “The silence is your cue to speak,” he rasped.

“Oh, um,” Dent stammered, trying to maintain his composure. Dent was a Sidalis, or mutant, whose appearance was mostly Human, with the exception of webbed fingers and feet that resembled flippers. His mutant power was his ability to teleport short distances, one hundred or so yards at a time. He’d thought about using this ability several times since being summoned to Stockholm’s office, but knew that it would prove fruitless. The big red menace would find and corner him eventually, and he knew Dent’s weakness—paper. Whenever Dent came in physical contact with paper of any kind, his powers ceased to function, and his breathing became erratic. Stockholm would use that to his advantage if he had to give chase, and Dent didn’t want to piss the man off, ever.

“I’m waiting,” Stockholm said, his voice low and even.

“Well, sir, that is, um,” Dent started. “I didn’t see any harm in it. I just thought, you know, a little extra pocket change would be good to have around for once.” He gave his most winning smile.

Stockholm shook his head slowly, unlaced his fingers, and reached into the top left drawer of his desk. He pulled out a manila folder, slapping it down on the desk. He tapped it with one long, crimson finger.

“What’s that, sir?”

“It’s your personnel file, Dent,” Stockholm said. He opened the folder to the first of many, many pages. “Says here we recruited you right out of Southhouse penitentiary four years ago, when you managed to escape after discovering your Sidalis power. You were eager to join, your recruiter noted,” Stockholm had already read through the entire file, memorizing it before calling Dent in for this little chat. “He said you knew you could use your abilities to do good work for us. Now,” Stockholm flipped past the statistics sheet. Beneath the first sheet lay a stack of pink sheets—disciplinary reports. “What we have here, is a failure to communicate.” Stockholm grinned wickedly. “You know the rules, Dent. All proceeds procured from any target are to be reported to the treasury and dropped off for distribution on Fridays. Yet, here, we have nineteen incidents of failure to report and drop off all earnings, six conflict reports, and two instances of unsupported extortion.” Stockholm raised his voice, feeding anger into his tone with each set of reports. “Pardon my language, agent Dent, but what the fuck is your damage?”

“Now Mr. Stockholm, you know I didn’t start those fights.” Dent leaned back in his chair as Stockholm edged himself over the desk on his huge arms. “I’m not like that. I wouldn’t hurt a fly, sir.”

     “Except,” Stockholm said, thrusting the six conflict reports toward Dent, “there were at least four witnesses in each of these incidents! You’re already skating on thin ice here, agent Dent. And then you pull this shit again,” Stockholm spun on his heels, taking another pink sheet off of his pin-up board. Flint had submitted the report, so the big Red Tribe had no question of its authenticity. A thief Flint may be, he thought, but he never lied about this sort of thing. “You robbed the house of a police Sergeant,” Stockholm shouted, waving the report in front of Dent.

“I didn’t know,” Dent lied, flustered and afraid.

“Bullshit! Every watchman, every constable or police officer in the city, has a shield hung over their door! Did you forget that?”

He hadn’t, but Dent had been seriously hoping that the robbery would be blamed on the Midnight Suns. However, he’d been seen exiting the house by Flint himself, who had immediately gone back to the Guild and reported his suspicions. When their contact in the tenth precinct had reported the theft to another agent, the young woman had gone to Flint, who confirmed the report and posted it in Stockholm’s office.

“Um, no sir,” Dent said. Best to be honest now, he thought. “It’s just that, well, I don’t make a whole lot here, sir. I don’t think it’s fair.”

“Nobody asked you if you thought it was fair,” Stockholm bellowed, swooping around his big oak desk and standing only a foot or so away from Dent, who remained glued to his seat. “You received information regarding our payment practices before you took the oath, didn’t you? Answer the question.”

“Yes sir!”

“And you agreed to follow the oath once you’d recited it, right? Answer the question.”

“Yes sir!”

“Then what was this about?” Stockholm voice went soft, his movements and words deadly slow and purposeful. He stood now behind Dent, his enormous, clawed hands resting easily on the Sidalis’ shoulders. “Was it the officer who pinched you in the first place, sent you to prison? Did he somehow wrong you in some other way? We’re not big on revenge here, but we do understand it, in a way,” Stockholm said, tightening his hands slightly.

“It was just greed on my part, sir.” Dent burst into tears. He buried his face in his webbed hands. “I wanted some extra scratch to buy a new crossbow, sir. Mine’s all worn and doesn’t aim right. I thought I’d get some extra money on my own and buy a new one, sir. I’m sorry, sir!”

As Dent cried, he became aware of the air around him buzzing with movement, and then a sense of calm. When his tears slowed, he looked up and saw that Stockholm was seated behind his desk again, his feet up on its surface. A small pouch rested next to his bare feet. “Sir?”

“I’m putting this in your folder,” the Red Tribe said tiredly. “We’ll mark it down as an unauthorized operation report. But seriously, one more big one like this,” he said, waving the folder as he put it back in his desk. “And you’re ass is out in the street. Now, take that, and go,” he growled.

Dent reached for the pouch, opened it, marveled at the gold pieces inside, and sped out of the office. Despite his seething anger, the Red Tribe Chief smiled a little before checking his timepiece. Eight o’clock, evening. And he still had eight more meetings to go before he’d go to bed.

“Gonna be a long night,” he said to the four walls.

* * * *

Flint roamed the eighth residential district of Desanadron, his bare feet telling him he was near the border of the ninth district, the soil road about to turn into cobblestone. He turned down Folly Street in order to stay in the eighth district. When he came to the next intersection, he’d be near his favorite dive bar, The Pint Palace.

Once upon a time, the eighth district was a place where the city’s prominent members of government resided. However, thirty years ago, when the city had come under attack by Richard Vandross and his minions, the district had been left in shambles. Minimal effort was put into reconstruction, and now the poor and shady residents of the city’s populace made it their home.

The Pint Palace had benefited the most from the reconstruction, because it turned out that those of low income did a lot heavier drinking than the well-off, a fact the tavern’s owner had come to revel in. His profits had skyrocketed in the years immediately after the attack, and now he had a steady flow of customers. As a Dwarf, he had many years yet to enjoy the profit.

Flint opened the saloon-style doors stepped inside, and was immediately engulfed in pipe and cigarette smoke. His snout wrinkled, though only a little, as he popped a smoke in his mouth and lit it with a match. The usual crowd of ne’er do wells sat around the tavern, seated at the bar or in small groups at the tables—all of which could use a serious washing, Flint thought.

No other lycanthropes here, he noted from the doorway. A moment later, he made his way up to the bar, where a rotund, cherry-cheeked Human by the name of Rudy was tending bar.

“The usual, Rudy,” he said as he exhaled a plume of smoke.

Flint took a seat in the only empty stool at the bar, wedged between a Human who looked as though he’d fallen asleep with his head on the bar on his left, and a stone-faced Lizardman on his right. Flint subtly scanned the Lizardman, and he saw that the gray robed reptile had a spiked mace on his left hip, and an amulet wrapped around his left wrist.

A Battle Priest, Flint thought.

Rudy set a bottle of beer down in front of him, and Flint produced a silver coin, laying in Rudy’s palm.

“Much obliged.” The bartender moved to another customer further down the bar.

Flint turned on his stool to look around the tavern. Mostly Humans and Jafts, he noted, the stench of the blue skinned humanoids masked by the heavy odors of cheap booze and smoke.

The Wererat stubbed out his smoke in an ashtray, and quickly downed his drink. He thanked Rudy for the beer, and made his way out. No good marks here tonight. He’d only come in to see if he could pick some pockets. Unfortunately, he already knew all of the patrons, and knew he’d be taking what little rent money they didn’t squander on drink.

Once outside, Flint stared up at the gibbous moon. Around nine o’ clock, he thought.

“May as well get some shut eye,” he said to no one in particular, moving back toward the sewer grate he routinely used for getting in and out of the Guild. He turned the corner of Folly Street, and bumped into someone, taking a guarded step back as he looked down to find a white clad man standing there, unmoved by the contact. Flint knew the man he was looking at, and wasn’t sure how exactly to react.

“Good evening, Mr. Flint.” Akimaru bowed slightly to the Wererat.

“Uh, yeah.” He checked to make sure his money pouches were still in place and his weapons strapped to his side. All clear, he thought. “Good evening, Akimaru.”

Awkward silence filled the air, and Flint looked around to make sure nobody else was on the streets. But it was late in the evening, and most folks in the eighth district were either in bed, or out and about in other parts of the city. “What brings you out of your cocoon?” the Wererat asked, lighting up another cigarette.

Akimaru shrugged his shoulders vaguely. “Just enjoying the quiet of the outdoors.” The Ninja’s soft tone betrayed nothing to Flint’s sensitive ears. “And you?”

“Oh, me? Just getting a drink, trying to be social,” Flint lied. Well, half-truthed, he thought with a grin. “Look, ah, sorry about, you know, running into you.”

“Oh, no problem, Mr. Flint. My apologies to you.” Akimaru bowed again.

Did the air just get colder out here? Flint wondered.

Without another word, the two agents parted company, each heading back for their respective Guild. Flint had been spurred on by Akimaru’s appearance. He would tell Anna right away, and advise her that their group should leave at high noon the next day. If Akimaru was still around, then so was Fly. And that meant they could get the jump on the Midnight Suns.

When Akimaru got back to his Guild, he said nothing to anybody.

* * * *

Anna slept fitfully, her wraps making her uncomfortable, until around three in the morning, when she locked her office door and stripped half naked, sleeping much more soundly now that she could breath. However, some hours later, when a knock came at her door, she immediately pulled the blanket up over her bare upper body and called out to ask who it was.

“It’s me, Flint,” she heard the Wererat call through the door.

“Oh, all right. Come in, but shut the door behind you.” She looked over at her timepiece. It was only five in the morning. What could be so important?

Flint picked the lock in record time, entered, and locked the door behind him. He turned to Anna, who had set the blanket down and was doing up her wraps.

“Sorry, boss lady, but I had to tell you as soon as I thought it’d be safe to wake you up.” Flint stared at her.

“Eyes,” she said.

“What?”

“My eyes,” she said. “They’re up here.” She directed his attention away from her still exposed upper breasts.

He laughed harshly, turning around until she gave him the okay to turn around again. She was now fully dressed, and in William Deus mode. “Now, what is it?”

“I ran into Akimaru last night.” He watched as the shock registered in her face. “After I left the Pint Palace. Bumped right into him out on the street, boss.”

“Did he attack you?” She inspected him for signs of a struggle.

“No, Anna, he didn’t. And I didn’t attack him. It was weird, but I didn’t sense any hostility from him.” Flint didn’t mention the aura of deathly chill that had radiated from the white clad Ninja.

“Hmm,” she mused. “Still, that changes things. If he’s still around, then so is Fly. We can get a good jump on them if we hurry up and finish preparations. Get the others up.” She spun into motion. “Get packed, and get ready. We’re going to head out a little after noon.”

No need to suggest it now, Flint thought with a smile.

“Lee’s already awake, I’m sure. Find him, and tell him to meet us all on the north end of the city. We’ll head for that village of his just as soon as we meet up. Let him know he’s got to get all of his provisions before we meet up with him. I’m not going to stand around and wait on the fat little prick to buy food after we meet up!”

She was on fire now. Thaddeus Fly would surely bring Akimaru along on the quest to track down and steal the Glove of Shadows. Or, she feared, though she wouldn’t say it aloud to Flint, the Black Draconus had already left the city, and had left the Guild in the care of the enigmatic Akimaru. She sincerely hoped for the former rather than the latter, but she couldn’t be certain. If Fly took Akimaru and Markus Trent, since he’d never leave Trent behind to try to usurp his position again, then who would be left in charge in his absence?

“Striker,” she said aloud to herself. Anna didn’t know much about the man she only ever heard referred to as Striker or Mr. Striker, but over the course of the last three years, it had become apparent to her that her Chief, Stocky, knew something about the man. He had advised Anna, or rather William Deus, as he knew her, to stay far away from the man. He told her he’d handle the man if it ever came down to it, and she’d left it at that. But though Striker may be deadly, what kind of leader will he be in Fly’s absence?

She already knew, because once before, two years ago, Fly had taken Akimaru and Trent to a mixed Ninja clan meeting in the southeast. Striker had been left in charge, and operations had continued as normal for the Midnight Suns. However, several agents mysteriously disappeared, never to be seen or heard from again. She had the distinct impression that Striker had done them in for disciplinary reasons. Fly wasn’t so harsh, and Striker seemed the type. Would Borshev be able to handle anything Striker threw at him? she wondered.

Anna exited her office, locking it behind her.

In the hallway outside her office, she heard several Hoods agents engaged in early morning conversation, coffee mugs in hand as they saluted her when she passed.

“Oi, Will,” she heard behind her.

She turned on her heel and found Lee Toren gasping hugely in front of her. “What’s this Flint tells me about leavin’ at noon? Are you blinkin’ mad?”

Anna shook her head and set her stance.

“No, I’m not mad, and I’m not joking. We leave at noon, Lee. You’d best go get your provisions now.” She knew how long it took the Gnome Pickpocket to shop for food. He was as bad with that as she was with shopping with her husband for shoes. She never bought a lot—she just liked making one concession to the stereotype of her gender. That, and it drove Harold crazy.

Lee harumphed. “Foin, foin, I’ll go get me foodstuffs then. I’ll wait at the north gates, loik you asked. But really, wot’s the rush?”

“Just trust me on this, Lee.”

Through the chambers and halls of the underground base she stalked, making her way for Stockholm’s quarters. She knew he wouldn’t have gotten much sleep, and hated herself for interrupting the little rest the big crimson Werewolf would be enjoying. But she had little choice, and wasn't about to leave the task to anyone else. She stood in front of his chamber door for a long moment, greeting the agents who passed by casually, finally opening the door and slipping inside.

Stockholm lay in front of the fireplace. A huge, red furred wolf, he was curled comfortably in front of the burning fire, his tail twitching now and again of its own accord.

She saw huge, dark bags under his eyes, and his brow was furrowed as if in anger or dismay. Anna started toward him, then noticed a small, framed portrait lying on the floor in front of his snout. Creeping forward as slowly and stealthily as she could, Anna made her way up next to the slumbering giant, plucking the picture up off of the floor.

It was a painted portrait of a young Tanner Werewolf, his slender arm wrapped around what appeared to be Stockholm’s waist.

Old war buddy, she wondered. Distant cousin? She wasn’t sure, and she looked down at Stocky, making certain he hadn’t woken up and caught her snooping. Setting the portrait back down in its original spot, Anna made her way back over to the door, faced the Werewolf, and cleared her throat loudly, purposefully.

His eyes fluttered open, and his long, lupine tongue lolled out as he got up on all fours and stretched. Stockholm looked up at her, and she watched as his body underwent the swift change from animus to bestial state. Oddly enough, she’d never seen his humanoid form.

Perhaps he didn’t have one, she thought. Some lycanthropes didn’t, just as some didn’t have an animus state. While rare, it often denoted the fact that the particular lycanthrope was highly powerful in one of his or her other states. Anna knew exactly which state Stocky was most efficient in.

“Headmaster.” He rubbed his baggy eyes.

He looked down, snatched up the portrait, and stuffed it in one of the pockets of the vest that had materialized on his upper body.

Anna wondered where a lycanthrope’s belongings went when they underwent their changes. No matter, she thought. Bigger things to worry about.

“Stocky, I know you probably haven’t had much sleep, but we’ve got to get ready. We’re heading out at noon.”

His eyes snapped open.

“I understand, sir. I’ll make my final preparations right away.” Stockholm darted over to his weapons and took his chain shirt off of its hook. “Where are we going to rendezvous?”

“The in-house tavern,” she replied. Just before she left, she felt obligated to say something more. “By the way, Ignatious.” She used his first name in a rare display of concern. She looked into his hardened expression, looking for the little hint of vulnerability she usually found in people’s eyes, the lines of their face. She caught a glimmer of it, fading fast as he became more awake and alert.

“If there’s ever anything you need to talk to me about, you know where to find me,” she said.

He gave her a reassuring grin, and nodded. Anna moved out of his chamber.

When she got to the in-house tavern, she found Norman Adwar and Styge seated at a small wooden table, steaming mugs of coffee set before them.

Styge looks well rested at least, she thought. But Norm looked like a total wreck, his hair disheveled, his hands still covered in grease and soot from the previous night’s work. He had a notebook in front of his bleary eyes, and was furiously jotting down notes and calculations.

“Good morning, gentlemen.” She took a seat between them.

“Mmf, gn mrnerhrm,” Norm muttered, which she mentally translated.

“Top of the day to you, sir,” Styge offered. The old Illusionist already had his rucksack next to him, packed and ready as he blew on his coffee and took a good swig of the brackish fluid. “All is in readiness with me, William. I’ll be ready to go just as soon as the others are.”

“Well, it could be a few hours.” She s gestured to another agent to bring her a cup of coffee.

It was produced in record time, everyone around her high-strung. Apparently, there was a lot of tension amid the Hoods agents over her departure, and the fact that their Prime and Chief would be gone as well wasn’t sitting well with many of them.

“Um, Will,” Norm said. “Is it okay if I bring the autocart?”

Ah, the autocart. The autocart was one of Norman’s most successful and useful contraptions, modeled on an ancient mecha device called an ‘automobile’. The mecha was a cart of metal mounted on a system of chains, pulleys, and four large, rubber tires. The whole big thing moved automatically once it was started, and it could be steered by a device mounted in front of a small leather chair called a ‘steering wheel’. The problem was, Gnome engineering had become notoriously unstable, with a reputation for making things that went ‘boom’. Gnomes made things that weren’t meant to be weapons, yet still these things often exploded. Imagine opening your Gnome crafted refrigerator, and having the motor in the back explode out at you, a flaming heap of metal death.

“You can bring it, but you’re responsible for maintaining it on the road. The second it becomes a liability, we’re leaving it behind.”

Despite her warning, the Gnome Engineer smiled broadly from ear to ear.

“What about you old man,” she said. “Any questions?”

“Just the one obvious question, Will.” The Illusionist kept his eyes shut for a moment. A moment later, after he turned out a bit of flatulence, he smiled and sighed with relief. “Why’re you bringing me along?”

“You know, Flint asked me the same thing.” She accepted a cup of coffee from a middle-aged Half-Elf agent. “You’ve got field experience, and you can offer us some good insight along the road. Plus, you bring your particular talents to the table in our favor. You know the Suns are going to be after the Glove of Shadows too.” She watched as the old man’s eyes turned hard.

     “I’m well aware of that, young man,” Styge said. “I just wish you’d make things a little clearer for me. Like, what’s my primary duty? Where are we going after Lee Toren takes us to the village to the north? And what are we going to do with the Glove once we have it, William?”

Well, she thought. At least I have an answer to those first two questions. She hadn’t, in fact, given much thought to what she would do with the Glove once she got it.

“Fair enough.” She squared her seat off to face Styge. “First, your initial duty is going to be to cover our tracks after we head out. If we try to cover them with conventional methods, Fly and his men will find us out quick enough and give chase. As to that second question, we’ll have to snoop around in the village for details about Reynaldi and his company before we can make another move. And lastly, I don’t presently know what the hell I’m going to do with the Glove once we’ve got it. If we get it,” she amended, knowing full well that defeat was a possibility. Thaddeus Fly and his Midnight Suns weren’t going to be her only opponents in this mission. Anna knew full well she couldn’t saunter up to a Paladin like Reynaldi and simply ask for the Glove. Especially since he intended to destroy the artifact.

“Well, at least we’ll keep it away from Fly, right?” Only the left half of Norman’s face seemed to have taken the full effects of the coffee thus far, leaving his smile slightly marred.

“True, me boy, true. But is that reason enough to take something like that into our Guild?” Styge sipped his coffee.

Damn him, Anna thought. That’s a good point. If that stood as the only reason for taking the Glove, then perhaps it made better sense to let the Paladin destroy it. But the potential uses for such a marvelous item seemed endless to Anna’s mind, the mind of a true thief. Imagine being able to take anything you wanted, off of anybody, and they were left with no idea they’d been mugged. Such an object couldn’t be ignored. But what exactly would she steal, and from who? The Glove wasn’t entirely necessary for most things she wanted. She could take them any time she wanted. So what exactly would she use it for?

“We’ll find a good use for it another time, Styge. The point right now is to get our hands on it first. Once we’ve brought it back here, we’ll talk about how to use it. Until such time, let’s just get our thinking straight. Any other devices you want to bring along Norm?”

“Just the usual stuff.” The Gnome finished his drink. “My pistol, incendiary devices, scanning and scouting equipment.”

Anna gave a brief nod, and stood, her coffee unfinished.

“Where you headed off to, boss?” Anna smiled down at him, showing her teeth for a flash of a second.

“Last minute business to take care of,” she said. “Wait here for the others. Flint should show up soon, he’ll be better for conversation than me right now.” With that, Anna left the Guild’s private tavern and headed for the one room she liked the least of all the public chambers in the Guild—the records room.

* * * *

Thaddeus Fly woke up an hour or so after Anna Deus had parted company with Styge and Norman. The first thought to shoot through his head was finish up.

He had almost completed his own preparations for their departure later in the evening, but had one more personal matter to attend to. He swung his bare legs over the side of his bed, rubbing his temple with one hand. The thick, jet-black scales on his hand felt cold to the touch, yet he knew he had sweat up a storm in his sleep. He always did.

Standing and stretching, Fly took a good long look at himself in his full-length mirror. He thought about the similarities between his Race and the Race of Lizardmen. While similar, the two species were different under close observation. For starters, Lizardmen only came in vibrant green, yellowish green, or brownish green. Draconus, on the other hand, came in as many varieties as there were Dragons in the sky. Secondly, Lizardmen had tough, leathery flesh, lightly scaled all over. Draconus bodies were covered with scales.

These, of course, stood as the most obvious differences. Fly opened his mouth and belched a short streak of lightning from his throat. Another key difference, especially in combat, was that Lizardmen didn’t have breath weapons like the dragon kin. Fly seldom used his, preferring to use the Ninja combat arts. And then, finally, there came the subtlest of all of the differences, one that Fly reminded himself of every day.

Lizardmen lived in packs and tribes. Draconus, however, had little or no sense of family. Once hatched from the egg, a Draconus grew to the size of an average Human adult in a manner of weeks, feeding off of kinetic energy around them. Once grown, the Draconus relied on conventional means of digestion, seeking out food by either hunting or collecting. It had always been the one thing he envied his lesser cousin Race. Despite being a Ninja, Fly never acclimated to the being a loner.

The Midnight Suns’ Headmaster got dressed, attaching his weapons belt and double-checking his rucksack, ensuring that he had everything he would need once they set out later in the day. Silence hung heavily in the air of his private chamber.

How long had it been? he thought. How long since I really felt like a part of something? Sure, he had the Guild, but he was the Headmaster, and was treated as such. He seldom got invited out when he ordered a Guild-wide break. Only Akimaru ever kept him decent company.

As soon as he thought about the white clad Ninja, there came a knock at his chamber door. “It’s open,” he called.

Instead of Akimaru standing in the hall, he found himself looking at Markus Trent.

“Please, step inside,” he grumbled at his second-in-command.

Trent smirked at him and took a couple of steps inside, clearing his throat dramatically.

“Fly, I thought I might try to convince you this morning, since you’ve had a good night’s sleep, to replace Rage and miss McNealy with more experienced agents.” Trent’s voice held a hint of mockery. “Two particular gents come to mind.”

Fly refused to look at Trent, much less give him the satisfaction of asking who he had in mind.

“We will not discuss this matter, Markus.” He turned and faced off with the Human.

Impudent, smug little prick, he thought. I know exactly why you’ve thought of two other agents for this mission. “I have made my decision, and I’ll not have you questioning my judgment on the topic. Now,” he stepped toward Trent. “Do you have anything else to say?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, I do.” Trent’s hands itched to wrap themselves around the Draconus’ throat and squeeze the life out of him. Ah, my lovelies, he mentally called to his torture tools up in his chamber. How I long to use you against this tyrant. “If you insist on bringing them, I humbly request you leave me behind and replace me in the party. I’ll be able to take care of things here.”

“Absolutely not.” Fly pressed his face a mere two inches from the shorter Human’s. “The last time I did that, you’ll recall, I came back and found myself set upon by a number of my own agents. My men, turned to your agenda.”

“Ah ah ah, you don’t have any proof of that.” Trent waved his finger in the ‘no no’ gesture.

     “If I did, you’d have been disemboweled already.” Fly pressed his size advantage, getting even closer to Trent. “But I know it was you behind their attack, you worm. I had to slay fifteen of my own men that day, thanks to your scheming and conniving.” He sparked a bit of lightning in his mouth as he spoke. Finally, he thought at the flicker of fear in the smaller Ninja’s eyes. “I’ll not risk another attempted insurrection, and I’ll not let you bring your traitors with our company. You'll just have to try something a little more clever, Markus.” He put one hand on the man’s chest and shoved him back out into the hallway. “Try, try again,” he muttered as he slid his door shut.

He heard Trent’s receding footsteps, hard and full of anger. Thwarted again, he’ll be thinking. Once again, Fly felt the need for a family or closer friends. With Markus Trent constantly trying to undo him, a few friends would be nice.

* * * *

Flint never thought much about food supplies. Hunting for wild game gave him not only a thrill, it gave him something to do on the otherwise uneventful trips he took away from Desanadron. He traveled the unmarked Shadow Roads, the paths and routes long before established by the longest surviving thief Guilds throughout the realm of Tamalaria. Few adventurers took the footpaths through the hills, fields and woodlands, as they would certainly be set upon by crafty road agents the moment they stumbled on the paths.

However, for such an open-ended mission, he knew Anna wouldn’t have Lee lead them down the Shadow Roads. As such, he might find himself competing with other travelers for game, so a quick purchase of a new quiver of bolts for his crossbow was in order. After a quick stop over at a weapons shop, the Wererat Guild Prime sauntered over to a small diner and sat by himself by a window.

He checked his wrist timepiece. “Nine-thirty,” he muttered to himself. “Time for a meal and a cuppa. Miss,” he said, hailing an Elven waitress.

Ten minutes later, his meal set in front of him along with his fifth cup of coffee, Flint drew an old map of the continent out of one of his pouches, laying it flat on the table.

“Wotcha’ lookin’ at friend,” someone asked at around his chest level.

He looked over and saw Lee Toren’s smiling mug, coffee in hand.

“Mind if I have a seat?”

The Wererat took a sip of his drink and motioned his rodent snout at the opposite side of the booth.

Lee hopped up into the booth, and stood on the seat, leaning over the map. “So, takin’ a quick look over the land?”

“Sort of.” Flint spoke around a mouthful of breakfast. “I’m trying to think ahead of William, figure the route he’s going to want to go. Where, exactly, is this village you’re taking us too?” Lee looked at the map, and used a small pen to mark the spot.

“Village of Prek,” Lee said flatly. “You gonna eat that toast?”

Flint handed the Gnome a slice, which he quickly covered with jam and devoured.

“S’a small village along the Toag River. Fisherman for the most part, but they also grow tobacco in the fields. Premium grade smokes made there.” He pulled a cigarette from his nearly empty pack and took a long first drag, exhaling out of the corner of his mouth and right into the face of a passing customer. “Somefin’ on yer mind there mouse man?”

Flint ate his food slowly, ignoring Lee Toren for a moment.

“Shows here that there’s an Order of Oun fort not far from Prek. But this map is a little outdated,” Flint finally said. “Reynaldi would head there to report in if it’s still in service. If it isn’t, he may move on towards Fort Flag, more directly east of Desanadron. But either way, we’ll have to head to Prek first to find out, won’t we?”

Lee gave him a short nod, chewing Flint’s other piece of toast.

Flint realized he hadn’t seen the Pickpocket nick it off of his plate. Lee really was very good at his job. “You know, you could order your own food.”

“What, and pay for it? Thanks no, I already did my good deed fer the day and paid full price fer me travel rations. Total rip-off they was, too.” Lee sounded genuinely offended.

“I’ll just bet.” Flint shoveled the last bits of his meal into his snout. “Look. Just don’t lead us into anything unhealthy for us. You have a bad habit of drawing unwanted attention from some very powerful people.” The Wererat pushed his empty plate away.

The waitress dropped off his bill, which he paid with a smile on his face as he exited the diner. “Remember that time when you went and took Councilor Chamlin’s heirloom sword? Tried dropping down a sewer grate?”

Lee thought back on that particular job. Taking the sword had been a ruse—the real target had been a gold inlaid bracer, an artifact kept in the Councilor’s possession for years. Lee hadn’t discovered its function until after he’d pawned the item.

“Yeah, I remember. Didn’t the cops wind up findin’ a coupla’ your boys wiv it?”

“Yes, they did. And we’ve never heard back from those two. I’ve always suspected that Chamlin had them unduly punished.” Flint voiced his opinion on the topic for the first time. He’d never trusted a few of the city Councilors. They were bigger thieves than anyone in the Hoods, and they abused their positions to be so. “To a very, very small degree, I blame you for that,” the Wererat mused aloud.

Lee blinked up at him, grateful that Flint was a fairly forgiving person when it came to business accidents.

“Stockholm, however, holds you almost entirely responsible.”

“No big surprise there,” Lee commented. The two thieves walked down the road as the street market stalls started setting up for the day’s business. “E’d blame me fer anyfin’ he could fink of. ‘Ere now, I’m gonna head up to the north gates.” Lee checked his wrist timepiece briefly, then said, “I’ll see you in a couple of hours, mate.”

Flint nodded, not looking down at Lee. His eyes roved over the assembling crowds of citizens as the city truly awoke with a surge of people going to their jobs, children heading for the school houses if they attended, and other Hoods agents popping in and out of the crowds, earning their keep.

Flint loved the city of Desanadron deeply, and felt certain he was as patriotic as the next fellow. Sure, he stole for a living, but he bore no grudge against the citizenry. In fact, he loved the smiling, jovial inhabitants of the city-state’s main territory. Without them, he’d have no career. Can’t pick a pocket or rob a home with no residents, now can you? However, he was soon going to have to leave her, his fair lady, his beloved home for so many years. And he wasn’t sure he’d make it back to her in one piece.

Sighing deeply, Flint made for the Guild once again. Anna wanted everybody to meet up in the drink hall, or in-house tavern as she called it, and he didn’t want to disappoint.