Boots trotted alongside Pemberton and Mum, tail wagging so hard it blurred the air behind him. This was the best day ever. His russet paws kicked up small clouds of dust on the dirt path, and wisps of smoke curled from his nostrils in happy little puffs. They were going on an adventure! To the bridge! With stakes and papers and everything!

  Pemberton carried a leather satchel stuffed with documents, walking with precise, if small steps. Mum clutched a bundle of wooden stakes under one arm and a pot of ink under the other, his cigar clamped between his teeth, trailing smoke.

  "The hellhound is stepping on my shadow," Mum said without removing the cigar.

  "He's excited." Pemberton adjusted his spectacles. "Boots, heel."

  Boots bounded forward instead, spinning in a circle before racing back to them. The bridge! They were almost at the bridge! He could go swimming! Oh no. He shouldn't do that in a river—it was a bad thing for him to do.

  "It's bad enough that I'm here with you, Pemberton, instead of heading into town with Elanthe and Noctura. No need to add back luck on top of it."

  "Buttercup. Buttercup showed up for work today, not Noctura."

  "Whatever. We're going to die if Vorghammul shows up. You know that, right?"

  "Oh ye of little faith. Everything is proper and in order. We've got this in the bag."

  When they reached the stone structure spanning the river, Pemberton set down his satchel and withdrew several parchments. Boots sniffed them eagerly. They smelled like ink and something sharp that made his nose tingle.

  "Boots, back," Pemberton commanded.

  Boots sat. His tail swept the ground, singing the grass over the arc of his wag.

  Mum hammered a stake into the ground at the south end of the bridge, then dipped a brush into the ink pot. The liquid shimmered strangely, catching light that wasn't there. Boots watched, fascinated, as Mum painted words onto the parchment that vanished almost immediately, except they didn't, not really. Boots could still see them glowing faintly, smell the magic burning off them.

  "Satisfactory," Pemberton said, examining the sign. "North side next."

  They crossed the bridge, and Boots paused in the middle to peer over the edge at the water below. Fish! He could smell fish and mud and—

  "Boots!"

  He scrambled after them, claws clicking on stone.

  On the north bank, Mum repeated the process. Boots sat without being told this time, because he was a very good boy and wanted everyone to know it. When Mum finished, Pemberton nodded approval.

  "Table and chairs?"

  "'Official presence is in the regulations.'" Pemberton returned to the south side, and Boots followed.

  From his satchel, Pemberton impossibly produced a collapsible table and two small chairs. Within minutes, he had arranged them into a neat setup that looked absurdly formal. Mum sat behind the table and began arranging paper into precise stacks, organizing them by size and category with a devilish instinct for order.

  "Perfect." Mum adjusted a stack half an inch to the left. "Now we appear both official and immovable."

  "We appear like we're selling baked goods at market," Pemberton said flatly.

  Boots didn't understand what baked goods were, but he wagged his tail anyway because Pemberton's voice sounded funny.

  A scraping sound made Boots whip around. Krag now stood on the south side of the bridge, just opposite the table, stone-still in his sentinel pose. Boots hadn't seen him arrive, and he thought the gargoyle's trick of sneaking up on them was great fun.

  The pup exploded into motion. Krag! Krag was here! He raced across the bridge, then ran back, whipping tail, leaving vortices of smoke in his wake. He skidded to a stop in front of the gargoyle and dropped into a play bow, front paws stretched forward, rear end high, tail going wild.

  Krag didn't move. His amber eyes glowed faintly.

  Boots circled him once, twice, then sat and whined hopefully.

  "Boots, return," Pemberton called.

  Boots trotted back reluctantly, glancing over his shoulder at Krag every few steps. He couldn’t understand how the gargoyle could resist playing with him.

  Footsteps approached from the north—a villager carrying an axe over his shoulder, heading into the southern woods to gather firewood. He paused at the bridge, staring at the setup.

  "What's all this then?"

  "Security measure." Pemberton didn't look up from his ledger. "Sir Chuck wants to ensure no demons sneak into the village."

  The hunter glanced at Boots, then at the dwarf and lanky man sitting calmly at a table in the middle of nowhere behind a stack of papers. "Right. Security." He quickly resumed his journey with nary a look behind him. He had no time for fools.

  Boots wagged his tail at the man. He was protecting the village! Just like Master wanted! He was such a good boy!

  * * *

  Vorghammul the Destroyer crested the ridge at midday, his warband spread behind him like a stain across the landscape. Twenty-five demons of varying rank and capability made up his forces. From lowly Imps with their needle teeth and dreg demons with twisted horns and sharp claws, to his elite of brutish fighters built for nothing but violence, ready to rend any foe limb from limb. The kind of rabble a lieutenant could scrape together without filing paperwork, sufficient for staking his claim as administrator of the parcel. His rise to commanding an empire would begin today.

  Vorghammul stood seven feet tall, muscle layered over muscle, his crimson skin decorated with scars from over a century of battlefield excursions. The massive axe strapped to his back had split shields, armor, and skulls in equal measure. He'd clawed his way to lieutenant through pure brutality, and he knew exactly one way to solve problems: smash them until they stopped being problems.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  The bridge came into view, and he stopped. A table sat at the near end. It hadn't been there when he'd come by yesterday to reconnoiter. Two figures occupied chairs behind the table—an imp in a three-piece suit and a contract devil smoking a cigar, both pretending to be humans. Wooden stakes marked both ends of the bridge, each bearing a parchment covered in glowing script.

  "What is this?" his laugh boomed across the clearing. He strode forward, his warband following. The bridge was wide enough for a single cart to pass, but his mob would have to organize to cross and, of course, no demon would want to be anything but first. It annoyed him at times, but that was the attitude he sought in his followers.

  The imp stood as Vorghammul approached. Three and a half feet tall, grey skin, eyes like chips of amber. He held a leather-bound ledger.

  "Good afternoon, sir. I am Pemberton, administrative officer for Captain Chuck's territory. Crossing this bridge by demons requires payment of toll and signature on the crossing contract."

  Vorghammul stared.

  Behind him, a couple of imps snickered. He may have heard, "Hey, is that Pemberton?" and "No grix, it's him." One of the brutish fighters grunted what might have been laughter, but he was too flabbergasted to deliver a cuff and reprimand. If he thought that they were expecting some quality entertainment at his expense, he'd have been mildly upset and started throwing imps.

  "You're joking."

  "I assure you, sir, I am not." Pemberton's voice remained perfectly level, as though he weren't facing twenty-six demons, most of whom could tear him apart without breaking a sweat. "Infernal Commercial Law, Section 47, Subsection 12, paragraphs 1632 through 1645 clearly state that administrators of demonic assets may impose tolls on infrastructure within their jurisdiction. This bridge is within Captain Chuck's jurisdiction. Therefore, a toll applies."

  Vorghammul leaned down until his face was level with Pemberton's. "Move, or I'll crush you."

  Pemberton didn't flinch. "You are welcome to file a dispute with Hell's Administrative Court. Form 7743-B-3, available from my colleague, Nebuchadnezzar Aristophanes Aloisius Hieronymus Chrysanthemum, here. Please note the box where you have to enter his name as the supplier of the form." Mum produced a form from absolutely nowhere and held it up helpfully, cigar still clamped in his teeth. "However, crossing without payment constitutes theft of services and violation of infernal commercial law. I will be forced to file a report if you do so."

  "A report." The war demon straightened. "You'll file a report." His chuckle was a deep, deep rumble.

  "Yes, sir. Which will be forwarded to the Office of Commercial Violations, copied to Lord Azgoranthe's administrative staff, with a secondary filing to the Territorial Claims Division. All standard procedure. All by the book."

  Vorghammul's hand moved to his axe. The warband shifted behind him, sensing violence.

  "What's the toll?"

  "One thousand gold per demon, sir. Plus signature acknowledging Captain Chuck's territorial claim."

  The clearing went silent except for the river burbling beneath the bridge.

  "One thousand—" Vorghammul's voice dropped to something dangerous. "Each?"

  "Yes, sir. Infrastructure maintenance is expensive."

  He looked at his warband. Twenty-six thousand gold. He didn't have twenty-six thousand gold. Nobody had that kind of coin for a simple claim violation. Well, not for a po-dink village like this one.

  "I'm going to cross this bridge," Vorghammul said, his voice soft now, the tone he used right before killing someone. "You're going to step aside. And if you file your little report, I'll find you and pull your arms off."

  Pemberton made a notation in his ledger. "Noted. Threat of bodily harm entered into the record.”

  Mum chimed in. “Will you put that in writing, or would you like me to do so? The drafting fee is quite reasonable."

  Vorghammul snatched the contract from Mum's fingers, holding it up to his eyes. Words swam across the parchment. His brain processed maybe one in five. "Toll-taker rights..." something about "arbitra-tron?" No, "arbitration." Then a section about "reversionary clauses" and "temporal limitations on contested jurisdictional claims during periods of administrative trans—"

  His vision blurred, then turned red. He crumpled the form by making a fist and shook it at the toll-takers.

  "What is this gibberish?"

  "Gibberish?" Mum drew himself up, affronted. "Sir, I assure you this is a perfectly standard toll-crossing agreement with the usual provisions for disputed claims, binding arbitration protocols, and reversionary clauses in the event of—"

  "Stop." Vorghammul pressed his palm to his forehead. "Explain it."

  "Of course." Mum took a long drag from his cigar. "You pay one thousand gold per demon. You sign here, here, and here. You agree to binding arbitration in case of disputes. You acknowledge Captain Chuck's administrator rights over this territory. You agree to— ah, where is it? Yes, section seven regarding temporal limitations on contested jurisdictional claims during periods of administrative transition, specifically as it pertains to—"

  "ENOUGH!" Vorghammul's roar sent birds scattering from under the bridge. Several of the more minor demons in his warband took involuntary steps backward.

  Mum blinked at him, cigar smoke curling upward.

  He could feel his control slipping. This was supposed to be simple. March in, claim the territory, kill a bunch of humans, have a good time, and establish himself as a despot. But this imp and this contract devil had turned it into... this. Paperwork. Regulations. Jurisdictional claims. Everything he hated most. They were dammed good. He hated them for it.

  He should kill them both. Right now. Snap their necks, toss their bodies in the river, and march across the bridge. Thornwell would be his in ten minutes. There was nobody to stop him.

  But. They had a gargoyle, so it might not be so easy. You never knew with those shifty stone bastards, and he didn't know this one. Worse, hell's hierarchy didn't forgive violations of demonic law. The Devils got promoted for following the procedure, demoted for breaking it. If he crossed this bridge illegally, if Pemberton filed his report before dying, if the Administrative Court got involved, Lord Azgoranthe would have his hide. He'd be stuck behind a desk for a century if he were lucky.

  His decision was made.

  Vorghammul lowered his axe and stuck his gnarled finger into Pemberton's face. "You've got three days, Imp. I'll have the Light-sent paperwork done, and then I'm coming for you."

  Pemberton made another notation in his ledger. "Very good, sir. Shall I prepare a consultation request form for—"

  "Three days!" he jabbed a finger at the imp. "I'll return with proper documentation, and extra boyz just to crush you harder. Then we'll see whose jurisdiction this really is. And if it's yours, I'm going to take it from you anyway. All legal-like."

  He turned, shouldering past his warband. "Let go! I'm sick of looking at these losers."

  As they retreated south, Vorghammul could have sworn he heard the contract devil squeak, "Remember to bring the filing fee." He knew if he turned back to wring the paper-pusher's neck, he'd be up to his own filing reports about it, so he pretended not to hear.

  Pemberton watched the last demon disappear into the southern treeline before picking up his quill. His hand remained perfectly steady as he made his notation in precise script: Toll collection: Day 1. No revenue. Successful deterrence via bureaucratic obstruction. Only after he put it down did it start to shake.

  Beside him, Mum's cigar trembled between his fingers. The contract devil exhaled a shaky stream of smoke, his crimson skin a shade paler than usual. "That was..." Mum started, then stopped. Started again. "Pemberton, he was going to murder us."

  "Yes. He might still. Actually, it's quite likely." Pemberton closed the ledger with a soft snap and began organizing the contract forms into neat stacks. "Though he'll file the proper paperwork first. I doubt his patron would want to deal with the bureaucratic fallout if he didn't."

  "You're insane." Mum took a long pull from his cigar. "Completely, utterly insane."

  "Thank you, what a wonderful compliment, but I couldn't have done it without your contracts." He adjusted his spectacles. "Twenty-six demons. We faced down twenty-six demons, you and I, bought three days' delay for the boss, and all without losing any limbs. Best part is we've got the potential for sufficient revenue to purchase some oil for the lamps."

  "Three days until they return with documentation."

  "And extra boyz."