Author’s Note: For my regular readers, you may notice that some of my older posts are going behind a paywall, starting with “The Big Tour”, it’s first three chapters already now available only to paid subscribers and those who I have comped for a year. Eventually, some of the offerings will be behind the same paywall, but there will also be places to purchase the entire works in electronic format. More news on that will be coming down the road.
Bruce woke up, peered over at the clock as he turned off the alarm, and grunted. "Ah, right," he said to himself. "No job to report for." Sitting up on the edge of his narrow bed, he turned on the bedside lamp, flinching as the light stabbed his eyes. It had been years since he'd taken a break or vacation, aside from the days he'd spent transitioning from the ruins of his life in Harip to living in Bronze Pot. That had only been three years ago, and should have been easily remembered, but between the trauma at the time and his age, resuming a routine of 'patrol, observe, and report', it made sense to the retired constable.
Shuffling to the bathroom, he donned a heavy black bathrobe covered in a pattern of pine trees here and there, used the commode, and brushed his teeth. This part of his daily habits remained the same, heedless of what he had planned for the day ahead. There had been few exceptions throughout his adult life. He took a moment to consider the long-worn frown lines around his mouth in the mirror, the dark, tired eyes. Even if he had a good night's sleep, no stressful reports or assignments to tend to, and plenty of coffee, Bruce Swinton would look tired. It had been that way since Helen-
"Don't," he groused at himself. "Nothing good down that road," he added. He studiously took up his razor, lathering up his cheeks, keeping locked away the memory of his young wife, lying on the birthing bed, their stillborn child clutched to her chest as her own life ebbed away. The midwives could do nothing, and no healer was close enough to help. He had only been an officer of the law for three years, married only two, when his world had fallen apart. Since that day, he had focused on just one thing; doing his duty, keeping the order.
Dressing in a simple pair of black denim trousers, a beige tunic shirt and a dark blue windbreaker, Bruce headed out of his humble little cottage on the south end of town, locking up before making his way toward the town's small library. Doubling as a messenger service for those without access to magical means of communication, Bronze Pot's library saw a fair amount of patronage from the townsfolk. There were only a handful of mages in all the town, so if someone wasn't looking for books to borrow, they invariably came to see Cernok.
Cernok was a member of the rare frogrip race, toad-like humanoids that had begun emigrating to the continent of Tamalaria from Tallowmere, far south across the Blue Divide, some one hundred years earlier. Bruce had learned from Cernok that his peoples had been largely hunted to near-extinction in Tallowmere by trokes, vile and dangerous shapeshifting monsters known on both continents as some of the most dangerous creatures known to mortalkind. Apparently, they found the frogrip peoples intensely nutritious to devour.
Cernok was masterful in handling and communicating with animals, particularly with birds. As such, he was solely responsible for most messenger birds sent from or coming to the township of Bronze Pot. As Bruce strode into the library, he spotted the crimson-robed frogrip by the northeast corner, where stood a large cage populated by a dozen or so sleek ravens and carrier pigeons. How the man managed to keep the black birds from killing their smaller brethren and devouring them, the retired constable knew not.
He cleared his throat loudly as he approached, soas not to spook the much smaller fellow. "Cernok, a good morning to you," Bruce said, inclining his head slightly as the bug-eyed frogrip turned to smile up at him, his thin, amphibian lips quivering loosely.
"Ah, and a good morning to you as well, Officer Swinton," said Cernok. He flinched, grimacing. "Oh, right, sorry, you're retired now. My apologies."
"Don't fret about it, Cernok. Any response yet to my bird?"
"Not as yet, no. But you must remember, birds need rest too. If they intend to send the same bird with a return missive, they'll keep it there until it can fly back." Bruce made a 'mmm' sound, nodding to himself. "Will you be around town throughout the day?"
"No plans to head anywhere, so I suppose so."
"If your bird comes through before I head home, I can arrange a runner to bring it to you."
"Please do," said Bruce, turning his attention toward the many shelves of books for loan. "For now, I think a good story or two will suit me." He sauntered off into the shelves, wondering what he might need if and when his little group did leave town.
**
Azira poured himself a cup of coffee, eyeballing the binder on his small kitchen table. Within was a current report, updated less than three months earlier, regarding Ko's protection service. The binder wasn't thick at all, but the goblin skirmisher would take any information he could get his hands on. But not until I wake up, he thought, sipping the java. I'll miss something elsewise. He moved himself out to his living room, easing down into his lone recliner and reaching over to turn on the power to the small radio he'd purchased shortly after moving in. It had cost him half a month's wages, but he'd come to appreciate the usefulness of the technology.
The voice of Amos Windstrom, a gnome newsman who shared the goings-on of the Kingdom of Graneck, came crackling through the radio's hand-width speaker. "-another example of how the neighboring city-state of Ja-Wen is far less unified as a nation than most folks from outside of their country might suppose. It isn't, in principle, however, much different than things are run here, in our beautiful Kingdom of Graneck. The key point that separates these council meetings is their frequency and the method of making final decisions. In Ja-Wen, these governors meet in the capital once a month for three days to discuss current affairs and hold a democratic vote on various proposed laws. Here, mayors meet with His Majesty the King twice a year, offer their proposals, and King Trayech says 'yea' or 'nay' to each."
Azira continued listening to Windstrom's program for long enough to feel more awake and alert, drinking two cups of coffee before turning the radio off and fetching a third cup and the binder. The Freelancers' Guild of Tamalaria, with branch halls established in nearly every territory, had a far broader reach across the realms of Tamalaria than any nation possessed. Beholden to no king, council, prime minister or emperor, its members were freer to operate than any constable or agent whose allegiance was owed to an established government.
"What do we have here," Azira muttered to himself, starting to read the report's opening page. It appeared to be an overview breakdown of Ko's outfit, incorporated as Ko Protection Professionals. The organization was estimated to employ twenty-three people, all named in two neat little columns. On the bottom of the front page, a brief summary of their services had been written up by someone in the Freelancers' Guild.
'What most people are looking for when employing an organization like this one is a short-to-mid-term bodyguard, one who will not ask a lot of personal questions or move to interfere in the day to day operations of the client. This has the unfortunate side effect, in many cases, of resulting in a reputation for associating with ne'er-do-wells of all stripes. Where Ko Protection Professionals seems to set itself apart, however, is that they apparently research their potential clients prior to confirming any contract for service; they will turn down potential clientele if they aren't on the level.'
Azira grunted, corners of his mouth pulling down. He'd hoped that perhaps a guilt by association angle could be employed to hurt Ko's outfit, but that wouldn't apparently do. If he tried to reach out to hire them for a stint, they would likely not even 4return contact. "But I don't have to be the one to do the hiring," he said, taking a pen from his lamp stand and jotting in the margin, 'Bruce Contract?' He flipped the page and read on.
Ko Protection's highest-profile clients were listed atop the next page, along with what they were known for and where they were based out of. Most of the clients were from and in the city-state of Ja-Wen, which made sense, but there were also a couple of regional lords in the Fiefdom of Lemago named, as well as the Palen Ambassador to the Elven Kingdom. Everything appeared to be solid there, so he moved on, flipping the page. Azira quickly skipped on, since the third page in the binder appeared to be a financial report for taxation records.
The remainder of the binder was largely testimonials from clients, which Azira only skimmed over. The last part, however, was entitled 'The Guild's Assessment: Headmaster Thomason, Ja-Wen Branch'. This, Azira took the time to read through.
'Ko Protection Professionals seems to operate on a simple principle- take sure money jobs, avoid anyone with even a whiff of a bad background, and don't stick with any client too long. Of particular interest is one of their operators, Travis Wolke, a human man who claims to come from another world. Wolke has been witnessed by members of this guildhall in combat, and they have all made note of his unique, utterly unconventional style. His spoken language is the common tongue, but it is said that a great many of his terms are alien to the ear, and even his accent and tone are vastly different from other known humans in Tamalaria.
Beyond this operator, another facet of the company should be noted, because it could come back and bite Ko and his people in the ass; operatives do not have any kind of badge, uniform, or signifier to mark them uniquely as members of Ko Protective Professionals. This is, I suspect, due to the fluid nature of employ in the organization; in just two years of operation, no less than twenty operators have joined, worked for, and left the outfit. Of those twenty, six have worked again for Ko briefly, then left again. It seems more like a loose affiliation than a solid, established organization. In this regard, Ko Protection Professionals seems more akin to The Unified Bounty Hunters' Association than to a proper guild or company.'
Azira set the binder aside, fetching himself the last of his coffee, musing over Thomason's final page summary. Steve came skittering out of the bedroom in the back of the condo finally, looking bleary-eyed, even for a rat. "Why'd you let me sleep so long," he asked the goblin skirmisher.
"I have no idea how long rats sleep on average per day," Azira replied. "Wasn't sure if I'd be fucking up your rhythm."
"Well, done is done," said Steve. "Water? Or if you've got any kind of sugary juices on hand?" Azira hopped up out of the chair and led the way into the kitchen, pouring some orange juice into a saucer he'd purchased when he thought he might be getting a dog. Steve took an experimental lap at it, his tongue flapping into the dish in a frenzy right after. After a few moments, however, he suddenly sneezed, snorted, and shook his head violently, whiskers flapping juice everywhere.
"What the shit," Azira yelped, wiping at his eye, where a droplet had landed.
"There's chunks in it!"
"That's called pulp, you philistine!" Azira snatched up the saucer and put it in the sink, rummaging about underneath and coming up with another saucer and a sifter. He poured the juice through it into the second saucer, setting the strained juice back down for the rat. "You know, you're pretty picky for a rodent. I've seen your kind eating literal trash." Steve looked up, one eyebrow raised, eyes half-lidded, then returned to drinking. "Anyway, when you're finished, you should have a read over that binder out in the living room, see if you can come up with any ideas."
It was roughly an hour later when, finished with the Freelancers' report, Steve cleared his throat to get the goblin's attention. Azira had started reading one of his many military histories when the rat started in on the report, and he looked up from it after setting his bookmark. "It would seem these guys would be tough to tackle head-on," said Steve.
"That's what I thought too," Azira said.
"And I doubt even Bruce could pass as a potential client," Steve added.
"Why's that?" Azira set his book aside now, leaning forward a little to look Steve in the eyes, the rodent sitting in the middle of the living room on his haunches, the binder open before him.
"Well, let's consider what we know about Bruce. Retired constable, no wife or kids, possibly no family to speak of. Originally from the one town in all of the Kingdom to be completely obliterated during the Pel Droma Crisis. No known business affiliates or interests outside of Bronze Pot, so why would he need to go anywhere? Too many red flags or unknowns, so I think they'd reject him as a client."
Azira goggled at the rat, feeling stupid. Why hadn't he thought of any of that? "O-kay, so, what does that leave us with? Melissa has personal ties to Ressling, and I'm a goblin of Clan Batang. I doubt they'd sign on for a talking rat either, no offense."
"None taken," said Steve. "But there is an angle to be worked here, somewhere. We just gotta figure out what it is," said Steve. With an effort and a few grunts, he flipped the pages in the binder back to the front. "Let's take another crack at this."