“Here you go, pigeon,” Reina said as she set down a loaded plate in front of Lydia.

Gabriel checked, there was no pigeon on the plate. He grimaced.

“Reina, a little privacy, if you please. You know, task at hand, that kind of thing,” Gabriel waved his hand over the single sheet of paper on the table in front of them, trying to indicate just how busy they all were. He sort of wished he had a few maps and things to support the brooding captain look.

Reina held her hands up in a, ‘say no more’, kind of way, and shuffled from the table, taking a couple of empty tankards with her.

After a disgruntled amble through the local district, Gabriel eventually realised that he neither knew a damn thing about Jandrir, nor did he have any money with which to effectively sulk. His feet inevitably took him back to The Blighted Pond, where Vish smugly informed him that their good patrons had offered to put them up for another couple of nights, and were happy to settle their tab at the end of the stay. Grudgingly, Gabriel accepted that this was a pretty good deal, when compared to skulking through alleys and begging for food. Besides, he couldn’t help but notice that the service at The Blighted Pond had, mysteriously, markedly improved.

They sat back at the rickety table Gabriel had vacated so abruptly that morning, and discussed their plan of action while they nibbled and supped at the various offerings that emerged from the kitchen. Some of the food was even edible.

“Okay,” Gabriel clapped his hands together as he began to speak, just about drawing their attention, “Lance Albright, minor nobility and first in line to become the head of the ancient house of Albright, once his dear mother shuffles off the mortal coil.”

“Is this relevant?” Lydia grumbled through a mouthful of cheese.

“I don’t know, Lydia. Might be! How about we listen and find out?” Gabriel shifted his frown from warrior back to paper, “Huh, that’s interesting.”

“What’s that?” Figo asked.

“Says he can generally be found either at his new counting house overseeing the Central Bazaar or at his new dockside warehouse.”

“What’s so interesting about that?” Vish asked either side of a poorly covered belch.

“New age merchants making the climb to minor nobility is not all that uncommon in The Kaden Circle, but it’s pretty unusual to see older houses take the ‘step down’ into the trading game. I don’t know, they just tend to be elitist about these things.”

“So they decided they liked money more than fancy titles, big whoop,” Vish shrugged.

“I suppose you’re right. I guess Jandrir really doesn’t discriminate based on anything but income,” Gabriel forced his forehead to soften before the wrinkles became permanent, “Anyway, that’s that. Says if he’s not at either of those places then he’s at the family manor, which is guarded day and night. He moves between these locations with a small, but decently capable, armed escort.”

“Could take out the escort,” Lydia suggested.

“Could we though?” Vish asked.

“Perhaps we could find a way to sneak into the manor?” Figo put forward.

“Ooh, got it! What about if we tied ourselves to the underside of some rafts and smuggled ourselves into his warehouse under cover of night,” Vish was wiggling his fingers mysteriously.

“To the underside of the rafts?” Gabriel checked.

“Yeah, so they can’t see us beneath the wat…,” Vish scratched his chin, “It’s a work in progress.”

“Okay, well, while Vish figures out how to grow gills, I’m going to suggest we just,” Gabriel splayed his hands, “go to his place of business in broad daylight and ask to see him? You know, his public place of business, open to the public… for business?”

“Madness!” Vish gasped, a hand on his chest.

“Isn’t it? Alright then,” Gabriel clasped his elbows and looked around at his motley crew, “Vish and Lydia will go to the warehouse, Figo, Bling and I will go to the bazaar.”

“Fair warning,” Lydia pointed a bread knife at the mind-mapper, “if he does or says anything creepy then I’ll stab him and leave his body floating in the Malin,” she said between mouthfuls of pickled cucumber.

“Harsh,” Vish sniffed.

“But fair. Okay,” Gabriel reassessed, “Figo and Vish. Bling, Lydia and I.”

Figo coughed politely, “If we hit trouble then we might want a bit of,” he looked apologetically at Vish, “stopping power.”

“I stop things all the time!”

“Stop talking right now,” Lydia invited.

There was a short pause.

“… I could if I wanted to,” Vish mumbled into the neck of his robe.

“Figo’s right; you’re as threatening as a quadriplegic hamster that’s been ordained as a choir boy in the Church of Virtues. Vish, Figo and Bling, then,” Gabriel decided.

“Why don’t I just go with you?” the mind-mapper asked their captain.

Gabriel looked at Vish levelly for a moment, before saying, “Right. You all know what to do. Shall we, Lydia?”

---

By mid-afternoon, Gabriel and Lydia were standing in front of The Albright Establishment of Antiques and Exotic Curiosities. It was a narrow, three-story building, that, by design or mistake, leant into the bazaar like a nosy colleague trying to read a map over your shoulder. The building was of a dark wood that had an oddly shaggy quality to it, with a few splashes of colour on the windowsills and doorframes, that had clearly been added by someone who obviously mistook offensively bright for bold and stylish. For some reason, Gabriel couldn’t help but feel that the building reminded him of something, or someone.

“This the place?” Lydia asked.

“Yeah it says so right there, can’t you read?” Gabriel caught his flippant comment far too late.

Lydia just stared at him challengingly and popped a wad of Soldier’s Solace into her cheek.

“I mean, um,” Gabriel backtracked, “yes, this is the place.”

“Right. Let’s go.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” the wan captain strafed to block Lydia, “we can’t just waltz right in!”

“Wasn’t that the whole point? That we can just waltz right in?”

“Well, yes, but we have to have some kind of plan. We can’t just go in as Gabriel and Lydia, mercenaries extraordinaire!”

Lydia rolled her eyes, “Fine, what’s the plan.”

Gabriel massaged his eyebrows, “Alright, how about this? You are Jocasta. You’re a jeweler from Jorna, seeking new gems and stones for the increasingly demanding nouveau riche. You have always been an artisan for the oligarchic regime but now the mercantile classes are upsetting the established political structure and you, a humble yet despairing craftswoman, must adapt to their increasingly flamboyant demands!” his fist was balled in outrage at Jocasta’s plight.

Lydia blinked, “Okay, I know some of those words.”

“You’ll pick it up quickly.”

“Okaay, and where do you fit into all of this?”

“I’m your bodyguard,” Gabriel said as if it were obvious.

“Right,” Lydia added more Soldier’s Solace to the mass of root she was chewing, “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because the only way you could guard my body is if I literally wore you as armour, and even then you’d be fucking useless.”

“Okay, fine, but they don’t know that! They might think I’m lightning quick with a blade, or that I’m a powerful Channeler, or maybe even a deadly assassin with a different poison for every occasion,” Gabriel listed off, his hands cutting through the air like he were ready to split bricks with them.

“Or a pasty twat who’d be a poor match for a cockroach.”

“Come on, Lydia, I always do the merchant bit! I want to broaden my repertoire. Just let me try the tough guy role once, I’m begging you. Please. I might be good at it!”

Lydia shook her head as if to dislodge the bullshit she was hearing, “Whatever, fine. Let’s go.”

“Great! First things first though,” Gabriel dug into his travel bag and unfurled a length of red linen he had poached from his sister.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

---

Gabriel pushed the door of the Albright trade house open with all of his inconsiderable might. He flinched when the handle smacked the wall, making himself jump more than anyone else.

There were a few items on display in the entrance hall, and a small reception area, with one or two offices tucked in the back behind a varnished staircase. A curator was showing a visiting client a vase in blue and white lacquer, and a clerk was sifting through an organizer at his desk. They looked up at Gabriel’s semi-impressive entrance. The vase wobbled (a bit).

“Make way, lowly peasants. Jocasta of Jorna is here and she brooks no tarrying!” his heralding complete, Gabriel stood to attention beside the doorway as Lydia ducked through.

The curator, clerk and client were staring with muted interest at what appeared to be an enormous strawberry meringue, with one arm, two legs, and an expression that could wilt flowers.

Lydia glowered.

They carried on staring.

Gabriel’s eyes darted from one inert body to the next. It seemed he would have to take the lead again.

“Worry not, m’lady, I will find someone of a suitable station to address you forthwith, lest these lowly curs sully your ears with their peasantry,” he walked up to the clerk as if astride an invisible horse, “You there, fetch us this Albright fellow,” Gabriel wrinkled his nose further with each syllable of the name, “my lady has deigned to do business with him – a singular honour, I’m sure you are aware.”

The clerk made a panicked sound that was eerily close to a puppy having its tail stepped on.

“Come on, man!” Gabriel persisted, slamming his fist down on the desk, which was a lot more solid than his hand was. He tried to scowl through the pain.

The curator who had been working the exhibit floor said a short apology to his client, who gratefully fled past Lydia’s ruffles, and scooted over to ‘Jocasta’. He had a long plait of black hair draped heavily over one shoulder, and skin like an old sail. With practiced pomp, he gave Lydia a peculiarly complicated bow, with both arms extended to the side in a liquid flourish. He smiled at her eagerly.

“This is a truly slinky day, home-sister. I myself hail from Jorna. It has been many discs since I have seen a curly, and I must say, I am waffled!”

‘… What?’ Lydia and Gabriel thought as one.

The curator seemed to pick up on their confusion and chuckled politely, “Pardon, you surely didn’t ken there would be another blue-buster here. That skunk probably a flap-bird bamboozler! Still, it’s what to gravy you.”

Then it hit Gabriel.

Whether you believed the folklore about the Crucible of Knowledge, the supposed font of wisdom that inter-connected all sentient beings and allowed for active and imperceptible translation; whether you agreed with the New-Age Progressivists, who debated that the commonly spoken tongue was an amalgamation of thousands of dead languages; or whether you just genuinely didn’t give a shit - One thing was for certain.. it had been a long time since anyone in The Kaden Circle had really thought about languages.

For centuries, communication had flowed readily from elf to human, human to kkyrunnig, kkyrunnig to… whoever would talk to a kkyrunnig. People had become blasé about cross-culture communication, taking it as a given that they would be understood wherever they go. According to the mystics, whenever an individual heard a foreign word, from some exotic race or culture, the aether link between them would automatically ‘choose’ the most appropriate word in the receiver’s own language and translate the word instantly.

The trouble here was, Jorna was not a foreign and exotic place. Jorna was the bastard child of Badanis colonialists and Faiser immigrants. These words weren’t new, they were all present within the Kaden dialect. However, as is wont to happen in colonies, the meanings had drastically changed over time.

So, here Gabriel and Lydia stood, face to face with a man whose ancestors heralded from the town next door, totally unable to understand a bloody word he was saying.

Lydia shot Gabriel a look of pure murder. ‘Fix this or die’, her eyes promised.

Gabriel nodded in answer to her demand.

Lydia took this as an instruction on how to answer the curator’s question.

“Yes,” Lydia said.

‘No!’ Gabriel’s face screamed.

“Tidy!” the curator responded.

“What?” Gabriel said.

“Sable,” the curator agreed.

“Right,” Lydia said to the middle of the triangle of nodding Jornaians, “… Albright?” she tried.

“Ah, caked, course!” the curator had a long nobbly finger in the air, “Albright wouldn’t hazily meet with strangers, but I’ll recky out a neat word for you and smile you’re my clippers from back back.”

“… Thanks.”

“What,” he replied with a smile.

“I said-,” Lydia began.

“-Yes, what! What indeed, Jocasta,” Gabriel cut in before they went down that rabbit hole again.

The curator gave them a curious but amicable look, as if he didn’t quite get the joke but was sure they were trying to include him anyway. He waved for them to follow.

The gentleman marched them all the way up to the third floor, chatting pleasantly along the way about food, glisteners, kayaks, tapers, the have-muchers and the tail-biters. Lydia tried to make appropriately enthusiastic sounds whenever there was a pause, and added a ‘tidy’ or two whenever it was clear a response was required.

Luckily, the curator was quite fond of his own voice.

When they reached Albright’s office, their guide knocked politely for them, gave them a quick introduction through the closed door, and then said a kind but bitter-sweet farewell. He hugged them each in turn before departing - Apparently they had really bonded on their way up the stairs; Lydia and Gabriel weren’t even sure if he’d given them his name.

With a mutual shrug, the mercenary pair opened the door to Albright’s office and let themselves in.

Lance Albright was busy adding his seal to an envelope when they entered. He motioned for them to sit as the last few drops of ruby wax pooled on the folded parchment. He removed a signet ring and left an indentation of his family crest - a winged creature soaring over flames - in the rapidly cooling blot.

Lance looked at the letter for a time after the seal had hardened. The middle-aged noble rubbed his perfectly bald head and squeezed the nostrils of his aquiline nose as if, even now, he were reviewing the contents of the letter. It was some time before he looked up and acknowledged his guests, a thin smile appearing above a beard that grew exclusively from his chin and neck, without so much as a bristle to sully his soft cheeks and pale upper-lip.

“My apologies, I wasn’t expecting company. Please make yourselves comfortable,” Lance said as he deposited the letter on one side and walked to a low drink’s cabinet, where he poured three thimble-sized tots of a dark, molasses-like liqueur, “to your health,” he explained as he set the glasses before his guests.

“Thank you,” the mercenaries responded in turn, reflexively waiting for him to drink before they did.

The liquor was somehow astringent and still much too sweet. It reminded Gabriel of over-ripe cherries dipped in vinegar.

“Welcome to The Albright Establishment of Antiques and Exotic Curiosities. How might I be of service?” he intoned.

Lydia almost forgot that it was her cue to speak, “Oh, ah, I’m a jeweler. I’m looking for jewels. Nice, um, big ones. For new rich people… I’m from Jorna,” she said.

Gabriel’s body rattled with exasperation that could find no outlet.

“Is that so? Jewels you say. Odd coincidence. I don’t normally deal in them. Normally, that is. What did you say your name was?” he probed.

“Jocasta. Joc-,” Lydia’s voice cracked a little, “Jocasta from Jorna.”

“Of course. And you are, sir?” he shifted his eyes to Gabriel, who was staring sullenly at the floor.

This time Gabriel did sigh, “I’m the bodyguard.”

“Hmm, I rather thought you’d have done it the other way around.”

“Yeah, that’s what I told him,” Lydia agreed.

“Hang on,” Gabriel held out a hand to shush his colleague, “What did you just say?”

“I said, ‘I rather thought you’d have done it the other way around’, Gabriel,” Lance smiled, far broader than before. He poured himself another drink, “That is who you are, yes? Gabriel and Lydia, all the way from Gladstone. My, my, I am honoured. You’re not here for me though, are you? You are her for Vagalad’s jewels. I wonder where the rest of your friends are,” he mused out loud.

“How do you know all this?” Gabriel asked.

“How do you think? A runner arrived this morning promising me that a certain mutual acquaintance had an offer for me that I dare not refuse. When I prudently accepted, I was given a document with five, rather accurate, descriptions,” he sipped the liqueur, “and a warning.”

Gabriel and Lydia gave no indication of comprehension.

Lance looked disappointed that they weren’t keen on joining his guessing game, “Screamer, dear friends, Screamer. He sold you out. His price was steep, to be sure, but he furnished me with information on the lot of you, along with evidence to implicate you in crimes so heinous that they will see you working a pick-axe until the day you expire.”

Gabriel slapped his forehead and Lydia gripped the arm of the chair so tightly that the wood almost splintered.

“That son of a bitch,” Gabriel seethed.

“Oh, don’t look so hurt. Honestly, what did you expect? There is no honour among thieves.”

“So, what now?” Gabriel asked.

“Well, for me, a few whiskies and an early night, I should imagine. For you? I haven’t the foggiest. I’ll leave that up to the imagination of my security team,” Lance grinned, and reached out to a thick rope next to his drinks cabinet that ran from the ceiling straight through the floor, “I do hope it doesn’t mess up my carpet though.”