Chapter 6

'Welcome to the place that dreams are made, and wishes are fulfilled young one. Whatever your heart desires, the genie will be able to deliver. The merchants you find here travel great distances from all countries on the continent and bring with them gifts and goods of such wonder they will take your breath away. If you have the coin, you can buy anything for the right price. You may also sell anything, but I caution you to be careful. Dreams are often made real in this place; it is not uncommon for souls to be bought here as well. Everything has its price, and you only have to glance at some of the gambling houses, inns and brothels to spy those unfortunate souls once of good standing that didn't know when to walk away and break the spell.'

Anonymous merchant talking to his grandchild as they arrived at the 'genie' for the grandchild's first time.

As he placed the final part in location, the hooded figure stood back and grinned cruelly. The midnight chime from the districts bell had only just struck and, stood as he was in the snow-covered open space, he was almost invisible. Snowflakes floated casually to the ground around him, giving the scene an ethereal feel. Had anyone at all been around to observe him all they would have seen was the vague outline of a cloaked humanoid figure, drizzled with snow, blending into the dreary surroundings in the night.

'A work of art. I will soon create my masterpiece, and it will be glorious' he thought to himself as he stepped away from the scene.

"Farwell my fair maiden" the figure stated without emotion as he bowed with all of the elegance of a Nilfgaardian duke meeting the Emperor. "Please know that the affair was simply breathtaking, and though admittedly short-lived, I regret absolutely nothing. You are truly beautiful."

After paying his respects, the figure turned and casually walked away into the night.

A black tabby cat, watching the scene from the deep shadows cast in the lee of a nearby bookshop, scratched its ear and blinked. It had watched the whole scene unfold in front of its eyes and would have been an excellent witness had it been asked.

But no one ever thought of asking cats.

Hubert had joined the Pont Vanis guard after being honourably discharged from the regular army. Deemed no longer young enough to keep up with the training regime, he had gladly taken the retirement offer from his Captain. After a short period in which he ploughed every wench he could find and bought himself a new set of clothes with the proceeds of his thirty years of service, Hubert had walked into the guard headquarters, spoke with the Captain in charge and before the day was out he was wearing a new uniform, some Sergeant stripes and had received a voluntary service bonus. Life was pretty darned good, and though he didn't know the procedures, he was confident he could pick it up pretty damned quickly. After all, he had been a senior army man all of his adult life and policing the merchants and populace of Pont Vanis couldn't be that different from shouting at a bunch of soldiers every hour of the day, could it?

The next day the Captain had instructed him to go on a patrol of the merchant district with an experienced patrol commander as a way of orientating himself. The patrol started at dawn, but even though it was early morning, the sun was bright in the sky and the temperature, all though not frigid, was most definitely on the turn. There had been snow the night before and the tightly packed buildings of the merchant's district, with their thin faces overlooking the river reminded him of a bunch of soldiers huddled together around a weak campfire light to keep themselves from freezing. The buildings were each brightly painted a different colour of the rainbow and, patchily reflected as they were in the water of the river; the view was mesmerising. He chuckled dryly to himself at the sight of a sunny yellow fronted house, nestled amongst a duck egg blue and a lavender purple, which looked like it was surprised to see him as both of the upper windows were open, and the door to the abode was ajar. It almost made him forget about his freezing toes.

"Sergeant. Shall we continue?"

Hubert was jolted from his reverie by the Corporal who was leading the small patrol, a shortish but heavily muscled man who had introduced himself as Peter. The Corporal was a lifer in the guard and probably knew every single alley nook and cranny, side street and infamous character in the city. He was also clearly frustrated at being outranked by someone who had simply walked in off the street and wasn't trying to hide his thoughts. "Aye Corporal. Lead on" he replied flatly.

Peter nodded sharply and lifted his pike to his shoulder, triggering the other three guards, all of whom were youngsters, to follow his lead immediately. "We will head towards the merchant quarters centre, and after waiting there for a while, we will make a detour off the regular patrol path so I can introduce you to some of the other less travelled areas that you may want to include in future patrols.

"Very good Corporal. Thank you for this introduction."

Peter nodded again and turned on the spot with military precision. After waiting the required two beats, he stepped off with a well-practised gait, the kind that you could only obtain by years of regular 'patrolling'. It allowed someone to learn to carry a heavy load for long periods with the minimal amount of exhaustion and, Hubert noted, was a trait that the guard seemed to share with the regular army. The other guards, clearly not having yet had the right amount of painful experience to master the style, set off after their Corporal in a staggered start, struggling to keep up and looking more like a bunch of drunks being led home than an efficient guard patrol.

Hubert tagged on to the rear of the patrol and followed them over the next few minutes as the Corporal silently led the men through the merchant districts housing areas. The closer they walked to the central area, which was where the real-life and soul of the district was to be found as it boasted all of the trade markets, taverns and pleasure houses, then the more quaint the housing became. In stark contrast to the port, docks and less well-maintained areas in the shades, the merchant district was orderly, colourful and clean. Merchants had to pay a fair amount of gold directly to the crown for the privilege of owning a property in the city and with that privledge came the responsibility for the upkeep of the merchant districts overall standard. The cost came in the form of a monthly payment that provided the merchant district overseer with a pot of coin with which he could keep the streets clean and well maintained. Unlike many cities and towns that Hubert had visited, the houses in Pont Vanis we all thinner on the face than they were in length and height due to the owners being taxed by the window frontage. This restriction meant that it was possible to proceed down streets where, in only a very few paces, you could walk past ten different abodes which whilst all being of a similar design were individualised in some way, be that through colour or decoration. A thin layer of snow, the remains from the night before, covered the cobblestones of the street they walked making him check his footing at every step. The last thing he needed was for the new Sergeant to fall over on his arse in front of the troops. He would never hear the last of it.

It took a few minutes of patrolling, mainly uphill, before the guards walked through one of the prominent arches into the large, sprawling central square of the district. Hubert was not new to the square, often referred to as the 'genie' because if you could wish it, then it was almost guaranteed that the hundreds of merchants stalls and surrounding shop fronts, could make it happen, for the right price of course. The square was always brightly coloured, but not garishly, with banners and streamers declaring the wares or skills of their owners. In each of the four corners of the square, a large raised podium allowed performers and orators to address the masses. Still, the size of the area, a few hundred paces in each direction, ensured that if you were being entertained by one performance, you wouldn't hear the other ones. Surrounding the square were the inns, gambling houses, smithies, craftsmen and brothels and Hubert was proud of the fact he knew the names of many of the whores in that worked here. After his mammoth whoring and drinking session earlier in the month he had eaten, drank and fucked his way through almost a thousand crowns in a week of debauchery he had been looking forward to for over 30 years of army service. At the end of the week, he was physically spent, and his body hadn't thanked him for the marathon, nor his bank balance. Hubert was a simple man and without any family to take care of he had no regrets as the week had given him plenty of memories to take to his grave and, less happily, also an itchy rash developing on his cock.

In the centre of the square, a vast white marble statue of the prophet Lebioda stood accusingly as if by its very presence it was trying to force unscrupulous traders to act more morally. The prophet held his customary book in his left hand crossed over his chest and in the other, a symbolic torch held aloft. Hubert guessed that the torch was supposed to show that Lebioda was a guide of some sort. The statue had been erected under the old king and queen with it likely being commissioned by the now dowager queen Zuleyka whos zeal of Lebiodas teachings and obedience to the literal word of the 'good book' were well known. Hubert was a simple man and not godfearing, so the statue meant little to him, and it certainly hadn't made him act any better a few weeks before. The only thing the figure was good for in his opinion was for providing the gulls somewhere to sit and shit.

"Something isn't right" Peter announced from the front of the patrol shortly before it ground to a halt suddenly. "Something isn't right…" he repeated.

Hubert walked up to stand by the Corporal slowly, passing the nervous young guardsman. "Explain please…" he asked the Corporal flatly, whilst looking out over the market square

"There is a large group stood around the statue pointing at something Sergeant. By now, many traders should have already started preparing their stalls. No-one is doing that as you can see" he waved his hand slowly across the area as it to prove a point.

Hubert nodded. "Well then Corporal, let's go and see what the fuss is all about. I am sure its nothing."

The patrol stepped off again in the direction of the crowd surrounding the statue. As they closed the distance, passing the still skeletal trade stalls covered in a light dusting of snow, it started to become rapidly clear that everything was far from being 'nothing'. Hubert could hear numerous women sobbing, and men's angry raised voices as they neared and it didn't take long for someone to notice the patrol approaching and point at them.

"The guard is here!" a young, well-dressed man announced to the group.

"What is going on here?" Peter demanded as the young man hopped from foot to foot nervously. "Make way for the city guard!"

The group slowly separated as Peter pushed his way forcefully through the crowd. The other young guards followed him loyally helping to make space for their patrol commander as he continued towards the statue. Hubert stood back slightly, observing the crowd and listening intently, a trick that had been learnt from a lifetime of appraising situations. He noticed that the group was agitated, worried and scared in equal measure and that more than one of the merchants had a white chalk face. A few women were still sobbing.

"Sergeant!" Peter shouted from somewhere near the statue, out of sight. "You need to come and see this!"

Hubert paced forward and entered the crowd, heading in the direction of the Corporals voice. After a few moments, he joined the clearing around the statue and took in the sight. Two of the young guards were busy retching up the contents of their stomachs directly onto the snowy cobblestones, and even Peter had turned pale.

The Sergeant had seen some pretty messed up things in his years as a soldier and was no stranger to blood or guts, but the sight that greeted him strained his tolerances. Even he felt the bile begin to rise but forced it down with effort and he was glad he hadn't had a large breakfast before the patrol. "Fucking hell" is all he could say. "Fucking, fucking hell…"

"What do we do?" the only guard that could still talk asked both of his seniors.

"I have no fucking idea…" the Corporal replied flatly.

"Get the Captain" Hubert ordered. "Go now".

The young guard took off immediately, running as fast as he could in the quickest direction to the command post.

"The rest of us, we need to get these civvies under control and wait for the support".

Peter nodded and gripped his pike. "You heard the Sergeant boys. Quit your puking there is time for that later!".

It took almost two full days before Triss dared to begin reversing the spell which she had used to stabilise Geralt so suddenly. On arrival at the village, and after dispersing the crowd that had gathered, she had been thankful to Dika for had gone out of his way to be as helpful as possible to the Captain and herself. Spare, clean beds were found for all in the village, and a few of the womenfolk had been happy to provide their time to assist in preparing the dead for transport and for helping Triss to her care of the witcher. More than once, she had been forced to politely dismiss a young lady who just happened to be walking by and dropped in to see if the sorceress needed anything. She knew full well that they only wanted to set eyes on the famous white wolf.

Reinard had been frustrated at Triss's insistence that they must stay in the village for a few days whilst she tended to Geralt and was highly vocal about being asked to return to the capital to update the king. He insisted that his mission was to protect the king's sorceress and to bring the witcher to Pont Vanis directly and that anything less would be a dereliction of his duty and a failure he could simply not stomach. Despite herself, Triss wanted to clip the man round the back of his head and knock some sense into his duty addled brain, but she knew in her heart of hearts that Reinard was doing what he thought was right in the circumstances. He cooled somewhat when Triss instead asked him to send his patrol back to the capital with an update and the corpses of the dead soldiers so they could be laid to rest which was not only the right thing to do for fallen, but it was the right thing for the village as well. Having a bunch of uninvited hungry armed soldiery appear at a village put an unnecessary strain on the resources of the village folk, not least of which the young women, many of whom Triss was sure would be giving birth in nine months.

The patrol had set off before dawn yesterday and would be well on its way to the capital and the king now. Reinard had refused to leave her unguarded and was currently being homed by a rather beautiful middle-aged lady that was, in Trisses opinion, being far too helpful and borderline scandalous.

Now, reclining in a heavy set chair next to a well-stocked fireplace, Triss had a chance to breathe since they arrived. The homestead she had been offered as a temporary shelter belonged to the village matriarch, a battleaxe of a woman called Fenna who had volunteered to stay with her niece. The little home was quaint, whitewashed walls with rough wooden floorboards and crammed with far too much shelving. Each shelf was the home of something that Fenna particularly found exciting or wanted to remember, and the homestead resembled more a memory box than a dwelling. The kitchen area was well lived and stocked as would be expected of an elderly lady living alone. All in all, it was peaceful and homely, and Triss mused, strangely comforting.

Geralt was breathing quietly in the sole bed only a few feet away, covered lightly in a thin cotton sheet. She watched intently as his chest rose and fell slowly, marvelling at how the cotton traced his muscular body so well, capturing all of the gentle curves and hard edges that she knew intimately and had come to love. He would never know how many hours she had spent over the years watching him sleep, mesmerised like a little girl spotting a new ribbon or toy through a glass window. She often found it difficult to sleep as she toyed with a problem or a spell in her head, but the sight and smell of him so close always helped to soothe her nerves and relax.

He had significantly bled from the head wound he had received, and after Triss had spent time cleaning his matted hair and sterilising the injury, it was clear he had fractured some of the bone around the base of his skull. She had helped the healing along with the best magic spells and incantation at her disposal and had been pleasantly pleased with his rapid recovery, no doubt aided in no small part by a witchers infamous ability to survive wounds that would kill a normal man. Despite that, he was lucky though, as Triss had seen hale men paralysed from similar damage, struck down in their prime and turned into nothing but immobile puppets of bitterness and hatred.

She sat still for a long time merely watching him in the firelight as the flames danced and cackled in the darkness. The glass of brandy that she held softly in her left hand was heating up slowly in the warmth of the fireplace, and the smell of it was heady, causing her eyes to swim slightly. She had never been able to hold her drink at the best of times and now, exhausted as she was, it was inevitable that she would get a little tipsy. The room was sweltering to the point that she enjoyed, and because of this she had, for what felt like the first time in weeks, removed her travelling clothes and slipped into something a little more comfortable. With the quick flick of her fingers earlier that evening, she had conjured up a loose-fitting nightgown that was definitely cut far too short to be practical in the coldness of the far north but extenuated her figure in a way that pleased her greatly and would have most definitely pleased her husband.

The spell she had placed on Geralt would take time to reverse fully, and she intended to use the unusual period of quiet time that she had been presented to catch up on a grimoire that she had been trying to read for weeks. The heavy, leather-clad book lay half-open on her lap as she fingered through the pages trying desperately to pay attention. The symbols and diagrams were challenging to follow at the best of times but even more so after a long ride followed by a brutal battle and the exhaustion she felt from repeated spell casting.

She gave up. The brandy beckoned as it repeatedly had since she poured it and, not to want to be seen to be holding out, she gladly indulged at length.

When Triss woke the first thing she noticed was a heavy cloak had been draped over her to keep her warm. It was the cloak that she had gifted to Geralt before he had left a few weeks prior and smelt strongly of his musk scent mixed with woodsmoke. The second thing she noticed was that the fire had dimmed significantly and that the windows had been opened to allow the bitter cold fresh air to seep in, her legs were colder than they should be causing her to shiver.

"Good morning, sleepyhead" a voice growled playfully from the darkness.

Triss lifted her head slowly and blinked the sleep away. She sighed as her gaze fell upon Geralt who was watching her from the bed, fully awake, his yellow cat-like eyes penetrating the darkness and transfixing her so completely. He had already been up and was responsible for letting in the cold air. Geralt had always been more comfortable in the cold than in the warm, being the complete opposite to her in that regard, and his habit of letting in the frigid air in the morning as she snuggled warmly under the sheets was a bone of contention that they often wrestled over. There would be none of that this morning. She was simply happy to see him alive. "Good morning" she replied softly.

"Join me. It's not yet dawn, and this bed is probably just big enough for the both of us, as long as you don't mind sharing".

Triss smiled and stood, throwing the cloak to the floor. It took mere moments for her to slide into bed next to him and cuddle up as tightly as possible, the back of her head nestled just under his bearded chin. She had missed him as she always did when he left to travel the path and loved the pure moments of bliss that she always felt when they were able to reconnect. "I've missed you" she purred.

"I've missed you too" he replied as he wrapped a strong arm around her waist and kissed the back of her neck lightly with his rough lips. "Now be a good girl and go back to sleep. We still have a few hours, and I could do with more rest. We will have plenty of time to catch up on the way home".

Triss didn't reply, too happy as she was to respond. Instead, and in direct contradiction to what the majority rightly believed about sorceresses, she did exactly as she was told and closed her eyes. Within a few moments, she was asleep again, safe in the arms of her husband and the only man that she would ever let willingly, if not eagerly, command her to do anything.

Mina sat at the edge of her bed in the foetal position, shaking so hard she thought she would burst. Her body ached so badly from the hours of fear-induced spasms that it felt like she had been tortured to within an inch of her life at the hands of some sadistic dungeon keeper. The scenes of the murder kept flashing past her eyes.

The dead features of Sinda, lying face up in the pink snow as the monster prepared to cut her.

The wicked knife that the monster had held ready to strike her down.

The careful, controlled movements of the beast.

The absolute coldness in the killer's voice and his remarkably well-spoken manner, totally in contrast to the heinous act he had just committed.

It was simply too much for Mina, already mentally shaken from the events of the last few days and still coming down from a fisstech and alcohol binge.

"Oh gods, he will be coming for me next…" she sobbed uncontrollably as the revelation struck her like a hammer blow. "He will find me and gut me like a fish, just like Sinda!"

She wailed even louder and was rendered breathless by the long, wracking sobs that she simply couldn't control. The fear was all-encompassing, turning her muscles and stomach to jelly. She wet herself unashamedly, the piss staining the already ruined straw mattress of her bed.

"What should I do?" She mumbled to herself. "I need to tell the guard. I need to ask them for protection. I need…"

A loud bang on the wall startled her. The neighbours were not happy with the noises she was making so early in the morning, but instead of calming her down, it merely set her off again, even louder than before.

Outside, in the freezing dark and snow-covered merchant district, the clocktower chimed one bell.

Mina didn't hear it, of course. She was far too busy.

"Begging your pardon miss but if the witcher is awake, we would like to know what has happened to the children and be done with this whole affair. We have his due and want him to move on as soon as possible. It's not good for the village to have a witchman staying any longer than necessary. We know…"

"You know what boy?... that milk curdles and livestock goes lame? Let me guess, do you catch the mange as well from touching him?" Triss stood outside Fenna's home facing off against the small group of villagers that had gathered. As soon as she had woken and stepped outside into the cold air to stretch she had been surprised by the gaggle, led by the boy she had seen the day she arrived who she recalled was named Bran. His legs and arse had recovered from the impromptu ride to the point he could now walk again and surrounding him had formed a ragtag bunch of the village folk, many dirty and others wearing expressions that rendered them to look far dumber than she knew them to be. They had been on their way out to the fields to complete their tasks for the day when they had noticed her awake and decided to ambush her.

"…something like that" Bran replied sheepishly.

Triss shook her head and crossed her arms across her chest slowly. "Its all old wifes tales and myths peddled by idiots with a score to settle or something against witchers. Trust me, I know full well. He is not just a witcher he is also my husband, and do you see me riddled with mange?" Triss shook her chestnut and red hair slowly and ran her fingers through it to reinforce the point. "Have any of your cows or sheep died in the last few days? Has anyone suddenly come down with the pox or has there been any sudden and unexpected births?"

The group muttered between itself at her words, and Bram struggled to keep his eyes from dropping down to outright letch over Triss's frame, clothed as it was in tight-fitting but practical green leather riding clothes with knee-high brown leather boots. She always wore her cut low, as did her sister sorceresses. There were rules.

"Be as that may miss" Bram finally regrouped. "We would like him to move on".

"Don't worry; we will be leaving today. I have important matters to attend to in the capital, and we won't be staying another night now the witcher can travel. I am sure he will speak to you shortly after he has fully woken up and can walk properly".

"I will speak with them now" Geralt interrupted from behind the partly closed door of the homestead. A few moments later, he opened the door fully and ducked as he stepped out into the dim morning. He was naked from the waist up, and everyone in the group gasped at the state of his incredibly scarred body. "Bram, fetch the mother and Fenna. We will settle this now, and will leave within the hour".

Bram nodded then left to do as he was instructed.

Triss glanced sideways at Geralt and then back at the group before her. "I suggest the rest of you find something else to do and leave us alone".

The tone in her voice, clearly angry, dispersed the group in quick measure and soon she found herself stood next to Geralt who inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with as much of the frigid air as possible. He exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes closed and ran his hands through his white hair. "Don't touch, it's still healing" she scolded.

Geralt smiled without opening his eyes. "You know, sometimes you sound like Vesimir. I am just admiring your handiwork again".

"Stop trying to kill yourself, and I won't have to keep piecing you back together. I know full well you are toying with the stitches witcher and occasionally I wonder if you are a child!"

Geralt lowered his hands and chuckled under his breath. Guilty as charged.

"Here they come" she stated.

"Good. I suggest you rouse your dear Captain from his slumber whilst I explain what has happened and collect my payment. I want to leave in the next hour. The mood is changing here and will shortly sour even further".

Triss nodded and stepped to one side as Bran led the mother of the children into the homestead, escorted by a dour-looking Fenna.

She managed to share one last lingering look with Geralt before he gently closed the door.

As she walked away from home in the direction of Reinard, she couldn't help but hear the piercing wail of the mother. The pure, unfiltered anguish it contained rent her heart and despite herself, she couldn't help shedding a single tear which, of course, she wiped away as soon as it had formed.

Sorceresses didn't cry. There were rules.

As far as places to secretly meet, he had to admit that it was a damned innovative location. The cryptic letter that he had received would have been impossible to decipher had it not been for their previous communications providing the required algorithm. Still, even though he possessed the way to unlock the message, it had taken him some time to understand it. He now found himself sat across from the cloaked figure in the middle of warehouse piled high with crates which likely contained all kinds of the fish that helped feed the masses. The stench was all-consuming and, for someone who was not a fond lover of seafood, it made him exceedingly uncomfortable.

He had arrived at the rendezvous location as requested in the letter and was met by a completely uninteresting looking man dressed in a dark grey, drab and loose-fitting shirt and trousers. The man was, possibly, the single most unrememberable and unassuming person he had ever had the misfortune to meet and even now, only minutes later, he was struggling to remember anything about him. It was incredibly alarming, especially for someone so used to knowing almost everything about what happened in the realm and having an excellent memory for people, especially. It was as if the man was mired in fog which made it impossible to pin down features and mannerisms.

He was convinced that even if he were presented with the man again, amongst his peers, he would be woefully incapable of picking the culprit out of the lineup.

Once blindfolded, which had been part of the process during the last two meetings as well, he had been gently led for some minutes to this location, and he had no idea where that could be. Being, as it was, used to store fish, he assumed that the warehouse was near to the docks, but even that guess wasn't reliable.

The figure that sat opposite was undoubtedly not the same man that had met him at the contact point. This man was far older, or at least he guessed as much as he had never seen his face, just heard him speak. The figure had an old and gruff voice which led him to believe that the man under the heavy cloak was more senior than himself by some years.

"I trust the plan is unfolding as you had anticipated?"

Lord Hans Janssen folded his fat dry hands in front of him slowly and leant forward across the surprisingly elegant table which looked entirely out of place in the warehouse. "Somewhat. The king still has no idea how the head of the girl came to be placed in his map room and the murder that was discovered this morning of that elf whore plastered across the statue of Lebioda will send him into an absolute rage".

"Very good. I am glad. But may I ask you to clarify why you say 'somewhat'?"

"He has asked his pet hoar Triss Merrigold, the sorceress, to intervene as we anticipated".

"And that is a problem how exactly?"

"It's not her that is the problem. She has been unable to determine anything so far using her magical powers and is as dumb to the situation as the rest of them. It's her hound that we need to worry about".

"Ah, the famed Geralt of Rivia. The white wolf and the butcher of Blaviken. The slayer and protector of kings. The witcher who, even though he has always protested against it, simply seems unable to extricate himself from court intrigue and politics. Yes, we know about him. And we know what he is capable of".

"Good. Then I assume that I can continue to count on your support?".

"Very much so. However, the price is to be renegotiated".

Hans spluttered. "Are you mad? I am already paying you a king's ransom. If I am going to have to pay you more to deal with the witcher, then I want something to sweeten the deal."

"Such as?" the figure replied dryly. Utterly unfazed by the lord's pathetic outburst.

"I want more bodies on the streets. I want it to be clear to every merchant, artisan, sail captain, innkeeper and whore that the king is entirely unable to keep them safe. I want the capital to grind to a halt, and I want the population to become a powderkeg waiting for the right match to touch it off. I want obvious, public and fabulous displays of high ranking officials and merchant families. All of the family".

"And your part in this spectacle is?"

"I will sow further dissent with propaganda from behind the scenes, and I will be the logical choice to take over the throne when, and I mean when not if, the king is either torn apart by his subjects of flees from them".

The figure remained quiet for some time as the words sunk in. "The objective and scope of this project have changed Lord Janssen, and I am not someone with which to be trifled. We did not agree to this from the outset, and my plans to accomplish what you desire must be rewritten and scaled accordingly. There is much to do…" the figure left the sentence hanging.

"And have no fear assassin, the payment will also be scaled accordingly."

"Good. In that case, I will make an exception to the rules. You will provide me with a list of targets, and I will ensure that they are removed in…how did you put it… a fabulous fashion. To accomplish this, I will need to bring move operatives into the game, and this will take some time. In the meantime, I will brief my colleague, who is currently working on your case and ask him to step up the tempo somewhat. I have no doubt he will be thrilled at the prospect".

Hand Janssen nodded his acceptance. "My gratitude knows no bounds. Forward me your payment proposal, and I will see to it that the coin is transferred accordingly, with no records of course". With that, he stood and allowed the entirely unremarkable young man to blindfold and lead him out of the only exit. When the door was firmly shut, and the robed figure was confident that he was alone, he waved his hand slowly, dispelling the illusion of the warehouse, revealing a black hooded figure reclining in an ornate chair nearby, legs crossed as if bored. The figure was slowly spinning a dagger by its hilt in his left hand whilst munching on an apple from the other.

"You heard the man?" the grey-robed figure now asked in a melodic and entirely feminine voice.

"That I did Greyhand. I will start with the bitch that interrupted me at work last night".

"Are you compromised Blackhand?"

"No, she saw nothing other than the corpse of her elven friend".

"Please continue then. I will assemble the others in the meantime".

"Very well. But there is one complication."

"Go on…"

"I followed her this morning when she finally left her cave. She has turned herself in to the city guard for questioning probably assuming they would listen to her. She didn't consider the city is now in such an uproar after they found my piece of art this morning that the guard is simply looking for anyone they can pin the blame on. I doubt it will be long before they have charged her as the murderer and found her guilty for the crime. She will likely hang in the next few days at most".

"How very sloppy and uncharacteristic of you Blackhand" Greyhand sighed. "But don't worry about the girl, I will have her released, and you can paint your next piece of art in any way that you feel is necessary".

The black-robed figure crunched the apple loudly again and nodded, almost imperceptibly. "My thanks master. I am improving every time".

"It has not escaped my notice Blackhand. Bravo".