Empirial Advisor Benjamin Godash sat in one of the lavish studies on the Heavenly Palace's ground floor, sipping at a snifter of finely aged scotch and reviewing documents brought to his desk over the course of several days. The one he was turning to now had been much-awaited, sent by his spy in Prince Nurik's employ.
It had been only two years after his successful elimination of Luther Entem when Godash was nominated for a vacancy in the Emperor's advisory cabinet. Using information he had gathered on all of the other advisors over the course of many years, he swiftly gained their support through blackmail, and the Emperor welcomed him aboard in record time.
He was now the third-ranked advisor, a title which afforded him luxury and privileges beyond most men's wildest ambitions. Yet he never forgot the last words Luther Entem spoke to him, promising that some day, his mutant offspring would undo him.
Reading the report brought Godash's mood down some. His spy had not been able to complete the task of killing Cassandra Entem, who had recovered from her poisoning against the odds. Nobody at the prince's estate suspected anything; his man on the inside had been careful to delay the on-staff doctor from seeing her until the toxin had run its course in full and passed out of her system.
Godash swigged his scotch and grimaced, wholly unsatisfied. Yet he was only through a fraction of the report, and he had to know what else was going on, particularly given the meeting between Prince Nurik and Prince Tangerine of Mushroom Kingdom.
His spy had overheard Ms. Laypa, the headmistress of staff, relaying what some pirana plants had told her regarding a pleasant and 'beyond-their-age' conversation between Princess Peach and a boy living in the castle, one Bowser Entem. Godash read through the transcript of the dialogue, and found himself stunned by the young mutant's eloquence. He'd seen recent photos of Bowser, and had written him off as a probable brute with little intelligence. He seemed to be quite wrong on that score.
But the meeting between Nurik and Tangerine had not gone well at all, almost devolving into swordplay. Prince Tangerine's reputation among koopas was well-deserved, as he frequently threatened Nurik and his advisors with open warfare along the national border.
Godash set the report aside after reading its conclusion. "And thus a Cold War begins," he said to himself. "How best to take advantage of this?" His spy could risk no move yet; the prince's captain o'the guard, Edward Meechum, was said to be an extremely astute man. Yet, that could be played to his advantage, Godash realized.
Swiftly he was on his feet, seeking out a messenger. Like any good politician, Benjamin Godash had favors he could now call in.
Cassandra Entem smiled and shook her head, as ever confounded yet amused by her son's behavior. It was a Saturday, the start of the weekend, and instead of running around the castle's courtyard or hallways or the royal preserve just south of the castle with his friends, Bowser managed to get his mother to take him to the Office of Properties located in the village proper. He now sat with her in the waiting room, a pad of paper and pencils held eagerly in his lap.
Cass had been surprised by Bowser's request to the clerk. He wanted to see his father Luther's registered blueprints under any category, so that he could make himself copies. Luther Entem had been a brilliant builder, and his designs could be seen everywhere in the Empire. Unfortunately, as a green tribe, he often lost out on the honor of being credited with them in the broader public. Yet even designs posted as the work of others required original master copies be filed on record, and these always bore the original builders' names.
When the clerk finally returned, a mouser in slacks and button shirt not much different from Dr. Tish, he held about a dozen rolled up tubes in his arms. "Here we go, son," said the clerk, gently setting them all down. "This is all I could find."
"It's plenty, thank you," said Bowser greatfully. "Help me open one up, mom?" Together they removed and unrolled the first one on a long table in an unused conference room down the hall, pinning it down with knickknacks from around the room. Bowser saw before him the design blueprints for a new kind of kart, one that ran entirely on Power Mushroom oil instead of Fire Flower extracts. He reproduced his father's notes and a basic copy of the design in his notepad.
Several more blueprints later, he and his mother came across one that gave them both pause as they looked at it. Before them now lay the dungeon blueprint for Prince Nurik's castle, as it had been originally designed. Cass put one arm around her boy's shoulders, mindful of his shell spikes.
"Oh Bowser, I'm sorry," she said wistfully. "I know you still miss your father."
"I know you do too, mom," he said softly. "It isn't as bad as it used to be for me. That doesn't seem right."
"Well, dear, you only knew him a couple of years," said Cass, sniffling. "It's natural that you'll get over his loss more quickly than me." Bowser nodded, his eyes slowly roaming over the lines, curves, and angles his father had so meticulously mapped out. This had been a project to be proud of, Bowser knew that at first glance. He didn't understand all of the math involved in putting together this layout, but he knew instinctively that his father's work was inspired.
After a minute of observation, he also spotted a glaring error, or what he assumed must have been one. He saw no notes written at the spot that stood out to him, so he had to assume his father simply had forgotten to mark the change on his blueprint.
Cass knew her son well enough to notice something was bothering him. "Bowser? What's the matter, sweetheart?"
"It's not a big deal, mom," Bowser said nonchalantly. "Dad must've just missed it."
"Missed what?" Now she was looking hard at the blueprint.
"Well, I remember you telling me that the workmen didn't have to carry the thwomp that killed dad but a few yards to a bridge over a lava pit to throw it in," Bowser said. "But there's no location slot marked out for a thwomp here," he said, pointing to the precise location on the dungeon blueprint where his father had been crushed to death.
Cass looked at the blueprint, carefully studying it. "Well, it's entirely possible that your father just did a whole re-draw, and the amended version is in another tube." Bowser hadn't thought about that, so they continued looking through all of the other blueprints. When they found no other dungeon layouts, Bowser rolled the dungeon map up and tucked it in its tube. He and his mother shared a knowing look, one filled with a combination of dread and anger.
"Bowser," said Cassandra, her voice dry, husked out. "What are you thinking?"
"The same thing you are, mom. Father was murdered." And she couldn't deny that she was thinking the same thing.
Bowser sat on his bed later that evening, the tube on the covers behind him. His mother had been willing to pay the four coin required to have a duplicate made for him of the dungeon his father had designed, and now that he had it, he couldn't bring himself to look at it again.
The other three boys had sensed his mood and left him be, and now they each snored softly in the darkened dormitory-style bedroom they all shared, cozy in their four poster beds. They were his brothers all, though they didn't share parents. Parentage, he often thought, does not determine the guidelines of who one's brothers and sisters are. Friendship is a bond that forms by different forces, ones that pay no mind to lineage and bloodline. A man's social rank at birth does not of necessity determine who he will befriend, and thank the gods for that; were it not so, the world would be a poorer place.
The soft sussurations of his friends gave Bowser a small measure of peace, though not close to enough to drown out his internal fury. His mind drifted afloat in a tempest on an unnamed boat, the waters of thoughtless anger and violence crashing and spraying over the deck. Yet he kept the ship true, on course, with a burst of willpower and clenching his hands so hard in his lap that the claws poked bloody droplets from his palms.
Who wanted you dead, father? He dare not ask the question aloud. Bright as he was, even Bowser had his superstitious beliefs, and one was that if he asked a question aloud of a shade or spirit, it would come forth to answer. He couldn't handle that if it were to happen, so he kept his own council and tried to lay down to catch some rest.
In the darkness of the shared bedroom, Bowser steeled himself to the idea that he may have to do some awful things in the name of vengeance.
Godash spotted the bright green pipe jutting from the ground marked with a black 'X' in spray paint, and quickly climbed up it, lowering himself through the warp pipe. With an ear-splitting 'WHOOP-WHOOP-WHOOP' he dropped a few inches from the outlet onto a floating brick platform, to which was attached a rope ladder. He sighed, descending carefully toward the bottom of a plain chamber of blue brick.
Seated at a folding card table with an oil lamp burning and a game of solitaire laid out was a toadstool man in a fine beige suit and red silk tie. His face was that of an average toadstool, except for a long cut scar from his left ear across to his nose. A briefcase sat upright by his left leg, and as Godash approached, he paused in laying down a card, checking his watch.
"You're ten minutes late," said the toadstool. "My time is valuable."
"I know this, Ardin," said Godash. He seated himself across from the man he called Ardin, a cold, businessman's smile creasing his mouth, forming age lines along his cheeks. "Which is why I'm cashing in my favor." The toadstool dropped down his card and sagged a little, sighed.
"I was hoping you'd forgotten," he muttered.
"Goodness no, Ardin. Ben Godash doesn't forget who owes him favors or who he owes them to. Now, you aware of the current political climate along the eastern borderlands, yes?"
"A Cold War, yes," said Ardin. "Why?"
"It's about to heat up."
The following day saw Moxy, Doko and Trim once again taking to the royal preserve to play in the woods, while Bowser made his way all the way to the quartermaster's building at the west end of the castle grounds. It wasn't any kind of trek, really, but none of the young ones had any business there unless they wanted practice swords and shields to play games outdoors.
Prince Nurik's quartermaster was a middle-aged human fellow named Kilbourne, a fiery red-headed, red-bearded ogre of a man whose speech was inflected such that he sometimes became difficult to understand. Bowser had only spoken with him a few times since he and his mother were invited to live in the castle with Prince Nurik, but he'd found the burly man kind-hearted despite his brutish appearance.
As Bowser entered the warehouse-like building, he spotted Kilbourne seated at his desk, squeezed in like a giant in a child's furniture. He cleared his throat to announce himself, bringing Kilbourne's attention round from his morning beans and toast.
"Ach, ye wee scrobbit, why 'ee come knock me up wi' business 'fore me day rolls on, eh," asked Kilbourne. Bowser found himself mentally translating before he could respond: Hey, you little bastard, why're you waking me up to business before my work day has begun?
"I've come in search of some old records," Bowser said evenly. "Specifically, shipping orders from the dungeon renovation, when the trap materials arrived." Kilbourne took a bite of toast and chuckled, easing back in his chair, which protested this action with a 'screeee!'.
"Ye're very specific, an 'ats ups, lad. Back room, blue cabinets, second drawer down," the big man replied. "Whole works uz a crap shoot few year back. Then Holson come in, squares it all in a jiff!"
"I'm sorry, who's Holson?"
"Oh, red tribe fellah, goomba caste fer a few years. Fell on 'ard love wi' the bottle after what happened ter yer pa, blamed 'isself fer not bein' at work that day to watch out fer Luther." Kilbourne shoveled some beans into his mouth, the sauce splattering into his beard. He chewed a few times, slowly, seeming to contemplate what more he should tell Bowser. "He lives in the village attached to this'n 'ere castle, son, if that helps."
"It does," said Bowser coldly. "Thank you, sir." As the oversized koopa left the warehouse, Kilbourne thought, that boy shall grow up to be a menace. Good thing he likes me.
Ardin rode his horse along at measured pace, his costume protecting him from an unexpected breeze at his back. The trek north and west had been quite chilly, but now that he was disguised and riding with the wind out of the north at his back, he felt much more comfortable.
When Godash had given him his instructions, Ardin had at first balked. The task Godash wanted done in the long run was simple enough to accomplish, but the setup and preparation would be gruelling, putting him in a hunker-down position for a little over a month. In that time, Godash warned him, there would be a lot of panic around the borderlands.
The koopa politician hadn't revealed much of his grand scheme, but Ardin suspected that the end results would be catastrophic in scope. Godash didn't do anything small; he had, after all, sent his own unit of specially selected skirmishers into the Tagal Swamps in order to attack a unit of toadstool soldiers. He had initiated hostilities, but no one would trace it back to him. Ardin only knew because the koopa had told him as much.
He knew it wasn't a bluff.
The village became faintly visible some six miles out. Ardin brought his mount to a halt, taking a moment to check his gear. When he was satisfied that all was as it should be, he continued on. The prosthetic fangs and ears had become irritating, but Ardin was a consummate professional. He would wait until he had a secure room to change in before addressing the problem. Even out in the flatlands, one never knew who might be watching.
His caution proved useful as several lakitus floated past overhead on their nimbus clouds. They didn't appear to be armed, but he recognized patrol patterns they wove in the sky. He knew they had marked him, and what they thought they saw- a hobgoblin come to Gora Empire from Hyrule Kingdom, likely driven out by the King's Outer Guard. This would not be an uncommon sight with all of the trouble being caused there by a shadowy warlock named Gannondorf.
His disguise would hold up to even close scrutiny, enhanced by the application of the same mysterious oil that allowed Tanooki Suits to take the form of a stone statue. If anyone other than Ardin himself tried to remove or tug at any part of the costume, it would behave and react like his own skin.
He expected guards to approach before reaching the village, but there came none. He spotted them as he dismounted to walk his beast into the town proper, two koopas with slightly oblong red shells. That's right, mutants. The Seventh is all bottom caste except for Prince Nurik and his attendants. Ardin led his mount to a stables along the village main street, and paid for a month's care with sixty coin, readily given. When the stablemaster stared wide-eyed at the money, Ardin quickly remembered Gora Empire's financial state.
He quickly moved off down street to a boarding house, where he paid for a room for just one week. He would renew in a week's time, but people would talk about a hobgoblin blowing into town and dropping that kind of coin if he'd paid for the month outright at the dumpy little house. The stables weren't such a big surprise, however, not for a resident of Hyrule. Even hobgolins there took care of their horses.
The boarding house caretaker, called 'hens' by some, gave him a suspicious once-over before she brought him the register to sign in on. A yellow shell woman, she too was mutated, a third eye blinking rapidly at him from her throat. Ardin signed 'James Maybrick' in the register, and paid for his lodging.
The room he was shown to could have driven moderately happy men to thoughts of suicide, if given time and nowhere to go. The walls stood sentinel in half-rotted wallpaper covering dark wood panelling. It smelled like someone had set fire to the room, doused the flames, and opened the lone window and door to let everything air dry, no attempt at remodeling following. The atmosphere clung oily and damp upon the skin, but he made no comment, only lugged his bags to the foot of the military-style cot and deposited them roughly.
Ardin turned to face the hen and grunted at her wordlessly. She shut the door on him, leaving the disguised toadstool in quiet solitude. He took a seat at the room's only bit of furniture aside from the bed, a small writing desk with a vanity mirror mounted at the back. In one of the drawers he discovered a steno pad missing several pages, some pens, and what he learned with a single whiff was a flask containing a few dribbles of some potent drink.
A look at the ceiling above revealed a pair of crossing support beams, one with a narrow faded strip. That's where the rope went, he thought dismally. Tremendous. Ardin started unpacking his costume-associated clothes after locking the door, opening the narrow closet, which held a rickety dresser at its back. He had everything put away and hung up, and still had two drawers to spare in the dresser. His powders, weapons and alchemical mixing equipment went into these, covered with a few shirts to keep the casual eye from seeing anything should he be away from the room.
He now had only to wait. One of the few items remaining in his bag came out, and Ardin sat down on his rented bed, opening the book and settling in. He had been looking forward to reading this novel, and decided the time had come to indulge.
The book was called 'The Shadows Followed', a fiction title described as 'showing an assassin's average month'. He found the notion perfectly fitting.