Keith's eyes darted around Skinner's kitchen, taking in the controlled chaos that defined the place. Pots clanged, steam hissed from all directions, and a symphony of chopping, sizzling, and hurried footsteps filled the air, blending into a kind of frenetic music only a kitchen could produce. The counters were crammed with fresh vegetables, cuts of meat, jars of exotic spices, and bottles of cooking oils. Each station had a focused worker furiously dicing, stirring, or plating as orders came flying in from the front, each chef barking commands in rapid succession to keep up with the flow.
Skinner himself stood in the middle of it all, directing his team with authority and speed that commanded attention: a complete opposite of the oily people-pleaser everyone spoke of during Keith and company's investigations. He moved through the kitchen like a storm, stopping only to inspect a dish, toss in a last-minute spice, or scold someone for moving too slowly. His scowl seemed permanent, but Keith could tell there was a satisfaction there, too—a kind of thrill in the high-energy demands of the work.
As Keith glanced at his reflection in a gleaming pot, he noticed the crooked way his chef's hat sat on his head, but there was no time to adjust it. "Right, then. Let's get crackin'," he muttered, rolling up his sleeves and readying himself for the chaos. Skinner appeared at his side, wordlessly handing him a tiny vial.
"Take it. Energy tonic," Skinner grunted, giving Keith an expectant look. "Can't have you slowing down in my kitchen."
Keith raised an eyebrow, eyeing the black liquid contained in the vial for a second before downed the tonic in one gulp, wincing at the strange, salty flavour. However, there was feeling a quick, sharp buzz of energy course through him almost instantly. As the pace of the kitchen escalated, Keith joined the rhythm, chopping vegetables, flipping pans, and tossing ingredients in time with the demands of the menu.
Orders continued to pour in, each dish moving along the assembly line with efficiency and precision. Keith's hands moved on their own as he worked, swept up in the relentless momentum of the kitchen. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered what kind of operation was really happening beyond the steam and spices, but he couldn't find the time to even think about it as he was caught adrift in the maelstrom of activity. The hours stretched on, and the kitchen seemed to transform into a symphony of motion, each worker moving with precision and relentless energy. Customers poured into the restaurant, eager for the chef's famed dishes, and Keith, alongside the rest of the staff, worked like a cog in a well-oiled machine. Breakfast blended into lunch, lunch into dinner, without so much as a pause.
Occasionally, Keith would glance at the clock. "Blimey, no breaks yet?" he'd mutter to himself. But the thought never lingered. His limbs felt fresh, his mind sharp. "Well, not much of a deal," he'd shrug, ignoring the weariness that threatened to creep in. The tonic always came to the rescue.
Even shift changes became a thing of the past as some of the workers would forget to leave, staying on until closing. Keith was no different. The few moments he spent at home were fleeting: a quick collapse into bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow, only to wake, tired and groggy, but once more energized after a swig of Skinner's magic tonic. He was so caught up in his work, he had entirely forgotten about his life beyond work, much less his other purpose working at Skinner's: discreetly poke around the place to seek out the chef's dirty laundry, and he hadn't even spoken much with Nathan and Harald outside of the precious few moments they caught him trudging back from work, looking just a minute shy from sleeping on his feet before they lead him straight to bed
Nathan and Harald noticed Keith's strange behaviour, and they decided to talk about it one evening as they walked down Dunsgoil's noisy, busy streets. Nathan's voice cut through the din of the streets as he said, "This business with Skinner's restaurant is rather troubling, wouldn't you say? We never see him from dawn to dusk, and whenever we do, he'd be about a second or two away before fainting on the spot. And he said that a swig of the tonic Skinner gave him always helped him get back on his feet the next morning?"
Harald responded with a thoughtful nod. "This reeks of a rat. Our comrade has been, how should I say it…bewitched, enthralled by this ceaseless culinary enterprise. And the bit about the tonic made me recall some things…"
"What things?" Nathan asked.
Harald took a bite from a pasty he just bought from a vendor. "I've read entries in the Dunsgoil Hall archives and talked with some scholars concerning Rossland's recent history. From what I've gleaned, incidents involving illegal mind-altering substances were on the rise in the counties south of Londinium for the past few years."
Nathan frowned. "Mind-altering substances… Do you mean like the Dream Amber?"
"And others like it, ja. I'm surprised you knew about it" said Harald. He took another bite before his face contorted with disgust, before tossing his pasty to a dog nearby. "The beef tasted like it's three days old," he explained when Nathan gave him a surprised look.
"Well, I've seen freelancers smoke them every now and then during the times I've visited Lyonsmeade over the years. Helped take the edge off after doing risky jobs if the mead wasn't enough, they said." Nathan's face turned grim as he resumed. "Some of them ended up at the back alleys and the forest areas, letting themselves waste away with every whiff of the Amber."
"Ah, Sucht…" Harald noted, nodding sagely. "Too much of a good thing can ruin any of us."
"Do you suppose the tonic Keith drank is anything like that? The Dream Amber, I mean," Nathan wondered.
Harald scratched his chin for a bit before he answered, "I'm not sure. The effects of those two substances couldn't be any more different. The Dream Amber nulls the senses, while Keith's tonic galvanises him for a whole day before fatigue rears in with great vengeance once it wears off." Harald's eyes darkened before he continued, "In any case, this Skinner seems to wield more than just culinary prowess. Something sinister lurks beneath those charming pleasantries." Then, Harald slumped as he let out a long sigh. "But then again, we can't make any moves on only suppositions. I would rather not end up jumping to the wrong conclusions."
"The only lead we have for now is Keith, and he's getting harder to pin down even for a chat lately. He could barely talk when we saw him just now," Nathan stated evenly. "I just hope we can get to him before anything happens."
In the meantime, Keith was blissfully heedless of his friends' worries as he slept the day's fatigue away on his bed. In his dreams, there were whispers, just beyond the edge of his mind.
"Get the job done... keep working... nothing else matters."
And Keith would obey. The whispers continued to dominate his dreams, its command holding his mind firmly in its grip as he would go for another day in the kitchen hours later.
... … … … …
Next morning, Nathan found himself sitting alone in the workshop designated for the locksmithing course. The smell of oiled metal and the quiet hum of the school's halls filled the air. According to the receptionist, he was the only participant this term, and the empty rows of benches and tools seemed to confirm it. He leaned back in his chair, wondering how the course would proceed with just one student, when the door creaked open.
A familiar figure strode in: a tall man with a neatly trimmed beard and sharp eyes. It was Mr. Lockson. The moment he saw Nathan, a smile cracked across his face. "Well, well," Mr. Lockson said, crossing the room with a purposeful stride. "Mr. Festivus, I presume?"
Nathan smiled politely and stood, shaking Mr. Lockson's hand. "The pleasure's mine, Mr. Lockson. I…half-expected to run into you here, honestly. I don't see many locksmiths around town."
Mr. Lockson chuckled. "So, what would pique the interest of an honest adventurer like you to the quiet art of locks?"
Nathan couldn't help but raise his eyebrows, curious at Lockson's phrasing. "I'm sorry, sir?"
"I used to be a freelancer, just like you," said Mr. Lockson with a sly twinkle in his eyes. "In my day, the only kinds of freelancers who went through the trouble learning about locksmithing were either planning to open a locksmithing business after retiring, or they lived on the wrong side of the law." He paused for a moment, cleaning his glasses with a nonchalant air. "I admit, I was part of the latter for a good while. Intimate knowledge of locks and the skills to discreetly unmake them are highly prized among certain clientele. The risks in those kinds of jobs were high, but so were the rewards. I'm sure any enterprising freelancer would feel tempted to…take a walk in the dark for extra pay."
Nathan gazed intently at Mr. Lockson, unsure of what to feel about the man and everything he had just said. The locksmith eyed the freelancer in turn, sizing him up as he continued. "What you do with what I teach is ultimately your responsibility and is no concern of mine. But I ask that you always remember the weight of the consequences of your actions. Call me dramatic if you wish, but even something as seemingly banal as picking locks could lead to great results, both wonderful and terrible. I've learned that lesson firsthand, and it's part of the reason I stepped back into the light, so to speak." Mr. Lockson took a moment to pause, seemingly in reverie while he nursed his left hand, which Nathan noticed that the ring finger was missing. The locksmith then said, "So I'll ask you again, Mr. Festivus. What piqued your interest in locksmithing?"
Settling back into his chair, Nathan spoke with a hint of introspection after spending a moment digesting Lockson's lecture. "It's primarily out of my need to prepare, sir. I mean, one of these days, I might find myself being chained in a bandit's lair, and I could seriously learn some way to break free before they have their ways with me."
"Interesting…" Mr. Lockson replied.
"But more than that, it's to quell my frustration." Nathan took another moment to think, coming up with an excuse skirted around the topic of Skinner's abandoned restaurant, "In one of my jobs, I've stumbled on a certain lock on a door. Since neither I nor my friend knew anything about picking locks, we tried opening it the old-fashioned way. Unfortunately, the lock proved too strong for any of us to break, and we were forced to give up and go on our way."
The lock of the cellar door was clear in Nathan's mind. He still remembered the chagrin of being unable to open it, as he resumed. "The thought of that locked door I had to abandon kept gnawing at me for some time now. I wanted to open the lock. I wanted to see what's beyond that door. If I had the chance, I would use what I've learned here to go right back and undo that sturdy lock at last. And who knows? Maybe I could become a full-fledged locksmith myself when I'm done adventuring," Nathan ended sheepishly.
Mr. Lockson smiled. "Frustration driven by the joy of discovery, eh?" A moment of silence passed before he resumed. "Many a fool out there thinks brute force is all you need to make your way through obstacles. I can't fault them: it takes no more than a good swing of the maul to destroy an average padlock and door handle to give them the results they wanted. But then again, they generally don't care about the din they're making in every little thing they do, in combat and the tavern while drowning in ale. Ah, but I digress."
Mr. Lockson chuckled for a bit, while Nathan wryly thought that Keith might not get along very well with his instructor.
Then, the locksmith spoke again, "A good lock is like a puzzle, and unlocking them while leaving the mechanisms intact is a mark of true skill." He clapped his hands together. "Right then! No need to dilly-dally. If you're serious about learning, we'll get straight to it."
Nathan nodded, his focus sharpening. "Whenever you're ready, sir."
Mr. Lockson pulled out a collection of basic locks and tools, each piece carefully laid out on the workbench like a craftsman's treasured collection before he gestured to the assortment with a flourish. "Locks are puzzles, and tools are your keys to solving them. But our lessons are not just about opening them, it's about understanding them. That's why it's called a locksmithing class," he said with a wink.
Mr. Lockson demonstrated the proper grip on a lockpick, the precision required to manipulate tumblers, and the delicate balance of pressure that could mean the difference between success and failure. Nathan then dove into the work with unrelenting focus, his natural curiosity driving him to understand every click and resistance in the locks.
The locksmithing workshop quickly became Nathan's second home, the scent of oiled metal and the rhythmic clinks of tools against brass and steel weaving their way into his daily routine. Each session brought a new challenge, from simple padlocks to more intricate mechanisms with false gates and counter-pins meant to thwart even experienced hands. The days blurred together as Nathan's hands became steadier and more precise. He learned to identify the subtle clicks and vibrations of tumblers falling into place, to see in his mind's eye the inner workings of a lock as if it were laid bare before him. His fingertips grew more sensitive, attuned to the slightest resistance or shift in the tools he held. Under Mr. Lockson's guidance, he progressed from simple spring mechanisms to advanced pin tumblers and even combination locks, each success building his confidence despite some hiccups.
By the end of the third week, the final exam was upon him. Mr. Lockson had set up an array of challenges, each more intricate than the last. Nathan moved between the stations, his hands steady and his concentration unwavering. At the first station, he disassembled a large, complex lock with fluid ease, carefully laying out the internal components, and then reassembling it without missing a beat. At another, he carved duplicate keys with precision, feeling the satisfying click as they fit perfectly into the locks. By the time he moved to the padlocks, he effortlessly broke them open without a single scratch, and the lock-picking station was no different. Nathan worked with a focused intensity that impressed even Mr. Lockson.
"Would you look at that?" Mr. Lockson muttered to himself, watching Nathan work through every lock like a seasoned locksmith.
After Nathan finished the last lock, he stood up, brushing the metal shavings from his hands, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "That should do it."
Mr. Lockson crossed his arms, nodding approvingly. "Nathan, my good man, you've got the knack for this, no question. I've seen others take months to get where you are in just a few weeks." He then clapped his hand on Nathan's shoulder. "Stellar work."
Nathan offered a modest smile, though a glimmer of pride shone in his eyes. "I've got an amazing teacher to thank for that, Mr. Lockson. I've learned more than I ever expected."
Mr. Lockson, still grinning, hesitated for a moment before speaking again. "You know, lad, I'd be more than happy to take you on for advanced lessons if you'd like. There's so much more you could learn, and with your skillset, the sky's the limit."
Nathan paused, considering the offer. His refined tone softened as he spoke, "It's a generous offer, truly, but... my attention is needed elsewhere at the moment. Also, I feel it's too early for me to settle down and spend the rest of my days making locks, sir."
"I didn't expect you to say 'yes' on the spot, anyway," Mr. Lockson grumbled, though his grin showed that he meant nothing by it. He handed Nathan a small leather pouch containing a set of locksmith's tools. "Here, your graduation gift. What you do with them is your business, Mr. Festivus, but remember the weight of the consequences of your actions. Here's hoping you'll do wonders with them."
Nathan took the pouch. The weight of the tools in his hand felt more than just physical; it was a reminder of the knowledge he had gained and the new skills that would serve him well in his future endeavours. "I will, sir," he said, nodding his thanks
Nathan shook hands with Mr. Lockson before he walked out of the workshop for the last time. He couldn't wait to get back to the locked cellar door at Skinner's restaurant, but getting Keith back on track came first. He couldn't shake the feeling that his friend was in trouble, even if it didn't seem like it from the outside looking in.
His troubled thoughts then shifted to those of steak and kidney pies and scotch eggs once he stepped into Dunsgoil Hall's dining hall as he picked up the smells wafting from the kitchen. As he walked between the tables, his attention was drawn to a familiar voice with an unmistakable, elaborate speech pattern peppered with Teutonic.
Harald was seated at a corner table, sharing lunch with Anna Noble, his favourite spellcasting instructor. They were deep in conversation, laughing and chatting as if they had known each other for years. Nathan's first impulse was to sneak up behind Harald and spoil the moment with a well-timed joke, but something in the way the two were talking made him pause. Harald looked happy, and he was genuinely engaged in the conversation, and Ms. Noble seemed quite relaxed around his friend.
Deciding against his impish tendencies, Nathan quietly slipped into a seat at the next table, positioning himself close enough to overhear the conversation. He pulled out a book from his bag, one titled "Taming the Inferno: Pyromancy in Urban Environments" that Harald asked him to borrow from the library, pretending to read as he listened in. Ms. Noble was venting about her work, and Harald, surprisingly, was letting her speak without interruption; a rare occurrence for the verbose man. Nathan smirked to himself, impressed at Harald's restraint.
Anne leaned forward, her eyes briefly blazing. "… let's talk about discipline, Harald. How am I supposed to teach precision when half the class is too busy with their elemental peacocking? Just last week, I caught Marcus trying to freeze Jenna's water spout in mid-air. MID-AIR! The absurdity, and the danger! I had to separate them before someone got electrocuted or frostbitten." She sank back, folding her arms with a grumble. "And the administration? Do they care? Of course not. They're too busy dreaming up pointless policies like weekly safety audits. As if I have time for inspections while keeping my classroom from turning into an elemental war zone!" Anne took a deep breath, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. "One of these days, I'll figure out a spell to instantly transport myself to a mountain retreat and vanish for good. Let them grade their own mediocre spellwork without me."
"Ah, Frau Noble," Harald eventually said, his voice dripping with his usual flourish, "it is indeed a veritable storm of frustrations, is it not? The burdens of your profession are truly monumental, yet you bear them with such grace. Forgive me, but I must ask: Is it wise for you to pour your heart out so in public? I mean, your students' ears could be everywhere as we speak, not to mention your superiors."
Ms. Noble waved dismissively as she chuckled. "That class in particular was off to the Royal Academy all the way up north since last night, and the administrator and senior instructors eat at their private dining quarters, so I'm safe." Anne let out a long sigh, her stress clearly abandoning her through her windpipe, before she said, "Anyway, thank you so much, Harald. Sometimes I wonder if I should've taken up an easier career. But no, I suppose I just need to let it all out every now and then."
Anne's sweet smile caused Harald's heart to skip a beat, and Nathan tried hard to not snort so loudly when he saw the pyromancer's face turned as red as his outfit. As the conversation continued, Nathan perked up when Ms. Noble's voice shifted into a more serious tone.
"Though, speaking of frustrations, there's this one fellow who keeps turning up like a bad penny." She sighed heavily. "Sheriff Brian Briggs."
Harald raised an eyebrow. "Ach, ja? This Briggs, he is familiar to you?"
Ms. Noble nodded, frowning as she stirred her tea. "Unfortunately. He's a former street thug who somehow ended up as the sheriff of Dunsgoil Hill after his father passed. He's notorious for intimidating the townsfolk into paying their taxes. As if that wasn't enough, he's got a gambling problem, drinks like a fish, and if the rumours are true, he's got ties to some bandit gangs that operate outside the city." Ms. Noble sighed again, this time with a bit more exasperation. "I've had a few run-ins with him myself. He's not a pleasant man to deal with. But what can you do? The local government seems content with his work, so there's not much anyone can do unless he slips up."
"An authorised brute, then," Harald interjected flatly. He leaned back, his tone turning thoughtful, calling to mind the day Chef Gusteau was chased out of his restaurant. "Most troubling, indeed. A man such as that, with authority over the good denizens of the hill... it is no wonder the people walk with heavy hearts."
Their conversation soon shifted back to lighter topics, and as Ms. Noble finished her meal, she thanked Harald for listening. "You're quite the gentleman, Harald. I appreciate it. Maybe I'll see you at Skinner's restaurant one of these days? The food there is absolutely addictive, and oddly enough, I feel refreshed after every meal there. I can't seem to stay away."
At that, Nathan seized his moment, leaning over with a grin. "Addictive, you say? Well now, that's quite the endorsement."
Both Harald and Ms. Noble jumped slightly in surprise, turning to see Nathan grinning at them from the next table.
"Nathan!" Harald exclaimed, his increasingly red face looking at once amused and scandalised. "You sneak! How long have you been sitting there?"
"For a while now," Nathan replied smoothly, offering a playful smile. "Though I must admit, I wasn't expecting such juicy gossip over lunch."
Ms. Noble, amused by the banter, stood up and gathered her things. "I'll leave you two to it then. It was lovely chatting with you, Harald. Good day to you as well, Nathan." She gave them both a nod before turning to leave, but not before she gave Harald another knowing look. "And remember, Harald; do call for me if you wish to visit Skinner's."
Once she was out of earshot, Harald turned to Nathan with a piercing glare. "I have to say, mein Freund. You have a surprisingly infuriating talent for showing up from out of the blue."
Nathan grinned, unfazed by Harald's irate tone. "Blame your own lack of attention, Mr. Nachtwasser. Besides, I didn't want to interrupt your precious moment."
"Ja, ja…" Harald huffed. "So, how was your exam, mein Herr?"
As the two friends settled back into conversation, Nathan's thoughts drifted to Keith. "You know… Nathan said, his voice growing more serious, "I think it's about time we do something about our friend, Keith. We never got the chance to even speak to him since he worked at Skinner's place, much less ask about his findings." Nathan paused for a bit, frowning. "In fact, I don't think he ever did snoop around Skinner's place like he agreed, not while he worked himself to the bone all day. And that tonic he talked about has got me very concerned for him."
Harald's expression darkened. "Ja, Keith... I am of a mind to drag him out of that infernal establishment, shove sedatives down his throat, and get some answers once he wakes up." He took a moment to think, a flash of inspiration having just struck him. "In fact, I think I have a plan…"
Nathan and Harald huddled up, quietly discussing their plans for Keith over lunch. They decided to simply relax at the lounge of their inn, biding their time until Keith showed up at the door.
… … … … …
The Side-Swept Inn's lounge buzzed with the low hum of activity as Nathan and Harald occupied a small corner table. The warm scent of roasted meats and fresh bread wafted in from the dining area, mingling with the aroma of spiced cider and ale. Freelancers shuffled in and out, swapping stories of the day's work or haggling with guild staffers over contracts. Nathan leaned back in his chair, spending the afternoon chatting with guild staffers about potential contracts, listening to seasoned adventurers share exaggerated tales, and even humouring a young freelancer who wanted advice on dealing with giant cockroaches. Harald, meanwhile, bounced from dice games to lively conversations, his booming laughter filling the room.
The hours dragged on, the sunlight streaming through the windows gradually fading into the amber glow of the inn's lanterns. While Nathan and Harald were cleaning off their supper, the doors of the inn creaked open. Keith stumbled inside, looking incredibly haggard enough that the patrons' attention turned to him, eyeing him with a mixture of curiosity and concern. Keith managed to raise his hand at Nathan and Keith, smiling weakly before he tumbled forward, hitting the floor face-first like a felled tree. The sight of it would've been comical in Nathan's mind if he didn't know about his friend's situation first-hand.
"Keith!" Nathan shot to his feet, rushing straight to his unconscious friend while Harald followed suit.
The innkeeper hurried over, worry etched on his face. "What happened to him?"
Harald gave her a reassuring smile as he and Nathan hefted Keith between them. "Oh, nothing serious, Herr Barliman. The man just overworked himself. You know how busy freelancers can get."
The innkeeper's eyes narrowed, but he stepped aside. "Get him to his room. I'll send up some water and food in case he wakes."
"Much appreciated," Harald said, smiling.
They hauled Keith up the stairs and into their quarters, carefully laying him on the bed. His face was pale, and yet his breathing was slow and steady, interspersed with the dreadful snores that Nathan and Harald perfectly recall waking them up on certain nights. Nathan pulled a blanket over Keith's sleeping figure, frowning.
"Well, this makes things a little easier," Nathan said. Carefully, his fingers crept into Keith's pouches, until he pulled his copy of the room's key. "Got it," he said tersely, handing it over to Harald. "What now?"
"If my suppositions are correct…" said Harald, putting the key into his own pouch as he eyed Keith. "…we'll find out very early next morning." He and Nathan promptly got to bed, though thoughts about what might happen kept them awake for quite a while before fatigue lulled them into slumber.
Before the first rays of dawn broke over the horizon, Keith stirred groggily, his body heavy with exhaustion from the previous day's efforts. A groan escaped him as his muscles protested while sitting up, the weariness clinging to him like a second skin. Rubbing his temples, he muttered, "Right, I gotta get back to work." The words felt more like a mantra than a motivation, but they were enough to propel him to his feet.
His movements were sluggish as he shuffled to the door, his fingers brushing through his dishevelled hair. Reaching for the door handle, only to see a padlock set neatly on the latch. Keith grumbled, his mind still foggy about who locked the door as he patted his pouches for his key. He was alarmed when he couldn't find it in any pouch strapped to his person. "The key, the key…Where's my key?" Keith muttered frantically, a note of panic creeping into his voice as he rifled through his jacket, the bedside table, and even the folds of the blanket. He crouched down to peer under the bed, his breath quickening with each passing second. Nothing. No key.
Desperation took over, and Keith shot upright, pounding on the door with a force that made the wood rattle. He kicked at the sturdy padlock with all the might he could muster, and he repeated it when the lock refused to break. The noise Keith made woke Nathan and Harald up, and seeing their friend's frenzied attempt to break the door down immediately galvanized them into action.
"Keith, stop it!" Nathan called out, a note of panic creeping into his voice . "You're
going to break the door!"
He and Harald barely managed to restrain Keith, who thrashed like a wild animal as his muscles strained against their grip. Nathan held onto his arms, his fingers digging into the fabric of Keith's tunic, while Harald locked his arms around Keith's chest like an iron vice.
"Damn it, he's strong!" Nathan gritted out, nearly losing his hold as Keith bucked forward.
"Hold still and take a breather, ja?!" Harald shouted, struggling to keep his grip as Keith's knee almost slammed into his ribs.
"I gotta get to work! Skinner'll have my head if I don't show up!" Keith roared, now in a full-blown frenzy. The chef's voice was clear in his head, berating him for his tardiness.
"Keith!" Nathan shouted, his voice firm but calm. "Listen to us! You're safe here. You don't need to panic."
"Safe? Safe!? I'm bleedin' late here!" Keith's voice grew increasingly wild as he flailed about to escape his friends. "I can't be late, I just can't!" Keith's frantic energy prevailed, and he broke free from Nathan and Harald's formidable grips. His eyes, wide with anxiety, turned towards the window. He darted towards it, intending to make the jump down.
"No, you idiot!" Harald shouted. Desperate, he reached for a book and tossed it to Keith, hitting him squarely on the back of his head. Fortunately for him and Nathan, the impact knocked Keith out in an instant, collapsing like a felled tree. Nathan and Harald exchanged a breathless glance. For a moment, the only sound was the ragged panting of two exhausted young men and the slow, rhythmic snores now coming from the unconscious lump on the floor.
"Well…" Nathan said, bending down to check Keith's pulse. "That was one way to handle it."
"Ja…" Harald muttered, running a hand through his hair. "I was aiming for his back, not his head."
Together, Nathan and Harald managed to hoist Keith back onto the bed, tucking him in carefully. Then, there were knocks on the door, and Harald opened it to see the concerned innkeeper Barliman, with several irate tenants standing behind him, looking to see what the ruckus was about.
"Is something wrong in there, Mr. Harald? I-we, I mean, heard knocking and screaming just now…"
Harald nodded in contrite. "I'm afraid that was indeed our fault, Herr Barliman. Our friend had a little too much to drink, and he went amuck."
"Your friend was drinking this early…?" asked Mr. Barliman, his face a clear portrait of incredulity.
Harald sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ja, I know how it sounds, Herr Barliman, but the poor man's been running himself ragged. Barely sleeps, barely eats, and well… you know how some folks turn to drink when they're too stressed to think straight."
Barliman frowned but seemed to consider it. "Well… I suppose working in a kitchen can do that to a man."
"Exactly," Harald said smoothly, seizing the opportunity. "We tried to stop him, but… well, you saw the result."
Nathan silently listened on, amazed at how easily Harald lied.
Barliman took a moment to think over Harald's story before he shrugged. "Yes, well, be sure to tell him that he had enough when he wakes. He almost shook the whole place down."
Harald delivered another well-worded round of apologies to the innkeeper and the rest of the crowd before they dispersed. He then locked the door and rejoined Nathan by the bedside as they watched over Keith, both of them relieved to hear his hideous snoring.
"That's quite a way to start a morning, eh Nathan?" said Harald sheepishly.
Nathan chuckled, his expression lightening somewhat. "Indeed. Now, we'd best make sure that he won't start another scene like that when he wakes up again."
… … … … …
Things weren't as simple as Nathan initially thought. The days that followed were a gruelling ordeal for Keith, his body betraying him as it fought against the remnants of his ailment. He lay in bed, drenched in sweat, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as waves of anxiety and unrelenting shivers wracked his frame. Occasionally, his muscles would seize with stabbing pains that left him writhing, clutching at the sheets in silent agony. Nathan and Harald took turns keeping vigil, offering water, cool cloths for his fevered brow, and quiet reassurances that he wasn't alone. Through this harrowing experience eight days later, Keith emerged from the haze of withdrawal, gaunt and pale, yet still alive. One evening, as he sat with his friends at the dinner table, his colour slowly returning and his appetite tentative but present, there was a quiet triumph in the air. Keith managed a small smile, one that spoke of resilience, as he broke bread with Nathan and Harald, his first real meal as a man starting to reclaim his strength.
"How are you feeling, mein Freund?" Harald asked kindly.
"I'm feeling a bit more like myself now," Keith began, massaging the back of his neck while looking at his friends apologetically. "Nate, H, I…sorry I had to put you through all that. I've been a right old mess, I was."
Nathan shook his head, smiling gently. "Don't you worry about that, Keith. Friends look out for each other, especially when things go tough."
"I second that, meine Herren," said Harald with an almost pompous air. His tone turned slightly more serious when he continued, "And I think it's safe to say that going back to work at Skinner's restaurant is out of the question for you, Keith. Your mind and body are clearly better now than during your sojourn at that suspicious place."
"Ugh, tell me about it…" Keith said, as he involuntarily shuddered at the thought. "To be honest, I've felt really horrible at the end of every day, working there. Even sleep wouldn't help me refresh come next morning. The only thing that would make me feel brand new every day was that tonic Skinner gives us. It's like downing a whole barrel of energy!" He chuckled lightly, though there was a slight tremor in his voice.
Harald leaned forward, his voice a mix of concern and intrigue. "I am convinced that Skinner has concocted this 'energy tonic' to induce you and your colleagues into a state of laborious overdrive without your awareness." He opened his notebook, flipping through pages filled with notes and sketches. "I have read and pondered upon this since you've first told us about the tonic, and I believe it may contain a variant of Spice: a stimulant that grants you bursts of energy at a grave cost. Once its effects wear off, you are left in utter exhaustion, akin to withdrawal symptoms. Your days of illness, the sweating and shivering...it is not unlike the plight of one who has overindulged in such substances."
Nathan nodded slowly, concern etching deeper lines on his forehead. "This is troubling indeed. Do you think the other kitchen staff are aware of their own states?"
Keith shook his head, his expression sobering. "Nah, I doubt it. They're all out-of-towners like us, living on their own and with no one in town really knowing any of them. I don't think they've noticed, just like I didn't... until you two snapped me out of it," he said, a sincere warmth creeping into his voice.
The trio spent the rest of their dinner in silence, giving themselves a moment of peace as they enjoyed their dinner for the first time after enduring the previous trying week. Harald broke the silence after ordering a second round of ale for Dreisterne, his face full of concern.
"It's good to see you back on your feet again, and in such a short time too. Spice addicts reportedly took longer to recover after abruptly withdrawing from the vile concoction," Harald began, his face full of concern. "But we still know nothing of what Skinner is plotting, or how it's linked to the disappearance of Fräulein Erica Miles and the loss of Chef Gusteau's deed to his restaurant. Since infiltrating the restaurant is no longer in question, we will have to get into this rabbit hole from a different angle."
"Any ideas?" asked Keith through a mouthful of custard tart, and he took another from the mountainous plateful before him.
The trio contemplated their findings so far, and the moment in silence was broken shortly after by Nathan with a snap of his fingers. "There's no one in Ms. Miles' house at the moment, right? We could have a look inside, for a start," he said.
"In case you forget mein Freund, the house was locked, and…" Harald trailed off, smiling when recent memories dawned on him. "Ahh…a golden opportunity to put your new skills to good use eh, Herr Festivus?"
"Well, I can't say that I don't feel a bit excited about the prospect," said Nathan sheepishly.
"Nice," Keith exclaimed enthusiastically. However, he immediately deflated, saying "But I have to sit this one out. I could barely lift my shield as it is, and my toes are still throbbing after I dropped it last night…" Harald and Nathan looked almost sorry at how defeated their friend looked.
Nathan sympathetically patted Keith on the shoulder before he said, "Another week on the bed for you will do all of us a world of good, Keith. Leave this one to us." He spent a moment in thought before voicing it out loud. "Where do we even begin with this plan, anyway?"
"Well, uh…" Keith hesitated to begin. "I used to do stake-outs for my…former acquaintances…"
Harald excitedly pulled out his notebook, ready to jot something in. "Go on, mein Freunde. We need every scrap of knowledge we can use for our extra-legal venture," he said.
Keith continued after the trio shared a round of chuckles. "I spent at least a couple of nights, huddling down at a street corner, an alley, or anywhere else I could find the best view while keeping myself fairly hidden from people's eyes, most of all the Watchmen. See, the Watchmen were the ones I needed to look out for when they're on patrol every night, see when and how they moved around my…the thieves' chosen mark. Once I could see a pattern forming in the Watchmen's patrol time and movements, I reported to them, and let the scoundrels do the rest of the work."
"I think you told me that the thieves had no idea how to pick locks. I'm surprised that they're not caught literally breaking their way in for their loot," Nathan remarked.
"Granted, I've only ever done this thrice for them, and I was never directly involved in their raids, so don't ask me how they've done it," Keith replied, noticing the snappish bite in his comment only moments later. He continued, "All I know is that if barbarians like them could get away with entering and exiting the place at the right time, I think you two have a better chance to make it without a scratch."
It was Harald's turn to place an assuring hand on Keith's shoulder. "You're using your knowledge to help us uncover the truth. Don't be ashamed of how you've learned it."
Keith shrugged, though his expression eased up at Harald's assurance.
"Skulk about in the shadows while watching over the Watchmen, identify the right time to make our move, and get out of the area unscathed once the job is done. Did I sum it up right, gentlemen?" said Nathan.
Keith nodded, replying, "Pretty much, yeah. Oh, and I think you should join in the watch too, Harald. Nathan's gonna need eyes on his back in case some sod tried his luck mugging him while he's on the lookout."
"Noted, and noted, mein Herr," Harald added, tapping his notebook with a firm finger. Dreisterne took another long swig from their mugs, downing every last drop of their ale before turning in for the night, their heads buzzing with excitement for the nights to come.
Nathan and Harald spent two long, chilly nights at a shadowed corner near Erica Miles' modest house, their eyes sharp as they silently tracked the rhythms of the Watchmen's patrols. They noted the timing of the shifts, the subtle gaps in their routes, and the points where the shadows were deepest, whispering occasional observations to each other. By the second night, they had pieced together a clear window to act, and they slept through the next morning in order to stay alert for their operation tomorrow night.
Keith had offered a suggestion during lunch. "You blokes might want to pick up some blackjacks," he said. "Never know when you'll need to quiet someone down." Harald wasn't interested since he already had his punches, but Nathan keenly showed a baton, an 8-inch steel rod wrapped in a simple black leather casing.
"It's a gift from my teacher. One of them, I mean," Nathan said. "Just in case I lose my sword somehow."
Night time came at last, and the moon hung high in the sky as Nathan and Harald made their way to Erica Miles' house, casting long shadows in the quiet streets. Nathan and Harald moved with a purpose, their steps quiet but deliberate, though the pyromancer needed a little extra work with his. He fidgeting about in his decidedly subdued dark jerkin with matching hood, hose, and boots didn't help his case.
"Nathan," Harald muttered while they bade their time in their usual spot just beyond the street lights, "I confess I am none too thrilled about my…accoutrements. I look unbecoming of an upstanding lord-to-be."
Nathan answered, similarly dressed to his companion, "You don't want to be caught in your bright red hat while doing an 'extra-legal job', so bear with them for a while, Harald."
It didn't take the duo long to find their entry window. As soon the last Watchman passed from the area, they made a silent beeline for the back door of the Miles residence. Nathan knelt before the lock, precisely worked the tumblers with his tools. The lock then clicked open in mere moments, which brought a smile to his face.
Harald lets out a low whistle at the display. "If you could learn to do that in a few weeks, imagine the kinds of doors you could open if you dedicate yourself to this craft."
Nathan gave a modest nod as he gingerly opened the door. "Hopefully it's always the right ones," he said, calling to mind Mr. Lockson's advice about the weight of his actions.
Once inside, they found the house eerily quiet, the air thick with neglect. Dust clung to every surface, undisturbed, suggesting that no one had set foot inside for quite some time. The duo crept through the rooms, carefully inspecting for any signs that might reveal what had happened to Erica Miles. They've opened every drawer and chest, and peeked into every nook and cranny for clues, but they've yet to find one. As Nathan made sure to close the door after they entered, no one near the house's vicinity paid him and Harald any mind as long as they stayed relatively silent.
Upstairs, Harald did his share of rummaging about every crevice of what's presumably Ms. Miles' room. He then discovered a writing desk with three locked drawers, and couldn't help but smile wryly at himself, seeing that this excursion seemed tailor-made for Nathan. Harald exited the room and quietly hailed his friend downstairs. "Nathan, your talents are needed once more," he said with a dramatic flair, gesturing towards Erica's bedroom.
Nathan got into the room in a flash, and he worked on each lock with the meticulousness of a seasoned locksmith. The first drawer contained nothing, and to the duo's surprise, the second had a bag of florins kept in a neatly tied bag. Nathan left it be and locked the second drawer once more, and he could feel an inexplicable weight lift off his chest. He immediately worked on the third drawer and found Erica's diary, its worn cover speaking to years of use. The two men exchanged a glance, knowing this could be the key to uncovering what had happened. They sat in the moonlight through one of the windows, quietly flipping through the pages. Each entry brought them deeper into Erica's world, her thoughts growing more revealing as they progressed.
---
Erica Miles' Diary Entries
Entry 1:
"I met someone new today. Mr. Gusteau introduced him to me in his office. It was Anton Skinner, his new acquaintance. He seems capable, though a bit…intense, for want of a better word. Still, I appreciated how he spoke of wine. A man who understands a good vintage can't be all bad, right?"
Entry 14:
"Anton has been stopping by more often lately. Always under the guise of discussing wine, but I think it's more than that. He's charming, in his own way. We shared a bottle tonight, something rich, deep with flavour. Probably also very intoxicating as I can't even recall the name and age of the brew. But it was nice. More than nice, actually. I wouldn't mind having another sample of it with him. Maybe I could ask more of him about the wine…and maybe something else as well. I can't even tell if I got drunk off the wine or him."
Entry 27:
"After too much wine, I let slip about Mr. Gusteau's title deed during what started as a promisingly romantic night between us. Even through my drunken haze, I could see in his eyes how intently he listened to my babble, and I can only thank the powers that be that I've had the hindsight to realise something untoward in his gaze. I can only hope that's just my paranoia talking. Mr. and Mrs. Gusteau entrusted me with the deed, and I'd sooner die than betray it, especially out of something foolish as a drunken prattle."
Entry 30:
"I was right about Anton. Oh, I've done it now. I can't shake the feeling that he is up to something bad with that deed. I thank heaven that I didn't blurt out everything, as he kept prodding on about it for days no matter how casually he went about it. Yet, I still have to be careful for Mr. Gusteau's sake."
Final Entry:
"I have no time. I've had the damnable luck to find out about Skinner's unsavoury connections, and they're coming for me, I'm sure of it. I've hidden it in the cellar, tucked away somewhere safe. I pray it stays there for good, unless fortune smiles upon me and someone trustworthy runs into it first. If I don't get out before they arrive... well, may all that is good help me."
---
Nathan's eyes flicked to Harald after reading the last entry. "Well, now we know that Skinner has some illicit ties, after all. I think it's safe to assume that Sheriff Briggs is involved as well."
"Indeed," Harald replied thoughtfully, his fingers tapping on the diary's spine. "It is a shame that swindler Skinner got the deed to Gusteau's restaurant in the end."
Nathan frowned for a moment as he gave Harald's remark some thought before answering. "If that was so, I don't think we'd find that diary safely locked in here in the first place. Besides, Skinner's probably got the Sheriff to draft a new deed for him when he couldn't get Gusteau's, and used that against the chef to kick him out of his restaurant. That would have been the end of that."
"…if the original deed was truly lost or destroyed. But as we know from this diary, it is neither, is it not?" Harald continued, realisation dawning on him. "Bless you wherever you are now, Frau Miles! Let us seek this cellar, Nathan!"
Without another word, they moved cautiously down the creaking stairs, their footsteps muffled by the thick silence of the night. Their eyes swept the dimly lit area, seeking any sign of a hidden entrance. It didn't take Nathan long to notice a faint seam in the floorboards beneath the stairs, disguised by a layer of dust. With a quick glance at Harald, he crouched down and pried open the trapdoor, revealing a set of narrow, worn steps leading into darkness. The air grew cooler and carried a musty tang as they descended into the cellar. A spark of fire on Harald's fingertip touched the wick of a lantern, causing it to flicker to life, revealing rows of wine casks stacked neatly along the walls, their wooden surfaces polished with age. Bottles glinted in the faint glow, their dusty labels bearing names that spoke of quality vintages. The earthy scent of aged wood and damp stone filled their nostrils as they pressed forward.
"Erica had quite the collection here, I see," Harald remarked, running his fingers over the labels. "But where would she have hidden-"
"Wait," Nathan interrupted, scanning one of the racks to his left. His eyes narrowed on a bottle that looked out of place at the second-highest tier. It was in crimson, while the rest were dark green. "Look. That bottle. There's parchment sticking out of it."
Harald hurried over, carefully removing the parchment wrapped around the bottle. His eyes widened as he read its contents. "Nathan... this is it. Gusteau's title deed!"
The sound of footsteps right above them immediately silenced Harald's triumphant exclamation. The air in the cellar was thick with tension as he and Nathan remained still, ears pricked to the soft sound of footsteps from the floor above. The wooden boards creaked under the weight of multiple figures moving around, their muffled voices barely audible. Nathan approached the trapdoor and exchanged a tense glance with Harald, who remained silent but alert. Nathan gently lifted the trapdoor, just enough to take a quick peek. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of three figures clad in dark cloaks, their faces obscured by hoods and masks. Each of them was armed, clearly searching the house. Just then, another figure came rushing down from the top floor, taking a moment to catch his breath.
"Someone's been here," the new arrival whispered harshly, pointing somewhere upstairs.
Nathan cursed under his breath. In his and Harald's excitement after retrieving Erica's diary, they may have left the drawers open: a tell-tale sign of an intrusion as clear as any. He quietly shut the trapdoor and returned to Harald, leaning in closely. "We have company," he murmured. "Four of them, armed, and likely none too friendly."
Harald's brow furrowed, but his voice remained composed. "The ravens circle us. It is only a matter of time before they descend here, unless we are so fortunate that they don't know about this cellar." He momentarily surveyed the cramped space and gestured to the walls near the staircase. "Let us position ourselves by the corners. If they dare intrude here, we shall strike from the shadows."
Nathan agreed, and they quickly took their places, each hiding on opposite sides of the cellar. They didn't have to wait long before the trapdoor creaked open, and to Nathan's surprise, only one figure began descending the staircase. He thanked his luck that the masked man hadn't turned his head toward their hiding spots. Signalling Harald to remain still, Nathan silently moved toward the intruder. With careful precision, he approached from behind, his baton poised. In a swift, practised motion, he brought the weapon down, striking the hooded figure on the back of the head. The man collapsed silently. Nathan wasted no time dragging the unconscious body behind a row of wine racks, out of sight. Returning to his hiding spot, Nathan caught his breath.
From upstairs, a voice called down. "Tom? You good down there?"
Nathan held his breath, his muscles tensing as the silence stretched.
"Tom?" the voice called again, a touch more urgent this time.
Before long, another one of the figures began descending the staircase. Nathan readied himself once more, carefully waiting until the man's back was turned before he closed the distance. Again, his blackjack landed squarely, and the second intruder crumpled to the floor. As Nathan moved to drag this one out of sight, however, the trapdoor opened once more.
"Oi, what's takin' you so long?" The third masked figure hurried down the stairs, and Nathan's blood ran cold as the intruder's eyes landed on him standing over the second unconscious body. The figure was about to shout out for his comrades when, out of nowhere, a wine bottle flew across the cellar, clubbing into the side of the intruder's head with a loud crack. The man staggered, swaying on his feet for a moment, and then crumpled to the floor. The thrown bottle of wine was mercifully intact even after such a rough handling. Nathan blinked in surprise, glancing up to see Harald, standing a few feet away, having thrown the bottle with pinpoint accuracy.
"Ah, a direct hit!" Harald remarked with a self-satisfied grin. "Chateau Lupin made such excellent bottles. Shame the same could not be said about their wine."
Nathan could only give Harald an appreciative thumbs up as he sped up the creaking staircase, his pulse pounding as he mentally prepared to take down the final intruder. He expected the last one to have heard the commotion in the cellar just now, and sure enough, the figure made his exit through the front door as the freelancer popped out of the trapdoor. Nathan pushed his legs harder as he burst through the front door, skidding onto the street just in time to see the figure make a sharp turn into a narrow alley. He followed in a blur of motion, the echo of his boots ringing off the walls of the cramped passageway. His eyes never left the fluttering cloak of the intruder, but no matter how fast he ran, the distance between them remained frustratingly constant.
"Damn it!" Nathan hissed as the figure, in a sudden display of agility, deftly scaled the side of a building, clambering up like a cat. Nathan tried to follow, jumping and pulling himself onto the first ledge, but by the time he reached the top, the hooded figure had vanished into the network of rooftops. He scanned the skyline, but the darkness obscured his view, and the streetlights below did nothing to illuminate the view up on the rooftops. After several moments of futile searching, Nathan finally gave up, his breath coming in short, frustrated bursts.
Back at Erica Miles' house, the cellar was quiet save for the occasional groan from one of the unconscious figures. Nathan and Harald had tied them up securely, making sure they wouldn't be escaping anytime soon. Meanwhile, Harald was also rifling through the pockets of the unconscious men, grinning as he pulled out small yet heavy bags of coins.
"I see Keith had rubbed off on you," Nathan said flatly.
Harald grinned. "His clever move on those brigands practically saved our lives, Nathan. Besides, since no one will pay us for this particular 'job', these scoundrels' florins will do for reimbursement."
Nathan rolled his eyes but couldn't help but smile as they made their way out of the house. He hurriedly scribbled a note and stuck it to the front door, leaving it behind for the authorities. The streets were as still as before, and they moved swiftly through the shadows back to the inn.
When they arrived at their room, they found Keith sitting comfortably by the fire, with a steaming pot and three mugs set on a small table. Nathan was intrigued by the curious earthy aroma emanating from the pot.
"Welcome back, lads," said Keith coolly. "Coffee?"
The rich aroma of the freshly brewed coffee filled the room. Keith filled Harald's mug first, the pyromancer nodding appreciatively as he cradled it in his hands. The second mug was offered to Nathan, who hesitated as he set his eyes on the hot, black, and thick liquid in his mug.
Nathan raised an eyebrow. "Coffee?" he repeated. "Is that what this is called?"
Keith grinned. "Yeah, mate. I first had it when the blokes at the cooking class brewed some for afternoon tea. It's made from roasted beans, ground into powder, then steeped in hot water. Let it settle, and you get a veritable potion of warmth and energy."
Harald smirked, flipping open his notebook. "A 'veritable potion of warmth and energy'? I have to write that down."
Keith laughed as he raised his mug at Harald, who was jotting the quote down in his book. "Credit that to my teacher. He said that a lot."
Harald turned to Nathan, who was still staring in confusion at his mug of coffee. "This drink is popular in the southern parts of the continent. It never caught on in western Eurasia until a couple of decades ago when the city of Yedi Tepeler in Anatolia sent their first shipments of coffee beans to Enotria. Long story short, Enotrians became coffee lovers overnight, and the craze caught on in Charlemagne, and of course, mein homeland Teutonia." The pyromancer took a moment to savour the aroma before he took a sip. "Hmm…it goes down smoothly, and it's rather sweet, almost berry-like in its undertones. Is this Waizian, Keith?"
"No idea," Keith said, shrugging before he took his own sip.
Nathan watched his friends seemingly able to enjoy the strange concoction and took a tentative sip. The bitterness hit first, sharp and unexpected, making him grimace. Then came a hint of dark fruitiness, almost like overripe berries, followed by a deep, earthy richness. The warmth spread through his chest, chasing away his exhaustion like a sudden gust of wind blowing out a candle. His fingers tightened around the mug.
"It's… different," Nathan admitted.
"It'll grow on you, trust me," Keith chimed in, taking a long, contented sip. "I could've gone with coffee every morning if I could find more of those beans. You'd stop feeling sleepy with a couple of sips."
And Nathan understood why he felt so awake. "Oh," he replied, giving the mug another look before taking another gingerly drink. "I take it this doesn't catch on around Rossland?"
Keith exhaled, staring into his mug. "Yeah, it's rare up here. We're so used to mead and cider for breakfast that no one really thinks to bring coffee this far north." He swirled the liquid idly. "These were a parting gift from my teacher before I left my class. Haven't had the heart to finish them off too quickly. Anyway, how did you blokes do just now?"
Harald took some time to retell about his and Nathan's venture earlier, and he looked less than delighted when Nathan told him to make it short and to the point, while the latter filled Keith in about his part where he pursued the agile intruder who got away. At the end, Keith couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and dread about what they, as Dreisterne, were getting themselves into.
"Bloody hell…" Keith said, leaning back in his chair as he took a moment to digest his friends' account. However, he frowned, feeling something still didn't add up about the whole scenario, before he continued. "I still can't see why Skinner wanted Gusteau's restaurant badly enough to use government bullies to make up another deed and take Gusteau out by force."
"If only we knew. Even Frau Miles didn't seem to be aware of the depths her former paramour outside of her incredible intuition of him. Though, Herr Gusteau can thank her for keeping his deed safe. That's something he could use to plead to the governor of this city about his ownership of his establishment. Or so I've read the other day," Harald said as he sat down with a freshly refilled mug of coffee. Then, he remembered something, and he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his jerkin and flattened it on the table. "Speaking of reading, I suggest we have a look at this."
Keith leaned in, reading the note aloud. "'Be on the lookout for three out-of-towners…'" His eyes narrowed. "… nosing into our business at one of our hotspots. Take care of them quickly', it says. Signed, The Headmasher."
Harald shrugged dramatically, waving his hand. "Whoever this Headmasher is, he really needs to hone on his imagination. Not that ruffians in general could even read a signboard, but I digress. This Headmasher commands these people to… what was it?" He tapped the note. "Dispatch us upon sight. And, I daresay this mention of hotspots points to places of interest, those were possibly connected to Skinner."
Nathan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Makes sense, given those thugs were in Erica Miles' house. Though, I still wonder why he left the place undisturbed. I thought he would have turned it upside down for the deed by now."
Harald responded after some deliberation. "Perhaps Skinner would rather not cause an even bigger scene if someone else reported to the City Watch about the mess his underlings made in her house. Besides, he already got what he wanted, so it would be better to let sleeping dogs lie, in a fashion." Harald took a drink from his mug, sighing satisfactorily before he continued, "In any case, whatever Skinner is up to, I doubt he would be pleased to hear that three of his hit men got jumped on first."
A moment of silence passed, and Keith broke it a moment later, a sliver of unease creeping in his tone. "D'you blokes reckon we're going to get an army of Watchmen jumping on us sometime soon? I mean, Skinner does have a Sheriff with him."
"I doubt it," said Nathan, shaking his head. "The Watchmen answer to the Watch Marshall of their respective jurisdiction, and the Watch Marshalls answer to the Crown. The governor of any county of Rossland holds no sway over their authority."
Harald added, "The Watch Marshalls being corrupt and getting themselves involved in dirty businesses is one thing to consider, but let us not worry ourselves to the point of paranoia with that bit. For now at least, it is safe to assume that Dunsgoil Hill would not fall onto us like an ocean by Skinner's orders, despite his ties with an important government official."
"Right. At least we'd only need to worry about an army of thugs led by someone who likes smashing heads," Keith said, stretching his back for a bit. "So, all that's left for us is that cellar under Skinner's old place. When are we gonna get to it?"
Harald raised a hand with a smile. "Patience, mein Freund. While your enthusiasm is commendable, we must not forget the necessity of caution. You are still recovering, and Herr Masher might just double his watch over Dunsgoil for some time after our stunt at Frau Miles' house. Let us step away from the board for now, observe the pieces, and strike when the time is ripe."
Nathan nodded in agreement. "I couldn't agree more. There's more to this than just the deed. Skinner's up to something bigger, and I'd rather that we find out about it when we're fully recovered and away from Skinner and Headmasher's attention."
Keith slumped back into his chair, resigned. "Fine, but let's not take too long, yeah? I got a funny feeling we're running out of time."
Nathan gave him a firm look. "We won't wait any longer than we need to."
As the fire crackled softly in the background, the three of them sat in silence, each lost in thought, knowing that the days ahead would only grow more dangerous.