“Forget it, too risky. Trainee, I’m through filling out the paperwork and waiting to see if they show me the door.”

Two men walked down a cobbled road. The uniforms they wore were fresh and clean - long coats emblazoned with red and green covering a shiny hauberk, the standard attire of guards patrolling the streets of King Henselt’s domain. In stark contrast to their shining sparkle, their boots clanked on the cobblestones - no trace of their leather could be seen underneath the hundreds of layers of brown stains. On one’s chest proudly shone a silver star, polished clean; the letters on it spelt ‘detective’.

“You always say that sir, ‘too risky’, ‘too dangerous’, ‘we’re never going to follow this through’ - just before you bring your bag into their cell and have at them.”

“True. Although, every time I’m the one who’s right, trainee.”

“Never stopped you.”

“It has, I think.”

“I hear this every time we head out. This complaining. Frankly, sir, I’m tired. Just vent in front of a mirror - don’t use me instead.”

He fell silent.

They glimpsed a nightman cleaning out a ditch filled to the brim with human waste. Hurriedly finding an opening between the carriages and pedestrians, they crossed the road to avoid the mess.

“You know where they have it easy, trainee? The Royal Guard.”

“Do you plan to join them, sir?”

“No, of course not. Doubt we’ll ever get promoted there anyways, and too much bureaucracy even if I get an offer. What I’m saying is - they don’t have a boss, other than the king. If you’re an investigator there they’ll let you get away with anything. As long as you can show you did it for some ‘greater good’, that is.”

“The ‘greater good’? Serving the king, like?”

“King or kingdom, doesn’t matter. Thing is, you’re too valuable to replace - it’s easy to put down ‘he was probably a spy’ and get away with walking into a house and stabbing a man and his kids on a whim.”

The other man thought for a second, then asked, “Was that a joke, sir?”

“You’d be surprised. Was friends with this guy who went Royal a while back - you’d never believe half the shit coming out of his mouth when we’d get drunk. One time, he finds this lead for this guy who’s supposed to be some local crime boss and a spy to boot. He gets an address - 14 Grey Avenue. The contact is reliable, the neighbourhood checks out, everything’s pointing to this house being the real deal. So, he sets out. He finds the house, kicks down the door, ties up the guy inside with nay but a peep, so to speak, and drags him off to the nearest guard station through the sewers.”

“Couldn’t he just kill him then and there, sir?”

“Well, no, not really. On record, Royals don’t exist - they have to keep it that way. Every time he claps a crook, he needs to change some numbers and letters here and there to make it look all legit and official. You know how the elves can - what’s that word again… sue? - the kingdom for mistreating the denizens? This is to stop them digging too far.”

They dodged a shower launched by a wagon wheel rolling over a foul puddle. A few pedestrians nearby weren’t so fortunate.

“Moving on, my friend had some pretty thick boots he could use to wade through... well, whatever you wade through down in the sewers, but this guy, he didn’t. Fell over a few times as well - wasn’t given enough time to dress for the ‘occasion’ after all.”

“Was this a bad lead?”

“No, no no no, the lead was very good. Let me finish. Hmm… picture this. You’re an ordinary guard chief, sitting at your desk, enjoying your whiskey - or whatever you like drinking, I don’t judge - when your secret bookcase sewer door just bursts open and out comes a guy with the Royals’ badge and some crap-stained fellow in tow.”

“‘Secret bookcase sewer door’? What?”

“That urban legend about the Masons' Guild and other conspirators creating a series of underground passageways? You must have heard of it at least once, no doubt. You see, it's true - although only partly.”

“No shit, sir?”

“No, a lot of shit. He ended up buying the chief a new carpet after the guy rolled around the office by accident. Or by design, I've never known. Anyways, the chief points him to his file - this crap-stained fellow had a recent run-in with the guards, it turns out - and my friend, he finds the things he needs to ‘touch up’. He pulls it out of the bookcase, looks at the name, gender, date of birth... and address.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes. Thirteen Grey Avenue. So there he was, standing in the middle of the chief’s office, file in hand, guy rolling around on the floor spitting out teeth and blood while screaming for help and the chief booting him, again and again, to get him to shut up. He told me he damn near shat himself when he realised what kind of mess he got himself into.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing. Or, almost nothing. They had a very firm talk with the guy about spreading dangerous rumours, cleaned him up and sent him on his way. Just think about it… Can you even imagine how hot our asses would be if we ever got ourselves stuck in such a clusterfuck?”

“No, I don’t think I can, sir.”

“Exactly! Meanwhile I so much as touch someone in their cell and our chief will, without delay, burst through the door - or the wall, if there is no door - and hand me the classic ten sheets to write up. People want their ‘rights’ nowadays, you see, ‘innocent until proven guilty’ and all that. Those god-damned elves with that treaty a few years back… they stick their nose in everything and what do they give us? Wood. Fucking wood. As if we aren’t surrounded by trees already.“

The trainee was surprised to see a smile on the detective’s face. He shook his head, confused.

“How do we get our guy to talk then, sir? I’ve heard forgers rarely leave anything that sticks in plain sight.”

“That’s what I’ve been thinking about, but the last thing I want to do is haul him back to the post to have his lawyer - or whatever those pricks are called, the ones elves want crooks to have - bust him out in an hour. God forbid a hair falls off his balding head in our cell and we’re not there to show our papers straight away.”

The detective sighed.

Swinging at an invisible foe, he concluded, “Times get the stick of change but it’s always our arses it’ll be going into!”

The ensuing quiet was very quickly filled by the sounds of a bustling city street. The endless clanking of hooves, the squealing of wagon wheels, the shouts of merchants and peddlers, the background chitter-chatter - all blending into a single, comforting cacophony.

“I’ve read through more than one case file, sir - forgers all get caught, eventually.”

“Only the ones dumb enough to get caught are put on record, trainee…”

The detective’s face lit up with realisation.

“Hold on," he began, "I think I might-”

In his excitement, he tripped over a beggar. He left the man to grumble as he continued on, quieter now.

“His house,” he finished.

“His house, sir?”

“Of course! One minute this dwarf is sitting down, guzzling some slop he imported from who knows where and the next he’s being fucked with a red-hot poker. He knows we mean business, he knows we don’t give a rat’s arse and he knows that there’s no help coming. None of that lawyer bullshit, no rookies, no chiefs to drag us away for ‘being too rough’. Either he talks or he dies - we won’t off him, of course, but that’s what he’ll think.”

“I do suppose you can cut down on the bureaucracy factor here...”

“Correct. Remember that raid a few weeks back, the one where that idiot thief broke out of his chair and tried to charge us?“

“The one whose arm they had to amputate?”

“Exactly! Remember how we fucked him up real bad?”

“Of course.”

The detective frowned for a moment.

“That was a rhetorical question. As I was saying, you then got the absolutely brilliant idea to tell him he’s going to be wallowing around in his own blood and piss until we find the stash. It was one hell of a sight to behold when he pointed - amidst his squealing, no less - to that one exact shittin’ floorboard we missed. About three hours of searching, ended by mere bloody circumstance.”

“And the self-defence slip?”

“And the goddamned self-defence slip! We thought it was a joke when that fatass chief handed us that tiny-ass paper for the whole affair. If I could cut up shitheads for a fucking self-defence clip every criminal in this city would be walking around with one arm! Either way, my idea, his house... pretty smart, eh?”

“Pretty smart...”

They stopped in front of a gate. Behind it was a small house with a small front yard - both were a luxury behind the city walls, even for the outskirts. The trainee walked closer to take a look at the number embossed above the handle.

“Forty-nine, sir - the right one. I'm with you on this.”

The hinges of the gate moaned in protest as it swung open. With the stench of horse dung no longer clogging their noses, they could pick up a faint whiff of pleasant odours from flowers placed grouped carefully on the lawn.

Their boots found the large stones marking the path to the house and left mucky footprints on these polished surfaces. In the distance, hooves clattered and horses neighed - this was more of an embassy of the countryside than a house.

“We’re going in as per the usual, trainee. You’re to take care of the good act...”

“I think it would be better to have two bad guards take turns if we're doing this, sir.”

“You have a point. Let’s go with that.”

They paused in front of a masterfully carved wooden door. Both drew swords.

“Time to get in character...” the detective sighed.

“Search and seizure, sir?”

“That’s what it says on our warrant.”

The combined force of the men’s boots permanently ruined the engravings on the slab of spruce as it was sent flying into the house. Pieces of the door’s handle bounced off the hardwood floor of the entrance.

“This is the city guard!”, both shouted in unison, “We have a warrant for search and seizure, as well as for arrest!”

They saw a dwarf sitting at a desk, most likely writing something before their arrival. His dropped pen began staining the carpet beneath him with black ink.

“Throw down any weapons on your person and get your ass on the floor! And if you so much as move a muscle I’ll gouge your fucking eyes out!”