END'S END

Chapter 66

Flint had to admit, after years of seeing officers ride around in carriages as he slogged through the mud beside them, he’d always been somewhat jealous of the convenience. It was a great privilege in Wrath, where resources of all kinds were so greatly demanded for the defence of city walls that only the absolute wealthiest and most influential could have any dedicated to their own personal use.

That privilege appeared to be a mundanity in Bermuda, but somehow the knowledge that he wasn’t alone, or even unusual, in enjoying it didn’t prevent the sheer luxury of the transportation from flooding him with a lethargic, satisfied weariness.

The pavement would have been improvement enough for him. He’d barely noticed in the shadow of the towering, sprawling city, but walking seemed almost effortless when across cobbles or smoothed stone slabs. Certainly, it beat out kicking up half a gallon of snow with every step.

Flint swayed slightly in his seat as the vehicle turned a corner, and he glanced at his employer once more.

She seemed entirely at ease, allowing herself to shift from side to side along with the rattling of the carriage and staring out of her window, to a spot far away. It was hard to imagine anyone being so composed, even relaxed, on the trip to meeting a butcher.

It made Flint wonder how often she did such things, and after a moment of consideration it made him redouble his resolve to avoid showing even a scrap of fear. If some pampered city lady could face such things with stoicism, then a soldier of Wrath definitely could.

“Are you nervous?” Alabaster asked him.

“Yes,” Flint replied without thinking.

Bollocks.

The princess smiled, seeming genuinely pleased by his answer.

“That’s probably a good response to knowing what you know,” she mused. “There shouldn’t be anything to worry about, though. In all their centuries of history, Jack Danielz’s butchers have remained entirely loyal to the Unixian Alliance, and they never kill outside of missions.”

Flint’s disent must have been apparent on his face, as the woman arched an eyebrow before continuing.

“Permission to speak, soldier.”

How nice of her.

“With respect, sir,” Flint began, “I’ve seen butchers fight. They’re vicious, mental bastards, and I have a hard time imagining any of them being restrained by an agreement with anyone once they get into the thick of things.”

Alabaster frowned, her perfect features creasing ever so slightly.

“Are you planning on fighting Mr Danielz?” She asked, incredulous.

“No?” Flint answered.

“Then I hardly think their behaviour “in the thick of things” is relevant.”

Sensing that further comments would fall on deaf ears, Flint saw no need to make any. He turned away from Alabaster, folding his arms and readjusting the way he sat to hide his irritation.

Nobby officers were nobby officers, he supposed.

The remainder of the journey seemed to drag on. With the novelty of his first carriage ride wearing thin, it became nothing more than a brief wait before an extremely unpleasant, likely dangerous situation.

As a soldier, spending much of his life between bloodbaths, Flint was extremely familiar with the sensation. It was one he’d grown to hate somewhere around his third battle. Nonetheless, his hate had come with a reluctant acceptance. If there was one thing he could do, it was keep from fidgeting while waiting to meet death.

His hand absently caressed the stock of his musket. The gun was propped up in the seat next to him, carefully angled upwards and away from himself or Alabaster. It had been emptied of both powder and ball before he climbed into the vehicle, but gun safety was an excellent habit to keep.

Flint loved his gun. It had been beautiful when he’d first received it, all varnished wood and polished soraz, carved and cast so smoothly that it felt more akin to marble or glass. That had been a year ago, and each second of the time between then and the present was apparent on the weapon.

The metal barrel had remained in good condition, the magic woven into it having withstood however many thousands of rounds Flint had fired from it. A few nicks and dents in the surface were clear, though.

An unfortunate consequence of magical materials was that they tended to become far less impressive when used around a pariah, and the few times Flint’s antimagic field had been projected outwards had left ample opportunity for damage.

It was in far better condition than the stock, though, which had apparently been carved from Ducrusian stonewood, a particularly sturdy kind from a small nation in Dewlz. It had been plenty resilient, but entirely non-magical.

Flint had seen its limits first hand when he’d used it to cave in an orc’s eye socket. The indentations, chips and missing splinters had seemed a small price at the time, and Flint stood by his decision.

He cast an eye over the gun, taking in every detail, every imperfection and blotch. It had been beautiful once, but not nearly as much as now.

“I do hope you’re aware of exactly how effective a musket will be against Demigod-scale mystics.”

Looking up, Flint saw his employer eyeing him with a severe expression.

“It’s more for comfort, if I’m being honest.” He admitted. Then, after a pause, continued. “Though depending on the Demigod in question, I’m fairly sure I could nullify them.”

That got a reaction from her, and not a small one either.

“Are you really that powerful?” She gasped. Flint pondered for a moment, then nodded.

“I think so. About eighteen months ago Wrath was attacked by… well, something. The researchers reckoned it came from further into the land, but they’re not sure why it wandered out. Either way, it was estimated to be Avatar level. A step below Demigod, but I managed to make a dent in its power from fifty paces.”

She nodded slowly, apparently digesting the information. Flint found himself with the urge to shudder as he recalled the incident.

Gol was a dangerous place, and it grew more dangerous the further one came to the centre. Wrath was a mere seventy leagues from the shore, and yet it took a constant supply of augments, gunpowder and the occasional unlucky mystic to keep the martial colony existent.

He’d heard of Immortals venturing to map the centre of the place, only to die before getting so far as halfway there. Flint had never believed those stories until the incident with the Avatar creature, afterwards he’d decided that Gol’s heart was something mankind was best keeping away from.

“I see.” Alabaster said, finally. “Well then, you’re considerably more useful than I’d initially thought.”

She spoke with an entirely neutral tone, as though it were perfectly natural to appraise a person's value right in front of them.

“Very well then… Hm, what’s your second name, soldier?”

Flint felt his jaw tighten in embarrassment at the question, and he couldn’t help but look away.

“It doesn’t matter,” he replied. “Just call me Flint, everyone else does.”

The woman’s eyes grew hard and unyielding.

“I shan’t be doing that, I demand a certain level of professionalism in my subordinates and will most certainly not be foregoing it myself. What is your last name, soldier?”

He considered refusing to answer, but somehow the teenager before him, younger even than he was, banished such notions from his head the moment they appeared. Her eyes seemed to seep through his own, reaching into him and compelling an answer.

Finally, after only a few seconds of hesitance, he relented.

“Locke, sir. It’s Locke.”

The woman arched an eyebrow, not seeming to believe him. A second later that disbelief was replaced by silent amusement.

“So your full name is…”

“Flint Locke,” he muttered through closed teeth. At this, a smile actually broke through Alabaster’s stormy exterior, seeming to make every point of her already beautiful face glow.

The entirely mocking feeling of it somewhat damaged the effect.

“I suppose it’s more of a nickname really,” he continued. Something about being ridiculed by a beautiful woman urged him to provide further context. “My parents were killed before they got the chance to name me, so I just got raised as recruit seven, in squad three of platoon two.”

The smile began to die, Alabaster’s face falling back to something close to her usual expression. Still, he couldn’t help but continue.

“Anyway, eventually people saw how well I could shoot, so the name sort of stuck.”

“That is by far the stupidest name I’ve ever heard,” the princess replied bluntly. “I actually think I’d rather live my life being called recruit seven of squad three of platoon two.”

Flint found himself agreeing with her.

“Sadly, sir, we can’t choose our nicknames.”

There was a hint of something across her face, a deep-seated and gangrenous bundle of contempt he recognised as born from long standing irritation. Before Flint could even consider asking about it, the expression vanished.

“You’re quite right about that,” Alabaster murmured. Her eyes seemed focused on something far from her, and yet they quickly returned to the present as she looked back to him.

“By the way, may I ask why you’ve been calling me sir? You are aware my rank is not military based, yes?”

Flint frowned. He hadn’t even realised he’d been doing that.

“My apologies s- er, ma’am. I suppose I’m just used to calling my superiors that.”

The princess waved her hand.

“It’s fine, I was just curious about your reasoning. Truth be told, I find most of my own titles quite distasteful as well.”

Flint nodded, saying nothing more and sitting back. She did likewise.

***

Fisher half-stumbled back to the bar, a great grin plastered across his face and a beet reddening to his cheeks. Crow found himself urged to laugh once again simply from being near the boy, his joviality almost impossibly infectious.

Balogun seemed considerably less impressed by her friend’s behaviour, but said nothing as he leaned on the counter and began asking the tavern owner for yet another drink. Realising full well there was a good chance he’d regret it, Crow turned to her and spoke.

“Are you okay?” He asked, hesitantly.

The similarities he’d found between the girl and Astra had convinced him she was simply content to be stoic in the company of others, but seeing her continued lack of enjoyment, and the fact that she had remained at the pub rather than leave on her own, made him wonder whether there was something else going on.

She met his gaze with a severity that made him silently wish he’d kept his mouth shut.

Whatever the girl had been about to say was inaudible over the great, booming laughter from Fisher as he retrieved his latest drink. Crow wasn’t sure whether it was his third or fourth, but supposed that with the size of the boy he could handle quite a lot more than most.

“You alright boss?” He beamed. “Why don’t you try joining in? I remember you have a lovely voice.”

Crow imagined that any reasonable human being would have withered like a dying flower under the stare that Balogun gave Fisher, and yet whether through courage or blissful ignorance the giant simply continued smiling away as he was.

“I’m quite alright where I am, thank you Fisher.” She answered primly. The boy’s grin didn’t falter as he spoke again.

“Oh come on, just one song.”

“I. Am. Fine. Go and have fun on your own.”

That seemed to take the wind out of the boy’s sails, but he quickly recovered. A fresh smile appearing on his face as he cheerfully bumbled away. Once he was gone, Balogun sighed.

“What is it about people that makes them incapable of understanding that not everyone enjoys themselves the exact same way?”

Crow smiled, and at her look of puzzlement quickly spoke.

“Sorry, you just remind me of my sister. She always preferred quiet and wasn’t really into big parties either. In fact I think she said almost the exact same thing you did when asked about it.”

Balogun seemed satisfied by that.

“Sounds like we’d get along,” she mused. “I grew up an heiress in Bârëi, from the moment I was old enough to hold conversations with adults I’ve been forced into social gatherings like these once or twice a week.”

Crow frowned.

“Like this?” He asked, speaking before thinking. The girl didn’t seem to mind, however.

“Well, not exactly like this. Similar enough though. Dancing, singing, musical instruments and everyone being all lively and-”

A new round of singing tore through the building, making Crow jump and bringing a visible wince to Balogun’s face. She glanced irritably back to the revelling patrons, then sighed and continued, her voice louder by no small amount to be heard over the din.

“And there was always the expectation to join in with them, as if it was somehow rude to not want to share the specific things they had fun with. I suppose I’ve just gotten tired of it.”

Taking another drink, Balogun turned away, continuing to stare out at the tavern. Part of Crow wanted to press her for details, sure there was more that she hadn’t said. It wouldn’t have been decent of him, of course, and had only even crossed his mind thanks to his own ale.

The tavern door opened with a creak, and Crow’s head turned to it reflexively. He hadn’t expected to see anyone he knew, even as an acquaintance. And so when Amelia stepped inside, her black eyes seeming to eat the warm light and her girlish smile just as beaming as ever, it took him a moment to register.

Amelia spotted him far more quickly, and made her way across the room the moment she did. Before Crow could so much as put down his drink, the girl wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into a hug.

“Hi Crow!” She chirped.

Crow froze for a moment, taken entirely by surprise. The girl’s hair was in his face, tickling his nose, and he could feel her heartbeat through the contact. Hesitating a second, he returned the hug.

Breaking contact as quickly as she’d started it, Amelia let her arms fall and stepped back, the smile still burning away on her face as she looked at him.

“So what are you doing here?” She asked. Crow frowned at the question.

“Oh Unity and I just went out for a drink, and… uh, sorry Amelia but are you alright?”

He’d not thought much about the girl over the last few days, and seeing her once more made him feel terrible for the lack of care. Preoccupied with the Sieve and Unity, Crow had almost forgotten that it had been her teammate who’d died the day before.

The girl’s smile fell, replaced by a confused frown as she tilted her head slightly.

“Yeah, why do you ask?”

Crow stared at her, his tongue laying as still as a stone in sheer confusion. And then he realised what was wrong with the girl, why she seemed so unflapped. It was shock. Something similar, at least.

Thinking about what had happened would break her heart, and so she was choosing not to think about it. After a second of consideration, he decided it wasn’t his place to rob her of that willful blindness.

“No reason,” he lied. Something about Amelia’s face made it almost impossible, even for her sake. “I was just wondering about your, uh, injuries. You know, from… from the task.”

He thought back to the state Astra had been in afterwards, and suddenly an overwhelming rush of gratitude flooded him. Xeno had said herself the injuries were light, even if they’d looked awful.

“ I’m fine,” Amelia’s smile returned. “Your sister was pretty weak so she didn’t manage to really hurt me. Oh, but she did make my neck a bit stiff actually. It’s better now though.”

“You’re fine? Completely?”

Amelia didn’t waver at Crow’s question, simply nodding once more in reply. That didn’t reduce his amazement by even a hair. He hadn’t spoken to Astra about her fight, and yet he’d assumed it had been a narrow one. How else could someone as powerful as her possibly lose?

Realising the girl was staring at him, he forced his mouth to work.

“That’s… amazing.”

“Thanks. Uncle Jack always said I was really strong, though I didn’t think everyone outside would be so much weaker.”

Crow paused, trying to recall Amelia’s place of birth, then speaking when he realised he couldn’t.

“Outside? What do you mean by that?”

The girl’s eyes widened, as though they were dilating pupils in their entirety, and she brought a hand up to her mouth.

“Wait, no nevermind, sorry. I’m not supposed to tell anyone that, it’s a secret. My mistake.”

Crow opened his mouth to press further, but was cut off by a shrill voice from beside him.

“Oh look, it’s a talking powder keg with tits!”

Unity approached the pair with a slightly wider grin than usual, swaying with every step as he walked. Crow had seen the boy drink like a man dying of thirst, and unlike Fisher his frame was too small and attenuated to act as a serviceable wineskin.

Crow felt a sudden, electric terror seize his insides at the sight of his friend. Amelia seemed unable to even address what happened to her teammate, and Unity was convinced the accident made him a monster. Theirs was surely the worst meeting possible.

Watching with bated breath, paralysed into inaction by apprehension, Crow saw with utter bewilderment that Amelia’s smile remained unfazed by Unity’s presence.

“Hi,” she grinned. “You’re the funny one, right?”

As if deliberately contrasting her expression, Unity looked like he’d just found out he was dying. Quickly flattening his features, he answered with a grin.

“That’s right, it’s nice to finally see someone appreciate my sense of humour. Remember the time I blew your teammate to bits? How funny was that?!”

Crow had thought himself acclimated to Unity’s personality, and yet even he was stunned by such a callous barb. The sheer cruelty of it was such that it took him several moments to realise the motivation behind it.

The artificial considered his killing of Bim to be a greater sin than any he’d committed before, and something worthy of condemning him. And yet he was being met with none of that same disgust or hatred by one who had been, in some way, close to the victim.

Just as his response to being surrounded by people who hadn’t even heard of the event was to drink himself into incoherence, he now sought the exact treatment he believed he deserved to receive, and that Amelia deserved to give.

Before Crow could do anything with the realisation, she answered.

“I didn’t think it was very funny,” the girl said. Not a hint of anger or even sadness in her voice. “I did like Bim though, so I’m probably biased.”

Unity frowned, staring emptily at her, mouth moving slightly as if to form words which were failing to reach his lips. Amelia stared back, a pleasant smile still affixed to her, and her eyes still wide and curious.

Seeing his chance to step in, Crow spoke.

“Unity, do you know any other songs? I like the Olympian one, but surely there are more you could get everyone singing.”

The artificial didn’t even glance at him, simply remaining focused on Amelia.

“You don’t care, do you?” He asked. Amelia tilted her head slightly, the way she always seemed to when confused.

“Your teammate just got turned into a fucking sauce product, and you don’t care in the slightest.”

“UNITY!” Crow roared, his voice raising to a shout before he could even process what the boy had said. Unity turned to him at its sound, a challenge in his eyes.

“What?” He snapped irritably. “She doesn’t, just look at her.”

Crow felt a tremble of anger run through him.

“That’s it, you’re going too far. Drop it and walk away, now.”

The artificial smirked.

“Why? Are you angry because you don’t know I’m telling the truth, or because you don’t want to know?”

“That isn’t the fucking truth and you know it-”

“Yes it is”, Amelia said simply. Her voice was so soft compared to his own that Crow took a second to realise she’d spoken at all. When he did, he turned to her. The girl was smiling still, and looking directly at him.

“W...what?” He asked, dumbly.

“It is true,” she repeated. “Bim was nice and all, but he’s dead now. There’s nothing I can do about it, and I shouldn’t be surprised. People die all the time.” She paused, then continued as Crow stared wordlessly. “Oh, but I am a little bit sad I suppose.”

Nobody spoke. For a few moments, the only sound came from those seated across the room from them. Crow looked from Unity to Amelia, wanting to somehow speak to both of them at once about whatever they were going through, and yet unable to bring himself to say anything.

He was saved from breaking the silence by Unity himself.

“Well, this has been a fun, creepy experience.” The boy said, suddenly. “But I have some drinking to catch up on, toodles.”

Without another word, gesture or glance at either Crow or Amelia, the artificial turned on his heel and hastily made his way back to the other patrons.

Amelia spoke as he met with the group once more.

“He’s nice, I like him.”

Crow didn’t answer, simply nodded and forced as much of a smile as he could manage.

***

Flint stepped out of the carriage first, keeping his eyes peeled and his musket ready.

The street they were in was far more familiar to him than any others he’d seen in Bermuda thus far. One of cracked, worn roads with weakening buildings made from crumbling mortar and rotting wood, none so high as ten paces.

Grime and refuse clung to the sides of the weathered cobbles, clearly washed from the slightly raised centre by rainfall. The air was cool and dry, and yet the pungent reek from the area still stung Flint’s nostrils to the back.

Looking back at the vehicle, which seemed an even greater symbol of wealth in such surroundings, he waved to the window, gesturing for Alabaster to step out.

The Kin came back around the carriage, circling by the exact same distance, their paces and gaits unnervingly synchronised. They came to a stop a pace from the door just as the princess climbed out of it, standing by like a pair of gargoyles.

Karma Alabaster’s descent seemed to take an age for Flint. His body burned with the magic from within one of his arcstock crystals, sharpening his senses like a blade and making the world around him that much blunter and more sluggish by comparison.

When the woman finally finished her descent and approached him, she spoke with a similarly glacial pace.

***

“I assume you know what to do while we’re in there?” Karma asked. Locke’s response came so quickly it seemed he’d been waiting for her to finish with bated breath. It was a response she was well familiar with, one born from a great gap in time perception.

“Stand around, look threatening and stop anyone from murdering you?” The man replied. His words were difficult to pick out, each syllable beginning and ending so quickly they were barely audible. It almost tempted Karma to activate her own physical enhancement, social faux pas though it would be.

“That’s more or less the truth of it,” she answered, speaking as quickly as she could manage. If Flint noticed the change, it didn’t seem to make the wait between her speech any less tedious for him.

Graciously, the soldier only nodded in response, saving Karma the irritation of sifting through his preternaturally quickened speech. Keeping an eye on the ground to avoid tainting her shoes with anything particularly revolting, she started for Bob Danielz’s domicile.

The butcher apparently had a tendency to move around a lot, something which meant that Karma had only been able to find his current location by doing extensive investigation. Thankfully he seemed to have a favourite sort of building to squat in, and the large, decrepit storehouse looming at the end of the road fit the pattern perfectly.

As she came to the front doors, Karma realised they were simply resting on either side of the frame. There was a gap at the bottom of them, near the centre where they met, which seemed large enough for a person to fit through.

She sighed, realising that she’d found the main entrance.

Squeezing through was not easy, her stupid, flowing clothing was caught on all sides of the gap, and leaning down in the necessary way made the high heels of her shoes go from uncomfortable to outright agonising.

The irritation was made considerably worse when the Kin, likely upon realising their eight foot frames would simply never fit, seized both of the mangled wooden surfaces and tossed them aside to clear the path. Karma winced at the thunderous sound of a hundred square feet of wood splitting apart upon landing.

Bob Danielz would surely have known she was there before she even stepped inside, but to have such an obvious sign made of it still set her teeth grinding. She made a mental note to explain the very concept of discretion to her bodyguards at a later date.

“Well, I think I just figured out why someone decided you needed me.” Locke remarked, the barb losing much of its bite with the almost comical pace with which it was vocalised.

Karma rounded on the Wrathman, prepared to release a day’s stress and uncertainty in a single tongue-lashing, however her words fell dead in her throat as a great shock overcame her.

Something was watching her from behind.

Slowly, she brought herself back to peer into the rest of the warehouse’s interior. It was a run-down place, cold stone floors and withered wooden walls barely visible in the gloom. The light pouring in from the opening behind her seemed to perish less than halfway into the place, strangled by the thick masses of dust clouding the air, clearly cast up from the ground by some great movement.

It took her some time to spot the man, picking him out amidst the darkness only when a glint of light came from his spectacles. As Karma steadied her stare at him, Bob Danielz stepped towards her, toothy grin as wide as ever.

“Hello there luv,” the butcher almost-jeered. “What brings ye te my neck o’ the woods?”

Suddenly, Karma was overcome by a great realisation. For all her reasoning and logic, she couldn’t be entirely sure who was innocent or guilty, not with the information she had. And she’d just walked into the den of the greatest suspect in a Demigod’s murder.

It took the Kin stepping up to within arms reach to focus her mind and flatten the crystalised panic growing into it like stalactites.

“Good evening mister Danielz,” she said. “I’ve come to ask you a few questions about the incident near the Crux yesterday, would you mind answering them?”

The butcher didn’t miss a beat before answering.

“Are these questions abou’ whether I killed Tamaias or not?” He replied. Karma found herself staring stupidly, quickly pushing her surprise back down as she spoke.

“Yes, they are. Were you expecting to be… suspected?”

Her heart raced as she stared at the man, silently running through her own thoughts to see if she could dig up some detail she’d missed that might explain Danielz’s lack of surprise. She found none.

“Oh, not exactly, but it’s not really weird either.” The butcher shrugged. “I’m always gettin’ accused o’ killin’ people, I reckon there must be somethin’ wit’ me face that makes people nervous.”

The way he finished his sentence, the level of relish he seemed to take in the last few words, told Karma everything. He was well aware of the effect he had on people, and he loved it. That hardened her heart and steeled her nerves.

She was the daughter of Hercules, not some innocent child to be used for entertainment.

“I see, well then let’s try and get this over quickly so that neither of us wastes too much time, shall we?”

Danielz gestured for her to continue, and she obliged him.

“Where were you on the night of Reginald Tamaias’s death?”

The butcher seemed to think a moment before answering.

“I was in a pub, jus’ outside of Bermuda. There were plenty o’ people in there wit’ me, ye can probably ask some of the locals if they remember a black-eyed ugly bastard.”

He certainly spoke as though he was used to such accusations, Karma realised. Though such consistency could easily have been nothing more than a skilled deception.

“And could you perhaps offer some sort of explanation for why professor Zilch would have seen you attacking and killing Sir Tamaias?”

The butcher shrugged.

“Haven’t the foggiest, if I’m bein’ honest. Never did spend much time lookin’ into magic as a whole.”

He didn’t seem remotely concerned with the sketchiness of his answer, though Karma would have been surprised if a man with his reputation and personality had been.

“Very well, one more then. Can you think of anyone who might want to frame you for Sir Tamaias’s death? Or anyone who might be capable of doing so?”

Karma stared at Danielz’s face, noticing how the butcher paused at this. His eyes grew unfocused as his thoughts turned to something far away. A moment later he snapped back into the present.

“Nah,” the butcher shrugged again. “Never actually gave that much thought. Always assumed I’d get killed for somethin’ I did do.”

“Really?” Karma asked. “I find it hard to believe one with your career would be so lacking in information on powerful mystics, Mister Danielz.”

The butcher’s eyes narrowed, yet his smile didn’t even flicker.

“I’m afraid I’m a bit thick, luv. I wouldn’t know where te begin figurin’ out who could pull off what trick, especially when I don’ know what it even was.”

“Perhaps I should narrow it down then,” Karma continued, letting the ice in her show through each word. “Reginald Tamaias was a mid-level Demigod killed in direct combat by someone who took on your exact appearance, the only reason I don’t share my colleagues certainty that you were responsible is because I find it strange that the killer made himself so easily recognisable. Can you name any other potential perpetrators?”

Karma meant every word of it as a challenge to the man. He’d tried to lie to her about what he knew, even if it was information she could get elsewhere, that still implied an interest in hindering or warping the truth on his end.

She suddenly found herself acutely aware of the subtle magical pressure given off by the man, as she waited for his answer. It was like standing next to a bonfire, the heat just a hair too weak to actually damage her, yet more than enough to rack skin wherever it touched.

Just as she finished her thought, Danielz spoke.

“Hm, well I suppose there’s a few… ‘ave you ‘eard of the Guillotines?”

She shook her head and he continued.

“Thought not, they’re more “my” sort, if ye know what I mean. Mercenaries, all of ‘em mystics an’ all of ‘em as bloodthirsty as they come. Not sure about many details for ‘em, but there should be around five ‘undred in total. Their leader’s rumoured te be a Demigod, but ye know how unreliable that sort a’ thing is.”

He shrugged.

“It’s yer best bet te start a proper investigation, I reckon.”

Karma found herself arching an eyebrow at the man.

“A group of mere hundreds who might have a Demigod amidst them is my best bet for the murder of Reginald Tamaias?”

Rumour claiming a scale for someone meant very little, the world was full of Immortals, and most were decidedly unhappy about how much magic they wielded. It wasn’t uncommon for them to exploit the general difficulty in assessing such things at a glance to pass themselves off as more powerful than they were.

If one could level a dozen buildings, after all, it wasn’t hard to produce the illusion that one could level fifty.

“A group who can be hired by anyone, don’ mind doin’ jus’ abou’ anythin’ and could’ve jumped Tamaias all at once. Unless that Zilch bloke wasn’t the only one who watched?”

Karma almost missed the implications of the question.

“Professor Zilch was the only witness,” she answered slowly. For a moment she hesitated before continuing, suddenly unsure of placing her life in real danger. Eventually, however, her curiosity won out.

“Tell me Mr Danielz, why is it that you speak almost as if you’re aware of Professor Zilch’s lack of enhancement magic? Anyone else would surely have assumed an Immortal of his level to be capable of at least seeing the movements of two Demigods.”

The butcher seemed confused.

“Is tha’ not common knowledge? It was one o’ the things Jack told me before I came ‘ere.”

For just a moment, Karma allowed herself to marvel at the political ineptitude of the mercenary before her, to volunteer such information without even a moment of hesitation. Her focus then shifted back to the task at hand.

“Very well then, I’ll look into these Guillotines. Might I ask where I can find them?”

“Further into the shittier areas, about half a league from ‘ere is their closest base, last I checked at least. Ye should be careful though, they’re a bit jumpy right now.”

“Jumpy? And why is that?” Karma asked, eager for the information she could glean from knowing.

Danielz shrugged.

“One of my lads got a bit bored last week, ‘ad a fight with some o’ them. I think about five died.”

“...right.” Karma said. “Well then, thank you for the warning mister Danielz, and might I recommend you don’t leave Bermuda? If you look too guilty, someone might take it upon themselves to strike preemptively.”

The butcher’s grin reemerged, glacial, yellow teeth on full display.

“Why would I leave?” he grinned. “I’m still watchin’ me niece in the Sieve.”

Karma paused at that, then answered slowly and cautiously.

“What’s your angle here, Danielz?”

The butcher tilted his head.

“Pardon, luv?”

“What’s your angle?” She insisted. “I’ve seen your “niece” fight, I’ve seen how she crushed one of the stronger contestants with barely any effort. How she survived what should have been a broken neck even with the amount of power she was putting into her physical enhancement.”

Danielz’s smile widened as she continued.

“A prodigy like that will be a force of nature in a few decades, and she’ll be a Deity in five centuries. So what in God’s name drove you to show her off to the world and paint such a massive target on her back?”

The butcher’s eyes narrowed fractionally as he answered, though Karma could tell only by the lines around his spectacles, unable to see the globes themselves through the dim lenses.

“Do I need an excuse te show off how proud I am wit’ me family?”

They stared at each other for a few moments more, and Karma gave very serious thought to saying more. Instead, she turned and left without another word.