Jake and the Syren's Call

Chapter 1

Jake closed his eyes and sighed at the ceiling. He itched his crocked nose with the cracked nail of his thumb, and grinned.

‘Whatcha grinning at?’ Asked the silver haired beauty with whom he had shared his evening.

‘Just can’t get over how good you are.’ He chuckled back at her.

She rolled her eyes and rose with the grace of a dancer. Her sheer robe flowing about her body like mist.

Jake admired her lissom form as she stretched her arms above her head. ‘Round two?’

She returned his smirk with a half-smile. ‘I’m going to take a shower.’ She pointed at the glass coffee table to their right. ‘Leave the money on there.’

He snorted. ‘You trust me to not cheat you?’

She looked down at him through long dark eyelashes and, for a moment, the room seemed to darken about her, as though her pearlescent skin absorbed the light. ‘You wouldn’t be that stupid.’

Her tongue snaked out, long and forked, from between four bright white fangs, before retreating back behind what had once more become perfect full lips. ‘And I could kill you before you reached the door.’ She winked at him.

Jake, who’d seen demonstrations of her demonic power before, chuckled and held his hands up in mock surrender. ‘No ma’am, I would not.’ He pointed towards the bathroom. ‘Mind if I pee first?’

She stepped up to him, leaned down and kissed his forehead. ‘Yes.’ She had a mischievous look. ‘Come see me again soon, ok?’ He nodded his assent, and she pinched at his cheek. ‘And eat something, will you? You’re looking skinnier than ever.’ She straightened and slinked into the bathroom.

Still smiling, Jake rose creakily from his seat and scratched his Van Dyke.

Van Dyke? What’s a Van Dyke?

It’s a beard, named after an artist. Or a movie star. I forget which.

Can’t you just call it a goatee?

Sure. No problem.

Jake rose creakily and scratched his goatee. There was little denying her words; he had lost weight. His high cheekbones were stark in his hollow cheeks set above a narrow jaw. His ears, though not large, appeared more prominent against the slightly sallow skin of his neck and thinly cropped brown hair. He looked less a private detective more a down and out comedy act, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d not had much business of late. Certainly not enough to justify anything more than the basics. Food, electric, rent, time with her.

He pulled on his tattered grey suit jacket over his stained shirt and looked about the room for his trilby. It was lying next to the hat stand where, in a failed attempt to impress, he had tossed it and missed the hook by a clear three feet. He placed it low over his blue eyes and felt armoured against the world.

He took two 10 Krona notes from frayed cotton wallet and placed them on the corner of the coffee table. For a moment, he thought about letting her know it was all there, but she would know. She could see him even now.

As he turned, he knocked her rook and knight off the board where they had just pinned his king in mate. He smiled once more. One day he’d beat her.

Jake left her apartment to the sound of running water and singing so sweet it could give you diabetes and made his way around a corner and down the stained and graffitied corridor to the lifts.

He nodded amiably towards the scarred dwarf in the leather jacket who leaned against the frame of a door from which the heavy dümph, dümph, dümph, dümph of Kronig Haus house music rattled the thin plastic.

‘Hey baby, you wanna try something naughty?’ He heard the voice before he saw her. She had been hidden behind the Dwarf’s long nose and swished into view with a flurry of sparks.

No more than 12 inches tall, the pixie wore a tight red miniskirt and boob tube. Her long ago dyed blonde hair curled down over one eye, while the other held the telltale green tinge of a salaff addict.

‘No thanks.’ Jake tipped his hat to her, trying to be friendly.

‘Come on baby.’ She winked at him, coquettishly, and ran one tiny hand up her shrunken leg, ‘You know you want to.’ She leaned forward in the air and winked at him. ‘You’ll never have felt so big.’

Jake tried to hide a grimace and to ignore the dwarf’s hand moving into his jacket where Jake would bet a kidney, a weapon was concealed. ‘I’m fine, thanks though. You have a good night.’

The pixie scowled at him, and the dwarf lowered his hand. Jake hurriedly pressed the down button on the elevator doors and the sound of a quartet of dying cats announced the lift’s arrival. Jake gave the pair one last fleeting look as he stepped inside, his nose closed to the smell of vomit left by a previous occupier.

Jake felt the tension in his groin grow, but it was ok. He could wait until he got home to pee.

Outside, things didn’t much improve much. Ranger’s Folly was not a district of Lodenon renowned for its artisanal coffee shops, inviting restaurants, and peaceful parks. It was not somewhere you would take a lover for a romantic night out. Not unless you wanted to sell them.

Jake glanced about him in the deep orange glow of the streetlamps. To his left, two ladies of leisure plied their ill-concealed wears for passing traffic. To his right, an argument was quickly brewing between three men who appears to have dressed in a bin.

‘Time to mosey.’ He thought, as he quickly crossed the pavement.

His car, a rusty blue hatchback with a brown bonnet and bald tyres, took three attempts to start. During which time, the brewing argument to his right, had gone from potential, to probable, to actual, to completed. Leaving one bloody, bruised, and limping man rummaging through the pockets of two former fellows while fending off the little men who had come to collect them, and simultaneously giving Jake the look of a feral hound.

It was times like this Jake wished he could carry a gun. A really big gun. The sort of gun that took two hands to lift and carried bullets the size of conkers. But the penalty, 20 years in Angel’s Reach Prison, just wasn’t worth the effort. Besides, Jake had never even held a gun, let alone fired one. He wasn’t sure he could have even loaded one properly. And his only run in with a gun had left a scar on his back which still stung to this day.

Jake pulled out into traffic, grateful to be leaving the area, and made his way back to his home come office in The Walled District.

He forced the spluttering car out of Rangers and into the plush surroundings of Huldra, the old elf district. Conventional rows of three-story homes with gables, pillared entrances, brass door knockers, and expensive alarm systems. All contained behind high, matching, wrought iron fences. While Huldra had been the first elf settlement in Lodenon, it was no longer home to the elite of elven kind. They had all moved to Golden Sands leaving Huldra home to the middle management type. The ‘look at my opulence’ type. The type who would talk your ear off for an hour about their new sports car while wearing ten-year-old underpants.

As he entered The Walled District, the city’s landscape changed once more. Rows of unkempt tenements crowded in on both sides to the point where they looked as though they were trying to reach across the street to each other. Here and there, lonely figures were picked out by flickering streetlamps near boarded up shops. The Walled, wasn’t a bad district, per say. At least, not like Rangers or The Alleys. But as the factories had moved out of Lodenon and the money markets in, The Walled had lost much of its lustre. Jake double checked his doors were locked, and this distraction caused him to slam on his brakes to avoid a bike which had slowed to park.

‘

What’s your problem, pal?’ Jake looked out of his window at the troll, who stood, arms out with indignation, just to the right of his car. His black suit was drawn tight around his thick chest, the yellow epaulets flashing in the streetlight.

‘Ah cack.’ Jake thought. ‘Evening’ He said, touching the brim of his trilby to the traffic warden troll as he planted his foot on the accelerator, eager to be out of there.

Trolls, though no longer the mindless brutes bent on grinding bones for delicious dough-based treats as their predecessors had been, were by no means the smartest of races. The average troll IQ would put even the most ardent of human cultists to shame.

The roads were busier now as he approached Irosas Square at the heart of The Walled District and Jake would usually be happy enough to trundle along with no real demands on his time. But today, his bladder was complaining at him, and he just wanted to get home.

Two miles ahead, rising 300 feet into the night sky, shrouded in mist, was Theodan’s Wall. Spotlights atop the towers sent sweeping cones of white light into the void beyond the city. Though the small army that patrolled the wall was invisible from this distance, their presence loomed large, evident whenever one headed north up any of the four avenues crossing The Walled District.

Theodan’s Wall extended from the Manc River in the east to the Gibboon River in the west. Completed in 13pa, it was built with one purpose. To prevent that which caused The Tear from once again gaining power and completing its raison d’etre of total and complete destruction of the planet of Calamatory.

The Tear was the cataclysmic event that split the continent of Silvadra from its now-sister continent, Kildana, creating the near 500-mile-wide Draco Sea and carving deep chasms into both continents. The Void, as it was named, was home to the creature responsible for that disaster.

Jake’s office was on the first floor of a rundown apartment block at the corner of Irosas Square and Humble Hill. Below him, a shop that had been closed for the past decade still displayed the snake and chalice emblem of an apothecary. As usual, parking was non-existent.

Atypically, a sleek black limousine with tinted windows and an exceptionally large guard stood parked directly outside Jake’s building. Jake sucked in his cheeks. This could be interesting, though his bladder had a different opinion.

Turning at the junction of Last Hope and Preston’s Mount, Jake swung his car into a recently vacated space, much to the vexation of the driver who had let the previous occupant out. A flurry of crude gestures accompanied Jake’s innocent grin as the driver screeched away to find another spot.

Jake crossed the busy street, keeping an eye on the guard, who stood arms crossed before the glossy vehicle, as he approached his office door. The guard watched him intently, his expression as blank and lifeless as a reality TV star.

Upstairs, Jake thought the lights might be out in his office as the glass door appeared abnormally dim. But then, the darkness shifted, and the door opened to reveal a man the size and width of a football pitch, whose small, murderous eyes fixed on Jake.

Jake felt a slight twist in his stomach. "Hi, I wasn't expecting anyone, Mr...?"

The behemoth let out a sound like two boulders rubbing together as he stepped aside, allowing Jake to enter the office. Jake noticed the earpiece lodged deep within the man’s right ear, realizing he had been briefed on Jake’s arrival by his companion downstairs.

Jake scanned his office. To his immediate left lay a once-white kitchenette, now tattered, with a tabletop fridge, tabletop oven, one hob, and a chipped mini sink. Next to them were his one cup, one plate, one spoon, and one fork; his one knife seemed to be missing.

To the right against the left-hand wall sat his patched and faded sofa-bed, the equally shabby blanket and pillow strewn on the floor beside his assistant’s wood-effect desk. He noted with relief that Barbara had already left for the evening, sparing him the need to calm her down after this intrusion.

To his right, the only adornment on the right-hand wall was the toilet— “convenient and discreet,” as the estate agent had described it while demonstrating the semicircular curtain meant to shield the user from onlookers. Right now, that toilet beckoned to Jake like a lover smothered in whipped cream on a silk bed.

The man’s small eyes bored into Jake, giving him the impression that the behemoth would relish nothing more than using Jake’s testicles for stress relief balls. He nodded toward the inner office.

Realizing this was not a request, Jake swallowed hard and stepped toward his office, half-expecting to be shoved through the still-closed door.

To his relief, nothing of the sort happened. He opened the door to an astonishing contrast from the mammoth awaiting him in the reception.

If there had been a contest to find companions who differed in every conceivable way, the demure, precise woman rising from the chair at his desk would win hands down against her Brobdingnagian counterpart.

She was thin in stature, though with the fuller areas common in people entering their later years who didn't see much exercise. Her skin was starting to crease around her jaw and below her eyes, but she carried herself with a poise it was impossible to miss.

"Erm..." Jake started, "May I help you?" It was her eyes that caught Jake’s attention, not the expensively cut cobalt blue suit, the immaculately bobbed hair, or the firm but neat hands clasped on the handle of a designer bag. It wasn't the steel-girder-straight back, with her shoulders held so far back they appeared to be trying to escape, nor the high chin that gave her full five feet the appearance of a soldier turned out for parade. No, it was her narrow hazel eyes that gave Jake pause. He’d seen eyes like that before. They were frightened.

‘Mr Paladin?’ Her voice carried the authority of someone accustomed to command, and she didn't wait for his reply. ‘I would like to engage you on business.’

Jake blinked twice to buy himself a moment. ‘Of course, Miss—’

‘Mrs,’ she responded briskly. ‘Mrs Abigale Louise Finnigan.’

That name rang a distant bell in Jake’s head, like hearing a church in the next village, but the sound clouded his thoughts more than it aided his memory.

‘Of course, Mrs Finnigan.’ He nodded towards the outer office. ‘I take it they’re here for your protection?’

The nodded reply was as swift as a guillotine. ‘Indeed. Simone and Issac are my personal protection. They accompany me almost everywhere.’ Jake caught the ‘particularly here’ hidden in her ‘almost.’

He gestured for her to sit and made his way behind his desk, discreetly organising the mess of papers that was his work. ‘Well, how can I help you?’ he asked, seating himself in his comfortable old swivel chair. Its familiarity helped steady his nerves. He knew how to do this bit.

A flash of emotion played across her face. ‘It’s my husband, Mr Paladin.’

"Jake, please," Jake interrupted, immediately regretting it. She looked as though using his first name was akin to using her tongue to find broken glass.

"Mr Paladin," she continued, "my husband is missing, and I instruct you to find him."

Jake had always been captivated by the way people used language. His experience in tracking down missing persons had taught him that the words someone chose to plead for their partner's return could reveal volumes about their true feelings. "I need you to find him quickly," suggested a sense of longing and urgency. "Please, for the love of the Goddess, find him," screamed desperation and dread. But "instruct"? Now, that was a headscratcher.

While trying to buy himself some time, Jake casually shuffled the last of his papers into a drawer. "Mrs. Finnigan, I have a very full caseload and..." he started, but she cut him off with the precision of a surgeon.

"At present, you're employed to follow an errant husband of a minor clerk for the Office of Rehousing, who I believe is staying with his mistress in The Kronig Quarter," she said, scratching her wrist with a manicured fingernail. "A Miss Dalifoot, should you not yet be aware."

Jake blinked, taken aback. He was aware, but only as of yesterday. "And you recently recovered stolen property for a Mr. Flagrone of Puggsy Botttom from the den of Dead Garant. You are most certainly not too busy to take on my requirements."

Jake blinked again, trying to process the situation. "How do you know..." he began, but she cut him off once more.

"My husband," Abigale said, gripping the handles of her handbag as if they might fly away, "is James Alexander Gabriel Finnigan. Master of Watchers and Squires."

Jake's heart did a little jig, while his Adam's apple attempted a daring escape through his nose. The Master of Watchers and Squires held one of the most powerful positions in the city, overseeing the two thousand Watchers manning Theodan’s Wall, and the many others stationed either side of the Manc and Giboon Rivers, to the force of a thousand plus Squires who patrolled Lodenon’s streets, the Master controlled their every move. The Squires, unofficially known as the Rozzers, comprised Lodenon's police force and about as effective as scooping up diarrhoea by hand.

Still, James Finnigan commanded them all and, with the Watchers included, no one save the Anginn Minster of Defence commanded more.

The silence stretched awkwardly, like the wait for the dentist’s drill. Jake's gut told him to bid this woman a cheerful farewell, reach for the bottle of whiskey in his bottom drawer, and toast to a job well dodged. But fate had other plans. She hit him with an offer he couldn't refuse.

"For your efforts in returning my husband to me, I shall compensate you 100 Krona a day."

Jake's brain—the part concerned with mundane matters like paying bills and affording food—threw a little party in his head. 100 Krona was more than most earned in a week. Heck, Jake averaged 300 a month and hadn’t seen that kind of money since... and then it clicked. He nodded. "I take it we have a mutual acquaintance?"

Her thin lips curled into a slight smile, pleased to see his mental gears turning. "Indeed. Zelda Voss."

The scar on Jake’s back tingled at the memory of that case—a gift from Zelda’s would-be assassin. He vividly recalled the holy bullet that had ripped three inches of skin from his shoulder as he whisked Zelda Voss away from the killer's sights.

‘She spoke very highly of you and recommended you to anyone in need," Mrs. Finnigan began. However, her eyes wandered over Jake's ragged attire and scruffy face. "Though I must admit," she added, "I expected someone... different.’

‘It's, um... for a case," Jake muttered, fiddling with his jacket in a futile attempt to make it less resemble a hobo's blanket.

"Forgive me, Mrs. Finnigan, but when you asked your husband’s colleagues as to his whereabouts, what did they tell you?’

Mrs. Finnigan shifted uneasily in her chair, taking a moment to gather herself. ‘I spoke with my husband’s deputy who seemed confused as to why I was calling. He said my husband had a trip in his diary for the next two weeks and assumed I’d be with him.’ She brushed a stray hair from her eyes. ‘My husband hasn’t spoken of a trip with me… I presumed this must be a mistake, so I asked his secretary, and he confirmed the same thing.’

Jake looked pitifully at her for a moment. ‘You don’t think your husband has…’

‘No.’ She snapped. ‘You can put that to bed right now.’

‘So can James.’ He thought. ‘Mrs Finnigan, is your husband well liked as a Master? Is there anything you can make me aware of that would lead you to suspect foul play?’

She seemed to consider her answer. ‘Well, yes, as it happens. My husband is well-regarded in most circles, but not by everyone, and, with the Duke unwell, it's been discussed," she hesitated, "not that he’s advertising it, you know...’

"Your husband is planning to run for Duke?" Jake pieced her tale together.

She shook her head. "Yes, but not for the reasons most would expect." She sighed. "James actually wants to abolish the position."

Jake's eyebrows shot upward, nearly disappearing into his hairline. "I haven't heard anyone talk about abolition since my history teacher droned on about the civil war."

The Anginn Civil War, from 744pa to 749pm, was a sprawling conflict between two factions. The first, who retained King's Hall as their capital and Lodenon as the commercial hub after the war, believed Steve Brice was the singular Son of the Goddess, destined to save humanity from sin. The rebels, led by Kim Kardashi Jin, couldn't care less about his divine status—they just wanted him off their TVs.

Mrs. Finnigan's brisk demeanour wavered as she hurried to clarify. "It's not like that. James wants to run for the Dukedom to create a more open, council-led system, so the city isn't merely at the whims of ten people. He believes in giving people a vote every few years, holding rulers accountable. He thought," she brushed a stray lock of hair from her eye with mild irritation, "thinks, the city would be fairer that way."

As Jake watched her fingers fidget on her bag handles and noted the slight shake of her head as she corrected herself, it dawned on him: this woman feared her husband was dead.

"How long has your husband been missing?" Jake asked softly.

"Since Amisqa," she answered. "He went to his office as usual, and I didn’t expect him home before 8 PM. Amisqa is always a busy day for him—first day after the weekend and all that."

Jake rolled the calendar over in his head. Today was Quasi which meant James had been missing for nearly four days. ‘You waited some time to contact me.’

For the first time, she appeared genuinely nervous. "Honestly, I had no idea..." Her fingers fiddled with her bag. "It wasn't until Zelda's words came back to me that I... well... considering he's a Master and all..." Her voice trailed off.

"I get it," Jake nodded, understandingly. "Did you go to The Duke?"

"Absolutely not!" She almost spat out the words. "Imagine the chaos if he found out!"

Jake, feeling an urgent call from his bladder that any more delay could lead to a personal flood of epic proportions, stood up. "Mrs. Finnigan, I appreciate your trust in me." He gestured to the clock on the wall. "But it's nearly 11:30 pm, and I doubt we'll reach the best resolution tonight. If you're agreeable, I'd like to visit you tomorrow at your home so we can discuss this further."

Mrs. Finnigan seemed ready to argue but eventually conceded. "Very well, Mr. Paladin." She also stood, and as if on cue, the door swung open with a giant standing aside for her exit. She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a business card. "Here's our address," she snapped, her tongue still as sharp as ever. "10 am sharp. Got it?"

Jake gave a slight bow as she marched out like a one-woman army, exhaling deeply once she was gone, tapping the card against his scarred knuckle absentmindedly.

Oi! Pee! NOW!

Jake half-ran, half-crab-walked to the toilet, grinning widely as relief washed over him. A hundred Krona a day, Holy Steve, this was just what he needed. But he soon realized, the stakes might just justify the fee.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Chapter 2

Across from Jake's office was a bar that wasn't meant for just anyone. It lacked a name in any human language—a bold statement outside the Huldra district. Any regular business trying that in The Walled would find itself reduced to ashes faster than you could ask, "Got a match?" But Harrocan wasn't your typical barkeep, and The Mark, as it was commonly known, was no ordinary bar.

Jake elbowed the door open and stepped into the cramped space. Despite only four other patrons present, the low ceiling and the pervasive fog of Sorrowax cigarette smoke made the bar feel claustrophobic and unnaturally humid.

The room was narrow, with yellowing posters of obscure bands adorning the walls. The tables and chairs were chipped and battered from long use, often crudely nailed back together after one of the rare but vicious bar brawls. You didn't mess around in The Mark, especially when Harrocan or Mord were behind the bar. The bar itself was a makeshift assembly of chipboard, yet Harrocan took immense pride in it. The bar top, crafted from rare Lignum wood, was meticulously polished by Harrocan, and woe to the one who dared place a glass directly on it.

One of the two men nearby eyed Jake warily. He looked about 20, with acne remnants still a blight on his unwashed skin. Dressed in a black leather jacket over a black t-shirt, his cheaply dyed black hair left stains on his neck. He flaunted the tattoo between his thumb and forefinger—a black knife with a red splash at its tip. The Purifier's mark. He was an assassin, and he wanted Jake to know it. But the tattoo was new, still crusted at the edges. He was fresh to his lethal career, which, in many ways, made him more dangerous. He still had something to prove.

The smaller man glanced up at Jake with a brief smile before returning his focus to the chessboard between them. A risky game, chess, when played against someone sporting a blade tattoo. Jake saw white was about to decimate black's defences in about eight moves. A solid strategy, though unfortunately, it wasn't the Purifier's.

Jake nodded to the men and navigated through the messy array of stained and chipped tables to the bar. "Filder’s whisky, Harro," he called as he perched himself on a stool.

"Whoa," Harrocan responded, reaching for a tall glass, "you planning to get sloshed tonight?" Despite living in Lodenon as long as Jake, his accent was still thick Stokermyre, the Elven capital by the Lightning Sea. All drawn-out 'o's and slightly nasal.

"Just give me the damn whisky," Jake replied without malice. "I've got a new job." Jake nodded genially to Mord, who nodded back. Her dark eyes smiled while her hands deftly twisted a thick purple thread between two needles.

She leaned back in her chair, wearing her usual outfit—tight-fitting grey jeans ripped at the knees and a faded t-shirt cut off at the chest, adorned with a washed-out band logo. She looked about 25, but Jake figured it was by choice.

Most, who didn't know better, might call Mord beautiful. She certainly had the physique favoured by fashion houses for modelling swimwear or lingerie. High cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and large emerald eyes. And although Jake didn't dwell on it, other assets that men typically find appealing. However, anyone who knew Mord wouldn't dare call her beautiful for two reasons.

First, she'd gladly slit your throat before you finished the second syllable and return to her crocheting without skipping a stitch. Second, witnesses to the first point warned everyone never to try it.

Harrocan once whispered that she'd actually eaten more than one unfortunate soul who tried to woo her. Jake hoped it was an exaggeration but wouldn't bet on it. She'd worked at The Mark as long as Harrocan had owned it, as inseparable from the place as its proprietor. Jake wasn't even sure where she lived but suspected she slept there.

Mord hailed from the enigmatic land of ቢግፉት. Most people simply called it 'The Unpronounceable Land' or 'What?' Jake believed, though wisely never asked, that her current form wasn't her natural one.

"What are you making today?" Jake asked.

"It's a hat for Harro's cat," she replied, smiling warmly. "I thought he'd like it, with him going out at all hours and winter just around the corner." She held up the hat for inspection. It was striped—purple, orange, blue, and red—with slits for the cat's ears.

"I think he will," Jake agreed, grinning back. "Where's Podge anyway?"

"Last I saw, he was in the alley out back," Mord nodded toward the backdoor. "Killing mice." She sighed wistfully and rested her crochet on her lap. "Simple fun life."

"Here's your drink." Harrocan set a tall, thin glass on a napkin before Jake and poured about four fingers' worth of almond-colored liquid.

Filder’s whisky was made in Stokermyre, and while the alcohol could theoretically intoxicate like any normal whisky, the elves had woven something into it that induced different emotional states the more you drank.

One shot bestowed great calm, melting away stress like snow in a hot oven, lasting up to a day, but usually about an hour.

Two shots engendered a longing for company and conversation, making the drinker feel like the most interesting person in the world. Unfortunately, this often led to heated arguments as most people had no clue what they were talking about, nor did their audience.

Three shots induced giggles at the slightest jest and spontaneous lunatic dancing, even without music. This was why the drink was illegal a week after its introduction; a wealthy banker had served it at a dinner party, and he and most of his 20 guests merrily danced off a 40-story tower. It was said the splat was heard all the way in Silver Row, though Jake doubted that part.

Four shots, and you'd wake up a week later with no memory of who you were, why you existed, and a firm conviction that someone had inserted an avocado into your rectum.

The reason the drunkenness was theoretical was that, so far as Jake knew, no one had ever made it past four drinks to find out.

Jake nodded once, giving Harrocan a quizzical look. "What happened to you?"

Harrocan's left ear was sliced at the top, the usual spike hidden behind a blood-stained bandage. His nose, bruised purple, sported a 2 cm long cut across the bridge.

Harrocan waved away the concern. "It's nothing. Had a guy in here yesterday from Maʿšūq. A N’hinjar. Said he had a contract for the money I owed. I told him I didn't owe nothin', but he got all aggressive, didn't he and, well..." Harrocan nodded slightly towards Mord. "He ain't around here anymore."

Jake knew better than to ask if he’d gone home. He knew exactly where he’d be now. The little men would have him.

Harrocan, although a relatively harmless elf with no real criminal inclinations, often found himself in the company of those driving the speeding car of infamous destiny off a cliff to the sounds of psychotic laughter.

In his 126 years, Harrocan had dabbled in nearly every nefarious activity. Though he prided himself on never involving animals, women, or children. His early life led many to predict he was destined only to become one of the countless petty criminals cluttering the halls of Angel’s Reach prison with nothing but a grudge for company.

That was until Harrocan met Mord. Mord had this uncanny ability to keep Harrocan tethered to the bar, like a puppy outside a supermarket. Jake wasn't sure if they were a couple, but Mord managed to curb Harrocan's wild side in a way that seemed like wizardry. To let off steam, Harrocan would often find excuses to meddle in Jake's work, like a hyperactive squirrel chasing every nut. He'd pop up with questions here or dash off for answers there. It was practically an unwritten rule: if Jake was on a case, Harrocan had a ticket to ride, whether he was invited or not.

There was an energy about Harrocan that Jake just loved. He threw himself at life with an abandon usually reserved for suicide attempts

Harrocan shrugged away the memory and gave a lopsided grin, "Anyway, what's the latest?"

Jake filled him in about Mrs. Abigale Finnigan's visit. Harrocan listened with the intensity of a cat watching a bird, his concern growing with each detail. When Jake finished, he gulped his whisky, which burned like molten lava down his throat, yet left him feeling oddly serene, and placed the glass back on the napkin with the care of a bomb technician.

Harrocan eyed Jake's glass. "Another round?"

Jake shook his head. "Just a beer."

"You seriously taking this on?" Harrocan asked, genuinely curious.

"Why not?" Jake replied, as nonchalant as a sunbathing cat.

Harrocan slid a beer over and leaned in conspiratorially. "It's the rozzers, mate. Dirtier than a festival porta-potty, the lot of them. Half of 'em are so crooked they could hide behind a corkscrew, and the rest are either career-climbers who'd sell their granny for a stripe on their arm, or drunken slobs who'd shoot you for saying 'good morning'. You won't win."

Jake sipped his beer, unfazed. "I’m not working with them, just hunting their boss."

"And you reckon if they wanted to find him, they wouldn't have already?" Harrocan flipped a beer bottle in a slick motion, popping the cap with style. Jake caught the flying cap with lightning speed and flicked it into a bin.

Harrocan leaned closer, whispering, "Jake, you know me. I steer clear of the rozzers. I don’t fancy my time in a prison cell or not freezing my bits off in the Void Forts. And believe me, that murdering scumbag is dead. The rozzers don't want him found."

Jake pondered his friend's warning. "You might be right, but the pay's worth it."

"How much are we talking?" Mord asked, stitching away like a machine.

"100K a day," Jake revealed. Mord's whistle could have summoned a dog from a mile away.

"Definitely worth it," she nodded.

The average rent for a 2-bed terraced house in Lodenon, was around 400 Krona a month. This could extend as high as 1500 a month in the second or financial districts and be as low as 250 a month in the Alleys. Office space went for a premium as well, with a desk in a shared office going for an average of 300 a month making Jake’s office a cheap option at 100 a month simply by virtue of the fact no one else wanted a damp, smelly, office with as much charm as an England supporter abroad.

Well, that was fascinating.

People needed to understand how to your money works.

Which people? Boring people?

I’ll just finish by saying it’s 0.0144 Krona to the Pound.

You’re the most exciting person I’ve ever met.

Nearby, a man with a knife tattoo shot up like he'd sat on a tack, his chair skidding back. "You cheating rat!" he yelled at his slighter opponent. "Your knight wasn't there!"

"Sit down, you melodramatic wannabe goth," Harrocan barked, glaring at the chair abuser. "You'll pay for any scratches."

Mord calmly set her crochet aside, her gaze soft yet firm on the irate man. Meanwhile, Jake, feeling a zen-like calm, turned to the pair. "He didn’t cheat you. When I arrived, he was setting up a trap with his bishop and knight. I figured it’d be over in eight moves."

"Seven moves," the slighter man mumbled.

Jake smiled, turning back to the tattooed man. "It’s just a game, mate. No one cheated you."

The man glanced between Harrocan and Jake, clearly not familiar with Jake's reputation. Just then, a small figure with oversized ears and a nose like a half-cooked carrot shuffled in, clad in a suit with a comically large tie. He fumbled with a yellow envelope, reading aloud, "Salodar… Salorda… Cripen?" His eyes, as big as saucers, scanned the room.

The Purifier slowly raised a hand, eyes glued to Jake.

"Oh, I'm early. Don't mind me," the little man said, stepping back like a choir boy caught in the wrong hymn.

Jake braced for what he knew was coming. The Purifier's arm flicked, launching a knife at Jake. In a blink, Jake caught the blade mid-air, while Mord’s needle found its mark in the Purifier's heart. The Purifier blinked in surprise, hands raised in a silent "Why me?" before collapsing.

"Bravo," the little man cheered, as he hoisted the large body like an ant carrying a potato chip. "Could you lend a hand?"

"Sure," Harrocan chuckled, holding the door open for him.

"Much obliged," came the muffled thanks, as the little guy waddled out with his hefty cargo.

As the door swung shut, Harrocan grinned at Jake. "Humans aren't supposed to have reflexes like that. Your folks weren't normal."

Jake shrugged. "The orphanage only knew my dad was from Piccolo." He avoided talking about his past like it was a tax audit.

Harrocan snorted, nodding to the door. "Still, that was a laugh."

"Get rid of the envelope," Mord suggested quietly, grabbing another needle from her bag.

Harrocan picked up the yellow envelope with a nod. "Good call. Let's not leave any evidence behind."

Chapter 3

The day began with a bright sun and a gentle breeze carrying the forest's scents from the fields just beyond the Manc River, which bordered The Golden Shore. This district was one of Lodenon's newest, stretching six miles from the Government District's edge to the river's mouth. The homes here could easily house two football teams, their wives, and mistresses. And were generally sold only to those whose cars had more gadgets in the back than the front.

Jake’s car, devoid of any gadgets save for a non-functional cigarette lighter, came to a grateful halt at the end of the Finnigan’s sweeping driveway. Their home was modest by district standards, especially for a Master of the Council. It was two stories high with solid grey stone walls draped in wisteria that framed most of the downstairs windows and, in places, reached the roof. It couldn’t have had more than ten rooms, leading Jake to suspect it was one of the original houses, predating the influx of ostentatious mansions.

Abigale awaited him at the entrance, standing tall in a simple yet elegant cerulean suit, hands firmly clutching the straps of a luxurious handbag. Her expression was as flat as her month was set, showing no hint of emotion as she stepped forward to shake his hand.

"Mr. Paladin, thank you for coming. If you’d like to follow me." And she was off, her legs moving briskly before Jake could respond.

As he followed her through the entrance hall into the living room, Jake noted the home's understated luxury. The doors were thick, polished oak, the floors either marble or wood, and the rugs, though faded, were clearly of elvish and gnome design. The muted, discreet colours were crafted to highlight the artworks adorning the walls, rather than overshadow them.

“Please be seated, I’ve sent for tea.” It was an instruction rather than a request, and Jake sank heavily onto a substantial moss-green Chesterfield sofa at the room's centre.

A vigorous bark announced the arrival of a small, excited dog, which halted upon seeing Jake, then wagged its tail furiously and sniffed around his legs as though they were the most fascinating things it had ever encountered.

“Ajax, come here,” Mrs. Finnigan called to the dog. “Oh, he’s such a silly thing. Come here, Ajax.” Jake, who had a soft spot for pets, bent down to scratch the spaniel behind its ear. It barked happily. “He’s a lovely boy,” he said, ruffling the dog’s head.

“James found him on the road somewhere, I don’t know.” She took hold of Ajax’s collar and pulled him away from Jake. “He’s always bringing home strays. He can’t bear to see an animal alone or in pain. I think he was happiest when he was Councillor for Wildlife and Abnormal Creatures.”

In Lodenon, Councillors formed the second tier of government and wielded considerable power within their domains, while the Parliament of Nine addressed major cultural and economic issues. Lodenon City Council comprised district Councillors and those overseeing specific areas like water quality, heating, power, and city parks. Citizens elected Councillors, but the Parliament of Nine were chosen from the Council, with the Duke, the parliament's head, elected solely from its members. Elevation to Parliament was semi-permanent with limited ways of being removed, while becoming Duke was a lifelong commitment, often making it a role for the Parliament's eldest statesmen.

Abigale led the puppy to the door and into the hallway. “Marieta, please take Ajax for a w-a-l-k.” Jake realized she spelled the word to avoid triggering excitement. She returned shortly, closing the door behind her. He watched as she composed herself, an almost physical transformation. “My apologies, Mr. Paladin.”

“No problem.” Jake attempted a smile, but it went unreturned.

She perched upright on the front third of a large wingback chair, placing her hands neatly on her knees. “You have some questions for me?”

“Yes,” Jake replied, fishing his notepad from his pocket, licking the pen nib unnecessarily. “Did your husband ever work from home?”

“Yes, I assumed you’d like to look around, so I’ve asked Simone to fetch the key for you. Nothing has been touched since, well.” Jake noticed the slightest shake of her head. “He should be back soon.”

“The key isn’t here?” Jake asked.

“My husband keeps his keys with him when out, but he kept a copy in his council office, so Simone is getting that one.” She shifted slightly. “Now, what did you want to ask me?”

Jake glanced at the headings he'd jotted down that morning. “First, can you tell me a bit about your husband? His interests, hobbies, habits, and so on.”

Abigale hesitated, seemingly resistant to sharing private details, but then recalled her willingness for this conversation. “Well, my husband is a dedicated parliament member. He’s an excellent cook, though he’d never admit it. He loves horses and riding, though he hasn’t been out much due to his schedule. And he enjoys dancing, particularly limbo.”

“Limbo?” Jake was momentarily thrown off balance.

“Oh yes,” Abigale nodded enthusiastically. “Have you ever watched the show Rigid Back Dancing on TV?” Jake vaguely remembered it but nodded as if he were well-acquainted. “Well, since then, you see, James has been quite the limber gentleman. After watching that show, he became a true enthusiast. He can't hear all the music, poor thing, nearly completely deaf these days, but he caught the rhythm and absolutely loved it. We even hosted a party based on the show a few weeks ago, and it was a smashing success.”

“So,” Jake interjected, thinking limbo dancing was unlikely to be relevant, and shifted the subject, “horses, dancing, anything else?”

“Well, he enjoys tennis. Though, I must admit, I don’t really understand why.” She paused, as if deeply pondering the mystery.

“Was, or is,” Jake corrected himself, “he a fan of anyone in particular?”

“Not really. He’s not particularly skilled at it himself, bless him. I think he just enjoys the social aspect of the game.”

Jake jotted this down under the heading “probably useless info” and looked back up at Abigale. “Anything else?”

“He is a kind man.” Her voice softened, losing some of its earlier sharpness. “He’s hardly ever said a harsh word to me in all our thirty years together.”

“And he’s running for Duke?” Jake probed again, noticing she seemed lost in thought once more.

“No.” She replied, now with a firmer tone. “Well, partly. The Duke is still very much with us, thank the goddess, of course, and no election can take place while he lives.” She scratched the end of her nose, “and, as I mentioned last night, he wanted to abolish the current system and create a fairer one. One where people have a voice in their governance.”

“I can imagine this wouldn’t be very popular with his colleagues,” Jake speculated aloud.

“I don’t believe he talked about it much. Ah, tea.” The door swung open, and a frumpy woman in her mid-forties entered with a silver tray. “Thank you, Sally, you can leave it here.” Abigale fell silent as Sally carefully placed the tray on the coffee table and left the room.

“Sugar?” she asked as if he had already accepted the offer of tea.

“One, please.” Jake always found it better to accept offered drinks whenever possible, even if he didn’t particularly enjoy them, as was the case with tea.

“It’s from Fraqui.” She said, placing a strainer over his cup and pouring the light brown liquid with care. “We have a man who imports it for us.”

Fraqui was a kingdom on the southern border of Anginn, sharing borders with Kronig, Midland, and the Nameless Land. It was mainly inhabited by humans and known for its state pomp and grandeur. The language of Fraqui remained a mystery to Jake, although he had attempted to learn it over the years. The best he had managed was ordering a crescente, a pastry created by folding large chunks of butter into pastry and baking for 20 minutes, and a beer. However, the one time Jake tried his skills on a Fraqui baker, he ended up asking for a crescente beer and vowed never to attempt it again.

She handed him the steaming cup, and Jake dutifully took a sip. He had to admit, despite his declared dislike for the beverage, it wasn’t half bad.

“And what do you do, Mrs. Finnigan?” Jake asked, setting his cup carefully on a lace coaster.

She spoke vaguely, "Oh, this and that. I serve on several boards as an executive, represent the Lodenon financial district on the Silvadra Commerce Council, and support a few charities, among other activities. You know, just things to keep myself occupied."

For a brief moment,. Jake considered her. She would be a formidable force in a boardroom, there was no denying it. He suspected that in a business context, she would be the type to absorb various opinions and ideas, distilling them into a singular, insightful statement. Yet, in social settings, she could engage with even the most astute minds. "That is quite an impressive list, Mrs. Finnigan," he remarked sincerely.

"Oh, it sounds more impressive than it truly is," she replied, taking a sip of her tea. "In reality, these roles only keep me away from home for a couple of days each week."

"Could your work be related to your husband's disappearance?" Her eyes widened in surprise.

"You know, I hadn't thought of that." She held her tea delicately between her fingers and shook her head slightly. "I suppose," she said, physically shaking herself to regain composure. "I think," her voice regained its authoritative tone, "there is a possibility that my involvement with the FCS..." she trailed off. "But I doubt it." Abigale redirected her gaze to him. "The FCS convenes every two years to discuss financial strategies for the continent. Those most affected by the decisions made are typically present to advance their own agendas."

"When was your last meeting?" Jake noted FCS? in his notepad.

There was a brief pause. "Yes, it was held in Midland just three months ago in Kuum. I remember because it coincided with the heatwave, and the schools had just let out for summer the previous Pati."

"Do you recall any significant events from that meeting? Was anyone particularly upset about any decisions made or not made?" Jake fervently hoped there were none, as his understanding of finance was limited. ‘Do you remember any noteworthy events from that event? Anyone particularly angry with any decisions made or not made?’ Jake fervently hoped not, he had less knowledge of finance than he did of the internal workings of mermaid’s tails. Or her head for that matter.

She lowered her chin and let out her breath. ‘Not that I recall.’ She looked back to him. ‘The outcomes of events are predetermined prior to our arrival. It’s much simpler than our turning up to debate things and everyone knows what to expect from the day.’ She shrugged. ‘Allows us to better enjoy the host country’s hospitality.

Jake scratched – FCS unlikely – Into his notepad. ‘Does your husband have any enemies?’

‘Oh, enemies are ten a penny when you’re a Master.’ Mrs Finnigan responded as though the possibility of living without enemies was laughable.

‘Serious enemies, I mean.’ Jake clarified. ‘Those with the resources and will to cause him harm.’

She thought for a second. ‘Over the years, my husband’s department has put away many a dangerous criminal, Mr Paladin. Roger the Rogue, Callibar the Collector, Douggie Dogsniffer. But I suspect you mean more in the political arena.’ She placed her cup down and returned her hands to her knees. ‘The man rumoured to be running against my husband would be a logical choice, were it not for the fact he is Reginold Billsbury, the council member for the Navy.’

‘Reginold is a friend?’ Jake asked.

She scoffed, ‘I wouldn’t go that far. He is a political rival, however.’ She again was weighing up what to say. ‘Reginold is… how should I put this… in his position due to family connection more than the love of the sea. He’s the Duke’s nephew by marriage.’

Jake smiled at her delicate manner. ‘Why then, is he potentially running for the Dukedom?’

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him that.’ She replied. ‘He is a nice enough man, I’ve met him at social events, award shows, dinners, you know the thing.’ Jake nodded as though he did. ‘And he’s never spoken, to my knowledge, of wishing to advance in rank.’

‘Then why…’ Jake started.

‘It was at a gala.’ She anticipated his question. ‘For homelessness or some such, anyway Reginold thought to ask James how one would apply for the post of Duke.’ She sniffed at the distaste. ‘He thought there would be an application form, poor thing. Anyway, I think James might have quizzed him more, but next thing you know that Simon Silvertongue is all over Reginold pleading with him to accompany Simon to see this opera singer woman who had arrived from Kobalos that morning. Reginold got swept away and that was the last we saw of him that evening. James was most put out, poor thing. Seemed to think Reginold was being put up for it.’

‘Who is Simon Silvertongue?’ Jake asks, after he had finished noting this down.

‘Oh, he’s the councillor for the second district. I heard, he used to be something big in finance but got bored and ran for office. He still has designs on a parliament seat though, you mark my words. He lost out to James ten years ago and he’s not forgotten it. Of course, James just says he’s waiting for James to retire so he can take his position then, but he’s a funny one.’

‘How do you mean, funny?’ Jake, grateful Abigale had become so talkative was loth to interrupt her but was aware of the need to guide her thoughts.

‘Oh, you know how elves can be,’ said Abigale, as though everyone felt the same way. ‘Standoffish one minute and the life and soul the next. Quick as you like as well, one has to admit.’ She paused again as though confiding a confidence. ‘But he’s

never seemed, oh I don’t know,’ she flicked her fingers out as though trying to grasp a word from the air, ‘straight, do you understand? I mean, I have no reason to suspect him of anything. It’s just a feeling, you know?’

‘I do, Mrs Finnigan, thank you.’ Jake penned. ‘Silvertongue – dodgy?’ into his notepad. ‘Is there anyone else who might have a problem with your husband’s plan for the Dukedom?’

Abigale thought for a moment. ‘George Babbasquiff would probably would have as good a shot as my husband of elevation should the Duke sadly leave us.’

Jake noted the unfamiliar name down. ‘And what does Mr Babasquiff do?’

‘Ms.’ Abigale corrected him. ‘Ms Babasquiff is the Master of Commerce and she’s a career minded woman. She started out life as the daughter of a postmaster, but he was sent to prison for not embezzling enough for the company and so she wound up on the streets. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of her, only the second woman ever to be elevated to the position of Master and the youngest Master ever. She’s still not yet 35. There was a very popular documentary made about her shown just a couple of months ago. ‘The woman who conquered Lodenon’, it was called. She’s a remarkable woman, and she’s not stopped her career drive yet. I wouldn’t be surprised if more than one member of the Parliament of Nine had her in mind.’

Jake scribbled all this down in his pad. ‘Other than her being a political opponent, is there any reason you have for suspecting her of being capable of doing harm to your husband?’

Abigale shifted a little in her seat. ‘Well, they were close for a while. I don’t know if you remember the budget crisis five years ago?’ Jake nodded as though he did. ‘It was only six months after George took office and suddenly everything went sparrows up for her. Well, James and I had a think and came up with a solution which he took to George. She got onboard and they worked out the details together. Spent weeks on it, they did. Morning, noon, and night. They even had to travel to King’s Hall together to present it to the National Government.’

Jake penned a small star next to George’s name. ‘But they don’t get on now?’

Abigale have a small shake of her head. ‘No. James hasn’t said much about it, but I’ve heard him practically shouting at her down the phone from his office. I have no idea what’s happened there, but they seem to have had a severe disagreement about something.’

‘When was this?’

She folded in her chin as she thought. ‘Oh a few months ago, I suppose. No more than three or four.’

Jake reviewed his notes. ‘Forgive me, Mrs Finnigan, but from what you’ve told me, I still don’t see why you think she could have caused your husband harm?’

Abigale leaned forward slightly. ‘Well, one doesn’t like to listen to gossip, but it is said she has used unconventional methods in the past to get the job done. She’s famous for it. When she was a councillor, she would fire all the old staff and replace them with fresh faces. Made quite the impression, as you can imagine, and proved incredibly useful in getting immediate traction in areas which had previously been bogged in quagmire. Well, some of the former staff tried to take her to court for unfair dismissal but every time, their cases just went away. Or, on more than one occation, they themselves did. To this day, no one has heard a peep from Hustus Bogger since he threatened to sue her into the next millenium. And Mrs Sutcliffe’s husband supposedly went skiing nine years ago and is still absent. It could all be nothing, you understand, but she did the same thing when she was elevated to Master and, that’s where the problems started. The chap she appointed as the Parliament’s chief investor messed up and caused the financial crisis.’ She gave a little shudder. ‘It nearly ruined the city.' Jake waited to see if she’d continue. ‘She was almost the first Master to ever be fired. I honestly don’t know how she wasn’t, but there you go.’ She adjusted her feet, one curled around the other. ‘Of course, there was a private enquiry and James was called to act as prosecution. Being James he’d have given it his all, but somehow, she survived.’

‘Parliament trying to avoid a scandal?’ Jake speculated.

‘Perhaps. But not James. The truth will come. That’s what he always said.’

Jake noted – corrupt? – next to the star. ‘Would it be possible to meet her?’

‘Oh, I doubt it. She’s not the most inviting of people. I think if I asked her to meet with you she’d probably tell me I was wasting her time.’

There was a knock at the door and Simone’s planet size head peered into the room. ‘I have the key Mrs Finnigan.’ He said, in a surprisingly high voice.

‘Perfect,’ said Abigale, She rose from her like a tort rubber band being loosed, ‘shall we?’ and guided him from the room.

Simone unlocked the office door and stepped back to allow them access.

The room was small and very full. One wall held a large, gilded mirror suspended over a stone hearth. The two walls that met this were lined with bookshelves crammed with everything from leatherbound tombs to the latest Keith Flint Detective Series. Piles of papers, folders, and notes competed for space on the floor, while even more paperwork was spread over the large desk set before the window which looked out over the manicured lawn of the plain garden.

‘As I said,’ Abigale’s voice held a note of apology, ‘he’s a very busy man.’

Jake grunted, noncommittedly, and stepped up to the desk. At its centre, beside the smallest of the piles of paperwork, were a computer keyboard and a notepad. Jake carefully spun the pad around to read the notes.

Royal Yacht – Recording – Urgent!
Cost of improved rail line – Can we pay in instalments?
Watcher Retention Initiative – Would glasses help? ×
Bedding ü
Hearing aid charger
Plumber for D/S toilet (Big plunger)

Jake noted these down in his notebook and turned back to Abigale. ‘Mrs Finnigan, do you know why your husband would have written the words Royal Yacht and Warehouse on this notepad?’

‘I try not to involve myself with the watchers or squires unless it’s for one of the charities I support or he asks my opinion.’ She looked about her as though she rarely came in here.

‘Except to look me up.’ Jake smiled at her. ‘I take it that’s how you knew the cases I’m working.’

She had the grace to smile at that. ‘Yes. Except that. I needed to know what kind of man you were and, with everything going on…’ She waved a hand as though the rest was obvious.

Jake nodded, understanding, pressed the enter key on the keyboard, and the screen blinked into life. ‘Would you mind entering his password?’ Abigale’s fingers flew over the keyboard and the screen changed to James’ home page. Jake looked at the units displayed, selected the one marked ‘Accounts,’ and opened it to scan the page.

‘Mrs Finnigan, do you know why your husband withdrew 5000 krona the night before he disappeared?’

‘He did what?’ Abigale pushed passed him, knocking papers to the floor in her haste to reach the screen. ‘No…’ her mouth opened and closed for a moment, but no sound escaped.

Jake reached down and started to collect the spilled papers.He stopped as the seal of the Duke, two swords crossed over a crown, caught his eye embossed in wax at the bottom of a previously folded page.

He quickly read the page while bedside him Abigale gave voice to the wild theories of a person trying to deny her partner had done a bunk. ‘Maybe he gave it to the orphanage? He started the orphanage in Aspel’s Forest, you know. Or bought some wine? He likes wine. Maybe he crashed the car and needed to get it repaired, but didn’t want to go through insurance? Or he needed new shoes?’

Jake wasn’t listening. Jake was reading.

‘…and I urge you not to discuss the devolution of the position of Duke with anyone until we have had a chance to talk things through. That I’ve had now two Master’s approach me to ask if it’s true is worrying. The fate of the nation is at stake and your actions, though well intentioned I am sure, could have a direct impact on the safety of our country and the future of our people.’

‘Well, I’m sure he’s just buying me an anniversary gift.’ Abigale was saying. ‘For next year…’ she finished, lamely.

Jake folded the page and returned it to the pile. ‘No doubt, Mrs Finnigan, no doubt.’ He tried his hardest to sound convinced.

Jake opened the top drawer of the desk and peered inside. ‘An invitation to a party?’ He asked Mrs Finnigan, trying to distract her.

‘What?’ She tore her eyes from the screen which now showed several different accounts. ‘No other money has gone.’ She said quietly, as though he had asked. ‘Oh, the party, yes.’ She said, and Jake again saw that supreme effort of will she held as she gathered herself up. ‘It’s in two days’ time. At the Second District office. Something to do the bond markets.’

‘Silvertongue’s office?’ Jake asked.

‘Indeed.’ Abigale replied, the crisp tone back, but edged slightly with a new worry.

‘It would be potentially useful to meet Mr Silvertongue.’ Jake prompted.

‘Do you really think so?’ Abigale asked. ‘Well, I can make an introduction I suppose. Good Goddess, what in Ava’s name is that?’

Jake looked into the drawer from where he had fished the invitation. A small clear bag of greenish powder sat there. The symbol in the centre of the bag was of a snake eating itself.

Jake had a fairly good idea what that was. ‘I believe, Mrs Finnigan, it’s salaff.’

Abigale’s hand went involuntarily to her mouth. ‘My word, is it really? But it can’t be.’ She shook her head fervently.

Jake fished in his pocket and pulled out the wrapper from his breakfast beer soaked crescente and carefully wrapped it around the small bag with the care one would show an injured bee. Salaff could get you high through contact with your skin and Jake had no desire to spend the next eight hours lying comatose on the floor of James Finnigan’s office while dreaming he was riding a frog through space. ‘Mrs Finnigan…’

‘No.’ She replied in her curtest tone to date. ‘I do not know why my husband has drugs in his office.’

Jake didn’t think he should ask her anything further. ‘I think that’s enough to be going on with.’ He said, looking about the room. He spied a coat hanging of the back of the door and took it down. He fished in the pockets and pulled out a torn ticket stub with pink glittery writing on it. The half he held read ‘Madam Cor.’

Jake wondered if he should pile anything else onto Abigale’s shoulder’s before he left and decided against it. She most certainly would not know why her husband had a ticket stub in his for a Madam. Jake secreted it away in his own coat before turning back to Abigale. ‘I shall start making enquiries, Mrs Finnigan, and shall fill you in as soon as I can.’

Despite her considerable skills at hiding emotion, she looked like someone who’s life had just been put into a food blender with all the wrong ingredients. ‘Thank you, Mr Paladin. I shall make arrangements for you to meet Councillor Silvertongue. Simone will show you out.’

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Chapter 4

When he returned to his office, Jake left Barbara, apparently away picking up her brother’s son from school, a list of calls to make and appointments to set up and made his way to Harrocan’s bar.

Despite winter being just around the corner, the day was dry and bright with just a hint of a breeze whistling across the grey expanse of Irosas Square from the direction of Hannah’s Silence and the Church of the Goddess. Jake pulled down the collar of his trench coat and made his way inside The Mark.

Harrocan whistled as Jake placed the small bag of salaff onto his bar. ‘That’s about 10 Krona’s worth, I’d say.’

Mord placed aside a folded piece of paper that almost resembled a swan and peered at the bag. ‘It’s the real thing.’ She said in a husky voice.

‘So, it is salaff then?’ Jake asked.

‘’Course it is, Jakey.’ Harrocan opened the bag and sniffed it. Salaff didn’t affect elves, but it did smell like cat vomit, so Harrocan’s eyes scrunched up, nonetheless. ‘That’s good stuff’n all.’

Jake arched his back on the stool. ‘What is salaff, really?

Harrocan shrugged. ‘It starts off as the bark of Virola trees. But then it’s processed and mixed until you end up with salaff. Don’t ask me the specifics though, I ain’t into that stuff.’

The specifics, since Harrocan isn’t able to share, are these:

The elves cultivate diseased Virola trees. The disease is important as the bacteria leave a chemical compound in the wood as they destroy the tree, which enhances the hallucinogenic qualities of the sap. The elves wait until every branch of the tree is infected then strip away the dead bark and soak it in a mixture of crushed poppy seeds, cocoa leaves, and some elven chemicals until the mixture has broken down to mush. This takes anywhere for five to ten years depending on the size of the tree. The mush is the strained through gauze and dried into powder.

The effects of salaff fall into six distinct phases:

Paralyzing euphoria lasting for between 1 hour and 6 months.
Physical and mental hallucinations usually involving some sort of mild-mannered frog or a camping holiday.
Mild depression for anywhere up to 24 hours.
An all-consuming depression for the remainder of your days.
Suicidal thoughts.
Suicide.

There are only two known ways to cure a salaff addition. A lifetime in a rehab clinic away from any possible source of the drug, and death.

Since salaff clinics were a lifelong obligation, they were the reserve of the bored sons and daughters of the superrich, so most ended up either subsisting on just enough salaff to stave off suicidal thoughts, or not.

‘Did you have to talk about suicide so much?’

‘Hey, someone needed to explain.’

‘Yeah, but too much detail is a thing, you know.’

‘How does salaff get into the city?’ Jake asked Harrocan, who shrugged.

‘Any which way it can. Usually by road though, across country. Either the Lightfoot Road or Warrior’s March. Or by sea into The Docks or Works.’

Lightfoot Road and Warrior March were the two great roads that connected Anginn and Elvenhelm through Midlands. Lightfoot Road was named after the failed Elven expedition to conquer the humans 700 years ago. Warrior March was named after the failed human expedition to conquer the elves 699 years ago. The roads had been renamed The Great Northern and Southern Roads after the Great Peace, but to this day, no one ever called them that.

‘And the Midlander’s do nothing to stop the trade?’ Jake asked, knowing how much pride Midlander’s took of their reputation as kindly and considerate folk.

Again, Harrocan shrugged. ‘Don’t know, mate. Suffice to say, enough of this stuff makes it through to here for the Messiah to make a banging great profit.’

‘I’ve heard of him.’ Jake said, nodding at the recognition.

Mord grunted. ‘Unless you’ve been living underground, ‘of course you’ve heard of him. Biggest dealer this side of the Cage Mountains and an evil man to boot.’

‘You know him?’ Jake asked her.

‘Met him once or twice over the years.’ Mord flicked the bag with her long finger. ‘He makes quite the impression on a girl.’

‘What’s he like?’ Jake asked, sipping his beer.

Mord sucked in air through her teeth. ‘He’s like a bolt of steel with a face.’

Jake had to swallow hard at this description. ‘You what?’

Mord sipped her coffee before continuing. ‘He’s got no emotion about him. No time for anything except work. We were at a party once, in a club, and he was there, first time I met him. Everyone’s getting wasted and having a laugh, sept him. He spends the night sitting in a booth drinking water from his own bottle and talking business.’

‘So, he doesn’t like parties…’ Jake started.

‘We were both there.’ Harrocan talked over Jake. ‘He killed three men that night without leaving the table. He even killed one guy midway through a sentence. His, not the guy he killed. Kept the little men busy that night, I can tell you.’

Jake sucked in his cheeks. ‘Ok, so he’s a dangerous man.’

Harrocan shook his head at Jake and placed his elbows on the bar. ‘Nah, you’re not getting it. That man, if you can call him that, has no emotions. None. He cares for nothing save his work and woe become the person who gets in the way of that.’

Mord raised an eyebrow at Harrocan. ‘Woe become?’

Harrocan grinned at her. ‘I ain’t just a pretty face, I read.’

‘So, the logo is his?’ Jake asked, pointing back to the bag.

Harrocan rubbed his chin. ‘That, I ain’t sure about. His is a snake, sure, but I thought it was just the one, and all fangs and that. I’ll do some digging.’

‘I’ll ask a friend I know.’ Mord put in.

‘Thanks.’ Jake put his hand in his pocket to pay for another beer and pulled out the ticket stub.

‘Since when do you go to Madan Cornee’s?’ Harrocan chuckled.

‘I don’t,’ Jake replied. ‘It’s from the case. You know it?’

‘Everyone knows Madam Cornee. Upmarket burlesque joint in Silver Row. Lovely place. Decked out all nice, no funny business, just a bit of flirting, you know.’ He sipped his beer.

‘Since when do you know Madan Cornee’s?’ Mord asked, her tone challenging.

Harrocan actually blushed and looked down at his shoes. ‘I’ve a mate who’s a regular is all.’

Jake grinned and returned the ticket to his pocket. ‘I’ll have another.’

Chapter 5 Jake spent the next half hour with Harrocan and Mord before returning to his office to find Barbara had been and gone and left him a note.

It read:

1: Reginold Billsbury would not be available for a meeting for between sixteen to eighteen weeks but that she would be persistent.

2: The Second District office is located on the corner of Caravan Street and Juniper Grange. Opening hours are 09:30 to 10:00.

3: George Babasquiff’s office denied her existence and told me if I called again, they’d do unspeakable things to me with a turnip. So, I’ll try again tomorrow and see if I can get more details.

4: No, I do not know where your toothbrush is, I’ll get you another on my way to work and take the money from petty cash.

Jake had scratched his head, ‘We have petty cash?’ He had scribbled ‘Thanks.’ at the bottom of the note.

He spent the afternoon going through the notes from his conversation with Abigale, before meandering down the street to the local supermarket and purchasing a small one pan meal which claimed to be pasta with chicken lamb, but whose ingredients failed to list chicken, lamb or chicken lamb.

After forcing down the semi dry pasta, Jake poured himself a large whiskey and settled down on the sofa to sleep.

That night, as it did so often, his first memory, or at least, what he thought was his first memory, came back to him. A woman’s face, blurred and indistinct, smiling at him through curling grey hair. He knew her, but he didn’t know her. She was special.

He woke, cold and stiff, the whisky mostly untouched on the table beside him. Jake stretched and fumbled for his watch. 8:02am. He reached for the whisky glass and carefully returned the remainder to the bottle. Time to skedaddle. He thought.

After a bad wash in the sink of his office, a bad coffee from a vending machine at the gas station, and a decent sausage surprise from Hairy Harry’s, he picked up his phone and called Gardo.

Jake had first met Gardo six years earlier when Gardo had been wrongfully accused of painting mackerel with fluorescent paint and selling them as sharks. Since then, Jake had been firm friends with the Gnome, who, after Jake had identified the fish painting culprit, had risen to become Assistant Manager of Contraband, a post in which he excelled. Gardo had a nose for contraband. Be it fake Bollex watches or ten kilos of Fireside Herb from cities in Eloqua, Gardo would sniff it out. Though, thankfully for Jake, this talent didn’t extend to luminescent Scombridae.

The phone was answered by an eloquent voice with a strong Kronig accent. ‘Hallo, Mr Titmouse’s office, how may I help you?’

After giving his name, Jake fidgeted in his seat as classical music played through the phone's tinny earpiece. Finally, a gruff and cheery voice greeted him as Gardo came onto the line. ‘Scoop! How the heck are you?! I was thinkin’ ‘bout you the other day. Some trawler tipped over on a wave and we ‘ad fish all over the dock flappin’ and wavin’ their tails. Was quite the lark I can tell you. How’ve you been?’

Jake grinned at his friend’s chirpy manner and filled him in on his life since they’d last seen each other some three months earlier. ‘Anyway, Gardo, I wanted to ask you about something specific. What can you tell me about the Royal Yacht?’

Gardo's response was unexpected as he snorted and said, ‘The Royal what?’ Jake explained that it was related to a case he was working on. ‘Didn't think you were going fishing, Scoop,’ Gardo snorted.

Jake had no idea why Gardo called him Scoop. It had started shortly after Gardo had been released from Angel Reach Prison and visited Jake’s office to thank him for getting the charges dropped. Jake hadn’t the heart to tell her he’d done it for the 50 Krona the shipping company were paying him to find out who was fiddling with their fish, and accepted Gardo’s tears of thanks with warmth and humility. Gardo sniffed down the phone at Jake. ‘Well, that’s easy then, ain’it.’ He paused for a heartbeat. ‘There ain’t one.’

Jake sighed and rubbed his eyes. He might have known it wouldn’t be that simple. ‘Has there ever been…’

Gardo’s voice suddenly boomed down the phone at Jake. ‘Ren?’ This was followed by a short pause before another voice, clearly, the man who had first answered the phone to Jake, spoke from some distance away. ‘Ja, Ms Titmouse?’

‘Could you rummage about a bit and dig up anything we’ve got on royal barges?’ Garli asked him.

‘Natrlich.’ He replied before Gardo returned to speak with Jake.

‘Won’t be a sec.’ Gardo slurped noisily at something before continuing. ‘What’s the case then?’

Jake liked Gardo’s no nonsense attitude. He’d never lie to you, this gnome. Recognising instead that an uncomfortable truth was far better than a lie. Jake hated to disappoint him. ‘I’m sorry Gardo, but I can’t share that with you… Yet.’ He smiled, knowing Gardo would appreciate that.

Gardo chuckled. ‘Say no more then, Scoop. Never let it be said that a gnome didn’t know when to not ask questions.’

Ren’s voice carried down the line to Jake. ‘I’ve uploaded ze information to your computer, Mr Titmouse.’

‘Bless ya, boy, bless ya.’ Gardo said, as Jake heard the tap-tap-tap of a computer keyboard. ‘Now then, now then, what do we ‘ave ‘ere.’ Jake tapped his pen against his pad while he waited. ‘Yep,’ Gardo eventually said. ‘As I thought it, the last Royal Barge was called ‘Kalipus’ and it burned down 54 years ago. Unfortunate accident involving a fondu party.’ He sniffed once more. ‘Nought else since.’

Jake felt his spirits drop. ‘And no chance another ship is called that?’

‘No Lodenon ship, no. Course, the Sho Pi lot might have one for their empress, ‘n’all, but I’d know if that came ‘ere at any point.’

Jake scribbled ‘Not a ship? Next to the words ‘Royal Barge.’ ‘Why hasn’t there been one since?’ He mused aloud.

‘There wouldn’t be, would there.’ Gardo sounded mildly incredulous.

‘Why not?’ Jake asked.

‘Duke’s not a royal anymore, is he. He’s a commoner elected to post by the Parliament of Nine. Not like the ol’ days when they were all related and all.’

‘Suppose you’re right.’ Jake pondered the problem. ‘But there’s nothing to stop him having a yacht, is there?’

Jake heard a scratching sound and guessed Gardo was itching his chin. ‘Can’t imagine so, no.’

Jake wrote ‘New one?’ next to ‘Not a ship?’ in his notepad. ‘One last thing, Gardo, any cheap warehouses around?’

Gardo snorted. ‘You’re ‘aving a laugh, right? Dockyard space is at a premium. Couldn’t get a slot ‘ere for less than a thousand Krona a month.’

Jake whistled at that. ‘So, where could I get cheap space, if I wanted it?’

Gardo chuckled good naturedly once more. ‘Well, that’s easy, ain’t it. You need to go to The Works.’

The Works, so called because it used to be home to a huge ironworks factory until Lodenon began importing cheap steel from the Dwarves in Smalaz Folc, was a privately owned quarter in the west of the city. Home now to businesses who didn’t want a smart shop front or to draw attention to themselves. At it's southern edge was natural beach which allowed for the landing of small craft and the collection or delivery of goods too valuable or controversial to risk the inspection of Gardo’s people at the Dockyard.

Jake thanked Gardo for his time, promised to catch up soon over a jug of Gnomic Rum, a potent aphrodisiac that, if you weren’t careful, left the drinker uncaring as to who they were with and why, and hung up the phone.

‘Ok,’ he thought grabbing his trilby and keys, ‘it’s off to The Works I go, it’s off to The Works I go…’ he paused just as he locked his front door. ‘hey, that might make a half decent song.’

Despite the lack of royal barges closing off a clear path for him to explore, he was feeling good. It was strange how comforting he found an ongoing investigation. The constant yet ever-changing thought process, the need for action, the drive for answers, all gave Jake great satisfaction. That they involved other people wasn’t often a hindrance either since boundaries were usually clearly defined. He questioned, they answered or not. And it was more fun when they didn’t. He got to probe, manoeuvre, and orchestrate the conversation until he got what he needed. So much more satisfying than meeting people normally.

Plus, there was the play acting. It was as source of constant amusement to him how much he enjoyed playing a part. When not on stage, that is. At school, at around six years old, he had been cast as Bar Fly Number Two in the Navitus. The story that told how Steve Brice had been born in a motel laundry room just off junction 13 of the Kronig Road surrounded by the faithful, the lost, and the inebriated. Jake had been so nervous; he had cried the whole time. That had been his first and last performance on stage.

But, as he drew closer to The Works, he felt a slight thrill at the prospect of having to con his way inside.

Jake pulled up at the barrier to the west entrance and wound down his window. The handle creaking and wining as the glass slowly lowered. ‘Morning.’ He called cheerily to the approaching guard.

A seven-foot-tall troll, her uniform straining against her massive chest, leaned down to gorp at Jake. She had clearly made an effort today. Her rouge-stained cheeks sagged towards scarred lipstick coated lips. Her long, platinum blonde hair hung in two plates from either side of the grey guard’s cap atop her head. Her black irised eyes moved slowly over him as though trying to work out what he was. ‘What?’ Her voice reminded Jake of a barrel smashing into a concrete floor.

‘Hi.’ Jake tried again.

She looked about the car as though expecting it to be full. ‘What?’

The troll’s gruff voice echoed through the car, causing Jake to hesitate. He realized that perhaps he should have checked the proper procedure before embarking on this journey. ‘I'd like to go in...’ he trailed off, feeling foolish.

The troll nodded slowly, her thick fingers gripping onto the clipboard in her gargantuan hand. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked bluntly.

Jake’s mind fired up and helped him out. ‘A storage unit.’ Jake responded. ‘Pedro’s Storage House.’ He made up the name on the spot, hoping it would suffice. ‘He told me you’d let me in.’

‘Pedro’s what?’ She blinked at him, clearly confused.

‘What’s your name?’ Jake asked politely, trying to break the awkward silence.

‘Kelsie.’ came the reply in a tone that suggested she was used to crushing cars with her bare hands. ‘’ho are you?’

‘I’m the next guy on your list.’ Jake said, gesturing towards her clipboard.

The troll’s beady eyes peered down at the page for a long moment before speaking again.. ‘You’re Sally Bumble?’

Jake blinked twice before recovering from his surprise. ‘Yep. That’s me.’ he replied, his voice pitching higher than usual in his nervousness.

Kelsie looked even more perplexed and began scratching at her stubbled chin with a gnarled fingernail. ‘You don’t look like a Sally.’ she stated matter-of-factly.

‘Have you ever met Sally, er, me before?’ Jake asked, trying a winning smile.

Kelsie continued to scratch at her chin sending flakes of dead skin tumbling through the open car window into Jake’s lap. ‘’Spose not.’ She she muttered before straightening up and waving to her companion. ‘Bo fosh loch.’ She called to her companion in Trollic, who began to push the wire mesh gates open.

As Kelsie leaned back down to the car window, she suddenly paused and tilted her head. ‘Have a lovely day, Sally,’ she said with unexpected warmth. Then, after a brief pause, she added: ‘And I really like your beard. Goes well with your eyeliner.’

Feeling slightly taken aback by this odd compliment, Jake could only manage an awkward ‘Er...thanks.’ replied Jake, ‘and I really like your lipstick.’

Kelsie smiled, broadly, revealing cracked, yellow teeth. ‘Thanks. It’s baby blood red.’

‘Lovely.’ Jake told her, as he released the handbrake and drove through the now open gates. Eyeliner? He checked himself in the rearview mirror. What eyeliner?

That The Works was effectively sealed off to the rest of the city with high barbed fencing and guarded entrances amused Jake. The buildings were organised into regular squares of warehouses of four to a block, each sharing two sides with its neighbour, and each secured behind high walls and strong steel gates. The area was owned by the superbly wealthy, and highly influential Gestalt Family and therefore considered private property by the state. That every sort of criminal activity known to man took place within, seemed not to bother Frederik Gestalt, the reported patriarch of the family, at least as far as Jake knew.

A few warehouses had signs attached to their gates informing anyone who wanted to know which businesses operated from within. While others had installed razor wire atop their walls and CCTV cameras around the perimeter to deter you from asking.

Jake wasn’t sure where to look and so drove slowly, his eyes scanning the environment for anything that might catch his eye.

After 20 minutes he was starting to lose hope. He didn’t do much driving, and the rattling bumble of the car combined with the unchanging landscape was having a hypnotic effect on him. With his eyelids growing heavy, and his bottom numb, he had just decided to give up and go home when a loud horn brought him back to wakefulness with the force of a slap across the cheek. Jake slammed on the brakes as a truck pulled out of an open gate to his left, missing his car by a pixie’s todger.

From behind the glass of the truck’s cabin window, Jake watched a scowling goblin make an obscene gesture at him. In reply, Jake held up a particular finger which he knew was greatly offensive to goblin kind. The truck swung around, and Jake saw an emblem the lorry’s side curtain. It was two large black circles meeting in the middle. The lorry swung around his car and accelerated down the road behind him. Jake accelerated too, wanting nothing more than to sate his anger on the goblin who’d almost totalled his car. He swung the car around at the next junction, but the truck had disappeared from view.

Jake drove quicker now, slowing down just enough at each junction to try and catch a glimpse of the lorry. By the fourth junction his logical brain was starting to ask questions. Why was he chasing the driver? What did he expect to do? Pull it over and punch the goblin in the face? He wasn’t sure he even remembered how to punch someone. He hadn’t punched anyone since school. Rut it! He wanted to swear at him some more.

Then he saw it. It was at the gates to The Works and being waved through by the two trolls. Jake slammed his foot down on the accelerator and the car’s engine bellowed it’s protests at him as it tried to move quicker.

Jake arrived at the gates just as Kelsie’s colleague finished locking them again. Kelsie, once more with a look of annoyed confusion on her face, rumbled over to the car and leaned into his driver’s side window.

‘Yes?’ She asked him.

‘Hi,’ Jake pointed rapidly at the gate, through which he could see the lorry’s rear joining the traffic heading towards Caravan Street, the road that dissected the city from west to east and turned into the Lightfoot Road towards Elvenhelm, and Angel’s Road out towards Styme and Whiteford. If he didn’t catch up with the truck before it reached Caravan Road, he would lose it. ‘Just need to get out.’

Kelsie lifted her clipboard. ‘Name’

Jake thought for a second. ‘It’s me. Sally…’ What was my surname? ‘Bubble?’ He half asked.

Kelsie sniffed a dangling globule of green gloop back into her nostril and checked the page for what felt like five minutes. ‘Sally… Sally… Sally…ah…here…’ She sniffed once more, seeming satisfied. ‘Nope.’ She said, as she straightened up and cracked her back.

‘Nope?’ Jake was incredulous. ‘What do you mean, nope?’

Kelsie had started to return to the hut but turned back at his shouts. ‘Sally Bumble has already entered 30 minutes ago, ego,’ Jake assumed she meant ergo and for a second wondered where she had heard the term, ‘you ain’t no Sally Bumble so I’s can’t let you in.’ She nodded once, as though her reasoning were so solid it could have supported a skyscraper.

Jake ran his hand though his hair. ‘But I’m already in. You let me in. I’m trying to leave. I’m Sally Bumble. I’m Sally Bumble.’ He spoke the name slowly, as though it would help it sink into her massive cranium.

Kelsie put her hairy knuckled hands on her hips and leered at him. ‘If that’s the case then why isn’t you opening the gate?’

Jake watched as the now distance brake lights of the truck swing around a corner, finally hiding it from his view, and flopped forward to lay his forehead on the steering wheel.

‘Told ya,’ Kelsie had turned back to her colleague, ‘you ain’t getting the better of me.’

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Chapter 6 It was a good hour before Jake finally persuaded Kelsie and her colleague, Tyler, to let him leave The Works. Eventually he’d had to convince them they’d locked themselves out and he, as Sally, had to help them get back in. He still wasn’t clear on the logic, but then he suspected neither were they.

He had returned to his office to find a note from Barbara explaining she’d again been denied an appointment with Reginold Billsbury despite trying five times, and that Abigale had called advising she had been unsuccessful in getting Jake an appointment with Silvertongue.

Jake rubbed his eyes. He was clutching at a single hair with tweezers, he knew. But such was the start of many an investigation. You try every angle and see if any lead you somewhere. Which was why tonight he planned to visit a Madam.

He washed his face in the sink in the kitchenet and sprayed himself liberally with Hornicus. “The aftershave for the man on the make.” and swapped his usual grey suit for his best black cotton before struggling into the dress shoes, which were half a size too small and came with the free gift of painful rubbing sores on his big toes.

Do you have to make me sound quite so stupid?

Hey, you’re the one who bought the shoes.

He opened the small safe in his office and shakily drew out his life savings. 350 Krona. He wanted to put on a show tonight. Buy Dwarven wine or Oni Sake and splash the cash around. He figured that he’d attract the owner’s attention and maybe, just maybe, tease out some information about what Finnigan was doing at the club. But this was all the money he had and, while Abigale had promised him a more than decent salary, so far, he’d not seen a penny. He had scrapped for this money. He had fought for it. He had gone without supper just so he didn’t have to dig into his savings. This was his retirement fund. His little house in the country with a back garden and vegetables fund. Ok, so he was around 20,000 short, but he had put everything into saving this. His brain and arm held a short battle between taking and leaving the money before he shoved it roughly into his tattered wallet. Abigale was good for the promised fee. He would be ok.

He parked the car in a side road, just off Alabaster Street and walked the five minutes down the street to Hallmark Square. He found his eyes drawn to a small black vehicle which had parked three cars down from his. He was 99% sure he had seen the same car across the street from his office when he’d left. Jake made out the silhouette of a figure with a long-hooked nose sitting in the driver’s seat. That reminded him of something as well.

Madam Cornee’s held the corner of Argenate Street and Hallmark Square. It was a large marble fronted building with fluted pillars and a 3-foot-high floodlit sign baring the name ‘Madam Cornee’s Entertainment’. Once it might have been the offices of a silver conglomerate or merchant bank. Now it was the illustrious home of the biggest burlesque hall in the city.

Two Goblin’s and a human in tailored black suits and bow tie, manned the large glass doors.

‘I feel like a Rhost-school child being asked to resight scripture’ Jake thought, trying to act nonchalant as he approached the door. ‘Evening.’ He said to a goblin who had turned to eyeball Jake with a look that suggested he believed Jake a better fit for a karaoke bar in a bin.

‘A nice suit.’ The goblin’s voice was brittle like cracking ice as he sneered at Jake. ‘First time, is it, sir?’

‘No, I’ve worn a suit before.’ Jake replied before thinking and quickly fished in his pocket before holding out his hand to the goblin. ‘It is, I’ve been recommended the place.’ He said, hoping his intention wouldn’t be lost on the creature.

The goblin held his own hand out and grasped Jake’s in a firm grip clearly designed to demonstrate his strength. ‘Recommended by a fellow with taste, sir.’ He said, without a trace of warmth in his voice.

As their hands parted, the 1 Krona note that Jake had folded into his palm, fluttered to the floor.

‘Damn.’ Jake thought and bent to pick it up. The goblin also stooped to collect the note, and they both paused as they realised what the other was doing.

A good few seconds of confused silence followed, before Jake smiled. Why don’t I just…’ and he snatched up the note before placing it carefully into the Goblin’s open hand.

The goblin sniffed and rose to his full five feet. ‘Go right in, sir.’ He said, as Jake walked away. The goblin looked closer at the 1 Korna note in his hand and gave Jake the look of someone who would welcome a chance to flick Jake’s severed ears like elastic bands. ‘Rutting Humans.’ He said, quietly to himself.

The doors swung open at his approach and Jake found himself in a large reception area lined polished floor to cavernous ceiling in black marble. To his left, a waterfall flowed from a wide vent near the ceiling into a deep glass pool containing pearlescent fish. To his right, a beauty the likes of which he’d only seen in adverts for dating services, stood behind a polished mahogany desk, her smile as radiant as a TV weather presenter.

‘Good evening, Sir. Are you well?’ Her voice was like honey drizzled over caramel atop a mountain of sugar.

Jake felt his legs and back straighten, and his shoulders draw themselves back as he approached, his arms swinging just a little too much. ‘Good evening.’ He replied, only slightly wondering why his voice was quite a bit deeper than its usual timbre. ‘Isn’t traffic a bore this evening. I almost had to park in Voden’s Hall.’ Jake, whose ability to make small talk with anyone tended to equal his ability to lift elephants, winced inwardly as he heard himself.

The woman responded as though Jake were the wittiest of men. Her short laugh rang through the large room as though the goddess herself were playing the harp. ‘Oh indeed, sir. Traffic in the area is ever so tiresome. I recommend next time; you take advantage of our valet service.’

Jake imagined the Goblin’s response to him drawing up in the battered old hatchback, and decided it was unlikely he’d be having this conversation had he done so. ‘Ah,’ he shook his head. ‘I should have, yes.’

Jake had never been to an establishment like this before. The closest he had ever come had been a drunken night out nearly 15 years ago when he and two of his friends had ended up in a strip club called ‘Wet World’ where the garish neon sign had advertised ‘Special Dance only 5 Krona.’

Jake to this day thanked his lucky stars his only memory of the club itself was the sensation of removing his face from the stickiest of sticky tables. Though, having showered with soap, dish soap, and a handy floor wash, he remained steadfast to never ponder the reason the table had been sticky in the first place.

Subsequently, he was at a loss of what one did in this situation. Did you request entry, show a membership card, ask for someone, give her your coat?

The silence lasted only a few seconds too long before the clearly experienced receptionist recognised his dilemma and increased her smile from “attentively charming” to “gloriously exquisite.” ‘Sir, for non-members the entry fee is 100 Krona.’

Jake felt the pit of his stomach fall faster than trust in a newly elected government. It was all he could do to stop himself from bolting. 100 Krona? Steve Brice, how is that the entry fee? That was pretty much his monthly rent and about twenty times more than the value of his suit.

Suddenly the idea of “splashing the cash” and buying dwarven fizz for the ladies seemed ludicrously silly. The images of him sitting amidst a gaggle of gorgeous girls showering them with sparkles of expensive champers turned over in his mind to become the image of him holding out his wallet to a disgruntled looked bouncer with no neck. At this rate, he might be able to afford the dregs of someone else’s drink, and a peanut found down the back of a troll’s chair.

‘Of course.’ He heard himself saying while in his head, a demolition team arrived at his envisioned retirement home and started dismantling it piece by piece.

He didn’t have a 100K note, of course, and it took him an inordinate amount of time to surreptitiously count out the army of smaller notes into the required amount. His cheeks growing redder the longer it took. Throughout it all, the charming receptionist held her delicate smile in place and didn’t bat an eyelid.

‘Thank you, sir.’ She said, whisking the money out of sight the second Jake had finished counting it. ‘Please make your way through those doors to the bar and have a wonderful evening.’

Jake, sweat now dripping down his spine, stumbled out a thank you and turned towards two large doors that had appeared seamlessly from the wall. The sound of a band in full swing carried to his ears as he tried a confident walk away from the reception desk. That he may have looked like a man holding in a potentially suspicious fart, thankfully didn’t occur to him.

The hall he entered was bigger than he’d expected by a degree of 20. Directly ahead of him, but 15 feet below thanks to a gently sloping floor, was a stage, fully lit from all sides with coloured lights and which could have comfortably held host to a troop of tapdancing ogres. Thankfully though, the stage held a line of dancing ladies, anyone of whom could have won Miss Universe from nothing but a photograph.

Below this, cut into the floor, was an orchestra pit, from which the sounds of a funk jazz number were being beaten out with immense skill.

Tables were placed in niches cut into the floor, all occupied by males of many races, and all of whom were immaculately dressed. The bar area, which sat beneath a ringed balcony as wide as most houses, was 30 feet long, and seemed to Jake to display every type of drink known to man. There were Gnomish flower wines, Dwarven sparkling wines and ales, Elven concoctions the effects of which Jake could only guess at, Trollic beers and fruit spirits, along with whiskies from Kronig, Gins and Vodkas from Fraqui, and rum from Kobalos. There were beers from Ogra, banana spirits from Muz, venom spirits from Hiss, bitter made by the Cyclops of Blink. Jake thought Harrocan would have an orgasm just looking at this selection.

And everywhere there were people. They stood around in close knit groups talking loudly and drinking. They leaned against gold leaf covered pillars that held the balcony. They told jokes, made merry, teased friends, and drank. They ogled like lost puppies at eloquent serving women in split-thigh lace dresses, each of whom, were physical equals of the lady at the reception.

Jake pushed his way through to the bar feeling like a kid who’d snuck in on his parent’s party to filch wine and sat clumsily on a bar stool between a haughty looking elf, whose lip curled up as he took in Jake’s clothes before pointedly turning his back, and an affable looking dwarf clearly well on his way to an enjoyable, if not memorable, evening. The dwarf’s rosy cheeks were aglow as he noticed Jake sit down.

‘Well, you ain’t been here b’ore…’ The dwarf remarked, his accent all Lodenon with only the barest hint of Smalaz Folc.

Jake gave a sheepish grin. ‘What gave me away?’

‘Suit’s cheaper than my beer’ He gave a snort of a laugh and Jake flushed at the words. The dwarf had black curtains of hair to his shoulders, a bulbous red nose, and perturbant eyes set in a wide face. His body was likewise stout and fleshy, and he wore a fern green tailored suit. ‘I’m only messing, only messing.’ The dwarf waved away Jake’s embarrassment and turned his chin up to look Jake in the eye. ‘There’s nought wrong with ya suit, I’m just in me cups.’ He looked down into his tankard as though wondering where the liquid had gone.

‘Sir?’

Jake turned to see another bewitching bombshell, this time dressed in a low-cut white shirt and short skirt, address him from behind the bar. Clearly it was his turn to order. ‘Erm…’ he stammered, buying himself some time to consider the plethora of offers available to him.

The dwarf interjected. ‘He’ll have a Forget-me-not.’

Before Jake could respond the woman was away, lifting a cocktail shaker and two bottles from the shelves as she moved.

Jake looked down to the grinning dwarf. ‘What did you just order for me?’ He asked, unsure how annoyed he should be but suspecting the drink would likely cost as much as a hyper car.

The dwarf chuckled. ‘A Forget-me-not. I’ll put some hairs on the smooth human chest of yours.’ He poked a finger through the buttons of his shirt and scratched at his own coarse matted hair. Once done, he put his hand out for Jake to take. ‘Hasop’s the name. Hasop Burrows.’

Jake saw a thick wiry black hair caught under the nail of the dwarf’s hand, but decided he’d best ignore it. He shook the hand and introduced himself.

‘So,’ Hasop continued, ‘you win the lottery or sommit?’

‘No, I…erm.. was recommended the place by a friend.’ Jake responded.

‘Posh friend then, is’e?’ The dwarf snorted, pulling at a thread on Jake’s arm.

A manicured hand placed a square napkin on the bar beside Jake, followed by a tall glass containing four different coloured liquids. The liquid which occupied the bottom four centre meters of the glass, was a deep red and seemed to flow about itself like mist. This was followed by a slither of light green liquid no thicker than a credit card. Atop that, side by side but not mixing, was a shining blue liquid which sparkled gold, and an almost clear liquid with the slightest of pink hues. Jake had never seen such a drink let alone understood how it would be made.

‘Would you like to start a tab, sir or pay now?’ The bartender asked.

Jake decided this was going to be his only drink of the evening and was about to tell her he’d pay for it now, when Hasop intervened once more. ‘Put it on my tab.’

The woman gave Hasop a smile that could have stopped a battle in full flow and moved gracefully away to the next punter.

Jake went to thank Hasop, but the dwarf forestalled him by poking his long-nailed finger at Jake’s drink. ‘What do you think of that?’ He asked, having clearly seen Jake’s expression when it arrived.

‘What is it?’ Jake asked him.

Hasop pointed at the red liquid. ‘That is Elven. They call it Illifelme. It’s designed to give you intense pleasure if you catch my drift, so only drink it in small doses.’ He winked up at Jake before moving onto the blue liquid. ‘That is from Sho Pi, and they don’t have a name for it so much as they don’t speak, do they, but the hand movement for it is similar to pure thought.’ He gestured the motion, a small sweep of his left hand outward from his body before raising it to touch the centre of his head.’

Jake had never learned the hand language of Sho Pi and was impressed by Hasop’s clear skill. ‘The third, Hasop moved his finger to the pink tinged liquid, ‘is from Midland and called Bab.’

‘Bab?’ Jake asked, his face scrunched up at the oddness of the name.

Hasop grinned at him. ‘Yep. It’s 70% proof and makes you all friendly.’

Jake laughed. He was beginning to really like Hasop. ‘You forgot the green liquid.’

‘That?’ Hasop peered over his long nose at the slither of green. ‘That’s peppermint. Makes sure the drink don’t taste like bunions.’

Jake laughed again. ‘So, why’d they call it Forget-me-not?’ He asked.

Hasop shrugged. ‘Well, you’re hardly likely to forget that, are you?’ He laughed. ‘Truth is, I’ve never tried it, I just ask for random drinks and see what I get.’

They talked companionably for the next half an hour, Jake sipping at his drink feeling more than slightly nervous as to its potential effects. Hasop was a trader in spice from Smalaz Folc and Sho Pi. Not that he ever saw any product, he informed Jake. He moved money on the stock market like everyone else. ‘Half the time I don’t even know if the stock exists.’ He confided to Jake, ‘I just sell it on and let some other sodomit worry about it.’

They continued their conversation, with Hasop ordering Jake three more bizarre concoctions with ingredients from right across the world and consuming several more pints of what he informed Jake was ‘Amber Creeper’ from the island of Hos. ‘Only 35% a pint’ he’d grinned at Jake.

Jake, his head now well lubricated, was beginning to feel much more at ease, when he noticed a hush fall across the wide room. It was though a hidden signal, known to all the regulars, had gone out, quickly stifling all conversation, and drawing all eyes in one direction. The music had stopped and excited whispers could be heard from all parts of the room.

Hasop had noticed it too and excitedly placed his drink down on the bar. ‘Oh, here we go, here we go!’ He shuffled back to sit a little straighter on his stool. Smoothed down his shirt and tugged his jacket straight, before licking his palm and running his hands through his long black hair. ‘She’s coming. She’s up next.’ His tone was nervous yet tight with anticipation.

‘Who’s coming?’ Jake asked, perplexed.

But if Hasop answered, Jake didn’t hear. The roar from the crowd was deafening as 3000 people got to their feet, as one, and applauded, cheered, and whooped as though trying to bring the roof down upon themselves.

Jake strained to see past the crowd to find out what had caused the commotion, but the press of people ahead of him was too great.

After several minutes of rachet, the room gradually stilled, and people began returning to their seats. The atmosphere of the room had changed. Where before it had been relaxed, friendly, and jovial, now it was electric and tense, as though you could pluck it and hear a note.

As the people around him moved to more comfortable positions, Jake’s eye found the woman on stage, and he stopped breathing.

She stood alone, in every sense of the term.

She was alone on stage, yet her presence made the space about her dissolve into inconsequence.

She was alone in her beauty ,for it was for her that the goddess had created eyes.

She was alone in her grace, for her movements were like water, air, and fire, all melded into one perfect element.

And when she opened her mouth, Jake was alone with her.

If the band was playing, Jake didn’t hear it. If the people about him moved, coughed, or spoke, Jake’s ears didn’t acknowledge it.

For almost two lines of her song, there was only her. His brain had taken up residence on a comfy sofa and stayed with her. Though the language was unknown to him, the melody was as pure as the holy baby’s laugh.

Then something within him made Jake blink, and the room suddenly and almost painfully returned into focus. But, even then, still his eyes didn’t leave her. Couldn’t leave her.

Her hair was the colour of burnished bronze and flowed like molten glass over one side of her face. Her skin shone like marble polished obsessively over a thousand years, and her voice was that of The Great City of the Gods own choir. She held the room in thrall. She was like no one Jake had ever seen before, and his heart hammered at his ribs like a caged rabid dog.

Without taking his eyes from her, he leaned down to Hasop and whispered, ‘She’s incredible.’

The dwarf didn’t respond, and Jake reluctantly turned to see him goggling at the woman in such a trance that Jake was sure he could have stuck him with a pin and Hasop wouldn’t have noticed.

Hasop’s mouth hung open and drool was beginning to leak from his lolling tongue. Jake nudged him but Hasop didn’t so much as blink at the touch. It was then Jake looked about him and saw that every single person in the cavernous club was likewise held in a state of stupefied awe as the singer made her way off the stage and began to walk between the tables.

Jake glanced about him, his eyes resisting his curiosity and wanting to remain locked on her. He saw, from doorways secreted in walls, employees of the club spread out among the tables. Each wore a set of thick headphones positioned tightly over their ears and they moved quickly and silently into what was clearly prearranged positions.

The singer was drawing closer to Jake now and he pulled his eyes away from her, unsure what was about to happen.

Then the words of her song came to him, as though his mind was translating it for him by some unknown mechanism.

‘You will be still for me, for I am the one you wanted. I am here for you alone. You are the one I love.'

She drew closer still, her movements like mist over still waters.

'Now take out your wallets and cash for me. Hold them out before you. For they are your gift to me.’

From all across the auditorium, came the sound of wallets being removed from trousers and jackets.

Beside him, Hasop pulled a fat wallet filled with notes and held it out dutifully before him. Jake snatched if from his hand and stuffed it into his own jacket. Hasop didn’t notice.

‘Drop the money on the table. Drop all your money for me.’ Continued the singer as she rounded a post and came within ten feet of Jake. When she saw him, clearly not holding out his wallet for her, she stopped hard in her tracks and raised one exquisite eyebrow as she caught his eye.

‘Do it now, for me, my love. Give your gift to me, my love.’

Every single occupant of the club simultaneously turned their wallets upside down and emptied the contents onto tables, chairs, or the floor. The staff instantly began scampering about, collecting up all the cash they could get their hands on.

The singer approached Jake, all the while keeping up with her song. But there was now confusion in her eyes. Jake’s brain begged him to maintain himself and act casual, but it was proving difficult as his body responded to her presence.

She was three feet from him, and Jake felt as though his stomach acid was boiling.

Two feet and Jake felt rivers of sweat cascade down his back so great they could have watered a desert to rainforest.

A foot away. One tiny foot. So close her perfume filled his nostrils and sent his blood pumping through his body like water through rapids.

Her song entered his every pore and almost lifted him from within himself. He wanted to soar around the room on her borrowed wings, fight any and all who would stand against her, and raise an empire in her name. But something held him to the earth, something forbad him from obeying her and were it possible he would have cut that bit of him away and fed it to hungry pigs.

She held his gaze in her violet eyes, and he almost lost the universe in the depth of her pupils. All the while, she sang her strange melody.

‘You don’t need do any more. You have my love and gratitude for the gift you have given me. Freely, of your own free will. You are beautiful.’

And then she did the unthinkable. No mortal man could have hoped for such an honour. She reached out and stroked Jake’s cheek with her luscious thumb.

Jake gaped like a lobotomised Labrador.

Urgent and frequent messages were sent south by Jake’s mind urging a modicum of self-control, but these were met with contrary and often bewildering responses by his anatomy until, at last, his brain surrendered to the inevitable and instead instructed his back to lean forward in the hope it would hide its embarrassing failure.

She removed her hand, and Jake felt as though he would tear off his cheek as a gift to her. He blinked several times to prevent a tear leaking from his eye.

The perfect woman narrowed her eyes at him and tilted her head to one side as she sang. ‘Put your wallets away, you have given me a gift and I love you for it.’

All around them the employees of the club frantically collected the abandoned money before disappearing behind their secret doors while the punters returned their now empty wallets to their pockets.

‘Remember my love, you did not bring cash with you tonight. You did not want it weighing you down.’

Jake sat awkwardly forward on his stool as she studied his face while she sang.

‘You will feel joy now. You will feel nothing but happiness and longing for me. You will know that I love you alone and will want to see you again.’

She held the last note for a long moment. Her eyes never leaving his.

As her voice faded, the people about them blinked, shaking their heads like cats waking from a long sleep.

She leaned in close to Jake and, for a second, he hoped against hope that she would kiss him. But she moved gracefully sideways and laid the softest of all lips against his ear. ‘Balcony, ten minutes. I drink whisky.’

And then she was gone in a flurry of skirts into a small door beside the bar.

Beside him, Hasop was grinning like a man receiving a large electric current. ‘She is an angel.’ He sighed. ‘An angel.’ He gave a small shiver of excitement. ‘Ah, bless me, she is the one.’

‘Who is she?’ Jake asked Hasop.

Hasop, still grinning like an idiot, raised his eyebrows. ‘You don’t know?’ Jake shook his head. ‘She’s the lady of the house. The owner. A true beauty with a voice like the sigh of wind through the caves of Fancor.’

The caves of Fancor in Kobalos are world famous. When the wind is from the east, the caves funnel it in such a way as to produce a lullaby which could send even the most caffeinated of people to a dreamless sleep. What the tourist books often neglected to mention though was that, if the wind is from the southwest, the caves would make a sound like a rhino after a bad curry.

Hasop shook his head and gave another long, contented smile. ‘Well, I need another drink.’

Jake remembered the wallet, and wondered how it would seem if Jake suddenly pulled Hasop’s wallet from his pocket. He decided to fudge the truth a little. When Hasop turned to the bar, Jake took his opportunity. ‘Hey, you dropped this.’

Hasop looked down at the wallet. ‘Well, sodomit me.’ Hasop smacked Jake’s arm surprisingly hard. ‘Obliged to you.’ He seemed confused for a moment. ‘Don’t remember coming out with any cash though.’

A small bell rang from somewhere in the room, which caused a stir in the crowd. For a moment, Jake wondered if another intoxicating singer was about to come on and he wondered what else the crowd would be asked to give up. Their credit card details? Clothes? But no. With an irritated tap on the bar Hasop turned to Jake. ‘Ah, darn it. Closing time already.’

Indeed, all about them the crowd were finishing drinks, settling tabs, and saying their goodbyes to friends. Hasop settled his own tab and turned a rosy cheeked face to Jake. ‘It’s been a pleasure, Jake.’ He held out his hand.

Jake took it and shook it warmly. ‘It really has, Hasop. And thank you again for the drinks.’

An until-recently-Jake-would-have-considered-stunning blonde in a short black dress approached him and bowed slightly at the waist. ‘Would you please follow me, sir?’

Hasop gave Jake a quizzical look. ‘What’s all this then?’

‘I’ve won the lottery.’ Replied Jake, giving Hasop a quick wink before following the woman.

Top

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Chapter 7

The upper floor was clearing quickly, the guests jovial and unconcerned at their sudden lack of cash as they filed out as one from the hall. It was as though they believed it had been the best of ideas to give up their money in return for her song.

The blonde led Jake to a red velvet corner sofa and, once he was seated, offered him a drink. Jake was about to refuse when she assured him it was on the house, at which point he ordered two Digglesfoot Whisky from Midland which he happened to know sold for about 60K a bottle. She didn’t so much as blink as she swept away from him.

Jake wiggled his shoulders exploring first the comfortable sofa and then looked about him. The top floor was laid out as a casino. Shiny Tarrow tables were laid out at discreate distances from each other and close to tables for Catch the Ace and Fireflood.

Tarrow was a game Jake hadn’t played in years. Mostly because he was terrible at it. But, in his misspent 20s, after a few pints of Barrow’s Brown, he’d thought himself the master of the game.

The rules for Tarrow were straight forward enough. Two players sat facing away from each other, each with a deck of cards. Each are delt five cards and had to talk only in words beginning with a randomly chosen letter in order to try and ascertain which cards they had that matched. They could swap up to three cards, but only after a minimum bet had been lodged as to the eventual number of matching cards. Jake suspected the minimum bet in an establishment like this, would preclude most from even playing.

Winnings were usually 4:1 but could be doubled if the pair guessed which of their cards matched each other.

In the past, friends had practiced codes to try and cheat the system, but Jake saw the body heat and pulse monitors attached to the tables, which were designed to ensure the tension in the players was real. It wasn’t necessary, the real money from Tarrow was made from the spectators betting as to how many pairs they got right.

When Jake had played it, it had been for Phennics, not Krona. A 10 Phennic bet with the hope of winning half a Krona with your bet back.

‘Do you play?’

Jake jumped at her voice. She had approached silently while he had been lost in thoughts of simpler times, and now stood at the end of the curved sofa, one arm leaning gracefully against the back. She had changed since her performance. The dress she wore now was shorter, cut to the ankle, and shone with the gold of dawn over the ocean.

Jake forced his blue eyes up from traversing her body to meet her violet ones, which sparkled like dew-soaked lavender. Her mouth was curled into a mischievous smile. ‘Well,’ she purred, ‘aren’t you a mystery.’ Her eyes never left his as she curled herself into the seat next to him with the grace of a water nymph and placed one long leg over the other.

Jake’s head felt like someone had replaced his brain with cotton wool and his tongue felt equal in size to a troll’s duvet as he tried to come up with a quick response. ‘I am as mysterious as a frog.’

A frog? Seriously?

You’re overwhelmed by her.

Yeah, but that doesn't mean I have to sound like an idiot’s less intelligent brother.

Fine!

Jake leaned back slightly and flicked some imaginary dust from his knee. ‘It’s a mystery I’d be happy to help clear up for you.’

Great, now I sound sleezy.

She smiled at that. ‘I’m Jake.’ He said, his voice, as it had with the receptionist, coming out unnaturally deep.

‘Tuloola Tittiana Tampax’ She replied, the nonsensical name made to sound seductive in her velvet tones.

Jake blinked three times. ‘Tuloola... Titty…’

Her face was a mask, which broke when he tried the name. Laugher sprinkled from her mouth like falling stars as she bent her head back and shut her eyes tight. ‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped between chuckles, ‘that’s just a silly joke. I just wanted to test something.’

Jake grinned at her, his cheeks reddening, but feeling relieved he wasn’t going to have to call her Tuloola for the rest of the meeting.

As she regained her poise, she stretched out a long-nailed hand to him. ‘Alicia.’ She lowered her chin slightly as she spoke her name. ‘Alicia Assommer.’

‘Jake Paladin.’ Jake replied, taking her hand, and lowering his lips to graze against her warm skin. The cotton wool in his head was starting to clear.

The waitress returned and placed their glasses on circular napkins before them.

‘So,’ Alicia sipped her drink. ‘What makes you so special Mr Paladin?’ Her eyelashes fluttered slightly as she took in the liquid.

Jake wanted it to be her instant love for him, but simply shook his head. ‘Nothing. Why do you ask?’

Alicia held up the glass between her fingers and nodded down towards the stage. ‘Didn’t you like my song?’ She asked, and Jake heard the intrigue held beneath the casual sounding remark.

He nodded a little too enthusiastically. ‘It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard in my life.’ It was, he was definitely speaking lower than usual and decided to stop it. The cotton wool was gone, but a feeling of headiness, like when you breath in menthol and carbon dioxide, remained.

‘One of?’ She was quick to retort. ‘What have you heard that you would describe as more beautiful?’

Jake thought for a moment. ‘Dolophant song.’

Dolophants, porpoises the size of double decker busses, lived in the larger oceans close to the equator. Their song was known to bring grown men to tears and grown women to annoyance at their husbands’ tears. It was said that so long as a dolophant’s song was singing, a child would never wake up. This had led to the selling out of the first six runs of ‘Dolophant’s Sing The Country Hits’ to new parents and creches across the planet. Jake had seen a pair in Two Rivers Zoo seven years ago and had never forgotten the sound.

Alicia though, seemed unimpressed. ‘Dolophant’s can sing well enough, but even they recognise they’re not the true mistresses of song.’

He studied her for a moment before coming to a conclusion. ‘You’re a Syren, aren’t you. That’s why they just gave up their money like that.’ He waved at where the throngs of willing dupes had been. ‘I thought you never left Syrenia?’

Syrenia, was the human name given to the island that lay 300 miles off the coast of Trollot. The actual name of the island was unpronounceable to all but it’s inhabitants as it was only able to be communicated by Syren song. Since Syren song incapacitated almost all species, it was folly to even try.

Syrens have long been the source of both fear and intrigue for years. In 128PA the Knight Monks of The Order of Saint Sam The Soup Maker, famed for their bravado and masculinity, attempted to invade Syrenia with an army of 30,000. It was said the Queen of Syrenia herself, stood alone on the shore as the ships approached and sang a song of lust in a voice so pure that none of the opposing army could resist. What followed is described in history as the largest gay orgy ever recorded. Not even three weeks later, the Order Of Saint Sam The Soup Maker was disbanded with many involved denying the voyage even took place and vowing never to speak to each other ever again. Though some remained close afterwards.

From that day to this, no army from any of the Kingdoms of Silvadra, had ever attempted to invade Syrenia again.

If she was surprised by his deduction, she didn’t show it. ‘I was brought here five years ago and…’ She paused to sip at her drink. ‘I decided to stay.’

‘It was an interesting lyric.’ Jake felt the headiness subside some more and sipped his drink.

Her eyebrow raised itself as though trying to run away and it was a good two seconds before her facial muscles caught it and returned it to its proper place. ‘You understood them?’ Again, the question was asked with a casual tone.

‘Not at first, no, but I did towards the end.’ He studied her for a moment. She was so beautiful she made his demon friend look like a dinner lady.

She didn’t speak for a good 20 seconds but watched him closely over the edge of her glass. Her eyes seemed to take in every cell of his face, and he felt a contrary mixture of embarrassment and pride. She lowered her glass to the table and took a small clutch bag from the seat beside her and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. ‘Do you have a light?’ She asked through her eyelashes.

Jake had never smoked but right now he wished he were a 60 a day man. She sighed and clicked her fingers. A heartbeat later, the waitress was back, holding a small flame for Alicia to light her cigarette from.

Alicia blew a long plume of smoke out over the balcony. ‘Why are you here tonight, Mr Paladin?’

Her tone was as curt and perfunctory as he’d heard it in their short acquaintance, and he suspected this was an act. He decided to play it direct. ‘I’m investigating the disappearance of James Finnigan.’

Alicia tapped ash into an ashtray with three hard jabs of her finger, her eyes focused only on the act. ‘Sounds intriguing.’ She said, after a long moment.

Jake decided to take a punt. ‘When did you last see Mr Finnigan?’

Alicia turned her large eyes on him, her mouth curled into a small smile. ‘And what makes you think I knew him?’

Jake shrugged, trying to make the movement seem nonchalant but instead looking like he’d just figured out what shoulders were for. ‘Everyone who comes in here knows you, I figured you’d probably know the regulars by now.’

She waved her hand and gave a tinkle of a laugh as though the notion was ridiculous. ‘Mr Paladin, do you know how many come here each evening to hear me sing, do you really expect me to know every one of them?’

‘Mr Finnigan,’ Jake leaned forward and held her eye, ‘is the Master of Watchers and Squires.’

The cigarette, held so daintily between her index and middle finger twitched slightly and she drew it quickly to her mouth. ‘Is he now.’ She said slowly, as she expelled the smoke into the air. She stubbed the cigarette out and her face looked deadly serious for a second before she turned back to face him, her brilliant smile back in place. ‘Oh, you’re talking about Jamie.’ She nodded as though it was all obvious to her now. ‘Jamie is an absolute darling. Such a sweet little thing.’

‘He’s disappeared.’ Jake reminded her.

Her mouth folded into an almost comical approximation of concern. ‘Has he? Poor dear. I suspect he’ll be off with his friends somewhere. The large man who he comes here with, what was his name?’ She tapped a nail against the tabletop. ‘Dali something or other. Or was it Barrie?’ She shrugged and gave a small false laugh. ‘I don’t really remember. But Jamie now, he I remember.’

She rubbed her wrist as though it were sore. Jake wondered if James had done more than listened to her. ‘How well did you know him?’

She quickly released her wrist. ‘Oh, very little. He was a surprise; I’ll give you that. Much like yourself, Mr Paladin, an intriguing man.’ She grazed his leg, and Jake actually felt a shiver up his spine. Turns out it wasn’t just something that happened in cheesy romance novels.

Jake coughed slightly and continued through a dry mouth. ‘What did you two talk about?’

She paused once more as she sipped her whiskey. ‘Travel, mostly. It seems he is very keen on the idea.’

‘Was he looking to travel somewhere?’ Jake tried again to sound casual.

Alicia shrugged. ‘I don’t believe so.’ For a moment, there was a glimmer of anguish in her eye, but she hid it as quickly as it had appeared. ‘Might have been just wishful thinking.’ She said, quietly.

The curtain to the left of their sofa was pulled back in a sharp motion and a squat, red faced woman appeared, her eyes fixed on Alicia. ‘There you are.’ She said, clearly holding back a savage anger as she marched the four short steps to the booth.

She was of middle hight, but strongly built, with a cold expression of control and command. She gave the impression of a ruthless, determined individual with as much compassion as a banker. Unlike her staff, she was dressed simply in a black t-shirt and black jeans. At her approach, Alicia quickly put down her glass and fished behind her for her clutch.

The woman stopped at their table with the force of a bull and glared at Jake. ‘’oo are you?’ She said, with the voice of iron hitting stone.

‘Jake Paladin.’ He tried a smile. ‘And you are?’

‘Gert. The owner.’ She punched her chest with her fist as she spoke. ‘Seems you’ve seen more than you was meant to.’

Jake put his finger in his ear and wiggled. ‘I must confess to being rather hard of hearing. What did you say?’

Gert sneered and drew closer to him. ‘Listen, you little bag of roasted rat droppings, you tell anyone what you saw here tonight, and I’ll cut your liver out and serve it to you on a bed of dry couscous.’

Jake’s smile held no warmth. ‘I don’t like being threatened.’

Gert pushed him back with her chest and took Alicia by the elbow. As the sleeve of her t-shirt rose, Jake recognised a red circular tattoo on her arm before she pulled Alicia away. ‘A solider then.’ He thought.

A second later, another beauty was at his side, gently guiding him towards the door.

Jake couldn’t help the mischievous grin from spreading across his face. Alicia Assommer. What a woman. What a woman indeed.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Chapter 8

Jake rose groggily from the sofa later around 10am, thanks to getting home with memories of Alicia and an overactive imagination in tow. He cleaned himself in the sink, brushed his teeth with his new toothbrush, left for him by Barbara, and dressed in his worn but comfortable grey suit, before venturing out into the chilling rain.

Winter would be here soon. It was the 34th day of Multo, Non was only three days away. He’d need gloves. He half remembered buying a pair last winter but had no idea where they were. Had they been blue? No, grey. To go with his suit. Maybe Barbara knew what had happened to them? He’d have to ask her when he got back to the office that afternoon.

Rain pummelled the city streets as Jake flagged down a taxi. Driving into the Second District wasn’t an option, particularly when the weather threatened you with drowning. There was never anywhere to park and, even if you did, the parking rates were so steep it would have been cheaper to pay with a body part than cash.

The Second District always felt a bit clinical for Jake. The majority of it having been built during the days of the Anginn Empire. Tall, thick-walled buildings of limestone loomed either side of the wide roads, their dark windows and doors hinting of intrigue and secrets.

This wasn’t the financial district, all glass skyscrapers, and fast transactions. Nor was it the government district, where frantic administrators dashed between offices clutching official documents as though they were going to change the world. No, the Second District was home to multinational company HQs, private members clubs, exclusive spas, and the poshest of posh restaurants and shops. Old money stayed here. Old money ruled here. The Duke might rule Lodenon, but more than half of Anginn’s National Parliament had a flat in the Second. Somewhere to take the girlfriend, though never the wife.

The architecture of the district was square, blocky, and brutal, without any flare or flamboyance beyond a gargoyle seemingly added at random by a bored architect. During the civil war, almost a third of the district had been levelled. Which meant now the never changing off-white stone was occasionally interspersed with a new build steel and glass monstrosity, or characterless municipal building.

The Second District Council Office was just such a building. A dull grey six storey box built at a time when the Council of the day believed the people wanted strong governance, but whose members couldn’t contemplate not being within easy reach of a beef wellington. Over the years, the copper doors and window frames had oxidised to a lush green, lending the building an air of a moss blotted boulder dropped in the middle of the city.

Outside its doors, a goblin preacher stood, his arms wide and head held high in defiance of the downpour, addressing all who quickly shuffled past him, umbrellas and eyes lowered, pretending they were deaf.

His high, gruff voice broke through the trudge of feet and groan of traffic. ‘Repent, my brothers and sisters. Throw away your pride and join the true faith. Repent of your greed and give yourself over to everlasting love. Remember, money does not by happiness. Money does not provide solace. Money does not give peace. For as our Holy Book says, it is easier for a rich man to pass through the eye of a potato than it is to get into the Queendom of the Goddess Tatiana.’

Jake moved a little further down the road to cross the street before swinging back to enter the council building. Golbin preachers were renowned for their zeal. Once they had you in their sights, they were harder to shake off than a bladder infection in the desert. Plus, there was a pretty good chance they’d have your wallet away as well.

Around 500 years ago, the ship of a high priest from the mysterious isle of Umbri had run aground on the coast of Kobalos near the village of Phuksace. It was said that as he lay half drowned in the surf, the villagers dismantled his ship and argued over his belongings, which included the three golden paged holy books of the Goddess Tatiana, before pushing him into the tide and promptly forgetting he existed.

The village was sworn to the local town chieftain who, upon hearing of the haul and receiving no tribute, attacked the village killing all the inhabitants, and removing the holy books to his keep.

Sometime later, the chieftain was visited by the Goblin King Jruffalot the Untrusted of Hemo on his way to make war with the people of Pinnica. The chieftain, in an attempt to show his worth to the King, vaunted his heroic deeds and had his servants display the books to the king. The chieftain invented a story about how he had raided a fleet of ships to capture the treasures. That night, the king, jealous of the chieftain’s story and treasure, ordered his men to kill every soldier and destroy the keep. King Jruffalot killed the chieftain personally and took the books for himself.

After losing the war against the people of Pinnica, King Jruffalot returned to Hemo to find his son, King Jrumbling the Cheeky, had stolen his throne. King Jruffalot was ambushed, beheaded, and King Jrumbling ordered the books put on display for all to admire.

Over the next three hundred years, the books passed from one king to another with varying degrees of uncivility.

Issoca the Unstable won them with the crown from Jrumbling at the battle of Lost Foot.

Farlow the Fortunate stole them from Issoca along with his wife and favourite pig.

Donk the Distasteful took them from Farlow at the Great Hemo Poisoning.

Harnock the Hapless mislaid the books for a while until they were discovered propping up his wife’s bed. At which point his successor, Sinoc the Secretive, having quickly disposed of Harnock down a convenient well, hid the books away telling not a soul where to find them.

After The Great Peace, the goblins wanted to rid themselves of their reputation for thievery and general untrustworthiness. King Puritainus, later known as The Matre, realising that international trade and cooperation would suffer greatly if traders were robbed and murdered the second the entered Kobalos, instructed his council to introduce a program of education focused on promoting the values of generosity, charity, and self-control. They scoured the capital for inspiration, until one plucky young goblin called Inspiratia stumbled upon the Books of Tatiana in a long-abandoned vault. She took these to the King who read the salvation of his people within their pages. He proclaimed Tatiana the true goddess of the goblins and set about establishing the religion in all the major cities of Kobalos. Inspiratia was made Mother to The Goddess, the highest position in the church.

Unsurprisingly, not all the goblins were keen on the idea of giving up their favourite past times of robbing and murdering people at will, and a group of the King’s Council, led by Barbarorous the Bloody, rebelled.

King Puriainus was eventually defeated at the battle of Horsfort Keep and both he and Inspiratia were executed in the same way Tatiana had been, drowned in a barrel of eels. King Barbarorous attempted to purge the Tatianan religion met with little success and, after only six months on the throne, he was killed in his sleep by agents of his wife Queen Haveajo, who became, not only Kobalos’ first reigning Queen, but also the second ever Mother of The Goddess.

Her root and branch reforms included the bloody removal of most of the ruling class and ensured Tatianaism became fully entrenched in goblin life.

Today, being a Preacher of The Word was the ambition of many a goblin and, while it may be true that their instincts for thievery and treachery hadn’t entirely been expunged from them, they would at least feel guilty about it for a couple of days after a crime.

Jake felt pleased to have avoided the goblin preacher as he hurried inside the council office and slapped his trilby against his knee to remove the rain.

What he saw before him, made him gape like someone had cut his facial muscles. In contrast to the brutalist exterior, the reception area was awash with life and colour. Huge trees with twisted and knotted trunks and burnished gold leaves stood either side of a sweeping white and gold central staircase. Swirling pots of tall flowers and bushes of every colour twisted across the floor like giant snakes, while suspended from the high ceiling, trails of lobelia, bacopa, and fuchsia flowed ten metres long from great baskets towards the white and black checked floor. Jake took it all in and marvelled. High above him, large mirrors had been strategically arranged to divert sunlight around the room and Jake couldn’t help but be impressed. Whoever had contrived to do this had done an amazing job.

‘Yes?’ The question came from a small, domed head, which bobbed behind a polished wood reception desk.

Jake stepped forward and looked down. ‘Good morning.’ The gnome didn’t look up from her computer as he approached.

‘Good morning.’ Jake began but was stopped with a raised finger. It took him a second to realise she was wearing a phone headset.

‘I’m afraid Ms Gooseberrybush is out today, would you like to be forwarded to her mailbox?’ There was a slight pause. ‘Thank you.’

The gnome turned to Jake and lowered her chin to peer up at him over half-moon spectacles. ‘Good morning.’

Jake tried a warm smile. ‘Good morning. I’d like to speak to Mr Simon Silvertongue, please.’

‘Councillor Silvertongue.’ The gnome stressed the first word. ‘Is currently in a meeting. Do you have an appointment?’

Jake shook his head, and she mimicked the gesture. ‘Then I’m afraid I cannot accommodate you. If you’d like to make an appointment, please call the council offices between 8am and 8:15am on the third Monday of the month.’

An idea struck Jake. ‘I’m here on behalf of James Finnigan, the Master of Watchers…’

‘Oh really?’ The gnome’s ears had twitched back at this. ‘Well, you could have said so in the first place.’ She turned back to her screen. ‘Name?’

‘Jake Paladin.’ Jake replied, trying to keep the eagerness from his voice.

‘Position.’ She responded without looking up at him.

‘Standing,' Jake's mouth wanted to reply, but his brain intervened just in time. 'Investigations.’ He said, thinking this had an official sounding ring to it.

‘Wait there.’ Her voice cracked like a whip as she pointed to an uncomfortably hard looking sofa next to a glass coffee table. ‘I’ve sent up a message.’

‘Thank you for your hospitality.’ Jake bowed from the waist to her and went to sit.

He waited for twenty minutes until his bum was numb and his right leg jiggled. All the while he listened to the short barking speech of the receptionist as she took call after call, informing whoever rang that the person they were looking for was out, away, or in a meeting, and forwarding them to the respective voicemail. Given how busy the reception area was with people bustling in and out of offices, Jake wondered how it was so many seemed to be away.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. He wasn't going to be let in, was he? They’d have run his name through a computer and it would have flagged up as not employed by the Master. There probably wasn’t even a department called ‘Investigations.’ They’d dismiss him as a crank and he'd be written off and be left sitting here until the lower half of his body became paralysed for at least the next month. He'd messed it up like a dongletop. He'd have to try something else.

He had a short and forceful debate with his legs, and it was agreed he could stand in exchange for agonising pins and needles all the way from his ankles to his perinium, which was a new and wholly unwelcome experience for him. He groaned as he arched his back and only just heard the voice.

‘Ah, I see Medusa has another victim.’

Jake turned and took in the elf stood before him. His waist length blonde hair hung straight either side of a narrow angular face. The points of his ears just visible through the wave of gold. His grey eyes were slightly hooded, while his nose was small and pointed. His thin lips were parted in a wide smile and showed bright white teeth.

His steel-coloured suit, complete with silver buttons and pocket-chief, seemed to have been painted to his nimble frame, so that the outline of strong arms could be seen through the material. He leaned slightly on a silver topped black cane; one leg folded behind him so the tip of is mirror polished shoe rested on the floor. Around his neck hung a silk scarf of sky blue with intricate silver thread woven into the fabric.

It was though he’d walked into a tailors and asked to become the epitome of breeding and eloquence and, as he stepped gracefully forward to offer his manicured hand, Jake noted his movements were as perfected as his attire. Jake guessed his suit had probably cost Silvertongue what Jake normally earned in a year. And boy, did he look good for it.

‘Councillor Silvertongue.’ Silvertongue’s voice dripped nobility and sophistication as he introduced himself and held out his hand.

Jake took the hand, noting how soft and warm it was. And the thick ring on his index finger with the strange, almost rib like texture. ‘Jake Paladin.’ His own voice sounded like a dog barking in comparison.

‘Ah yes.’ Silvertongue looked Jake up and down. ‘The private detective.’ Jake snorted as Silvertongue gave him a wicked smile. How had he known? Silvertongue nodded towards the sofa. ‘We call her Medusa because she turns your body to stone.’ He gave a small chuckle then set his expression. ‘You wish to speak with me about poor James, yes?’ It wasn’t really a question. ‘Right this way, if you please.’ Silvertongue span swiftly around and marched quickly towards a door set in the left-hand wall, his shoes clicking loudly on the marble floor.

Jake hesitated for a moment then bumbled along behind him. His legs still adjusting to the idea of being allowed blood supply.

The room they entered was small, but not cramped. Two large rubber plants stood in the far corners, framing a window which looked out onto a rain-soaked Caravan Street.

Silvertongue gestured for Jake to sit in a comfy looking chair on the opposite side of a table and sat himself. ‘Now,’ He folded one leg over the other, and then rested his delicate hands on them. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Paladin?’

Jake scratched his nose and took out his note pad. ‘I wanted to ask you when you last spoke to Mr Finnigan?’

‘Then ask, dear boy.’ Silvertongue's voice dripped with condescension.

‘Oh,’ Jake thought, ‘You’re one of them.’ He tapped his pen on the notepad and waited.

Silvertongue, realising this wasn’t going to get a rise from Jake, continued. ‘James is a nice chap, so far as I know, you know?’

‘I know.’ Jake said, trying not to sound annoyed.

‘So far as I know, and insofar as I don’t really know him.’ Silvertongue clarified.

‘How well do you know him?’ Jake asked.

‘I know him as a Master, obviously,’ Silvertongue flicked some imaginary dust from his knee. ‘And, insofar as I can know, he’s efficient enough at his job.’

‘You know.’ Jake added, earning himself a short murmur from Silvertongue. ‘You don’t know him personally?’

Silvertongue tilted his chin up and thought for a moment before responding. ‘I wouldn’t go that far. We see each other at social events, gatherings, parties and alike, but I wouldn’t say we had a personal relationship, no.’

‘When did you last see him?’ Jake noted down – talks cack – in his notepad.

‘Now when was it?’ Silvertongue tapped his cheek with two long fingers. ‘I’d say, about a month or so ago. Some meeting on the distribution of officers though the Sweven, I believe.’

‘And how did he seem?’ Jake noted – Blood from a stone – into his notepad.

‘Fine, I suppose. As I said, we have a professional relationship. Our conversation, in so much as it was part of a group conversation, was bound within the remit of our agenda, in so much as I can discuss that with you.’

Jake inserted the word – Utter – into – Talks cack – in his notepad.

‘You didn’t resent him then?’ Jake looked up from his pad and saw the stillness in Silvertongue’s face.

‘Resent him?’ He asked, his left eyebrow rising towards his hairline. ‘Whatever for?’

‘For beating you to Master of Watchers…’ Jake started.

Silvertongue's laughter echoed through the room as he interrupted Jake's question. "Oh, that," he chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. "No, no, no, no, no, no." Jake patiently waited for the inevitable repetition of the word 'no'. "He was the perfect man for the job at the time," Silvertongue continued. "Limited choices and peculiar circumstances led us to choose James, and he has my full support."

Jake noticed the mention of limited choices and peculiar circumstances and pressed further. "At the time? What do you mean by that?"

Silvertongue smiled easily. "I simply meant that given the situation, it can be argued that James was the best choice. And he is quite popular among those in his position." He added with a knowing nod.

"Are there any threats against him?" Jake asked directly.

Silvertongue's expression tightened and he glanced down at his hands. "I cannot say that I am aware of any," he said carefully. "But as Master of Watchers and Squires, one is bound to attract miscreants and odd individuals. It wouldn't be surprising if one of them had targeted our esteemed colleague."

Jake jotted down 'evasion' in his notebook before continuing. "So you believe it could be a random perpetrator?"

Silvertongue placed his hands together thoughtfully. "I cannot speculate on my colleague's demise," he said firmly. "But if pressed for an evaluation, I would say it is highly likely that a delinquent or rogue individual may have channelled their anger towards those who stand in their way."

Jake quickly wrote – demise – in his notebook.

‘I understand as well that you’re supporting Reginold Billsbury, the Council Member for the Navy, for Duke in the event of the death of Duke Nicovanti?’

Silvertongue gave another short, musical laugh. ‘Oh, no, my boy, no.’ He leaned forward and tapped the table. ‘Reginold is an acquaintance and has asked for my opinion on the subject of his elevation as and when our dear Nicovanti leaves us, but only in so much as I can offer him advice as to procedure and process, have I deigned to further his cause for the role.’

‘So, you have no interest as to who would follow Duke Nicovanti?’ Jake asked, knowing every politician this side of the Great City of The Gods would have an interest in who filled that role.

Silvertongue wagged a finger, knowingly. ‘Now that question is worthy of a reporter, Mr Paladin. I am a politician, so of course I have an interest. However, the scope of my role is limited to the Second District and, as such, I do not feel it necessary to take upon myself the undesired and unrewarding position of meddling with the internal politics and interests of the Council of Nine. Should, at some point, the Masters decide to elevate me to their number, I may, at that juncture, look to lend my support to a candidate.’ He smiled warmly at the notion. ‘However, at present, I have no vested interest in that area.’

Jake wrote – Up to his eyeballs – in his notebook.

‘So, you don’t agree with Mr Finnigan that the Council should be voted in?’ Jake asked.

Silvertongue pursed his lips and tutted. ‘Alas, no. this was an area when James and I disagree. I cannot believe that handing on the reins of government to,’ he waved a hand vaguely out the window, ‘them, would further the economic and political prowess of our great nation.’

‘So, you disagreed on it?’ Jake pursued.

Silvertongue smiled once more. ‘Disagreed in so much as politically, rather than verbally, yes. I do not recall our ever speaking directly on the matter.’

‘So, how did you hear about it?’ Jake asked, innocently. ‘Abigale told me he’d not spoken to anyone other than the Duke and herself.’

Silvertongue gave the slightest pause. ‘Oh, I cannot recall. But, given that James’ and my relationship was purely professional, is purely professional, I must had glimmered his meaning from a passing comment or some such.’

Jake considered this for a moment before writing. -bad liar- into his notepad.

‘And George Babasquiff, you know her, of course.’ Jake had no idea if Silvertongue did or not, but he felt a confident assertion of fact was the better option.

‘Master Babasquiff.’ Jake heard the reprimand for her missing honorific in Silvertongue’s reply. ‘Yes, we’ve met on occasion, but we’re not close.’

‘She seems to be James’ strongest opponent for Duke.’ Jake countered, breezily.

‘Indeed. She is a very capable person. I’m not sure why we’re discussing her though.’ Silvertongue’s manner had closed up slightly as though someone was slowly drawing shrink wrap around him.

‘I’m just surprised they’d consider running against each other, seeing as how close they are.’ Jake leant back and picked at a piece of fluff on his suit.

Silvertongue’s body unwound a little. ‘Oh, well, there at least I can be of some assistance. The Masters did seem to be close, at once point, but it seems their mutual interests have differed of late.’

‘You’re saying, they’ve fallen out?’ Jake held his mouth agog.

Silvertongue chuckled at Jake’s expression. ‘Indeed, they have, as you say, fallen out. Though I must confess, I don’t know why.’

‘That’s a shame.’ Jake mused almost to himself as he closed his notepad. ‘Well, I think that’s everything.’ He said, as he stood to leave.

Silvertongue smiled graciously, ‘I am most pleased to be of any assistance to you, should you wish for my aid.’ He held his hand out for Jake who took it.

A thought sparked in Jake’s mind. ‘Oh,’ He said, still holding Silvertongue’s hand. ‘I wanted to ask if you know anything about salaff?’

Jake’s fingers detected the slightest of twitches in the hand he held and watched the eyes of the man before him narrow and darken.

‘Salaff?’ Silvertongue asked, his tone more clipped now.

‘You know, the drug.’ Jake wondered if maybe the point was lost on Silvertongue.

‘I’m aware of its existence, Mr Paladin.’ Silvertongue released his grip on Jake’s hand. ‘I'm a politician, not a hermit living in a compost heap. What I fail to understand is what help you believe I could be for you on this subject.’

Jake shrugged. ‘I wondered if it had come up recently in any meetings you might have had with Mr Finnigan.’

Silvertongue’s shoulders seemed to drop a little. ‘Oh, I’m afraid I couldn’t remark on private meetings.’ He paused for a second. ‘Unless,’ he twisted his fingers through the air as though grasping for something. ‘May I ask as to why you believe it pertinent to your enquiries?’

Jake shrugged. ‘Might not be.’ He paused for a heartbeat and decided to roll the dice. ‘But, then again, it might be everything.’ Silvertongue looked as though he was about to respond, but Jake cut him off. ‘But, then again, it might be nothing.’

Silvertongue gave a small laugh Jake couldn’t help thinking he usually saved for interviews. ‘I suppose someone in your position must investigate any thread they find themselves holding.’ He nodded once. ‘Seems an odd thread to have gathered through, in this case.’ He paused and Jake refused to fill the silence. After a few pregnant seconds, Silvertongue gave a magnanimous gesture with his hand. ‘Very well, on this occasion, since the need is great and the cause just, I can confide in you that no conversation covering that particular subject has been presented to me in a meeting with the Master in the past six months.’ He smiled broadly at Jake. ‘Is that helpful?’

Jake returned the smile with an equal amount of faux warmth. ‘Very.’ He said simply and walked through the open door back into the reception area. ‘By the way, this is very pretty.’ He gestured at the lush foliage about him.

Silvertongue’s smile was genuine this time as he studied the lush greenery about the room. ‘Why, thank you, it is of my own design.’ He beamed at the look of surprise on Jake’s face. ‘I couldn’t abide the drab nature of the building when I arrived, so I had this created to bring a little life into the place.’ He leaned conspiratorially into Jake. ‘We Elves were not made to be so far from the forest.’

Jake nodded as though he understood entirely. ‘Must have cost you a fortune. More than a councillor’s salary, sure.’

Silvertongue looked at him, side-eye, before replying. ‘Yes, well I have been fairly successful in other areas before I became a councillor, you know.’

‘Like banking, for example.’ Jake made the statement without any real interest while he took in the flowers of nearby Lysimachus. Not that he knew it was called that.

‘Indeed.’ Silvertongue drew out the word as though it hurt him. ‘Well, if there’s nothing else.’

Jake took the proffered hand once more ‘Nothing. I’ll see you at your party. I’m accompanying Abigale.’

‘Really?’ There was a definite coldness to his tone now. ‘Well, I look forward to it.’ Though it was clear to Jake Silvertongue would prefer almost anything else. He was about to reply, but Silvertongue had already turned from him and was marching across the room before Jake could utter another syllable.

Jake watched the elf’s catlike grace cross the room and ascend the stairs before Jake moved to the desk and asked to use the phone. The gnome, having seen Silvertongue himself meet Jake, was far more obsequious now and practically fell over herself in her haste to clear room for Jake to sit before distancing herself to allow him to speak undisturbed.

The phone was answered on the third ring. ‘Mr and Mrs Finnigan.’ Abigale’s crisp tone was clear.

‘Mrs Finnigan, it’s Jake. I hope you don’t mind my calling, but I wanted to ask you, are you planning to go to the party at Silvertongue’s office tomorrow night?’

There was a moment’s pause. ‘The party? No, I…’

‘Because,’ Jake hurried on, ‘I was wondering if I could accompany you…’

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Chapter 9

Jake sat at his computer, an image of Reginold Billsbury looking buoyant at the opening of a school in Fete Lieu on the screen. He was exactly as Jake had expected. plump rather than fat, with the chubbiness of one who enjoyed his port. Well-rounded, maybe, as though someone had balled clay and attached googly eyes. With at least two chins more than were strictly necessary. Coffee coloured hair styled in the manner of a discarded dishcloth, amber eyes that didn’t quite seem to be focused on anything in particular, and a wide jovial smile. His school masters would have called him an affable chap. He struck Jake as someone who would walk into a room and forget what a room was.

Jake tapped Silvertongue into the computer and a profile of the councillor came up on his screen. He read through various articles about the man and learned a little of his history, but nothing overly useful. He had definitely annoyed Silvertongue today, but he couldn’t put a handle on how. What question had it been that caused the change? What had he inadvertently asked?

Jack swigged down some water and checked the time. Still 45 minutes to go. He looked about his office for something to do.

He was trying to keep his mind occupied, and he knew it. Tonight, he would be partying with the gentry and, truth be told, he was more than a little nervous. Ok, so he was going there to work, but there were still standards, rules, and etiquette, which needed to be observed if he wasn’t going to stick out like a giant at a pixie concert.

Jake had never been what you might called, polished. In the orphanage classroom where lessons were held for all the kids regardless of age, he had sat at the back of the class and messed about with Tom Bollard and Angelica Hoverton. That was, until he was inevitably ejected from the class by the rotund Master Greenhill and made to stand in the corridor until the end of the day.

During their free time, when the children were allowed to explore the orphanage gardens, he would most oft be found up a tree or in a hedge. During his teenage years, usually with Angelica Hoverton, whose budding character lent an ironic counterpoint to her forename.

There was little call for lessons in polite conversation or buffet etiquette in Jake’s youth. He’d never been taught which knife was used for which dish, or in which hand you held your glass while addressing a person higher social rank than you.

No, when Jake summed it up, he knew exactly three things about social etiquette.

1: At a sit-down dinner, your cutlery is never allowed to touch the tablecloth as this tells the host you are displeased with the fare.

2: The correct form of address for a Lady of the Quwala Court (the small bearlike people from the island of Quwla) is ‘Your Cuddliness.’

3: Never touch your crotch near a gentleman from The Happy Land of Joy and Profound Peace, as this is an invitation to duel.

To be honest though, almost all actions were an invitation to duel for the gentlemen of The Land of Joy and Profound Peace. Which was why these days over two thirds their standing army were women.

Jake fervently hoped that none of these titbits would be of use this evening.

The truth was, Jake found social events incredibly tiring. Overwhelming, almost. He never had anything interesting to say. He could never just wander over to someone and strike up a conversation. Much less join a group where conversation was already in full flow and contribute as though he had been invited. People who could do that were wizards to Jake. With work, though, it was different. He knew his strengths, how to speak with suspects or quiz witnesses. He could wise crack, and joke around. But, outside of this bubble, he felt like a fly in a hurricane. Whisked along without really understanding how or why.

His suit, now hanging on the back of his door with the hope it would somehow self-iron out the creases from previous use, still smelt distinctly of the various liquors he and Hasop had ingested. Jake wondered if a spray of ‘Wiff Away’ would be of any use but decided that smelling like a cheap sofa probably wasn’t the effect he was going for this evening.

He checked the time. Thirty minutes until her car arrived. He should probably wash.

He rose, stood before the washbasin in the kitchenette, and turned on the tap. He watched the water for a moment before deciding that today was not going to be a warm water day. He used a cloth to clean and dried himself with a small towel stolen from a cheap hotel he’d stayed at some years back. It had been thin then. Now, it was little more than whisps of thread. Once Abigale paid him, he would treat himself to a really good new towel. One so big he could wrap it around himself twice and so thick it could hide fairies. He grinned at the thought of it. He’d even be able to buy a shower after this job. Heck, he could get a whole flat if it lasted long enough.

He frowned at that. The temptation to make this case last longer than necessary was, well, tempting. The additional funds from just an extra day would make a world of difference to him. One that didn’t make him look like he rolled through brambles for a lark. A full-size fridge, so he could keep more than just two items of food cold at any one time. And one with a freezer section. Oh, what he couldn’t do if he had a freezer section. He could have ice for his whisky. Ice lollies. Chips. He hummed wistfully at the thought of it.

But no, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t say he wouldn’t do it. That would depend on the client and the cause. If he’d been hired by some multinational with unlimited funds, he could have quite happily taken a day here or there and charged it back without a single drop of sweat breaking on his brow. But not for this. Not for a misper. Not to Abigale.

He shaved and cleaned his teeth before applying ‘Thunderdome Masculinity’ deodorant. The bottle advertised it as The essence of what it is to be a man!’ But Jake, having now applied it, thought it smelt more like the essence of what it is to live in a commune.

He grabbed the towel and rubbed under his arm pits before choosing instead ‘Pure Form’ Antiperspirant which simply stated it could ‘Hold back sweat for up to 3 weeks.’ Jake decided he didn’t want to meet the person who tested that. It was a slightly better smell than Thunderdome Masculinity, though he now thought he smelt like a cheap hotel built in an old commune.

He dressed quickly and, as he pulled his jacket over his shoulders, he caught the smell of old beer and spirits. Clearly airing the jacket hadn’t had the desired effect. No choice then. He rummaged under the sink and sprayed himself down with ‘Wiff Away.’

Great. Now he smelled like a grandmother’s armchair in a cheap hotel built in an old commune.

Deciding he’d done enough damaged; he checked out the window just in time to see the car pulling up. It was a limo. Jake whistled. He’d never been in a limo before.

A familiar mountain emerged slowly from the driver’s door, like sausage meat being squeezed from the tube. Simone or Issac, Jake still didn’t know which was which.

‘Well,’ he thought to himself, straightening his jacket with twitching fingers while his stomach twisted. ‘In for a Phennic…’

Issac or Simone’s eyes burrowing into Jake like drills into margarine as he left his building and ducked inside the limo. From the corner of his eye, Jake saw a goblin leaning in a shadowy doorway across the street. He seemed to be very interested in the newspaper he was holding. Particularly given how dark it was.

The interior was all black leather and polished wood. A drinks cabinet with at least twenty varieties of liquor took up most of the left-hand side of the vehicle, while Abigale Finnigan was seated on the long seat that occupied the right. She nodded slightly as Jake entered and tried a smile. ‘Mr Paladin.’ Her voice was tight. ‘I’m not so sure this is a good idea.’ She paused for a moment, sniffing. ‘Can I smell window cleaner?’

‘Mrs Finnigan.’ Jake ignored the question and tried to placate her. ‘I will be discreet. This is a far quicker way for me to meet your husband’s colleagues, and far less intrusive, than my going from office to office asking them questions.’

Abigale sniffed but looked placated. ‘Fine.’ She said, brusquely. ‘We will arrive together and then go our separate ways. But,’ she leaned forward to meet his eye, ‘please remember, these people are my friends.’

Jake assured her he would, and they spent the remaining fifteen minutes of the journey discussing broader points of what Jake had found out so far.

As they entered the reception area, Jake paused to glance about at the lights which had been secreted away to cast shadows across the walls from the trees and plants. Abigale nudged his back, and they joined the other guests making their way up the broad staircase.

To say the first floor wasn’t what Jake expected, would undermine his thoughts to the point of lunacy. He’d presumed there would be offices with glass walls surrounding tiny fabric walled cubicles. He’d imagined complicated printers next to water dispensers, whiteboards covered in critical timetables, and men shouting into phones ‘We’ll collect your rubbish on Tuesday, just leave it next to the cat.’

Instead, what he found was nothing short of magnificent.

The ceilings were high enough to accommodate fully grown palm trees complete with coconuts. Which was fortunate, as there were six of them spaced evenly down each side of the hall, and yes, they were complete with coconuts. The celling was gilded with spirals of gold which seemed to be moving in the light of a thousand candles.

Ten ornate columns ran the length of the room adorned with intricately carved flying capitals at their top. The walls were painted in stunning artwork depicting the signing of The Great Peace accord. Goblins, elves, trolls, dwarves, pixies, and humans all gathered around a large desk signing the agreement to work together for the betterment of all Silvadra. The top of the room were lined with tall glass windows which Jake assumed must be the next floor. Maybe the work of the councillor happened up there?

At one end of the hall, a lavish buffet table bedecked by a miasma of dishes too numerous to illiterate, while at the other end of the room, the myriad of bottles behind the bar sparkled in the candlelight. The floor was of polished marble with a wide black line stretching away through the crowd. Jake followed it with his eyes as it curved away from him and saw it repeated again on the far side of the room.

‘If you have quite finished gorping, I shall leave you to it.’ Abigale remonstrated him while pulling at her elbow length gloves.

‘Sorry,’ Jake was spluttered from his revelry, ‘But I thought this was a council office?’

‘It is.’ Abigale looked about her as though this was mundane. ‘Simon made the changes as soon as he took over here. Had the first three floors removed to build this.’ She waved her hand to indicate the giant hall and leaned closer to speak conspiratorially. ‘It is said he paid for it himself, and, I suppose, he must have done. I can’t imagine the Council signing off the budget for this.’ She turned her head slowly. ‘Oh Philly, there you are.’ She bustled over to a very short, grey-haired lady in a silver dress studded with diamonds and emeralds sitting astride a giant turtle.

Jake tottered over to the bar and asked for a beer, wondering if the cost of it would break his bank. To his joy and surprise, the beer turned out to be free. ‘It really is a party,’ he thought.

About him were gathered the cream of Lodenon society, from film stars to at least 3 members of the Council of Nine. They talked, laughed, and politically fenced in equal measure. To his right, a portly gentleman was oozing sweaty charm over an actor Jake had seen in some comedy about a bank robbery. She was smiling politely while making a discreet hand gesture at a tall burly man who finally got the message and came to her rescue. The fat man’s jowls fell as she was whisked away from him, and he consoled himself with a large swig from his drink.

To Jake’s left, two young men and a dwarf of indeterminant age were nosily arguing about the price of stocks for a company called ‘Avolage.’

He scanned the crowd. There, an ambassador of Trollot. Obvious not only due to his hight and bulk, but by the large arrangement of rocks piled like a hat atop his head. He was quietly shouting at a woman in a pink dress while picking at a leg of beef he held on a silver platter. Even from here, Jake could overhead his part of their conversation.

‘Yes, I agree, Dimenta, but I no believe Has will invade Hos again, not so dumb. Nothing changed in six years now and, oooh, Chicken!’ He reached over the astounded Dimenta’s head to grab a whole chicken from a passing waiterand stuffed it whole into his mouth. 'Good chicken' he exclaimed, raining small bones onto the rather putout, Dimenta's head.

A striking man in his mid-thirties leaned up at the bar next to Jake and ordered two drinks. He turned a genial smile on Jake. ‘Hi, I’m Tallo.’ He sniffed. ‘What smells like a bookmakers?’

‘Jake.’ Jake spoke quickly to prevent Tallo from ascertaining the source of his confusion.

‘Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.’ Tallo said, giving Jake’s hand a limp shake before moving off with his drinks and a look of distain on his face.

Jake felt his hands go sweaty. Why hadn’t he washed off the aftershave first?

He stood alone at the bar while around him the guests laughed and ate tiny morsels of food from miniature porcelain plates and finding no sight of his prey. His stomach felt tight and his legs wobbly. All about him people effortlessly greeted each other and immediately began what appeared to be interesting and engaging conversations. What about exactly? What did you actually say to people you didn’t know? Tell me about yourself? It was too broad a question, to inquisitorial. So, what do you do? Who cares! You’re not what you do. But then, Jake reflected, didn’t he always start off telling people he was a private detective? He suspected he did. He was proud of it, after all. Given where he’d started.

Truth was, he wasn’t sure it was that he didn’t like small talk, more that he didn’t really like people. Not all people, obviously. But most. Most seemed rather vacuous and uninteresting. They talked about TV shows and what they did with their dog last week.

At least, he conceded, he didn’t like small talk people. He liked people he met in other settings. Someone introduced to him by a friend, which allowed said friend to carry the conversation and for Jake to bypass the ‘so, what pets do you have?’ stage. The ‘I heard a funny fact about steam engines the other day.’ Or, ‘Did you know, I once saw that chap from Revenger’s 3 in a pie shop?’ phase.

Jake absentmindedly ordered another beer.

No one interesting spoke about things like that. Interesting people were involved in the great subjects. The big questions. Why we are here? What is the meaning of it all? Who would win in a fight if it happened again, the Goddess or Ava?

Jake could have talked to those people. For a while at least. Until they said something insightful, and he lost confidence in his point.

Jake ordered a third beer.

He was fine interrogating someone. More than fine. Brilliant, maybe. Particularly when he knew how they would respond. That was his sweet spot. When he could really rattle someone’s cage and put them on the ropes. Probably not at the same time. Cages don’t often have ropes.

He could gleam precious nuggets of information from the most barren of replies and use it to structure a case that would withstand an earthquake. But ask someone if they preferred opera to symphony without looking like he’d prefer to have his head waxed with parcel tape than know the answer? Neigh on impossible.

It would be of help, he reflected, mournfully, if he actually knew anything about either opera or symphony. Hi sighed and ordered another beer.

Twenty minutes and four beers later, his stomach loudly advised him it would be better for everyone if he soaked up some of the alcohol with some food.

He picked his way through the crowd, standing much straighter than he usually would, but not meeting anyone’s eye, simultaneously trying to appear both in command of his surroundings and part of the furniture, and headed for the buffet table.

Another waiter handed Jake a tiny plate from a white gloved hand and Jake gulped as he surveyed the fare. It was like something from a children’s story. There were piles of purple berry like orbs in ice. Platters of pastry parcels topped with pink foam. Selections of multicoloured egg shaped things, each with a tiny candle burning from the top. Jake had no idea what any of it was and was afraid to pick any of it up in case he ate it wrong. In the end, he selected what he hoped were pork sausages and a wedge of what was definitely brown bread.

‘Simple fare, huh, that’s the stuff. Just got to get your calories in and back to the fight, what?’

The voice had emanated from the man who had followed Jake down the table of food, and Jake turned to see it was none other than Reginold Billsbury himself, standing not a foot behind him. He grinned at Jake as though they were old friends who’d not seen each other in years.

‘Sorry?’ Jake replied.

‘Simple fare, yes?’ Reginold said, gesturing at Jake’s plate. ‘No time for fancy shmamsy, what. Just get on with the ol’ jobberoo.’

Jake was so surprised to find himself faced with the man he’d come here to meet; it took him a moment to work out what he’d said. ‘Yes. Indeed.’ He surreptitiously rubbed his right hand against his trousers and held it out. ‘I’m Jake Paladin.’

‘Billsbury, my boy. Reggie Billsbury.’ Reggie replied, putting his plate down to take Jake’s hand in both of his. ‘Just call me Reggie, my boy. Everybody does. Everyone. A pleasure, I’m sure. A pleasure.’ Thick creases formed around Reggie’s eyes as he gave Jake one of the most honest and open smile’s Jake had ever seen. There was no guile there. No suspicion. Just frank, enthusiastic, stupidity. Jake found himself quite liking it. Though he thought the ‘my boy’ was rather presumptuous as Reggie was only five years his senior.

Reggie busied himself with selecting food from the various dishes and Jake realised now was his moment to engage him. He wondered if he should dive right in with the reason for his presence at the party, or if he should try and work up to it in some way. As he fought with himself to make up his mind, Reggie turned to peer at the floor a look of profound confusion on his flabby features. He pointed at Jake’s feet. ‘Are those my shoes?’

For a second, Jake thought he was joking. ‘Er… no. They’re mine.’ Jake replied, slowly.

Reggie sniffed and straightened and beamed at him once again. ‘Fair enough, I thought I owned them.’ He began to look about him.

‘Cack, he’s about to leave.’ Jake’s muddled braincells held an emergency meeting to find the best topic of conversation to keep Reggie engaged. After several lengthy internal PowerPoint presentations and a good deal of voting, the final decision was sent to his mouth for transmission. ‘My suit wasn’t clean from a night out, so I sprayed it with furniture cleaner.’

What the rut?!!!

Reggie blinked twice at him before bursting into a wild raucous belly laugh that made many of those standing near them pause their conversation and look down their noses at such an outlandish display of emotion at an event such as this. ‘Classic, my boy, classic,’ Reggie said, wiping a tear from his eye before slapping Jake’s arm with the force of a jackhammer. ‘Oh my, classic. Been there, old son, been there.’ He held a tight grip on Jake’s arm. ‘Have we met somewhere before? Do you hunt Squills?’

Squills: Short, feathered mammal with six two-foot-long spikes protruding from their back which, while once wild to Silvadra, are now bred almost exclusively for hunting. For the past four hundred years, they have been the favourite Legjobb afternoon hunt for the aristocracy. Sadly, thanks to The Great Peace, the need for the aristocracy to maintain their proficiency at arms had diminished to equal to their desire to maintain an extensive gene pool. As such the creatures have needed to be carefully bred by experts to remove almost all semblance of intelligence, thereby allowing the lordlings to maintain their sense of achievement while not actually doing anything too strenuous.

Indeed, Squills are now so stupid, they could no longer be relied upon to flee from the beaters - those employed to coax the beasts from the forest to be shot. It is now so bad that, during modern shoots, the Squills are first captured and then thrown into the air about four feet ahead of the shooter to be blasted away by shotgun while the relatives applauded.

Some people believe the true spirit of the sport has been lost somewhere along the way.

The traditional drink for a Squill hunt is red wine with cola.

‘I’m afraid not, Reggie, no, but I’ve always been a fan.’ Jake hoped this would be enough.

Reggie nodded as though this would be obvious. ‘Of course you are, of course you are.’ He slapped Jake hard on the shoulder once again. ‘So,’ he continued, picking up a small yellow square and popping it into his mouth. ‘Who are you?’

Jake wondered for a moment how best to answer this question. ‘I’m working for Mrs Finnigan.’ He said at last.

‘Ah,’ Reggie replied, nodding, and spraying tiny specks of yellow spittle over Jake. ‘And who is Mrs Finnigan?’

‘She’s the wife of Master Finnigan.’ Jake paused, awaiting recognition to spring from Reggie’s benign expression. ‘The Master of Watchers.’ He continued. ‘James Finnigan’

‘Oh James.’ Reggie exploded with a chuckle. ‘James, my boy, I see, yes. His lovely wife.’ He had started to walk and turned as though Jake should have known automatically to follow him.

Jake hurried after. ‘Yes. You and he are friends, yes?’

Reggie stopped suddenly and turned furrowed brows on Jake. ‘Mrs Finnigan is a he?’ He asked in a low rumble.

Jake again wondered if this was a joke, but Reggie’s bemused expression told him it really wasn’t ‘No, James Finnigan is a he. Mrs Finnigan is a she.’

Reggie nodded enthusiastically. ‘Oh yes. Of… of course.’ He seated himself in a wide armchair. Jake sat down in the seat opposite and watched as Reggie arranged the food on his plate by colour. He made small happy sounding hums as he did it. When he was satisfied, he clapped his hands together. ‘Ah, yes. Capital chap, capital. Like hot whisky after a farrow hunt.’ He peered up at Jake as though he didn’t really want to stop looking at his food, but part of his brain had decided a question needed asking. ‘Do you hunt Farrow, Jakey boy?’

Farrow: Three-inch-long pink hairless creatures native to Gnomica. They are imported to Anginn for the purpose of a morning’s entertainment for the gentry. In the traditional hunt, farrows are tied in line to a wooden board which was then moved up and down and/or left and right by electronics or, more traditionally by rope and pully system, while the participants of the hunt use pistol to shoot at the moving farrows from a distance of around three feet. This is all carried out to music played on either an accordion or harpsicord. Hot whisky is the gentleman’s drink of choice after a successful hunt.

‘Erm…no.’ Jake replied, not understanding the reference.

‘Oh, you simply must. Capital sport, capital. I introduced the dwarves to it last time I was in Smalaz Folc. Visited North Port for some function or other, I don’t really remember what. Anyway, next time you visit, don’t go via boat. The Draco Sea is a nightmare of a ride. Nightmare. Never been so sick in my life.’ He paused as though considering. ‘Well, at least not since my uni days.’ He snorted enthusiastically at the memory.

Jake worried the conversation was getting away from him and tried to get Reggie back on track. ‘When did you last see him?’ He tore a chunk of bread and placed one of the sausages on top.

‘Who?’ Asked Reggie between mouthfuls of a blue and yellow biscuit.

Jake sighed inwardly. ‘James Finnigan.’

Reggie folded his chins into his neck while he thought about it. ‘Must be, three weeks or so ago, I suppose. I visited his house.’ Reggie stuffed something long and green into his mouth. ‘Charming little place. I’ve never felt so big in all my life.’ He paused briefly to swallow. ‘Ever visited North Port?’

‘No.’ Jake tried to keep exasperation from his voice and mostly succeeded. Reggie certainly didn’t seem to notice. To help himself calm down, Jake put a sausage on a chunk of bread into his own mouth. The sausage, it transpired, wasn’t sausage. It was made of a marshmallow type substance and tasted of yeast extract and raw tripe. Jake fought against the nearly overwhelming urge to spit it out and then rinse his mouth out with acid. This was made all the harder when an ooze which tasted vaguely of turnips and dead rat leaked from within the middle of the sausage to mix with the yeast extract.

‘Never known a man to like goblin tootsy rolls before.’ Reggie pointed at the two other sausages on Jake’s plate. ‘You’re a braver man than most, what. What are these ones made from, hedgehog and dingleberries?’ He snorted once more.

It was all Jake could do to stop himself from vomiting copiously onto the floor. He nodded at Reggie in the hope it would stop him from talking about what Jake was desperately hoping was not dingleberries.

It took him a good 45 seconds to regain the ability to speak. By which time, Reggie had polished off another two green tubes, and a bright pink square, and was talking enthusiastically about how the people of Havers, a country on the continent of Kildana, ate fish using nothing but a sliver of wood and the claw of a cat.

‘May I ask,’ Jake interrupted him, shakily handing his nearly untouched plate to a passing waiter, ‘what was the purpose of your visit?’

Reggie looked as though Jake had asked him to recite his times tables backwards and in Golbique, the language of the goblins. ‘Purpose? Why, to try the fish, dear boy.’

‘Why did you go to see James Finnigan?’ Jake’s tongue was currently filing a complaint with his brain at the treatment it had just endured and felt furry and disconnected.

‘Oh that.’ Reggie threw back his head and waved his arm as though the whole thing was of small import. ‘Well, I wanted one of those application jobbies, you know the sort of thing.’ He clicked his fingers and a waiter hurried over. ‘Two white, over ice, no herbs.’ Reggie spoke to the waiter like a captain ordering a soldier.

The waiter bowed and scurried off to fulfil the drink order. Jake’s mouth prayed to the Goddess one of those was for him. Anything to remove the taste of… don’t think it.

‘So,’ Reggie continued. ‘Where do you winter?’

Jake was thrown off by this and responded in the only way he knew how. ‘I don’t winter.’

Reggie’s laugh once more split the room. ‘My dear boy, you are a treat.’ He exclaimed through guffaws. ‘Don’t winter, you say, well, well, well. A sun hunter, are you, yes?

‘Are you looking to leave the navy?’ Jake pursued.

Reggie’s eyebrows met at the bridge of his nose. ‘The navy?’ He scratched behind his ear.

‘You are the council member for the navy, yes?’ Jake doggedly continued.

Reggie waved a hand at him and expelled air through his teeth. ‘Of course, I am, of course and it’s a damn tricky job I can tell you.’ He nodded seriously.

‘I can believe it.’ Jake nodded as though this was the most interesting thing he’d heard in weeks.

‘Ah, here we are.’ Reggie directed the waiter to place two tall glasses of a pearlescent liquid on the table between. Jake downed the drink without tasting it and felt blessed relief from the lingering taste of the food.

‘You like the old Gobber milk then do you?’ Reggie asked, pleased with his drink choice.

Gobbers are cowlike creatures raised by the centaurs in Kentavr. Their milk tastes like peaches and roast mutton.

Jake wiped his lip. ‘That’s actually not bad.’ He placed the glass down on the table. ‘How many ships do we have these days?’ Jake asked.

Reggie squirmed a little in his chair at that question. ‘Oh, well, it’s not a question of numbers, my boy, no. It’s about prestige.’ He hefted his sizable belt a little higher up his generous belly. ‘We must be seen to be mighty, you know, and a splendid navy boat will help us maintain that appearance.’

This speech sounded rehearsed to Jake, and it gave him an idea. ‘The Royal yacht will do that, wont it?’

‘It will be…’ Reggie began, but was quickly cut off by another, much more commanding voice.

‘There you are, my dear chap, I’ve been looking all over for you.’ This intervention came from behind Jake, and he turned back just as a dazzling gold suit flashed past him, blurring his vision.

He blinked several times to bring the broad Pan AM smile of Simon Silvertongue into focus. The elf was a star alone in the blackest night. His suit seemed to have captured the light of the sun and project it in a haze of gold about him.

‘Just catching up with my ol’ pall Jakey boy, here.’ Reggie said. Accepting Simon’s hand with enthusiasm.

Jake focused on Silvertongue’s face and noted a pang of concern in the slight narrowing of his eyes.

‘Why, Mr Paladin,’ Silvertongue oozed. ‘What a pleasure it is to see you again so soon.’

‘The pleasure is all mine.’ Replied Jake, feeling nothing of the sort. ‘You throw quite the party.’

‘Indeed.’ Silvertongue’s voice was chipped. He turned back to Reggie clearly trying to block Jake from view. ‘Reggie, I must introduce you to the ambassador of Amadra in Helocon, she’s an absolute dream.’ He leaned in close and spoke quietly so Jake could only just hear what he said. ‘They’re the ones who don’t believe in clothes.’

Reggie’s eyebrows rose almost as quickly as he did. ‘Well,’ he said, straightening his suit. ‘Lead the way, old boy.’ He stopped beside Jake’s chair. ‘Lovely to see you again Jakey boy. Come by the office some time to say hi, won’t you? We’ll have to hunt Bouyballs next time you’re about.’

Bouyballs: 30 inch long blue and grey flightless birds selectively bred to have hooked bills which bend round into a hoop. Of an evening, it was the sport of kings to take up a fishing rod and try to hook the beak of Bouyball as it floated aimlessly in a 3 feet wide pool. Anyone who successfully hooked a Bouyball was awarded a gift of the host’s choosing. Tradition stated this would be something golden in the shape of a sea creature.

Incidentally, the drink of choice after a successful Bouyball hunt is Cinzano Roso.

Jake attempted to prevent Reggie’s departure, but Silvertongue had a strong arm about his shoulders and Jake quickly realised there was nothing he could do.

‘Excuse me, sir.’

Jake was feeling pretty sick of people speaking from behind him and he turned to face the speaker with a look of tired resignation.

The dwarf looked up at him with unfriendly eyes. ‘May I see your invitation?’

‘Ah rut!’ Jake thought.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Chapter 10

As Jake was being discreetly led through the crowd by two dwarves, he felt, rather than saw, someone fall in beside him. He looked to see a dashing man of around 40 in a flawless velvet suit. He turned his chiselled jaw to Jake and winked.

‘Can I help you?’ Jake asked, but the man simply nodded towards a door to their right. Jake peered past the man and saw the dazzlingly gold suit worn by Silvertongue disappearing through the door before he felt the man’s hip bumping into his sending Jake staggering sideways into a nearby woman who promptly let out a short exclamation of annoyance at the sudden intrusion into her personal space.

Jake lifted himself from his knees and looked into shrewd hazel eyes set in a sharp, angular face.

‘And what are you supposed to be?’ The woman’s voice was crisp, clear, and articulate. It reminded Jake of Abigale’s refined but authoritative tone. Indeed, the woman had clearly been holding court to a gaggle of men who all now stared menacingly at Jake as though he had damaged their chances of plucking a rare rose.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jake looked about him for the man in the velvet suit, ‘I was pushed.’

‘A likely story.’ The woman looked him up and down. ‘You don’t belong here.’ It wasn’t an accusation so much as a statement of simple truth. ‘How did you get in?’

‘I was invited…’ Jake started, feeling his cheeks redden under her gaze.

‘Invited by whom?’ She clipped the question out as though it had previously gone unanswered.

‘I don’t see how…’

‘Unless you’d like to be spending the night in a cell, I suggest you change your tone.’ Her nose wrinkled slightly. ‘And, albeit for different reasons, your aftershave.’ The flange of sycophants that surrounded her chuckled appreciatively.

‘I’m with Abigale Finnigan.’ Jake spoke quietly so only the woman would hear him. ‘She’s the…’

‘Leave us.’ The woman’s eyes never left Jake’s, but the herd of minions dispersed within seconds, leaving Jake and the woman standing in a small empty space surrounded by the throng of milling party goers.

The woman looked Jake up and down once more and Jake took the opportunity to do the same. She wore a simple, yet stylish, long black dress that was neither too revealing nor demure. Her heels were black with traces of silver, but nothing ostentatious. Although Jake suspected a knowing eye would recognise a designer’s work. She clearly took pride in her appearance, but managed to make it seem effortless. And then he realised who she must be. ‘Why did Abigale bring you?’

‘I…’ He flicked his eyes back to meet hers. ‘Surely you mean, why didn’t she bring her husband?’

The corner of her lip raised a micrometre. ‘You’re her pet detective, aren’t you?’

Jake tried to look innocent. ‘No, her dog is just fine.’

She sneered at him. ‘Tell me, have you managed to track down our errant colleague yet? Off slumming it with some hussy, is he?’

Jake stood a little straighter. ‘I haven’t discovered his whereabouts yet, but I was hopeful you might be able to help me.’

‘Me?’ She placed a delicate hand on her chest. ‘I haven’t seen James in weeks. I can’t say I’m surprised he’s gone walkabout. He’s been going a little gaga for some time now.’

‘But he helped you with the financial crisis.’ Jake felt a little defensive on behalf of his client.

George have a short hollow chuckle. ‘That was all Abigale’s doing. She came up with the idea and let her silly husband take the credit. She’s the clever one of the two. James has always been just on the wrong side of sympathetic to be truly intelligent.’

‘But you two were friends, at one point, weren’t you?’ Jake tried to make his question sound routine.

George studied him but didn’t answer. ‘I think we’re done here.’ She clicked her fingers, and a man appeared by her side. ‘Mr Paladin is leaving us.’

The man nodded once and stepped to Jake’s side.

Jake felt a knot in his stomach. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. Can I just ask you one more question about James?’

The man’s grip was tight on Jake’s arm, but George paused him for a moment. ‘One question.’

‘Did you agree with him?’ Jake nodded his head slightly, willing her to understand the implied question.

Her thin smile affirmed she did. ‘No.’ She said simply.

The man tugged again and Jake splurted out a second question. ‘Because you want it?’

George shook her head slowly. ‘No.’ She whispered as Jake was dragged away.

+++++++++++++++++++

Chapter 11

Jake got out of the taxi an hour later feeling glum. He’d learned little from Reggie and, if Billbury’s office kept blocking Jake from seeing him officially, it was likely all he’d learn from him. But their meeting might help with that. Maybe he should just turn up and see if Reggie was about?

And then George Babasquiff. What the heck was he supposed to do now? She’d practically…he stopped dead in his tracks as he replayed their conversation. He hadn’t, had he? No. He definitely didn’t. In fact, none of it. But then how had she known? Any why had she assume he was… weird.

More questions, more questions, more questions.

Yet one thing was very interesting. She had known his plan.

The wind whistled up 9th and Jake went to turn the collar of his trench coat up. Then he realised, he wasn’t wearing it. This sucked.

His sagged where he stood feeling a failure. A jogger wound his way through traffic to cross the road ahead of him.

‘Oh sure,’ Jake thought, ‘it’s 10pm and you’re still out jogging. Just rubbing it in, aren’t you?! Look at me, so fit and healthy it doesn’t matter that I’ve had a long day, I still get my six-mile run in. Wouldn’t want to let that slip, would we.’ Jake felt a momentary pang at his own resentment towards the man. He’d not done him any harm.

The screeching of tyres caused Jake to spin around. A blue saloon had run the lights at the junction with Last Hope and was breaking hard before him. From the rear window emerged a solid looking black tube.

‘That’s a gun.’ Jake’s thought with surprise. ‘Why is there a gun?’ He chewed the question over in his head for a moment. ‘I should probably move.’ He considered. ‘Yeah. Running would be best.’ His brain decided.

‘Hell, no.’ His feet disagreed. ‘Fall to the ground. I can’t outrun bullets.’

‘You don’t need to outrun bullets.’ Replied his brain. ‘You just need to move quickly in the opposite direction to the vehicle and your relative speed will do the rest.’

‘Say what?’ replied his feet.

The gun fired.

Jakes feet flung themselves into the air, while the top half of his body took off at top speed in the opposite direction to the car. As a result, he landed hard on the pavement while bullets spattered into the wall and floor around him. Jake covered his head with his arms and tasted blood. He had bit his tongue.

For what felt like ten minutes and forty seven years his world was reduced to a never-ending hammering of gunfire and the metallic taste of his own life juice as he lay, arms covering his face, trying to push his body into the hard pavement in the hope it would embrace him like a lover or swallow him like a delicious sweetie. He barely permitted himself to breathe as death rained about him. Then, without warning, a profound silence fell on the world. The usual sounds of the city seemed insignificant after the noise of the machine gun. Was it a machine gun? Is there actually a gun called a machine gun? Jake didn’t know. It was a big gun that fired multiple shots.

As the car sped off, Jake rose gingerly to his feet to be greeted by the twitching body of the jogger splayed out not two feet from where he stood.

Jake’s heart took a short but energetic run around his body and a small squeak pushed itself between his clenched teeth.

From around the next corner, a little man came jogging up and skidded to a halt, his large amber eyes looked expectantly up at Jake as he held up a small yellow envelope in his tiny hand. ‘Darroll Hardcross?’ He panted.

Jake mutely pointed at the now still body of the jogger.

‘Oh,’ said the little man, sounding surprised. ‘Of course.’ He blushed. ‘Sorry. Erm… right, thanks.’ The little man slowly lifted the body of Darrol Hardcross and dropped the small yellow envelope on the pavement before he shambled away under the weight.

Jake watched him go while he tried to stop his hands from shaking. The sound of sirens drawing closer from what seemed every direction.

Three hours later, at nearly 1am, having gone through the shooting at least five times with the rozzers, Jake made his way up the stairs to his office, every inch of his body feeling like it was being used to sharpen knives. He couldn’t tell them anything. The rozzer’s had assumed the target must have been the jogger and Jake had been disinclined to alleviate them of that opinion. He had no idea who Darrol Hardcross was, but he supposed it didn’t matter. Well, other than he had died rather horribly. And Jake couldn’t shake the thought that those bullets had been intended for him. But why? What did he know that he shouldn’t? Or was it simply that he was looking where he shouldn’t?

Is someone trying to kill me?

Erm…no.

Promise?

Sure.

Yeah, not sure I believe you.

Jake reached the top of the stairs and stretched. He just wanted to slip out of his suit, put on his comfiest t-shirt, have a gulp or ten of whisky, and fold himself into a dreamless sleep on the old sofa.

He heard the music as he arrived at the door to his office. It was one of his favourites. ‘Baby, That’s My Aubergine.’ By The Vegetable Botherers. And it came from his office.

Jake stiffened and felt a sudden pang of panic. Were the killers now waiting for him in his office? Had they arrived here before him, broken in, and were now awaiting his return to quietly off him before he could utter a scream? And had they got bored waiting and so rummaged through his record collection?

Wait, no. That last bit didn’t make sense.

Jake slowly turned the handle and allowed the door to swing open against the kitchenette cabinet.

She was draped over the sofa, rather than sitting on it. And it was a sight that stole his breath and sold it at private auction to an oil magnet.

She wore a black dress that glittered like ice crystals in the soft glow of Barbara’s desk lamp. It was cut high on the leg and low on the bust. Her hair shimmered and her eyes melted the tiredness from him like chocolate in a furnace.

‘Mr Paladin.’ Her voice was that of The Goddess herself.

‘Miss Alicia.’ Jake’s voice sounded like each word had been rubbed vigorously with sandpaper while his brain filled once more with cotton wool. ‘To what pleasure do I owe you?’ He cursed silently and tried again. ‘What pleasure do I owe to you?’

She giggled and it was the sound of fat, dollopy rain on wind chimes. ‘Mr Paladin, I hope you don’t mind my making myself at home.’ She waved a willowy arm about his office come living room come bedroom come kitchen and poured a measure of the whisky he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk into his one chipped mug.

‘Not at all.’ Jake realised he still stood in the open doorway and stepped into the room. He tried smoothly shrugging off his suit jacket but ended up looking like a tarantula leaving its skin. She didn’t remark or even giggle now, but watched him, a lascivious expression in her eyes. It made Jake’s throat contract.

He turned to close and lock the door and thought of trying to ask her what pleasure he could give her, before realising if he couldn’t even think the phrase correctly, it probably wouldn’t come out right. ‘What brings you here tonight?’ He asked with relief. That sounded right.

She crossed one long superb leg over the other and gave him a knowing smile. ‘I wanted to see you.’ She sat up just enough to give him space and patted the seat next to her.

A small part of Jake, an unwelcome part at this moment, didn’t believe her. While a very specific part of Jake was begging to believe her and making a nuisance of itself.

He sat down like someone recovering from back surgery and leered at her. Something in her manner struck him like a pin in a fatty piece of flesh. Hardly noticeable, but very much there. She looked worried. Just a hint behind her eyes and the way they occasionally flitted towards the door. The cotton wool in his brain slipped.

‘I thought you’d come to see me again this evening, but you didn’t.’ She spoke so quietly it was as though Jake felt her words rather than hear them and pouted at him in childish remonstration.

‘Clearly, I’m a fool.’ He breathed. But this didn’t make sense to him. Well, most of him. A part of him didn’t care about sense right now.

‘And we got on so well.’ She leaned towards him, one fingernail grazing against his knee. It tingled like someone was using a massage roller over his skin.

‘Was the best twenty minutes of my life.’ Jake’s mouth seemed to be making decisions for itself, so his brain focused on clearing out the cotton wool. This really didn’t make sense.

Alicia sipped the whisky before handing the mug to Jake, who took it as though she handed him the elixir of life itself. ‘Are we not friends?’ She purred.

‘I’d like to hope we could be.’ Jake found he’d downed the whisky and wondered when that had happened. He held out the cup to her like an orphan asking for more, and she tutted at its emptiness.

‘It seems you needed this tonight.’ Alicia reached for the bottle and poured a very generous measure into the mug. Somehow that action was one of the most erotic sights Jake had ever seen.

‘Someone shot at me.’ He breathed.

She paused, just for a second, in the act of raising the mug to her perfect lips. ‘Really?’ A slight quaver to her voice. ‘Are we safe here?’

‘I think so.’ Jake susurrated, accepting the mug back. She’d been right, he had needed the drink. ‘rozzers think they were after someone else. The little men took him.’

He wasn’t sure if it was the whisky or the shock leaving his body, but he found himself studying her differently now. She was undoubtably beautiful. If ever someone needed a model for a sculpture, he’d have recommended her. Even if the sculpture wasn’t going to be of a woman.

But there was more to her than just her beauty. Something about the way she moved. It was practiced. Designed. Deliberate in almost every detail. As though she were a dancer performing on stage. She wasn’t false, Jake didn’t want to go as far as that, but she was doing more here tonight than simply talking to him. His body, however, didn’t care about any of that. His body rather liked hers and was willing to fight his rational mind for it.

‘Why did James Finnigan come to see you?’ His mouth reluctantly slurred out the words.

She leaned back in her seat once more, seemingly displeased with the turn the conversation had taken. ‘Who said he came to see me?’

Jake sipped at the whisky and returned it to her. ‘Everyone at that club comes to see you.’

She laughed, lightly, but it lacked the wind chime effect it had earlier. ‘It’s true, I can’t deny it.’

‘And you met up with James more than once.’ The simple statement proposed by his brain won against his body’s more overt choice of ‘can we take our clothes off now?’

She gave an elaborate sigh and finished the whisky. ‘He was a charming man, at first.’ She reached for the bottle once more.

‘What changed?’ Jake leaned back himself, realised his situation made that look far too inviting/perverted, and leaned forward once more.

She raised that arching eyebrow again. Clearly, she’d noticed his predicament but wasn’t going to comment on it. Instead, she settled herself back in the corner of the sofa and studied him over the rim of his cup. The cup he might never wash again. The cup he’d stolen four years earlier. The cup that bore the slogan ‘Fry’s Chicken Diner. If it’s chicken, we give it a lickin’ in big red letters. ‘Some men become rather possessive.’ Her voice was plainer than he’d heard it before. She spoke simple truth. He suspected for the first time that evening. ‘Some men think that, because I sing for them, that somehow gives them rights to me. To my,’ she ran her delicate hand down her dress in an action that made Jake’s heart sing.

‘James thought he could…’ Jake couldn’t finish the sentence.

She handed him back the mug. ‘Some men think that I will do whatever they demand of me.’ She leaned forward to whisper the next words to him. Jake struggled to maintain eye contact as the front of her dress fell forward. ‘Some men think it’s their right.’ Jake’s eyes flittered up and down like a songbird caught in a small box. ‘Some men need to be taught a lesson.’

She leaned in closer still, her lips but a gnat’s wing from his and music so sweet it was like being covered head to toe in caramel stuffed candyfloss flowed over Jake. He bathed in it, swam in it. Dreamed a lifetime of dreams in it. Until the lyric came through the song. ‘Forget about me. Forget about me.’

Jake blinked and leaned back from her, his eyes wide. ‘Wait, what?’

She abruptly stopped singing and looked at him and he saw real fear in her then. ‘Who are you?’ She whispered.

Jake stood, bending slightly at the hip, and moved to sit behind Barbara’s desk, ‘Why are you telling me to forget about you?’

Alicia stood quickly; all performance dropped from her like so much baggage. ‘I think you misheard; I should go.’

Jake rose from the desk, realised quickly it was a mistake and sat back down again to adjust himself. ‘Wait, please.’ She hesitated, standing half in shadow in the middle of his room, a look seemingly conceived of fear and hope on her face. ‘Why did you come here tonight?’

‘I wanted to see…’

‘No.’ Jake interrupted her. ‘Not that.’ He stood, feeling more comfortable and walked to stand before her. She looked into his eyes, and he felt fully in control as she did so. ‘Do you know where James Finnigan is?’

She shook her head, her eyes wider than usual, and nodded down to the small bag she carried.

‘Do you know what happened to him?’ Jake tried to soften his voice.

‘James…he was…’ she started in a voice so quiet it was barely audible, but a hammering on the outer door stopped her in her tracks. Then she said one word and Jake realised it was sung in her own language. ‘Bastordo.’

‘Alicia!’ Gert’s shriek pierced the night like a foghorn directly into your ear. ‘Get yourself out here right now.’

Alicia squeaked as the door shook with the hammering blows. She turned quickly to Jake, pushing herself close to him and whispered urgently, her face alive with fear. ‘he wanted to help…’ The hammering continued and she flicked her head back and forth from the door. ‘I didn’t mean to…’

The door smashed open against the wall revealing the silhouette of Gert, breathing hard, in the corridor.

‘Would you mind not pounding my door quite so hard, it is the finest composite wood.’ Jake commented as though nothing weird was going on.

Gert stood in the doorway; her solid arms held away from her body like a body builder showing off. She jabbed a finger at Alicia. ‘Car. Now.’

‘Excuse me.’ Jake put in. ‘We were talking.’

Gert turned small red rimmed eyes on Jake. ‘And now, you’re done. Alicia. Car. NOW.’ The last word was almost screamed at Alicia.

Alicia paused a moment at the door to turn towards Jake. ‘It was lovel…’

‘Did I stutter?’ Gert cut across her, raising an arm as though about to strike Alicia. One of the tattoos on her arm stood out to Jake. He’d seen it at the club and recognised it for what it was, but now he saw it in more detail. A red circle with crossed swords. No, not swords, rifles. Alicia fled down the hall without another word.

Gert gave Jake a long hard stare. ‘I never want to see you again.’

Jake smiled at her. ‘And here I was about to ask you out to dinner.’

She snorted like a dragon about to breathe fire and turned away from him.

‘Tell me,’ Jake tried to keep his voice calm, ‘how long has it been since you were last home?’ She turned and faced him with an expression that could have wilted steel. ‘A sniper’s mark, that, no?’

Her voice hissed like gas escaping a crashing plane. ‘If you speak to me or Alicia again, I’ll skin you and lay you on my floor as a rug.’ She span on her heels and was gone.

Jake watched her go. She was a nasty piece of work that, no doubt about it.

Jake closed the outer office door. It swung back open again. Cack, Gert had broken the lock. Great. Another expense. He took Barbara’s chair from behind her desk and wedged it under the door handle. Tomorrow’s problem that. He fell onto the sofa and let out a long sigh, Alicia’s last words to him swimming around his mind. ‘Bastordo. He tried to help. I didn’t mean to.’ Did she mean what that sounded like? Had she done something to James?

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Jake and the Syren's Call

Chapter 5

Jake spent the next half hour with Harrocan and Mord before returning to his office to find Barbara had been and gone and left him a note.

​

It read:

1: Reginold Billsbury would not be available for a meeting for between sixteen to eighteen weeks but that she would be persistent.

2: The Second District office is located on the corner of Caravan Street and Juniper Grange. Opening hours are 09:30 to 10:00.

3: George Babasquiff’s office denied her existence and told me if I called again, they’d do unspeakable things to me with a turnip. So, I’ll try again tomorrow and see if I can get more details.

4: No, I do not know where your toothbrush is, I’ll get you another on my way to work and take the money from petty cash.

Jake had scratched his head, ‘We have petty cash?’ He had scribbled ‘Thanks.’ at the bottom of the note.

He spent the afternoon going through the notes from his conversation with Abigale, before meandering down the street to the local supermarket and purchasing a small one pan meal which claimed to be pasta with chicken lamb, but whose ingredients failed to list chicken, lamb or chicken lamb.

After forcing down the semi dry pasta, Jake poured himself a large whiskey and settled down on the sofa to sleep.

That night, as it did so often, his first memory, or at least, what he thought was his first memory, came back to him. A woman’s face, blurred and indistinct, smiling at him through curling grey hair. He knew her, but he didn’t know her. She was special.

He woke, cold and stiff, the whisky mostly untouched on the table beside him. Jake stretched and fumbled for his watch. 8:02am. He reached for the whisky glass and carefully returned the remainder to the bottle. Time to skedaddle. He thought.

After a bad wash in the sink of his office, a bad coffee from a vending machine at the gas station, and a decent sausage surprise from Hairy Harry’s, he picked up his phone and called Gardo.

​

The phone was answered by an eloquent voice with a strong Kronig accent. ‘Hallo, Mr Titmouse’s office, how may I help you?’

​

Jake grinned at his friend’s chirpy manner and filled him in on his life since they’d last seen each other some three months earlier. ‘Anyway, Gardo, I wanted to ask you about something specific. What can you tell me about the Royal Yacht?’

​

Gardo's response was unexpected as he snorted and said, ‘The Royal what?’ Jake explained that it was related to a case he was working on. ‘Didn't think you were going fishing, Scoop,’ Gardo snorted.

​

Jake sighed and rubbed his eyes. He might have known it wouldn’t be that simple. ‘Has there ever been…’

​

Gardo’s voice suddenly boomed down the phone at Jake. ‘Ren?’ This was followed by a short pause before another voice, clearly, the man who had first answered the phone to Jake, spoke from some distance away. ‘Ja, Ms Titmouse?’

‘Could you rummage about a bit and dig up anything we’ve got on royal barges?’ Garli asked him.

‘Natrlich.’ He replied before Gardo returned to speak with Jake.

‘Won’t be a sec.’ Gardo slurped noisily at something before continuing. ‘What’s the case then?’

Jake liked Gardo’s no nonsense attitude. He’d never lie to you, this gnome. Recognising instead that an uncomfortable truth was far better than a lie. Jake hated to disappoint him. ‘I’m sorry Gardo, but I can’t share that with you… Yet.’ He smiled, knowing Gardo would appreciate that.

Gardo chuckled. ‘Say no more then, Scoop. Never let it be said that a gnome didn’t know when to not ask questions.’

Ren’s voice carried down the line to Jake. ‘I’ve uploaded ze information to your computer, Mr Titmouse.’

​

Jake felt his spirits drop. ‘And no chance another ship is called that?’

‘No Lodenon ship, no. Course, the Sho Pi lot might have one for their empress, ‘n’all, but I’d know if that came ‘ere at any point.’

Jake scribbled ‘Not a ship? Next to the words ‘Royal Barge.’ ‘Why hasn’t there been one since?’ He mused aloud.

‘There wouldn’t be, would there.’ Gardo sounded mildly incredulous.

‘Why not?’ Jake asked.

‘Duke’s not a royal anymore, is he. He’s a commoner elected to post by the Parliament of Nine. Not like the ol’ days when they were all related and all.’

‘Suppose you’re right.’ Jake pondered the problem. ‘But there’s nothing to stop him having a yacht, is there?’

Jake heard a scratching sound and guessed Gardo was itching his chin. ‘Can’t imagine so, no.’

Jake wrote ‘New one?’ next to ‘Not a ship?’ in his notepad. ‘One last thing, Gardo, any cheap warehouses around?’

Gardo snorted. ‘You’re ‘aving a laugh, right? Dockyard space is at a premium. Couldn’t get a slot ‘ere for less than a thousand Krona a month.’

Jake whistled at that. ‘So, where could I get cheap space, if I wanted it?’

Gardo chuckled good naturedly once more. ‘Well, that’s easy, ain’t it. You need to go to The Works.’

​

Jake thanked Gardo for his time, promised to catch up soon over a jug of Gnomic Rum, a potent aphrodisiac that, if you weren’t careful, left the drinker uncaring as to who they were with and why, and hung up the phone.

‘Ok,’ he thought grabbing his trilby and keys, ‘it’s off to The Works I go, it’s off to The Works I go…’ he paused just as he locked his front door. ‘hey, that might make a half decent song.’

But, as he drew closer to The Works, he felt a slight thrill at the prospect of having to con his way inside.

Jake pulled up at the barrier to the west entrance and wound down his window. The handle creaking and wining as the glass slowly lowered. ‘Morning.’ He called cheerily to the approaching guard.

‘Hi.’ Jake tried again.

She looked about the car as though expecting it to be full. ‘What?’

The troll’s gruff voice echoed through the car, causing Jake to hesitate. He realized that perhaps he should have checked the proper procedure before embarking on this journey. ‘I'd like to go in...’ he trailed off, feeling foolish.

​

The troll nodded slowly, her thick fingers gripping onto the clipboard in her gargantuan hand. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked bluntly.

Jake’s mind fired up and helped him out. ‘A storage unit.’ Jake responded. ‘Pedro’s Storage House.’ He made up the name on the spot, hoping it would suffice. ‘He told me you’d let me in.’

‘Pedro’s what?’ She blinked at him, clearly confused.

‘What’s your name?’ Jake asked politely, trying to break the awkward silence.

‘Kelsie.’ came the reply in a tone that suggested she was used to crushing cars with her bare hands. ‘’ho are you?’

‘I’m the next guy on your list.’ Jake said, gesturing towards her clipboard.

The troll’s beady eyes peered down at the page for a long moment before speaking again.. ‘You’re Sally Bumble?’

Jake blinked twice before recovering from his surprise. ‘Yep. That’s me.’ he replied, his voice pitching higher than usual in his nervousness.

Kelsie looked even more perplexed and began scratching at her stubbled chin with a gnarled fingernail. ‘You don’t look like a Sally.’ she stated matter-of-factly.

‘Have you ever met Sally, er, me before?’ Jake asked, trying a winning smile.

As Kelsie leaned back down to the car window, she suddenly paused and tilted her head. ‘Have a lovely day, Sally,’ she said with unexpected warmth. Then, after a brief pause, she added: ‘And I really like your beard. Goes well with your eyeliner.’

Feeling slightly taken aback by this odd compliment, Jake could only manage an awkward ‘Er...thanks.’ replied Jake, ‘and I really like your lipstick.’

Kelsie smiled, broadly, revealing cracked, yellow teeth. ‘Thanks. It’s baby blood red.’

‘Lovely.’ Jake told her, as he released the handbrake and drove through the now open gates. Eyeliner? He checked himself in the rearview mirror. What eyeliner?

​

A few warehouses had signs attached to their gates informing anyone who wanted to know which businesses operated from within. While others had installed razor wire atop their walls and CCTV cameras around the perimeter to deter you from asking.

Jake wasn’t sure where to look and so drove slowly, his eyes scanning the environment for anything that might catch his eye.

Then he saw it. It was at the gates to The Works and being waved through by the two trolls. Jake slammed his foot down on the accelerator and the car’s engine bellowed it’s protests at him as it tried to move quicker.

Jake arrived at the gates just as Kelsie’s colleague finished locking them again. Kelsie, once more with a look of annoyed confusion on her face, rumbled over to the car and leaned into his driver’s side window.

‘Yes?’ She asked him.

Kelsie lifted her clipboard. ‘Name’