Fortunately, when the mercenaries went to leave the crypt this time, they found the gate not only unlocked, but open in greeting. They breathed a big sigh of relief when their boots touched graveyard soil again, and made a brief pact never to ask what might have befallen them if they had not had a letter of invitation to give the keeper. Even Figo agreed that some mysteries were best left at just that.

The cool air was far from refreshing, and after a few gulps they were almost giddy with fatigue. They made the joint decision to head back to The Blighted Pond for the night and tackle the oh so fun task of robbing Lance Albright’s mum on the morrow, after they had slept off the best part of the night’s bizarreness. Gabriel didn’t have especially high hopes that the next day was going to be any less insane, but his daily quota for depressing mayhem had definitely been exceeded.

They woke up the following morning, in their own beds this time, and one by one trickled down into the common room to find that, on this occasion, breakfast was waiting for them. Breakfast consisted of hard bread, old fruit, older cheese, and soup so thin that it looked like varnish. The plates were sporadically plonked at the table, and sat there alongside tea, a few pastries for the road, and an unimpressed Nail-puller.

“To what do we owe this unexpected and totally unsolicited pleasure?” Gabriel said, plonking himself down next to Figo, who had already eaten, and across from the sour-faced rogue.

“Boss thought you might have some questions and sent me to fill in the blanks,” Nail-puller stared skeptically at the roll she had just taken a bite out of, “I tried to leave a message with your sister but she walked right by me like she’d never seen my mug in her life.”

“Oh, she’s not much of a morning person,” Gabriel said with a cracking voice.

“Wouldn’t say any of you are. Morning was a while ago.”

Gabriel sensed she was inviting him to ask how long she’d been waiting, and sensed even more acutely that that would be a bad idea, “Mm, long night. Where is she?”

“Your sister? Last I saw she was bathing in the water trough they leave out front for horses,” she pitted a peach that looked so old it was ready to implode on itself, “Is that one, you know,” she waggled her knife around her temple, “alright?”

Gabriel spread out his hands as a substitute shrug, “We’re country people.”

“Tsch, wouldn’t catch me dead in the country,” she took a bite from the peach, chewed a few times with ever decreasing alacrity, and then dropped the remainder onto Gabriel’s plate, “So what did you learn?”

“Let me see,” Gabriel started counting off on his fingers, “Crypts are creepy, skeletons are arse holes and puns are the worst thing to come out of the literate world. Ever.”

“And dragons are real!” Figo added enthusiastically.

“And dragons may or may not be real.”

“About Lance,” Nail-puller clarified impatiently.

Gabriel sighed, “Lance gave the jewels to his mother, ostensibly as a gift.”

Nail-puller nodded in a way that suggested this was not new information, and slid a slip of paper across the table.

Gabriel recognized Screamer’s crablike but practiced scrawl, “The address. He knew all along?”

“Had a hunch. It’s his business to be a step ahead of the game. He just wasn’t about to mess with the Albright’s anymore than was necessary without some solid evidence.”

“Why? Are they that scary?”

“To a guy like Screamer? Not even a little,” Nail-puller poked at a few more items on the table and then thought better of it, “Screamer tries not to interfere in the business of nobles all that much. Then when he does, they know they’re in proper trouble.”

“Charming. So, what can we expect?” Gabriel said, leaning back in his chair.

She sniffed, “A few guards, some decent locks. The manor is pretty old-school. You’ll find it on the Northern side, towards the mountains. Sits next to ‘Eifen Square’,” she said the name in her best, snootiest accent, “a park for posh twats. The mother herself is a bit of a warhorse apparently. She’s the official matriarch of the family since her husband canned it a few years back in a flood on the road East, but they say she always had the real clout. Doubt she’s going to be all that happy to cooperate,” she glanced up from beneath impressively fuzzy eyebrows, “least of all with the people who killed her son.”

“We didn’t – You know what, never mind,” Gabriel said, “So there’s very little chance of bargaining with her?”

“Seems like. You ask me, your best bet is either to sneak in, or to show her you’re not to be messed with. For you guys, that might be a bit tricky,” she winked.

“But… for you?”

She shook her head vigorously, “Not a chance, pony-tail. No direct involvement. Screamer said so. Besides, even if I could help, I wouldn’t. This is your mess.”

“Aren’t you just delightful.”

Figo put both elbows on the table. “How many people actually know that Lance is dead?”

Nail-puller raised one of those grossly unkempt eyebrows, “Officially? Us, Screamer, and who or what you saw down in the crypts. Most of the people at the Albright Emporium of Bullshit probably have a pretty good idea, but I think it’s safe to say they won’t be all that talkative.”

“Did you,” Gabriel could barely bring himself to ask, “Did you kill them?”

“Nothin’ of the sort. I just suggested to them, very nicely, that it was in their best interest to take the next few days off and not wag any body parts they didn’t want to lose.”

“Okay, but there was a street full of witnesses. I clearly remember lots and lots of witnesses.”

Nail-puller smiled at him like he were a naïve child, “There aren’t often witnesses in Jandrir, if you catch my drift. Look, I’m not saying word won’t get around, but if you’d just seen a noble chucked from a third-floor window, would you want to go and tell his mammy?”

Gabriel tapped a finger on his chin, “An interesting point. How long do you think we have?”

“Well, let’s just say I wouldn’t spend too much time,” she nudged a plate like it might bite back, “enjoying your breakfast.”

“Hmm,” Figo responded.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, blondie?” Nail-puller asked.

“I actually have an idea.”

“You? You have an idea?” Gabriel made certain of what he’d heard.

Somehow, Figo didn’t take umbrage, “Yes, but I’m not sure you’re going to like it.”

“Figo, at this stage, I am very open to suggestions. In case you’d forgotten, my last plan literally went out the window.”

---

“So what do you think?” Figo said at the end of a very long and convoluted explanation.

“I have a few questions,” Gabriel confessed.

“Go ahead.”

“The first one being, have you gone mad?”

“I know it’s a little risky, but if it works it will save us a lot of trouble!”

Vish scratched at his beard thoughtfully, “I like it,” he decided.

“Did you hear that, Figo? Vish likes your idea. You don’t see any problem with that?” Gabriel had that voice on that made you want to slap him.

“Vish goes along with your ideas all the time!” the hunter defended.

“Yes, but grudgingly, Figo. Grudgingly,” Gabriel said, and Vish nodded in agreement.

“Can we at least put it to a vote?”

There was so much hope and innocence in the young archer’s eyes that Gabriel felt he probably could have talked himself down from the gallows at that point, “Fine. We’ll vote. It’s a hard no from me. For some reason Vish is going along with it, probably to spite me. That leaves Natasha and Lydia. Lydia?”

“I say go for it.”

“I shouldn’t have mentioned the spiting me bit, should I?”

The warrior sucked in her lips, “I actually think it’s worth a shot.”

“Ha, worth a shot,” Vish snickered.

The captain warned him with a stern finger, “Hey, we left that pun shit down in the crypt, okay? They remain there with the deceased, like the dead form of comedy they are. That’s not up for debate,” he sighed and turned to his last bastion of hope, “Natasha, will you at least agree that this is a terrible idea.”

Bling squeezed Figo’s hand encouragingly.

“Perfect. Betrayed my own sister,” Gabriel palmed his eyebrows, “Okay, what do I need to write?” he said, dipping his pen in some ink Nail-puller had sourced for them.

They were nestled in the bushes in Eifen Square, surrounded by a thick copse of trees that afforded them some decent cover from the gravel pathways that snaked through the park. From their spot, they had an only slightly obscured view of the top floor of the Albright manor.

The manor was fairly understated, or at least as understated as a limestone brick building can be. The building was one giant rectangle, and in that sense resembled a temple more than a home. There were straight, squared off columns adorning the sides, with no structural purpose, and a roof of baked clay tiles. It was easy to imagine that the manor had once dwarfed the surrounding houses, but over the years younger and richer dynasties had made neighbours of the Albright’s. The ostentatious tastes of the newcomers rendered the Albright chateau ‘quaint’, humble, even. On this side of the property there was not much in the way of a garden, probably because the trees of Eifen Square provided all the verdancy desired. A tall, iron fence ran between the residence and the park, and was liberally coated with hooks and spikes. Fortunately, the plan was not to scale it.

Figo patiently repeated himself, “Just write, ‘We have your son. Meet us in Eifen Square this evening, when the moon is at its highest, or he won’t live to see the morning. Bring all of the jewels you possess.’”

“Now, see, there,” Gabriel said, setting down the pen, “That’s the first problem! He’s dead, Figo. Really quite dead. Arguably even twice dead.”

“That’s just the thing, it’s not even a lie!” the archer said with a bit too much enthusiasm.

“Normally when you say, ‘or he won’t live to see the morning’, there’s an implication that he, just maybe, otherwise would. What if she complies? How do we then explain that, ‘Sorry, ma’am, your son actually jumped to his demise a couple of nights back. Cheers for giving up all your worldly possessions though!’”

“I know it’s not ideal, Gabriel, but we need to make the best of a bad situation.”

“Vote’s been cast, my ghost-like friend,” Vish declared, “Write the letter.”

“This is madness,” Gabriel mumbled as he scrawled down the note, “There. Enjoy.”

“Thank you.”

Figo took the note, and fished an arrow from his quiver.

“Hold on, hold on, hold on,” Gabriel halted, “What’s that in your hand, Figo.”

The blonde youngster looked sheepish, “An arrow? That was the plan, remember?”

“No, no. Not the arrow. The other thing.”

“The letter?”

Gabriel stared the archer down, “The thing you are wrapping the letter around, Figo.”

Figo couldn’t make eye contact as he presented the object in question, “It’s a, uh, a finger.”

Gabriel took a deep breath, “A finger?” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“What the fuck, Figo?!”

“We need it to look authentic! She won’t take us seriously if she doesn’t think we actually have Lance.”

“Where did you even get that?!”

“I… took it from the crypt.”

Gabriel was flapping around, distraught, “Do I really have to tell you not to go nicking fingers from dead people?”

“It was just sort of,” he looked at his eleventh digit, “there. I thought it might come in handy.”

“You thought it might come in handy?”

“Oh man, this pun thing has really caught on,” Vish observed.

“Am I the only one who came out of that crypt with any kind of sanity remaining?” Gabriel asked genuinely.

“Hey, you can’t deny it adds a certain weight to the message,” the mind-mapper pointed out, and then added, very quietly, “literally.”

“You know what? Fine. Fine, Figo. If this all goes balls up though, it’s on you.”

“It won’t, I promise,” despite Gabriel’s best efforts, Figo actually seemed to find the threat validating, “Okay, here goes.”

The archer finished assembling his missile message and took careful aim at the nearest window. He took a deep breath, and held it. He loosed.

The arrow plinked into the roof and skittered down the tiles until it came to rest in the gutter.

“Oh.”

“Nice.”

“I mean, they’ll probably find it eventually,” Vish said.

Gabriel was unamused, “Pretty sure it will be a bit late by then.”

“Sorry. They’re not as aerodynamic as I thought they would be,” Figo said apologetically.

“What’s not, Figo?” Gabriel goaded.

“Fing- ahem. Can you write me another letter?”

“Do your thing, captain,” Vish said, grinning.

Gabriel complied, shaking his head the entire time. When he handed over the letter, Figo fished out another finger.

“I think I know what went wrong before,” Figo said, “Okay, ready.”

Figo once again took aim, and fired.

This one went clean over the house.

“That was worse. Much, much worse, in fact,” Gabriel observed.

“That one was a lot lighter. I think that might have been a pinky,” Figo mused.

“Someone three blocks away is going to receive a pinky, and a threatening letter explaining that a son, they may or may not have, has been kidnapped,” Gabriel said slowly.

“I am sorry.”

“That’s if the pinky projectile didn’t impale the recipient, of course.”

“Really sorry?” the archer tried.

“Sorry doesn’t really cut it, Figo,” Gabriel fumed.

“Let me try one more time. Please?”

“Gods, fine.”

Gabriel scrawled out another letter, which Figo eagerly took, and attached to yet another finger.

“Another one??”

“I thought it might be wise to have spares,” the hunter explained.

“Hang on,” you could see Gabriel dredging up the memory, “Lydia only cut off two fingers in the crypt.”

“I, uh, took some extras.”

“You did what?” Gabriel’s eyes were bulging out of his head.

“How many do you have?” Lydia asked.

“Um, three left,” Figo frowned, “Oh, wait. Two left. One of those was a pastry.”

“Ah, man, don’t keep pastries in your finger pouch,” Vish reprimanded gently.

“How about don’t have a finger pouch?” Gabriel snapped.

“Well, if you run out, I’ve got a few extra,” Lydia explained.

Gabriel’s sad little world was crumbling before his eyes.

He spoke very slowly.

“Why, by all the aetherborn, do you have extra fingers?” he tried to tug his face from his skull, “What in the name of the gods is going on here?”

“I grabbed them from Lance’s office before we left.”

“Why? Why would you even do that?” Gabriel was practically sobbing now.

Lydia shrugged lazily, “Thought they might come in handy.”

“No! No, no, no!” Gabriel held up a finger, looked at it, and swiftly retracted it, “When we get back to the inn we are going to have a long, long talk about how it is not acceptable to carry around fucking body parts, from people we accidentally- In fact, forget that next bit. No body parts! Finished! End of story! Just. I can’t even…” he took a deep breath, “Not cool guys! Not fucking cool.”

They watched as the madness within Gabriel went from a rolling boil to a gentle simmer.

Vish put a hand on the captain’s shoulder, “About done?”

“I’m going to stand over there.”

“Yeeah, think that might be best,” the mind-mapper said, “but, uh, keep that pen handy.”

After one more arrow landed in the gutter, and another took out a truly unlucky pigeon, Figo finally got a clean shot through the window he had been aiming at. The arrow disappeared inside, message, finger and all.

With nothing left to do but wait, they went back to their quarters for an afternoon nap.

As they approached The Blighted Pond, the door burst outward, and a staunch looking man with a clean ginger beard in full plate armour came stumbling out, waving his hand in front of his nose.

“Smells like bloody piss in there!” the man said.

Two others wandered out after him, similarly attired, laughing and clapping the first on the back.

“Don’t be a pussy! A crawl’s a crawl! We gotta drink in every one of these shitholes,” a swarthy man said, with a grin as foul as his language.

“I’ll catch the bloody pox in there, and that’s before I even lay hands on that scuzzy barmaid,” the first complained.

There was raucous laughter until the third man, a bald fellow with a chin that seemed to rest against his spine, berated, “You can fight Jornaians for days, but you’re afraid of a little burning when you piss?”

It was at that point that the soldiers noticed the mercenaries.

“Well hang on now, lads, what have we here?” the ginger man said, muscling to the head of the pack, “Do my eyes deceive me, or is that a useless sack of shit standing in front of me?”

“One arm and a face like it’s been smacked by a bear? That’ll be her. What the fuck are you doing here, Lydia?” the darkest of the three said.

Lydia snorted, “Enjoying better company than I used to.”

The ginger one looked her companions over and started laughing, “Oh I doubt that very much,” he took a few steps towards her, “We’ve got some unfinished business with you.”

Lydia drew her sword, “Try it.”

Figo slowly unslung his bow and took a few paces to the side, his fingers (actually his fingers this time) hovering by his quiver.

Bling already had a pair of short swords in hand.

Gabriel and Vish stood their ground as well, albeit less menacingly.

The ginger man guffawed, “You think you and these scrawny saps are any match for us?”

“You’re more than welcome to find out,” Lydia said evenly.

The soldier looked from her to Figo. He waivered almost imperceptibly.

“Not worth my fucking time. You never have been,” he spat at her feet, “You’re not fit to wield a sword, Lydia, and you were never fit to stand beside us.”

He jerked his head back at his friends and they set off the way the mercenaries had come, each shoulder barging Lydia as they stalked past her. The chinless one shoved Figo into the dirt for good measure. There laughter echoed down the street as they strode away without ever looking back.

“Okay,” Gabriel said, once the soldiers were a safe distance away, “What was all that about?”

“Nothing,” Lydia grunted, helping Figo to his feet, “I’m going to bed.”

“You can’t just bugger off without explaining what just happened,” Gabriel complained.

“I can and I will,” she grunted.

“I think you owe us an expl-”

“I said I’m going to bed!”

The door swung shut, leaving the remaining four mercenaries out in the waning sun.

“Well, that was fun,” Gabriel declared with his hands on his hips.

“Yeeeah. Drink?” Vish suggested.

“On whose tab?”

“Some of us are quite popular in the ol’ Blighted Pond. Remember?”

“Sadly I do,” Gabriel sighed, “Sure, why not?”

The four of them were sat at their bench sipping some truly awful ale when the door to the tavern opened once again. They were none too enthusiastic to see another armoured man walk in. This one was tall and sturdy, with a wavy moustache, and hair tied back into a long queue.

“Where is she?” the newcomer demanded.

“Don’t know what you’re on about,” Vish said, taking a sip.

“Yes you do,” he crossed the space between them in two long strides, “I came as soon as I heard. Where is she?”

“Why can’t you just leave her alone?” Gabriel groaned.

The other man sighed, “My name is Magnus, a sergeant of the Faiser 4th Heavy Infantry batallion,” he wrung his hands together, “I’m a friend. At least, I was a friend.”

“If you’re actually a friend then I think you’d best just leave her be,” Gabriel challenged.

“I’m not here to hurt her, I’m here to help. Lydia, she,” he seemed to debate how much to say, “she’s a danger to herself.”

“Nawh,” the mind-mapper drawled, “A danger to others, for sure, but to herself?”

“You don’t understand,” Magnus looked genuinely upset, “Is she here?”

Figo looked at the others and didn’t receive any obvious indication that he should keep his mouth shut.

“She’s upstairs.”

“Gods, I hope we’re not too late,” the sergeant said, spinning on his heels and all but charging up the staircase.

“Wait! You can’t go up there!” Gabriel yelled after him, hot in pursuit.

Magnus was at the top of the stairs in no time, shouldering open door after door. When he finally opened Lydia’s, he stopped dead in the doorway.

“Gods,” he breathed, “Oh, Lydia. What have you done?”

“What is it?” Gabriel said, poking his head around the frame. He was quickly joined by the others.

“Gods,” they all agreed.

Lydia was lying face down in a pool of her own vomit. She wasn’t moving.

There were chunks of fibrous root in her sick.

Gabriel tiptoed towards her, his arms and legs rigid. He was almost paralyzed by what he was seeing.

“What is this stuff?” he asked.

The soldier stooped down, shaking his head, “Soldier’s Solace,” he said as if it were a profanity, “Probably a few other things as well, I’d wager,” he picked up the pouch Lydia always kept on her belt, now empty and turned inside out, “but that’s the one that was always going to be her undoing.”