John Irenum, Captain of the Garrilport City Guards, hated his job at this moment.

“What do you think, Captain?”

John turned to one of his lieutenants. “I think we have a very sick man on our hands.” John turned back to look at the bed where Fredrick and his wife lay dead. Who knew what the color of the sheets used to be; now they were deep red. The wife’s neck had been cut clean, almost to the point where her head had been completely removed. If she had woken during the deed, which was unlikely, her vocal cords had been severed, disabling her from warning her husband of the killer.

Fredrick had been killed with a single stab over his heart. A pillow had been used to hold his head down as he had obviously woken from the attack. He had maybe lived for five or ten seconds after the killing blow but had not managed much of a struggle.

John didn’t want to, but his job dictated that he examine the wounds closely. They had both been made with a dagger – probably the same one, though that could not be determined. John wanted to think that this was the work of one man only because he didn’t want to believe that there existed two men who were capable of this. As it was, he was uncomfortable with the idea there was even one.

“Captain,” one of his men pulled him away from the grizzly scene. “I think you should come upstairs. There is something you need to see.”

“What is it?” John asked, glad to be pulled away from the grizzly scene.

“It’s the kids, sir.”

John steeled himself as he walked up the stairs but was still horrified when he saw what awaited him. There was no blood in the children’s room, and both kids still lay under their sheets, but they were obviously quite dead. John was at a loss at how to describe the bodies.

“It looks like they were melted,” one of his men said.

John nodded. They looked like they were wax mannequins that had been exposed to intense heat for a brief time. Their skin had lost the youthful glow and had a chalky texture. John had seen something similar when he had been forced to exhume a body several weeks after burial to examine the murder wounds. But this could not be decomposition, for they had only been dead for at most 12 hours.

John had seen enough. “You men look around for any clues that this killer might have left behind and then turn the bodies over to the morgue. Maybe Priest Kellens can tell us something about these kids and how they died.”

John’s mind was racing. He had been a member of the city guards for over ten years and had never seen anything like this. He had investigated dozens of murders, but they had all been vagrants or homeless left in the street. A few merchants had been killed, but the murders had usually been public, with the killer identified by several witnesses.

The remarkable efficiency with which this act had been carried out sent chills down John’s spine. It seemed that this killer could have just as easily walked into any house in the city, the mayor’s included, and killed whomever he wanted.

This was something new to Garrilport. Had anyone come to the city recently? It was a stupid question for a killer like this would hardly make his arrival in town public. John thought of Artemis and almost as quickly dismissed him. He had stopped worrying about him. Over lunch, he had claimed to be a professional assassin who killed royalty, but in light of this, that seemed a joke in very poor taste.

Someone else had entered the city recently, and John needed to find out who. Artemis had registered with the city planner, and if the killer were living in the city, he would have had to do the same. However, if he lived in the city’s northern half, he would be much harder to find. John had friends up there, though. He just hated paying them visits.

Cal Grotciem saw the man as soon as he entered the tavern. Despite the visitor’s attempt to relax his posture and clothe himself in disheveled attire, the seasoned northern could spot John Irenum in a heartbeat. The captain moved slowly through the crowded tavern, careful not to bump into anyone. The last thing he wanted was a fight.

Cal respected the man. John was personally responsible for placing Cal in the northern half of the city, but that could probably be said about half the men in the tavern right now. When John and his men caught you, you went to prison. Upon release, you had two choices: leave town, never to return, or seek employment in the northern half of the city and try and work your way back south.

The way John presented it, it all sounded so simple. Just work hard, and you will be promoted within your work cell. If you earn enough respect, you will be accepted back into the southern part of the city. To Cal’s knowledge, no one had ever done it.

John sat down at the northern’s table in the corner and took a drink from a barmaid whose revealing outfit alone would get her kicked out of the seediest tavern in the southern half of the city. “I hear you have quite the murder on your hands,” Cal said, knowing why John had arranged this meeting. Cal had often been able to help John with his murder investigations and always profited from it.

“This one is bigger than anything I’ve come to you with before,” John said solemnly. “I need to know anything you can give me.”

“It will cost you,” Cal said, taking a long gulp from his frothy mug.

“If you have a name, tell me your price, and I’ll pay it right here, right now.”

Cal laughed, spitting foam at the captain. John moved slowly and deliberately as he wiped the cheap ale from his face, his gaze never leaving Cal. The northern knew that while John did not want to get into a fight, he could whip any ten men in the tavern if the captain had his standard two-handed sword with him.

“Sorry,” Cal said, his mood somewhat sobered. “I never know names; you know that.”

John knew that Cal never told him names, but he doubted the crafty spy never knew them. It was a way for him to cover his ass if he was ever found out as John’s informant, and it was a necessary ploy. As Cal looked around the room, he could see at least five men who were here because of the information he had given John.

“I don’t care about what you never used to know; if you know it now, you will tell me or wish you had been the one in Councilman Fredrick Strum’s bed last night. Don’t worry about retribution; I’ll make sure this killer never again sees the light of day again.”

Cal swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”

John nodded, accepting this as the truth. “Here is what I do want you to know by tomorrow night. I want you to know about any unusual murders that happened in any city on any map that you can find. And if you can’t find any good maps, I’ll be more than happy to provide you with maps that detail every city within a thousand miles.”

“That will be tough in only a day and a half,” Cal said, already running through a list of about twenty people he knew who had just come in from all over the countryside.

“You know full well that word of this murder will travel along the trade routes quicker than the fastest horse alive,” John countered. “If something like this happened elsewhere, you’ll find out.”

“It might cost extra,” Cal foolishly tried.

“But it won’t,” John assured him. “I gave you a chance to name your price a minute ago, but you had nothing to tell me. I have other people gathering information for me too. By dealing with several competing suppliers, I’m always guaranteed the lowest price.”

Cal looked confused. He had people following John whenever he ventured into the northerns, and he had no reports of the captain meeting with anyone else. He would look into that as well. His pocketbook depended on his monopoly of the information.

Buster was happy. He had been the city’s best blacksmith for over five years now, and business kept getting better as his name spread down the river and along the trade routes. He had exclusive contracts with the shipbuilding companies, the city guards, and countless businessmen. He had hired and trained a dozen apprentices that had worked for him over the past few years. Only half of them still did, the others all starting their own shops. They did well and maintained a lot of their business from when they had worked with Buster, but the old blacksmith still got all the big jobs and all the new business.

Buster had spent most of his life at Saint Georgan Monastery in the Great Range, the mountain chain to the north. His parents had sent him there at a young age, but he had always resisted the order’s teaching. It wasn’t that he disagreed with it; he just didn’t want to live a life of seclusion high up in the mountains. How was he supposed to make the world a better place if he never saw any of it?

He was grateful to the monastery for educating him in his current profession, and the strenuous physical training each student went through had turned Buster into quite the physical specimen. He could wield the heaviest sledge with ease and pound even the most stubborn metal into submission as if he were kneading dough.

“Buster” was not his real name, but when he left the monastery and was disowned by his family, he severed all ties to his past and took up a new life in Garrilport. The city accepted the former monk for what he could do and cared nothing about his history. He had done well.

Buster was hard at work in the back of his shop, all of his apprentices off on different jobs around the city, when he heard the bell on his front door chime. Buster stopped his work and listened for either the call of a familiar voice or for the customer to walk across his squeaky floor. He heard neither. “I’ll be right with you,” He called as he picked up a rag and wiped off his hands. He walked to the batwing doors that led him to his front room. “You can come in. You don’t need to stand-” Buster started to call as he pushed through the doors but froze when he saw the man standing on the other side of the counter.

Buster was in shock. Somehow this man had walked across the fifteen feet between his front door and his counter without making so much as a peep out of his terminally squeaky floor. Buster also saw that it had been no accident. The man who looked at him from over the counter was pure death. He lived his life as a shadow of fear, creeping in its wake, not making so much as a ripple as he passed.

Entreri saw the look in the big man’s eyes and knew he had been set up. The captain had recommended this blacksmith to him at lunch two days ago, and now the assassin knew why. Entreri had been around enough to know when he was being scried. This man did not have the skill or precision that most priests and clerics Entreri had known, but he didn’t need it. Trying to tell the alignment of Artemis Entreri was about as tricky as trying to determine if a rock was capable of conscious thought. Anyone with a modicum of talent could do it.

The game was up, and both men knew it. The only option in front of them was to kill each other or act as if nothing had happened. They picked the latter.

“How can I help you?” Buster asked.

“I’m putting in an addition to my home, and I wanted to use a metal framework to support the floor.”

Buster listened to Entreri’s description in great detail, taking the appropriate notes and asking all the right questions. The two men agreed upon a price and a time when the work would be completed. They made the traditional salutations, and Entreri left. Buster watched with great interest as Entreri moved over his floor. The assassin stepped on only the nail heads as he moved, making it look as natural as possible. It was an unconscious act derived from hours, if not years, of creeping up on people over similar floors right before he killed them.

When the evil presence had left the blacksmith’s keen senses, he was finally able to relax. “You’ve got a winner on your hands with that one, John,” Buster thought to himself. The big man allowed one last chill to creep down his spine and went back to work.

John showed up at the Alexander Estate for the second night in a row. This time the maid said nothing as she took the captain’s coat. He kept his sword. The dining room was packed. Most of the council members were there, with only a few older ones not wanting to come out at night. There was food on the table, but not much eating occurred. John noticed with interest that Ellen was also present. This did not last long.

“Ellen, dear, would you please excuse us,” Jerathon said when he saw John enter the room.

Ellen looked between the captain and her father and was just about to protest but thought better of it. “Yes, father.” She had not told anyone about her run-in with Trevor and Entreri the previous morning, but she felt that she had a tie to the sudden rash of violence and wanted to help stop it. John regretfully watched the woman walk out of the room and up the stairs to her room. He had been looking forward to any input she might have on this meeting of the minds.

John sat at the table, and the butler gave him a plate of food. Unlike yesterday, he had not spoiled his appetite at noon and had not eaten at all. As he ate, he looked around the table at the men as they murmured among themselves. He paused as his eyes settled on someone he did not recognize as part of the council.

Jerathon saw the pause and decided introductions were in order. “John, I’d like you to meet Quinton Palluge, the newest member of the city council. Before we begin to attack this rash of crime that has sprung up almost overnight, we felt it was necessary to fill the seat vacated by Fredrick. In a meeting I had with the merchants this afternoon, they thought Quinton would be a good addition to the council.”

The name rang a bell in John’s mind. “Are you the one who’s famous for the extravagant parties?”

Quinton nodded humbly. “At your service.”

“I hear you have a pretty good magician,” John continued.

Quinton flinched. “Word gets around.”

Only John noticed the flinch, but even he paid it no mind. “It’s time to get down to the reason I’ve called you all here,” Jerathon spoke up, ending the minor conversations that were taking place around the room. “As all of you know, former Councilman Strum was murdered viciously in his home last night, along with his wife and two children. What many of you might not know is that the murder is only one of the many criminal incidences that have plagued us in the last 48 hours.”

“We have been getting reports from over a dozen citizens about muggings and thefts occurring all over the city,” Lawrence Alexander, Jerathon’s cousin and a council member, spoke up. “Frankly, we have no idea why this is happening. We have all read your report on the councilman’s murder, Captain. You believe one man perpetrated it. While we do not disagree with you, I hope you can understand how we find it hard to believe that one man alone could be responsible for all the crime.”

John nodded. “I agree.”

Jerathon spoke up again. “I have talked with Quinton about this, and he has a plan regarding how we might increase security temporarily until this band of criminals is caught.”

Everyone looked at Quinton. “I deal with several dozen gem suppliers from all over the countryside and the Great Range. These men are rough and rugged, having lived most of their lives in the wilderness. I think we could hire them to bolster the city guards until we solve these crimes.”

John frowned.

“In your absence today, Captain,” Quinton continued, “I spoke with one of your lieutenants. A man by the name of Draick, I believe. He said that the city guard was improperly staffed to deal with this situation and thought the idea a good one.”

John obviously knew who Draick was and knew that his eagerness to prosecute the guilty was only rivaled by his willingness to endanger the innocent. He was headstrong, but he was good. John did not like bringing in a bunch of mercenaries to act as city guards. The captain liked to personally train his men and wanted to make sure no one who gained the rank and privileges would be likely to abuse them.

As he looked around the table at the nodding heads of the council members, John realized the proposal was going to pass, and he would have to deal with it. After a few more minutes of discussion, that is precisely what happened.

“How is the murder investigation going, Captain?” one of the other councilmen asked.

“It will take time, sir. I have people out right now gathering information. I am forced to believe that the murderer is new in town because we have never seen anything like this before.”

“But you don’t even have any suspects?” Quinton asked.

John shook his head.

“What about that man you were following the other day? The one who bought you dinner?”

John shrugged his shoulders. “I doubt he is capable of this. He is more a pet project than anything else.”

“What is this?” Quinton asked as innocently as possible.

“John saw this man foil one of the city’s pickpockets a few days ago and was convinced that the man was hiding a criminal record or something. John goes on many such escapades in his free time.”

This comment was mainly a sarcastic dig into John’s work ethic, stressing that he had free time and that now they were short on men. Quinton was more interested in the fact that this man had foiled a pickpocket.

“Really,” Quinton said, turning to look at John. “What does this man look like?”

The question seemed innocent enough, and John gave a pretty good description of Entreri. Quinton had never seen the man, but it matched what Trevor and Billy had said. It was a valuable piece of information that the Captain of the City Guards was interested in a man who had twice attacked Quinton. He filed it away as a potentially helpful piece of information.

However, the person who was most interested in hearing the description was not seated at the table. At the top of the steps leading up to the second floor, Ellen sat listening to the men’s conversation out of view of the dining room table. If she was not mistaken, John had just described the man who had rescued her from her attacker the previous day.

The men downstairs continued to talk about how they could patrol the streets to try and target the areas with the most reported crime, but Ellen was no longer listening. She had seen what this Artemis, as John had called him, was capable of, and despite what John had said, she was not so sure the men downstairs should cross him off their suspect list.

Despite her continual contributions to the successful way her father ran this city, he still did not respect her enough to allow her input in the more critical matters. Well, she would look into this Artemis herself and see if she could earn that respect.