The Fairfield Manor was a large building designed to bring harmony to a myriad of discordant sections. Each wing built with different materials and designed to look like a late addition to the main house. Rather than being an ugly mashup, each material played into the ones beside it. The colors and textures flowed seamlessly together. The contrasts highlighting the beauty of the building rather than taking away from it.

  A hand holding a basket of wheat served as the knocker. The strands of wheat and the basket were both cast from the same bronze as the door, but the wheat was inlaid with gold and amber. Nora stepped up and admired the building’s facade before she slammed the basket into the door in a rhythmic set of three and stepped back to wait for an answer.

  It took barely a minute of us waiting on the granite steps for the door to swing outward and reveal an aged man in formal attire, his black suit neatly pressed and worn well.

  “Welcome. How may I be of assistance to you all today?” The elderly man asked, his voice that of a kindly grandfather’s.

  “Hi! I’m Nora and this is my party. We’ve received a bounty from the Adventurer’s Guild for the Ivory band and were wondering if Mrs. Farfield had any information on them she’d be willing to share.” Nora said, her voice bright and cheerful.

  “The mistress will most certainly be pleased to see you. Come in.”

  The interior of the manor was massive. Rich fabrics, paintings, and sculptures, all lit from identical mana light chandeliers decorated long hallways with ceilings twenty feet high.

  Within the first couple of hallways, there was an almost comforting buzz as servants hustled about their business. But the deeper we got, the lower the ceilings got and the fewer people we saw. Once lively rooms, brightly lit and full of art, reduced to dimly lit corridors void of life.

  We passed paintings of far-off landscapes with films of dust, and sculptures with chips on their features. The rugs, previously decadent but tasteful, became threadbare and dull. Even the rare servant we did pass moved quickly through their work, as if a predator waited for them in the shadows.

  When we finally stopped in front of a door, we were in a distant corner of the manor, built from timber rather than stone. The hallway lacked any art and contained only three doors, each made from a different exotic wood.

  The room the [Butler] ushered us into was smaller than I expected. Floor to ceiling windows of clear glass made the room feel bigger, but it was still barely larger than my breakfast nook at home. Warm afternoon light illuminated the space and shone down on a small interior courtyard filled with a beautiful green space.

  In the center of the courtyard, a birch tree grew strong, wildflowers bloomed and grew wherever they could while fruit bushes and wild grasses fought for dominance over the rest of the space. Vines crept a quarter of the way up one window along a wooden lattice built for them.

  Rugs in a riot of color that somehow managed to be cohesive covered birch wood flooring. Woven reed furniture, similar to what Thom made in Shallow Stone, formed a u-shape with the windows as the centerpiece. On the back wall, small mana lamps illuminated framed children’s charcoal drawings as if it they were pieces at an auction.

  If the rest of the house had been like a walk through a rotting corpse, we’d somehow stumbled upon a still beating heart. I chose a reed chair painted a bright red, banded with gold, and decorated with a knit cushion embroidered with roses and tulips.

  Mrs. Farfield entered the room shortly after we had. She was a tall woman, pale and gaunt. Puffy red eyes, with rashes at the corners from wiping tears, took in the room and lingered on the charcoal drawings. Tied back in a loose braid, her sun-bleached hair glimmered in the light from the courtyard behind her. She wore a flowing sundress, yellow floral patterns climbing from the hem, that had become too big for her recently. She wore a pair of large comfortable leather boots, the well-worn kind you’d expect to find on a [Laborer] rather than a [Merchant].

  “Forgive me my impatience children.” Mrs. Farfield said, her voice not unkind. “Are you really going to bring those godless cowards to justice?”

  She spoke with the confidence of a woman used to command, but her voice hitched on the last words. Whether in anger at those who took her son away or in sorrow for what she’d lost, I did not know.

  “We are.” Nora agreed.

  Some of the tension in her shoulders drained away, and she sank down into the chair on the opposite side of the room, a sad smile on her face.

  “Excellent. I’m told you have questions?”

  “We have three, if you wouldn’t mind?”

  Mrs. Farfield twirled her finger in response, her eyes still on the children’s drawings.

  “We’d like to know if they have any known bases of operation, their strength, and if they have any backing.”

  We’d come up with the questions during our maddening march to the manor. The question about backing was a late addition from Mika because he didn’t believe we should take the information given to the Guild by Dustreach’s crime families at face value. If the Ivory Band had a backer we didn’t know about, we might have to back out of the job.

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  “The Hardbuckle rat’s parents owned a warehouse in the rye neighborhood. The vermin all live out of it now, you’ll have no trouble finding it. None of the cowards are above Tier two and even then, only Hardbuckle and his friends’ve reached that high. The rest are gutter trash.”

  Mrs. Farfield spat the last insult.

  “As far as I know, the only scum fool enough to back the band is the fucking Sisterhood.” A hurt look flashed across her face at the mention of the Ivory Sisterhood, but she quickly suppressed it. “Anything else?”

  Mrs. Farfield started the meeting with an incredible amount of composure for a woman who’d just lost her son, but the small cracks in the fa?ade were widening. Nora looked hesitant to ask the last question. I was the one to suggest it and the rest had agreed it was worth asking, but it seemed Nora didn’t want to be the one to vocalize it.

  “Mrs. Farfield.” I said, and her haunted eyes turned to me. I averted my own to look at her mouth until her gaze went back to the charcoal pictures. “What would it be worth to you if we brought you the members of the band alive? We’d do it as discreetly as possible, of course.”

  Nora and Mika cringed as the words left my mouth, but I felt they had merit. We had no responsibility for this woman’s reputation and if she wanted to sully it by doing the dirty work herself, why not provide that service? We’d already agreed to kill them.

  Mrs. Farfield sat a little straighter in her chair, and I could almost see the fantasies of revenge play out in her mind’s eye. Eventually it passed, and she deflated into her chair, a woman with her strings cut, another crack in the fa?ade.

  “Much as I am loath to admit it. The murderous little shits are still children. I wouldn’t pay you anything to hand them to me. All I’d do is give them over to the guard to serve their time.”

  “That’s totally fine.” Nora hurried to reassure the older woman. “We just had to ask, y’know? Our steward would never let us live it down otherwise.”

  Surprised, I turned to Nora to see her skin almost crawling off with how uncomfortable she was. Still, I hadn’t expected her to throw Maggie under the wagon. Maggie also had her eyes on Nora, but she just seemed speculative. As if she’d found a new wrinkle in her plans for us and was trying to figure out how to adapt.

  “I do. I was an adventurer at one point. It’s how I met my husband.” Mrs. Farfield said with a self-deprecating smile. “But truly, thank you. You do not know how much it means to me that my son’s killers will finally face the justice they deserve.”

  ~~~***~~~

  When we left, I couldn’t help but put myself in Mrs. Farfield’s shoes. Her son is murdered in a robbery gone wrong. She knows exactly who did it, and instead of exacting revenge herself, she has to work through proxies to avoid a permanent stain on her reputation.

  I tried to imagine myself in the same position, aware of Helena’s murderers but too powerful myself to kill them without crossing taboos. I worked the problem over in my head again and again, oblivious to the awe-inspiring art and scenery we passed, but no matter how I framed it to myself, I couldn’t imagine doing anything but going on the warpath. No matter the laws, traditions, or taboos I broke; I’d see the world burn if it meant keeping Helena warm.

  It took another hour and a half of navigating labyrinthine streets and asking for directions before we finally entered the plaza where the Hardbuckle warehouse was. It was the size of a two-story building with two large grain silos connected at the back. On guard, next to bay doors meant for wagons to pass through, was a malnourished woman with a hatchet, meant for cutting firewood on one hip.

  She glared at the people who passed, and while the people our age and some adults looked nervous or cowed by the look, the vast majority looked at her like she was a puppy barking too loud.

  The plaza the warehouse bordered on was ringed by several stores, pubs, bakeries, and other warehouses. All of which had signs over their front doors, most with an animal of some kind. We stopped first at the Ugly Beagle a pub with a scarred beagle missing an ear on the sign.

  The first thing I noticed when we entered was how much the interior lived up to the name. It was a battered thing. Soot stains lingered on the walls above lamps and on all the windows. Casting the interior in shadowy light like a twilight fog. The floor was a stained mess. The stains could’ve been blood, vomit, booze, or anything else. They were almost all too old to know for sure. Beneath a chemical smell that told of a recent deep clean, was the smell of stale beer I’d so often read about in books growing up.

  Off in the corner was a tired red-haired woman, her face a mass of freckles contrasted by bright green eyes. Hunched over a split in half table, she had a measuring stick and pencil in either hand. The sight of her hunched over the table made me look around the room more, and as I did, I could see signs of care everywhere.

  Entire portions of the floor looked brand new, decorations and shelves filled with small keepsakes filled every wall. Not to mention the bar was so clean it had to be new.

  “Sorry guys, we’re closed right now. But I’d be glad to have you back once evening rolls around.” The woman called, head still down and looking at the table.

  “Oh! Sorry about that. Do you mind if we hang out on your patio till then?” Nora asked.

  “Not as long as you buy something when we open.” The woman said with a smile. “Name’s Sibille, by the way.”

  It wasn’t an aura or any working of magic I could sense, but when she smiled up at us, it contained so much joy that contentment rolled out from her in an almost physical wave.

  “I’m Nora, and this is my party. Thanks for letting us stick around.”

  Seated on the patio, in brand new chairs of iron and pine, Maggie let out a quiet sigh and leaned back in her chair. She closed her eyes for a small time to collect herself before she opened them again to look at us.

  “I know I’ve spoken to each of you already, but I have to say it again. I am so sorry for what Tia did. It’s inexcusable. I’d’ve reported her if I thought it would do anything.”

  Maggie looked at us with profound hurt, not for herself, but for us.

  The atmosphere around the table instantly shifted. Nora and Ellen had left the interior of the pub with small smiles from our interaction with Sibille. Both vanished like snowflakes in the summer heat, and Mika had a hand over his eyes.

  “You would have reported her?” I asked.

  “Absolutely. Subjecting you to her aura was beyond cruel. Tia is well aware of what her aura can do to people. She even uses it to capture bounties. The fact she unleashed it on a bunch of unwarned apprentices in an admin meeting is unacceptable.”

  Maggie spat the words, angry at her aunt presumedly but the look in her eye told me there was more to it than just that.

  “Thank you.” Said a small voice. Nora had her feet up on the edge of her chair and hugged her knees to her chest. Her eyes on the tabletop.

  Some of the anger in Maggie’s eyes faded as she looked at Nora, replaced with a weary sadness.

  “Why wouldn’t it have done anything?” Ellen demanded, her voice anything but small.

  “Tia is more important than she looks.” Maggie said, frowning. “She’s one of the Guild’s deterrents here in Teles, not to mention how much clout she’s accrued over the years. She could have a mental break and burn down a village and the Guild wouldn’t do anything but repost her elsewhere.”

  “Are you saying there’s no accountability?” Mika challenged.

  “No, there is some. But the Guild will not risk the loss of a strategic asset and one of the greatest glory machines in the empire because she was cruel to a group of apprentices. Had you proven your worth to the Guild, or had a mentor in the continental offices, then it might be different. As it is now, the cost of disciplining Tia for this just isn’t worth it.”

  That seemed a strange way to handle discipline, especially in an organization so large. Even in the most relaxed of our orders, any commanders could be brought for punishment should they abuse their power, having a system where people got placed above others for the convenience of the institution opened its inner workings to exploitation.

  There is a saying amongst The Band, a nomadic group of ogres who worship another of the Siblings, that exploitation begins the clock to rebellion. They follow a loose familial structure within their war bands, and rebellions are not uncommon. Ever since the Splintering during the first century of the Grace Mother’s godhood, she’s taken their insights into rebellion seriously.

  Conversation lapsed as we all processed what Maggie said in our own ways. Nora still had her feet on her chair, but her chin no longer hid behind her knees and instead rested atop her hands on her knees. Ellen tapped a nonsense rhythm out on the table, her eyes far away. Mika fiddled with his pack and moved things from pouch to pouch.

  Across from us, Maggie looked like the table was a mile long. There was a certain warmth gone from her. She was only a couple of feet away from us, but never had that seemed like such a distance.

  “Thank you.” Nora said, some strength back in her voice. “For what you said in Tia's office. I know it couldn’t have been easy to stand up to her like that.”

  The small smile Maggie gave Nora was so full of warmth it could have brewed tea, and before she could speak, she had to clear away a lump in her throat.

  “You’re welcome.”