"Oi! Drives! Can this thing go any faster?" McKenzie shouted.

"No," Sharinta answered. The driver did not.

"The ones in London used to go faster," McKenzie grumped. "Horses round here are shit. It should definitely be going faster."

"It's four times the fucking size of a normal carriage and there're seven people and one bellowing impatient moron on it, it's not going to go any faster, is it?" Sharinta said. "Now can you keep it down, we're supposed to be maintaining a fucking low profile, remember?"

They had taken an omnibus into town - a long, wide carriage designed to carry many passengers. To McKenzie, it was quite familiar from his recollections of 19th century London, although he was definitely sure that larger horses had been used. The omnibus trundled along at a trifle over walking pace, and if it wasn't comfortable or quick, it was at least covered: a light rain had started up just after they'd concluded their business with the cattle merchant.

"I'm hungry, is all," McKenzie said.

"You've only alluded to that fifteen times since we fucking left, I'd forgotten," Sharinta responded with a roll of her eyes. "You're worse than Leni."

"Sorry," McKenzie had the grace to say.

The buildings had been gradually getting grander and the roads had been getting wider and better paved - they were approaching the centre of Vyrinios. Sharinta withdrew a piece of parchment and consulted it briefly. "I think this is us anyway," She said.

"Thank fuck," McKenzie said, and got up out of his seat.

They alighted into gradually increasing rain, in the centre of a square. It seemed like a reasonably well-to-do area, but not as grand as the public spaces to be found closer to the palace. There was a modest fountain in the middle, and the edges were a mix of mid-level-posh residencies, shops and inns. There was a pillared roof around three out of the four sides, Sharinta noticed with relief. The omnibus trundled off to continue it's unhurried journey.

"There's the place we're here to quietly keep an eye on," McKenzie annnounced, pointing to a building on the uncovered side of the square which was decorated with a sign of a largely undressed blonde girl holding the blade of a knife to her lips, in a not entirely unsuggestive manner.

"As aware as I am that this'll just give you another opening for your usual statement about subtle and how you don't fucking do it, at least try to be a bit fucking circumspect," Sharinta told him.

"Why?" McKenzie asked. "This was an excuse to get out, not something I actually care about doing properly. If there's nowhere nice within nosing range, let's head into town and go to the theatre or something."

Sharinta sighed. "I don't expect that the deadliest bunch of assassins in the old empire, and, by extension, the fucking world will take too kindly to people observing one of their meeting places, however - and you always seem to forget that some of us have to actually worry about shit like stabbings, arrows, poisons and terminally powerful death magic, McKenzie."

"Oh yeah right. Sorry. After you, then. The place just round the corner from it looks quite nice and hey! It's close enough for it to be completely easy to not watch the other place," McKenzie said.

"What rapier sharp wit," Sharinta said.

The inn they'd chosen was open fronted, despite the cold-ish spring weather, and, at this time of day, not busy. They took two seats at a table, and a serving girl wandered out after a few moments. McKenzie decided to call it what it was - it was a café.

The girl greeted them and, after a few moments, departed with orders for food, wine and coffee (McKenzie had decided it would be taking the piss to not be sober for later, and anyway he wanted to be alert in case he missed any more Shakespeare references).

"Don't suppose you brought a pack of cards or something?" Sharinta asked.

"Nope," McKenzie replied. He dug his phone out and snapped a surreptitious photo of the Unsheathed Dagger.

Here's the place we're staking out. Well, sort of. I might look up once or twice if I can be arsed, he tweeted, and attached the photo.

"Smile," he said, pointing the phone at Sharinta. True to form, she arranged a glamour model pose.

"How's that thing work? Magic?" She asked.

"Here - probably. Back home - various bits of expensive metals and fiddly bits are smooshed together into a phone which uses electricity and radio waves and what have you to send messages back and forth," he replied.

"You don't actually fucking know, do you?" Sharinta said, with a twinkle in her eye.

McKenzie laughed. "No fooling you. Yeah, I don't, exactly. I couldn't make one myself, if you know what I mean. I just know how it works to use, like. Mostly. Haven't sussed out the calendar thing yet," he admitted.

"Can you show me? Want me to take a picture of you for everyone else's magic boxes to show?" Sharinta offered. McKenzie had explained the basics of what he was doing, and why it would annoy Lemuel, to Sharinta and Danandra. He pointed out the shutter symbol on the screen: "Put my face in the box and touch the swirly picture in the corner. It'll go ker-chik, when you do."

Sharinta took a picture with a delighted giggle. "Fucking cool."

"That's what most people said on my planet even, first time they took a photo with a phone." McKenzie took it back. "Blimey I look rough. I need a shave."

"No worse than usual," Sharinta shrugged. "Going to send it?"

McKenzie surprised himself with an attack of circumspection. "Maybe not, actually. No-one's sure if this is really me or not, at the moment. Probably best to leave it that way. Might bring down heat on my friends if this turns from a 'might be a spoof' sideshow into actual fucking proof that - from everyone back home's point of view, the irritating white-clad fuckwit excepted - I didn't die in an explosion in a bank vault and am At Large."

"Customer," Sharinta said.

"Eh?"

She nodded at the Unsheathed Dagger. "A man, going in."

A carriage had drawn up to the inn, and the driver and his mate had gotten down from their seat. They unwrapped a sheet of some kind - McKenzie realised it was a tarpaulin or similar, which they held above their heads to keep the passenger - a finely dressed man - dry for the short walk from the carriage, up the steps, and to the front door. He was instantly admitted.

"Poncy twat." McKenzie passed judgement.

"Hmm," Sharinta said, beginning to have suspicions about the Dagger. She considered sharing them with McKenzie, and then, with a flash of mischieviousness, decided not to.

Their food and drink arrived, and McKenzie tore into his bread and cheese as if he expected it to evaporate if he didn't eat it immediately.

The rain picked up as they ate. Sharinta - who did do subtle - kept an unobtrusive eye on the Unsheathed Dagger. What she observed supported her theory about the exact nature of what went on there. Eleven men and only one woman - all apparently untroubled by a lack of money - went in, and eight came out. Sharinta had formidable senses and abilities in the area of, well, 'romantic matters' was a polite euphemism, so she was able to detect what the people leaving all had in common: they had very definitely taken care of business while they were in there.

McKenzie largely ignored the Unsheathed Dagger, and re-read the story from the private investigators instead: three times. Then, coming to a decision, he tapped in their number.

"Hi," he said. "Quick question for you: how much to send one of your guys out to the arsehole of nowhere in Canada to check out a newspaper story for me? Yeah, ballpark guesstimate is fine. Yeah, I'm a customer. Name's Smith Smithson Smith the Third. Well obviously it's not my real name, luv, but it's the one I signed up with. Go on, type it in, if you look up the bank details that go with it I'll think you'll find those are real enough for your apparently highly exacting standards of authenticity."

"Who are you talking to-? Oh," Sharinta said.

McKenzie listened to the reply.

"Thank you," McKenzie said. "Huh. OK. Right. Cool. Debit my account, ring me on this number or send me an email to the address I gave you if it looks like going over budget. Yeah, that'll be - no, wait. How much for a little extra errand? Buy a pretty well specced phone that does satellite as well as normal, bunch of spare batteries, charged up, put a grand's credit on it, whack it in an envelope with 'To the Empress of Vyrinia' written on the front, put this number in the memory under-" he stopped himself from giving his own name "-'Circus Girl Rescuer', send me its number. If your guy comes across a slim girl, five foot nothing, looks mid-twenties, very pretty, white hair and I do mean like proper full on bright shiny white, might be called Anna Harra, probably not much english, and, um, maybe has a very large white dog as a pet - then give her the phone. Your guy may have to give her a brief tutorial on how to use it, she's from an, um...like a hippie commune where they didn't have phones. No she's not Amish. Yeah I know it sounds weird, that's because it is, have you written it down is the point. Great. An extra five G? Fine with me. Keep me posted. Sorry if I was an arsehole, that's just because I basically am a bit of one. Bye," he hung up.

"It fucking amazes me that you were married not just once but several times," Sharinta commented.

"Shut it, or I'll marry you too, and neither of us wants that," McKenzie said.

"Even if this person you just arranged to send finds her, what good will it do, McKenzie?" Sharinta asked him.

"Right, that does it. I warned you. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife? I have nothing to offer except sarcasm, bad temper and almost legendary impulse control issues," McKenzie stated flatly.

"I accept. Let us immediately find a temple so we can begin our blissful journey through life as idiot and wife," Sharinta fired back, deadpan.

The waitress had approached to see to another table. "That's so beautiful!" She sniffed, then hurried on. Sharinta laughed out loud.

McKenzie sighed. "This is the problem with having a fiancée I suppose, you're supposed to be totally open about any past relationships."

Sharinta smiled.

"I just want to know she's okay," McKenzie went on. "It's no walk in the park finding yourself on a new and strange planet even if you do have superpowers, believe me I know. I've made some enquiries, and it sounds like she's living rough in the woods in the middle of nowhere. I want her to know she's got one friend, at least, even if he's on a different fucking planet fuck knows how far away." McKenzie indicated the phone on the table. "We can maybe at least talk, right? I've actually got quite a lot of money in the bank, too, back home, so she doesn't need to be living rough. I fucked her life up here, the least I can do is try and make her new one there at least vaguely livable."

"You didn't fuck it up, McKenzie. We both know who that's on. I won't say his name out loud," Sharinta said.

"Who, Lemuel the fuckface?" McKenzie asked.

Sharinta sighed, and held her finger to her lips. A few moments went by: to his credit, McKenzie actually managed to remain silent too.

Finally, she went on. "Because - unless magical steps have been taken to prevent it - powerful mages can weave spells that will tell them if their name is said - plus the few words afterwards. That's fucking why, genius. This happened before when it was Danna doing the listening, remember? Normally this wouldn't work from one world to the next, but this is him we're talking about."

McKenzie remembered, and nodded. "Come to think of it, it'd also explain how he knew Christine, Jimmy and Susie were trying to get me home."

"There you go."

"So Lemuel can hear the few words I say after I say Lemuel? Lemuel: you're a twat, a fucktard, an arsehole and a dickhead wankermuffin," McKenzie grinned.

"Hilarious," Sharinta told him.

"Yep, I know what I'm doing to pass the time for the next half hour or so." McKenzie barked an evil laugh.

"In the interests of me not throwing your coffee on you, please fucking don't," Sharinta asked.

"Oh alright. It'd probably make me sound like I've got Tourette's anyway," McKenzie agreed.

"Tourette's what?" Sharinta asked.

"Never mind."

- o O o -

Daylight was starting to fade as Danandra returned to the warehouse - the rain had eased off to a light drizzle, as if it had done it's daily quota of exercise and was now just limbering down before calling it a day and heading for the changing rooms. Danandra was, however, already wet through - she had neglected to take any money with her when she stormed out the previous night, so the conveniences of a carriage or even the omnibus (which she detested in any case) were denied her. She would have infinitely preferred to stay in Talius' warm bed in Talius' warm room, preferably with a warm Talius in it, too, but instead (she expected) she was forced to return to the stinking warehouse to remind McKenzie he had somewhere to be very soon.

She was not, therefore, in a very good mood, and immediately upon slamming the warehouse door closed behind her, something happened that put her in an even worse one: she stepped in a very large pile of shit.

"Ugh!" She snarled. "Are we just defacating on the floor in here now? For the gods' sakes! McKenzie! Leni! Sharinta!"

She shook her foot to dislodge some of the faeces from her boot.

"Anyone?" She called out.

There was no reply. Instinct kicked in - a defensive spell formed in her mind, and the fingers of her right hand curled into a clawlike posture around some less defensive magic that flared ready within.

"I am very definitely not in the mood for anything tedious right now, Leni," she said warningly.

Her only reply was a snorting noise from something large from the darkness of the warehouse off to her left, and the glint of eyes that could not be human.

Danandra whirled, brought her hand up and unleashed a stream of glowing blue bolts towards that glint. With a sound like an enraged hissing cat, the missiles flashed across the warehouse, illuminating, just before they hit, an extremely surprised cow.

"M-" it began to moo, and then the bolts hit home and performed, in a few milliseconds, what it would have taken a butcher and a chef a fair few hours to achieve. The warehouse was suddenly filled with the smell of burnt beef. One of the legs landed, smoking, at Danandra's feet.

"Oh," she said.

"Somethin' smells nice," Leni said, yawning. She emerged from the room she had appropriated as her quarters, and stretched. "Are you cooking supper?"

Danandra turned and fixed her with a cold, baleful glare. "No, Leni, I am not cooking supper."

"Kinda smells like you are," Leni said, bent over, and picked up the leg as if it was a chicken drumstick. She sniffed it, shrugged, and then ate it whole, hoof and all. Danandra shuddered.

"Why," she asked slowly, shaking more of the cowpat from her feet, "was there a cow loose in the warehouse?"

"McKenzie and Sharinta had it delivered for me a few hours back. I was hungry," Leni answered, ambling over towards cow ground zero.

"So we noticed," Danandra said.

"You know where they are?" Leni asked, picking up the cow's head, which she found at the halfway point, embedded in the floor by one of its horns.

"They're not here?" Danandra was surprised.

"They took off early afternoon, said something about checking out the place that McKenzie has to go tonight. Personally I think that was just an excuse to go to an inn." Leni crunched up the head: Danandra could hear the animal's horns cracking as she chewed. "Vfnay dinn'nt invite me, vfthe bfftards," she added, from around her mouthful, then swallowed. "This isn't bad, you know, you should cook more often."

A thought struck Danandra, which turned into a suspicion, which then wasted very little time in changing careers and becoming what it really wanted to be, which was a gloomy certainty.

"If you were hungry," Danandra asked slowly, "then why didn't you eat the cow earlier?"

"Um," Leni said.

Danandra exhaled hard in irritation, and stormed into Leni's room. You didn't have to be a crime scene investigator to deduce what had happened. In the centre of the floor was a sad little pile of cloth that was either a dress or a wrap of some kind: it was badly torn, almost into two pieces. A pair of worn, dirty sandals had also been discarded, or more likely been kicked off in the course of a struggle, as one was in a corner and the other was in the doorway.

"Oh for the gods' sakes!" Danandra cursed. "Cannot you be trusted to think with your head rather than your stomach! Who is it?"

Leni didn't look the slightest bit guilty. "The slave woman who delivered the cow," she shrugged.

Danandra stalked back over to Leni, and called up some familiar magic. It was a good thing she was very skillful at teleportation. "Keep still," she snapped, as she extended the spell to search for the woman.

But there was nobody there.

"She's gone," Danandra said hollowly.

"Hah!" Leni said. "I thought I felt better than I normally do afterwards. Had a nap, even."

"You've eaten someone!" Danandra shouted.

"Well duh," was Leni's response. "I'm a troll, it's what we do."

"Not permanently! Not you!"

"Looks like I caught a lucky break, for once," Leni replied.

Danandra was beyond furious. "Lucky break?" She shrieked.

"Well, it happens. Cowgirl musta been hiding a few past misdeeds," Leni said. "Criminals can get condemned to the block, in Vyrinios. Maybe she was a murderess or something."

"So...fucking what!" Danandra said. She seldom swore - she had to be truly angry in order to do so. "She was alive, and now she isn't! You're the murderer, Leni. You and your entire stinking race! McKenzie's right, I have no idea right now why any of you are permitted anywhere near people! Or even to live!" Danandra found that she was holding a ball of fire in her hand, ready to unleash at Leni.

She knew it was pointless, though. She aborted the spell and lowered her arm.

"She was only a slave," Leni muttered.

Danandra stared at her. "I really, truly wish that McKenzie was here to hear you say that," she said icily. "I wouldn't have given two coppers for your life if you'd said that in front of him, curse or not."

Leni snorted.

"Quite aside from that, she'll be missed," Danandra said. "Questions will be asked. You've endangered the mission and risked our cover."

"Pah! Trolls eat people all the time. Nobody ever asks any questions about why we do it," Leni said dismissively.

Perhaps it's time they did, Danandra thought, still enraged. McKenzie is right. It shouldn't be so unremarkable an occurrence.

"It attracts attention," Danandra said.

"Danandra, nobody cares," Leni said, hefting another cow leg. "Believe me, I should know. I've done it enough times. There're certain types of prey-"

"People aren't prey, Leni!" Danandra snarled.

"You kind of are," Leni said. "Isn't that what this whole argument is about?"

"People are not prey," Danandra repeated.

"Oh, fine, there are certain types of people then, that can just disappear without anyone giving a shit, slaves - at least slaves that aren't dressed too well - being a prime example. Relax - I know what I'm doing."

Danandra was aghast, but in a weary, resigned way. This wasn't the first time Leni had spoken like that. I'll wager you do know what you're doing, right enough, she thought, but didn't say. It wouldn't make any difference. A burst of high-powered magic right into Leni's heart would make a difference, but that option wasn't open to her.

"That is not the point," Danandra said. Her anger wasn't receding, although she was through shouting.

"People just assume they've run away," Leni said. "We'll never hear anything about it, believe me."

Right on cue, someone hammered on the door.

"You were saying?" Danandra asked her, in a faux-sweet tone.

Leni glowered, drew her sword, and took up a position where she could not be seen from the entrance. Danandra peeked through a spyhole set into the wall next to the door - a portly man in the robes of a merchant stood there, with a pair of large, bleak-faced men behind him.

"It's a merchant, with a pair of retainers who look like they're prepared for trouble," Danandra told Leni. "I wouldn't want to jump to any conclusions, but let us face facts - this is most likely her master come to demand the return of his property."

"Oh," Leni replied.

Danandra shot her a last acidic look, and then opened the door.

"Good afternoon, master merchant," she said. "I regret to inform you that our operations here are not yet set up, but I am more than happy to discuss quantities and prices of magical or clerical items and we expect that-" Danandra stuck to the cover story.

"I am not here, madam, on matters of business," the merchant interrupted. "Earlier today, two of your friends purchased a cow from me. A slave of mine delivered it to this door. She was seen entering, but not leaving. I am come to enquire after her."

Danandra wondered what to tell him, and then abruptly realised that there was no need for an elaborate lie here. She threw the door wide open and turned to Leni.

"Gharia! Here! Now!" She barked at Leni, using her assumed name.

"What?" Leni responded, confused.

"I said here, now!" Danandra repeated, and understanding dawned. Fortunately, the merchant didn't appear to have noticed anything.

Leni sheathed her sword and approached. The merchant took a step back as he saw her, bumping into his two hirelings. They also took a step backwards, when they saw what had prompted their boss's retreat.

"I don't suppose you would know anything about a missing slave, would you? Answer truthfully!" Danandra barked.

Leni looked momentarily rebellious, then hung her head.

"Yes, Mistress Zalla," Leni replied. "I do."

"Am I to understand, then, that you are responsible for the disappearance of this gentleman's property?" Danandra demanded.

"Yes, Mistress Zalla," Leni repeated.

"Oh for the gods' sakes!" Danandra said. "It was made clear that your employment here as guard was dependent upon your good behaviour! You are an accredited mercantile guard! I'll have your license for this, see if I don't!"

The merchant didn't know whether to be outraged or scared. He settled for confused. Danandra decided to press home her advantage, even though the circumstances were making her feel sick enough to vomit.

"Master merchant, I can only apologise most profusely. Gharia came recommended to us as a responsible, trustworthy guard, and she has most certainly not lived up to her references! Gharia - this is coming out of your wages! Step forward!"

Leni obeyed.

"Pray name your price, sir. I hope that the slave in question was not overly valuable to your operations?" Danandra said.

The merchant took one look at Danandra - obviously a mage, and not a happy one - and another look at Leni's towering mass, and abruptly decided that breaking even was going to be good enough on this occasion. He shook his head.

"Her head value was one gold and eight silver, madam, as attested to by her papers." He produced a small, folded document from his robes and handed it to Danandra. The hand was shaking slightly.

"We would be delighted to pay you three gold, as recompense for the trouble caused you, and in consideration of this unfortunate incident not impinging upon the already stretched resources of the guardsmen," Danandra said.

"We would?" Leni asked.

"Indeed," Danandra ground out. "Gharia, pay the man."

"Me?" Leni asked.

"You," Danandra confirmed. "You have been given your wages not two days past. Do not tell me it is already spent! If you feel this is unfair, then this matter will have to be taken before the magistrates, and your mercantile guard's license will not survive the process, I can assure you."

Leni grunted, dug into a pouch, and produced three gold coins. The merchant reached out nervously and took them.

"Um, er, thank you for your...co-operation in this matter," he managed. He was sweating profusely, Danandra noticed.

"I am pleased that this was resolved without any cause for ill-feeling," Danandra lied. She felt dirty, tainted and tired.

"Ha, hmm, yes," the merchant said, and gulped. "Well, madam mage, I will, um, it smells like you're about to sit down for dinner, so, good night to you." He bobbed his head minimally and turned to leave so quickly his hired muscle were forced to dodge out of the way.

"And a good night to you," Danandra said, closed the door, then rested her head against it.

"Well, that was easier than I expected," Leni stated. "We're going fifty-fifty on those three gold, though. You didn't even haggle."

"Oh, just shut up Leni!" Danandra snapped. My life, she thought, has become nothing more than a series of deeply unpleasant experiences, compared to which the frequent bouts of violence and peril which punctuate it seem almost welcome.

Leni snorted. "I'm gonna go finish the cow. At least it had some meat on it. The slave was mostly skin and bones."

Danandra looked up. She didn't know why she was surprised and shocked at this, but she supposed she should be grateful she still was.

"One day," she told Leni, "McKenzie will succeed in using his fire weapon on you, or you'll run foul of someone like me or Sharinta who isn't prevented from blasting your head off your shoulders, or a mob will get you, or something will kill you. I hope I'm there when it happens, and I hope you're extremely fucking hungry when you meet your fate, so you rot in whatever hell is reserved for nasty, verminous trolls."

Leni gasped. Danandra stalked to her room and slammed the door.

"Stroppy elfbint," Leni muttered, and then resumed her dinner of partially volatilised cow.

Danandra emerged a few minutes later, dry and with money. She threw the door open and strode off into the evening.

"Where are you going now?" Leni shouted after her.

Danandra ignored her.