The past is getting amusing...

Hazé put her hand to the side of her head in disbelief. Feist just chuckled and threw two more bodies on the Disks.

“How many is this tonight?” she asked a little helplessly.

“I think we’re up to sixteen or so?” the hyn Master chortled. “That doesn’t count the three duels, of course.”

“Sancta Argente,” murmured Hazé, especially when she saw his cheerful attitude. “I confess to never having gone to one of these things. Is this common?”

“Well, I don’t know about common, but it’s not unusual.” The hyn patted the corpses, and started pushing them away as she followed, waving her hand to remove the bloodstains and signs of anything having happened. “These are all hireswords, street bravos in servant’s attire. Someones definitely want someones else dead, and this low security winery seems to be tailor-made for a proper throat-cutting.”

“A set up, stupidity, a test?” she asked, dismayed by the carnage. It wasn’t the blood, it was the idea, and the enthusiastic way they were killing one another.

“Probably all three!” the hyn said cheerfully. “I never give nobles too much credit for brains. All that concern with honor and reputation... pardon me.”

His sword-catcher came up, a thrusting rapier from a side door was deflected aside, twisted, and the hyn glided in impressively quick, flicking through a feint so fast his opponent’s main-gauche went right under his thrust, and then the slender man had a long dagger driven up under his rib cage.

Feist caught him over his shoulder as he fell, took three steps back, and unceremoniously heaved the dying man atop the others. “Yet another servant urgently called home for a sick member of the family. Must be having a plague in Espen. I recognize the cobbler.” He flicked the newly dead man’s boots with his dagger after his kindly doublespeak, leaving a smear of crimson across the soft leather.

They both tilted their heads at the sound of glass breaking, looked at one another, and Hazé stepped over to open wide the door to the sitting room there.

Some fellow had been driven completely through the window with a spear in his liver, definitely spoiling his fine coat. Verd popped up on the other side of it, pulling once to get her Weapon back, then spotted Hazé looking out at her. She waved once, smiling, and ran off into the darkness outside.

“There’s a good girl now,” Feist said, stepping forwards to grab the slack-jawed fellow by his shoulders and drag him back. He frisked the corpse without slowing down, and tossed him on top of the pile with disconcerting ease for someone his size.

---

The two of them stepped outside, where an unwhite fire was burning in a corner. The dead vampire had been added to it after seven men had died trying to free her to get her help, and the stack of dead had just kept growing.

The two of them paused, seeing four men in black scooting up a trellis to a patio above, knives in their teeth, short blades on their backs, all the fun stuff. The two still on the ground froze on seeing them come out; Hazé and Feist looked at one another, and shrugged. Totally ignoring the nervous assassins, who were frozen between running over to attack and looking after their friends, the pair began tossing bodies on the vivic fire.

The first killer to roll over the railing onto the balcony got two crossbow bolts in the chest, shot through the glass door leading to the room beyond. The second one got one in the middle of his head. Both went screaming down to the ground, landing with dull thumps.

The second pair leapt onto the balcony, and crashed through the doors before those beyond could reload. There was a flash of light, a war cry, and the sounds of something big biting into meat. Twelve seconds later, it was all quiet again.

The two on the ground started to flee, but alas, a robed man with an unhappy face appeared on the balcony above them. He gestured, and a Summoning Circle rose from the ground, disgorging eight large pale-furred timber wolves. With a gesture, he sent them after the killers, and the wolves sprinted off, hot on the trail. It was only a breath before the first scream rang out, and the growls and chomping began.

The Caster’s eyebrows rose when he saw the two of them standing there, Feist still with his chef’s hat on, Hazé in her formal dress, tossing bodies. The two shrugged at him, and he smiled thinly and backed away from the railing. With a gesture, the shattered doors reformed, wooden bits and glass leaping back up into place behind him as he swept back through them.

A moment later, they opened back up, a brawny form came out, and hurled two hacked and fried bodies down over the railing on top of their friends. The warrior watched in black humor as the pair below grabbed arms and began to pull the corpses over to the burn pile, and then went back inside, saying nothing.

“Do you want to go after the wolves?” Feist asked, his cheerful smile still in full evidence.

“Well, I’ve little better to do tonight, I guess?” Hazé replied. They both turned at the signature roar of a fireball going off in the back yard, and then something inhuman bellowed in pain.

“Ice troll, sounds like, probably Summoned,” Hazé said professionally, grabbing a set of arms. Feist grabbed the feet, and they heaved the corpse onto the vivic fire. “Amber says there are half-a-dozen murder squads going at it against one another in the back, barn, and cellars.”

“And as long as they don’t set fire to anything or blow it apart, the Baron will stand right there and let them.” Feist pointed with his chin, and Hazé glanced over at a mounted party of a dozen men, blades out and Focus Implements ready. They were waiting underneath a broad tree, deep in shadow, watching in every direction to make sure nobody was doing something clever, like setting his winery and vineyards on fire to flush out their enemies. Nice and stupid was the name of the game for tonight.

“How long will this last?” Hazé inquired of Feist.

“Oh, it can go all night, if the pockets are deep enough, and they are entertaining enough. Why?” Feist asked, as they dragged the other pair back.

“Well, there’s two dead men in the kitchen, and we have to put the cakes in in two hours.”

“Really.” He blinked. “Only two?”

“After Mama burned the face off the one and Amber and Veis spit the other, they had better ideas about taking hostages or something. Verd chased off one, and, well...”

Feist waved his hand airily. “Say no more, dear lady, no more.”

A slew of lights shot through the air, and a man perched in the upper room of the barn pitched out, his chest burning and his crossbow falling from his hand.

“So... I imagine they are wagering on this?” Hazé wondered.

“Some of them, most certainly. Just pawns bought with coin dying for their masters. Some are here to show off, some are here to kill, some to perform...” Feist glanced at her as they wandered after the wolves. “That Prince you were with... seemed like a decent enough fellow.”

“His soul is pure silver. He’ll probably be paladine.” The hyn pursed his lips. “Not really the best at skullduggery like this. The killers probably came from two different half-siblings of his. We got the names of their contacts, but that will likely lead nowhere, cut-outs and shadowy middle-men and all.”

“Ah, Northmarch fratricide. I had no idea it was quite this entertaining. I will have to revise my estimation of their intellectual accomplishments.” They rounded the corner to the front yard, and there were the bodies of the two spotters, ripped all apart, with only lingering mists left behind of the wolves who had killed them. “Instead of Ogredown, perhaps they should call the place ‘Brotherdown’?”

Hazé snorted despite herself. “I somehow have the feeling you have been involved in one or two farces like this?”

“Please, I would never be so obvious. I may have witnessed them from very close-quarters, but putting on a play for the nobility?”

“Ah, you just punched a few tickets and exited the show.”

His wide smile grew even wider. “I did escort a few people on to their final destinations.” His tone was hurt, but his eyes were dancing.

“Mmm. Did they tip well?” Pick up, plop. Pick up, plop. He held out his hands to get cleaned by her, as this pair had been messy.

“They were indeed free with their money.”

Hazé sighed and turned around, ignoring some shadows gliding between the parked carriages, and at least one sniper working out of an upstairs window. “Speaking of money... you don’t seem the kind to work without it, from personal experience, and the Brothers don’t seem the kind to pay. Given our mutual association with them... how and why do you work with them? For them?”

His smile didn’t fade, but it grew darker. “Ah. My School has been training Voids for... a long time. You could say we are fellow disciples...”

“Nice redirect. You, not your School. That much was obvious, when all the Voids I’ve met are Shadow Stalkers for some reason.”

He puffed up despite himself. “Well naturally. We teach the best throat-cutters on the continent, you know?”

“Yes, I do.” Something in her voice made him glance at her, and she just gave him a raised eyebrow.

“Ahhhh... we handle minor matters for the Brothers, and they take the blame. The tasks are usually worth our time, stuff we can handle at our own pace, so we can set up and execute plans properly, instead of having to go in there and slaughter. Keeps our edge up, and is very good misdirection. Mission payments have always been based on successes, so these lesser missions really help our ratings, too.”

“Kind of backhanded pay. Reasonable. Unfortunately, that doesn’t tell me why you are spending time teaching a bunch of young women how to break and enter noble homes.”

His smile finally thinned out. “I owe the Bonescythe. I took a commission to recover something in a very bad place, and the Bonescythe happened to come in and get me out of a much worse situation. They called in the favor to get me to do this job.”

“Ah, them necromancers and undead,” she nodded sagely.

“By the way, with his guards all dead, what did you do with that young Prince?”

“He’s in a dress and bonnet in the kitchen, folding and cutting grumkis, since a certain hyn is out slacking. Taking it all terribly well, too.”

Feist grumbled good-naturedly as they headed for the back yard.

A window crashed above them, and two forms fell down, one atop the other. They hit the ground, kept rolling for a minute, until one clawed at the air and slumped down. The other, a wiry older man, got to his feet after releasing the wire he’d garroted the other with.

Hazé blinked at the cello player. He just glanced at her, adjusted his spectacles, and glanced down. “Master Feist.”

“Troland,” waved Feist casually. “Molwen guild?”

“Yes.” The musician ignored the second window exploding above him, and a headless corpse falling limply out it. The head followed a moment later.

Hazé waved her hand and tidied up his formal suit. He sketched a polite bow of thanks in her direction. “Working, Master Feist?” the cellist asked.

“Just a hired cook, Troland. Stay away from the kitchen.”

“Of course. Miss.” The cellist half-bowed again to her, and was on his way.

Hazé glanced at Feist, and he shrugged. “He often works security for these kinds of things. The Baron probably hired him.”

“He’s good with a garrote,” she observed.

“He uses cello wire. Doesn’t like being interrupted.”

Hazé snorted as they turned the corner, and looked out across the back yard. “Um,” she murmured to no one in particular.

Feist eyed the clashing swords, the flicker of knives and darts being thrown, people running into and out of the shadows in the dim moonlight, the occasional flash of spells, the skirl and glitter of steel.

And a lot of dim figures laying on the ground.

“I count twenty-one. Twenty-two,” he adjusted, as a rapier ran a fellow in a golden sash through.

Hazé pointed, and a few more Disks shimmered into view. Under the view of all the combatants, the chef and the hostess moved to the closest bodies to throw them onto the hovering circles of dim light...