After threatening one of the enemy fighters with bodily harm, I made him go fetch the Dandy. I walked alongside, ready to intercept any ambush or attempt to silence our valuable prisoner, but no brave souls emerged. The predatory gleam of the hovering crystal blade had made our captive surprisingly obedient.

  I reached out with my will to the remaining blades in the bracer, recalled the pair that had killed the machine-gunner, and gave a tug on the one lodged in the shooter's collarbone. It answered with a groan through gritted teeth.

  “Time’s nearly up, gentlemen!” I called, and gave the stuck blade another sharp pull.

  “I surrender!” the wounded man shouted and threw his shotgun out the window. Another shotgun followed from the next window, and then a rifle from the house across the street.

  “Downstairs — now!” I ordered, not having the slightest idea what to do with the bandits once I had them. For dramatic effect, I sent a blade toward each window that hadn't responded, just to scare them. In a couple of the openings, the elemental glints had already vanished, meaning the shooters had fled — perfectly fine by me.

  The first prisoner, under my supervision, stripped the pale Dandy of his amulets, tied off his arm and leg to keep him from bleeding out, and sat him in the back seat of my Cooper. I hit the Dandy with another Petrification, just to keep him from squirming, and the poor sod ended up looking like a marble statue. Much more of that and he’d be a corpse. Thankfully, the remaining shooters got the hint and fled. Only the wounded one came down. Him and the first one I tossed into the truck bed.

  “Mister Sparrow,” I called out.

  At first Knuckles didn’t even realise I was speaking to him. He blinked in surprise, and I winked. I’d used the formal address to highlight the contrast between him and the bandits — still a young lad, but a gentleman. The submachine gun, of course, they could see for themselves.

  “Please deliver this vehicle to the Bremor Quarter. I’ll be right behind. I’ll make sure our guests don’t fall out along the way.”

  Once close, I added in a low voice: “Don’t lose me if you take off — you would.”

  I can drive fairly well, but Knuckles lives for cars. He knows the technical specs of every four-wheeled machine made in the country, and half the foreign ones, by heart, and drives like a god. Pure talent at its finest. Not a drop of magic in him.

  Clint looked at the truck, smiled, and shook his head.

  “Not in this old thing,” he said.

  Ten minutes later, we were there, the back entrance to the Bremor House.

  None of the prisoners dared jump out of the truck in motion. Well, one didn’t dare, and the other, with a crystal blade in his collarbone, nearly died from the bouncing. Knuckles ran to fetch the doctor, and returned with half the building: Peter, Burke, Donald, and his father. The McLals wasted no time and started the interrogation while I removed the blade from the wounded one. The doctor quickly treated the injury with antiseptics and potions.

  I didn’t have high hopes for the captive shooters, but once they’d surrendered, I wasn’t about to let them go. Once the guards had dragged them off to the basement, Donald and I turned our attention to the Dandy.

  By the time we’d arrived, he’d fully petrified — arms, legs, and spine locked in a seated posture. Only his eyes, still darting with rage, stopped him from looking like a stiff corpse. Even the muscles felt a bit cold to the touch.

  We turned him this way and that, but couldn’t figure out how to get him out of the car. Liquid Stone might’ve worked, but I wasn’t sure it wouldn’t kill him. The spells were only opposites in name; in truth, their principles were entirely different. I couldn’t predict what Liquid would do to a living body. It might help… or it might dissolve his bones and kill him. I wasn’t keen to find out.

  What did work was Dissolution of Aetheric Forms, which I rewrote on the spot and powered with earth magic. The prisoner groaned and collapsed, limp and drained, but the doctor assured me he’d be speaking again in half an hour.

  Donald was pleased. Burke, though, looked puzzled.

  “Hey, cousin…” he pulled me aside. “What you told Donald…”

  He hesitated, trailed off — but I got the point.

  “Every word’s true. No exaggeration.”

  “Don’t think I’m…”

  “Relax. I get it. When you left, I could barely handle a pistol and one ring. I wasn’t anywhere near the level you saw today. You’ve been gone a while, cousin. Believe me, I’m not the only one who’ll surprise you.”

  “Logan?” Burke guessed. “People were expecting it from him.”

  “What about Bryan McLilly?”

  “Chris’s youngest? The pretender?”

  “They call him ‘the Important’ now — personal aide to the head of the clan.”

  “Unbelievable,” Burke shook his head. “You’ve got a lot to tell me!”

  “He will. But not today!” Donald cut in, making a point of glancing at his watch. “Town Hall’s closing soon.”

  “Got it, I’m off.”

  “After a shoot-out?” Burke looked shocked.

  “Exactly. By tomorrow, half the city’ll have heard someone tried to kill Duncan.”

  “Damn. Pumpkin’s going to be complaining to Sunset again. Be gentle with him if he shows up. Right, we’re off.”

  I waved them off.

  “Wait!” the security man snapped, pointing at my left sleeve.

  “What?” I raised my arm, and spotted the bloodstains: dark on the jacket sleeve, crimson on the shirt cuff. “Right. Thanks.”

  “Want to borrow something from our supplies?” Albert offered.

  “Appreciate it, but I’ve kept a spare suit in the Cooper’s boot for a while now. Knuckles, let’s go.”

  On the way, I cleaned the dried blood from the crystals and returned them to the bracer. I’d spent too long fiddling with my amulet and hadn’t noticed we were already pulling up to the town hall until Knuckles asked which entrance I wanted. I hadn’t thought about it, but the day seemed to lend itself to back doors and quiet approaches.

  No time to change shoes or trousers. The new ones didn’t match the jacket, so I kept the waistcoat from the previous suit and left the jacket unbuttoned. Passable for the street, even decent, but for a meeting with one of the two most powerful men in the city?

  Let’s hope I looked like a young man with a flair for modern fashion. Finella and Simon had once tried to teach me the basics of style, and I vaguely remembered them saying something along those lines. At least the fabric quality was excellent, thanks to Ellie. If it weren’t for the prospect of dates, I’d only have hunting gear in the boot. In future, I should start keeping an identical suit as backup.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  At the back entrance, a guard stopped us: a middle-aged shifter with the sharp orange eyes of a bird. I introduced myself, showed the baron’s ring, mentioned that I was Harry’s student, and admitted honestly that de Camp wasn’t expecting me, but I’d like to speak with his secretary first.

  The secretary appeared ten minutes later. Enough time to change my trousers, though not under the watchful eye of a guard. That would’ve killed any authority I had left. And this one looked like he could spot a flea ten metres off and describe its hat. He didn’t step away from the car once and never dropped his guard.

  When I saw de Camp’s secretary, horror struck: I couldn’t remember his name, and this sort are often terribly spiteful, especially once they climb high enough. Chapman had started as a secretary too, and now he was Lord Chief Justice.

  As quickly and discreetly as I could, I stepped out of the Cooper, turned slightly toward the guard, making sure the secretary couldn’t see my lips, and whispered:

  “Quick, what’s his name?”

  The guard blinked in surprise, then replied automatically, “Eustace.”

  “Surname?”

  “Oates.”

  Thank God. I at least remembered he didn’t have a title. Though frankly, he held himself better than I did.

  “Lord Loxlin,” Eustace Oates beamed.

  “Mister Oates,” I nodded slightly.

  “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  I shook my head and smiled.

  “Not out here.”

  “But of course! Where are my manners? This way, my lord.”

  He took me firmly by the elbow and guided me inside with a grip like iron. Only once we’d passed through the side hall and found ourselves alone on the staircase did he ask:

  “Is it serious, my lord?”

  “Yes and no.” I stopped and glanced around to make sure we were alone. I didn’t actually need de Camp himself right now, the secretary would do. I was no intriguer; I found it easier to ask things directly. “My uncle, Lord Bremor, will be in the city tomorrow. Can you arrange a meeting with de Camp for the day after?”

  “May I inquire as to the topic of the meeting, my lord?” he asked, with that infuriatingly polite tone.

  “Duncan. Call me Duncan.”

  “I’m sorry, my lord, but that would be quite improper with regard to my patron.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Lord de Camp gave you permission to address him by name. For me to call you Duncan would be the same as calling him Lionel.”

  Now that clever comparison would never have occurred to me.

  Impressive.

  “I understand, Mister Oates.”

  “Oh, you may call me Eustace.”

  “Mister Oates, do you know how many street children live in the slums?”

  “A rather strange question, my lord.”

  “My driver grew up a street orphan, as did his brother, my fellow student. A few lads on the construction site are helping us out for little more than food.”

  Eustace’s tone shifted to something more official.

  “The city provides shelter and meals for all children lacking parental care. Sadly, my lord, most of them come from families with no sense of discipline, and with... very different values. Drunks and thieves don’t make ideal parents…”

  I cut him off with a sharp wave of the hand.

  “Last year, I had the misfortune of meeting the staff of one such orphanage, in case you’ve forgotten, Mister Oates. I’d have run away too. Save the bureaucratic tone, I’m not here to demand anything, but to offer. The Bremor Clan wants to build its own orphanage in the slums.”

  Oates froze, clearly weighing the implications. After half a minute, he returned to his friendlier tone:

  “Are you in a hurry, Lord Loxlin? Perhaps a cup of tea?”

  The iron grip returned to my elbow and guided me up the stairs. I had little choice but to agree.

  We passed the governor’s antechamber, where two unfamiliar gentlemen were pacing. One of them tried to intercept the secretary, but Eustace briskly brushed him off and led me to one of the far offices. It looked like either a waiting room or a private lounge: leather sofa, armchairs, a low table with an ashtray, a drinks cabinet in the corner, a bookcase against one wall, and a large radio set by the window.

  Oates quickly arranged for tea and almond biscuits, and asked me to wait.

  It turned into a long wait.

  I suspect the secretary feared I might bolt, so he sent someone to babysit me, a familiar footman, the same one who’d kept an eye on us at the reception last autumn. While I waited, I was offered tea, snacks, music on the radio, or something to read from de Camp’s personal library.

  I declined. Instead, I used the time to refresh the spells in my book.

  It was only an hour after the governor’s official office hours had ended that Lord de Camp finally entered the room.

  “My apologies for the delay, Duncan. Endless petitioners today, barely managed a bite to eat. Will you join me for dinner?”

  “Of course, my lord,” I said. Like I had a choice.

  “Lionel. We’re in private.”

  And the footman? Was he considered furniture? I wonder how quickly that ‘furniture’ could break me into pieces…

  “I’m a petitioner too, this evening,” I explained.

  We left the lounge and entered the office across the hall, where a small table had been set for two. A brand-new phonograph in the corner played jazz, and I couldn’t help but think of Albert Shearing, and Kate’s request. Something else to sort out, but not tonight.

  Two servants served lamb shoulder with potatoes and poured red wine. Then de Camp dismissed them, and we were alone.

  We spent a few quiet minutes working through the food, I’d decided firmly to speak only after dinner. But de Camp opened the conversation first:

  “What do the Bremor lot want with an orphanage?”

  “Don’t believe in charity, Lionel?”

  “Only when it walks hand in hand with profit,” de Camp said, taking a sip of wine. “What’s yours?”

  I didn’t want to lie. Not my style, not my level.

  “Maybe you could discuss that with my uncle when you meet?”

  “Or maybe I don’t need to meet him at all,” de Camp said, voice hardening slightly.

  What part of the truth could I serve up without setting us on fire?

  “Why isn’t the city building in the slums? They’re safe now,” I answered with a question.

  “How many times have your builders been attacked?” he countered, turning it into a question game of his own. But this one gave me room to manoeuvre, to toe the line between truth and omission.

  “I don’t have an exact count. But every attack was repelled.”

  “Because you’ve got strong security, solid supply lines, and workers who believe in the project. Just so you know, it’s not only me hesitating. The Duke’s also waiting to see what you can pull off. But I still don’t see what this has to do with an orphanage.”

  “Children from the slums are the natural supply line for the city’s criminal underworld.”

  De Camp took another sip, mulled it over, then finished his glass.

  “Interesting, but long-winded and a little naive. Criminals won’t stop breeding just because you take their kids out of the slums,” de Camp said. “You’ll only create a vacuum, and outsiders will rush in to fill it.”

  He raised his empty wine glass reflexively, then realised and set it back down.

  “I don’t buy it, Duncan. As long as there’s a port, there’ll be smuggling, and with it, all the associated services.”

  “Maybe so, but not on our land. Right now, the criminals are getting far too bold, and all we’re allowed to do is slap them on the nose for showing off.”

  De Camp smiled, snapped his fingers, and leaned back in his chair.

  “So that’s what you really want! To put the gangs in their place. But you can’t do it outright, you need an excuse. And there you were, preaching charity!” Lionel gave me a mock-reproachful shake of the head. “No, Duncan. I can’t allow it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Farnell isn’t Avoc. We’ve got ten times the population, and ten times the criminals. They’re better armed, better trained, better organised. You’d be surprised how much resistance they can muster.”

  “Lionel, have you forgotten what my clan is known for? We won’t even charge you for it.”

  “It’s me who should be charging you. Your reputation’s the one taking the hit!”

  De Camp froze, and then swore, quite indecently.

  “…I’m not going to let Bremor turn Farnell into a warzone just so you lot can rehabilitate yourselves in the public eye.”

  “I beg your pardon. Rehabilitate?”

  “After the werewolf fiasco.”

  “What fiasco?” I frowned.

  “The spring attack on your clan. Even the newspapers ran it.”

  “We wiped out those flea-bitten bastards.”

  “The point is, they attacked you at all. That alone means the Bremor name no longer inspires the same fear.”

  Honestly, I was surprised to hear that perspective. Back in the clan, and in Avoc, the mood had been quite different. Well… maybe I shouldn’t speak for all of Avoc, but still, the idea was new to me.

  Lionel caught my reaction instantly.

  “You didn’t know?”

  “No. I’ve never looked at it that way.”

  “Well, start. Because that’s exactly how it appears.”

  “And what does it look like when criminals attack the clan here in Farnell?”

  “Firstly, it’s not the clan, it’s hired workers. And secondly, it looks like voluntary penal labour. Everyone knows you make those men work it off on your sites. Even the tabloids have printed it. You have no excuse to start a war, and I won’t give you one.”

  “No excuse… Like, say, an attempted kidnapping of the clan head’s nephew?”

  “Duncan, if something like that were to happen, there’d be an investigation. It would, of course, confirm that the attackers were connected to the clan itself.”

  “I wasn’t talking about staging anything.”

  De Camp went still and fixed me with a long, assessing stare.

  “When?”

  “A few hours ago. They knew exactly who I was. A machine gun loaded with armour-piercing rounds. Ten enchanted firearms. Amulet shielding…”

  “You don’t look like someone who just walked out of a firefight.”

  “Spare clothes. Kept in the boot. Talk to my uncle, Lionel. We can do this the elegant way, or the Sledgehammer Harry way.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “A friendly warning. You wouldn’t forbid me from taking revenge, would you? That wouldn’t be very friendly.”

  “And you can’t wait until after the elections?!”

  “What elections?”

  “Mine, Duncan! This autumn.”

  Ah. So that’s why he was being so stubborn.

  “They’re not until October. That’s half a year.”

  “And you lot think you can fix the bandit problem in a week?!”