++The Wardens shall be your guiding hands, taking care of you and nurturing the land upon which you live. Love them and obey them, and do not cross them. For when their love is scorned, their wrath shall follow. The Circumscribers shall emerge and do the work of God. Serve Him or be His enemy.++

  Chapter 4

  Reggie calmed down enough to look for some other use of his time just a few minutes later, but found none. There was no work available—no surprise there, nobody ever hired him if they had a choice in the matter—and though he was hungry, the rats today were proving particularly skilled at evading him. He was left to stew in his irritation until random wandering brought him back to within sight of William.

  So Reggie thought what the hell, and went over to see if Ludvich had finished his study of the bear yet. A knock on the door brought a swift answer, though it was the glaring face of Norvhan’s finest alchemist.

  “You thieving little shit,” he spat, “I should call the police on you and have you beaten into pulp for what you did.”

  “I’m here to see Luvich,” Reggie said, stepping over the issue, “I know he’s told you I’d be coming.”

  “You think you can just barge into my house after that?” The alchemist snarled, eyes burning with a contempt that let Reggie know this conversation was going to take up a lot of his time. He didn’t have that time, and certainly not the mental energy. So he drew a pistol and aimed it at his own temple instead.

  “Let me in now or I’ll kill myself.”

  William just stared at him for a few moments, then stumbled back as if he’d been hit. The old ‘I’ll commit suicide if you don’t do what I want trick’ had yet to fail, even on people who probably wanted Reggie to do it anyway. Apparently the thought of getting a bit on their clothes served as quite the motivator.

  Reggie slipped past him before he could recover, pocketing the pistol and being careful to uncock its hammer gently as he did. Wouldn’t want it to go off in his clothes would he? He could get hurt.

  If Ludvich’s house was nicer than average, William’s was probably somewhere at the peak of Norvhan’s luxury. Which, granted, wasn’t that high a mark considering it was a town of only six thousand. The walls were thick with wood and insulated enough that Reggie felt cool air slipping in within moments of the door’s opening, and a fireplace crackled deeper inside. His own house—his shack—would have fit in most of this one’s individual rooms. Was this a mansion? It felt like a mansion, certainly gave Reggie the same feelings he’d gotten from reading about mansions described by others, but he’d never heard anybody else refer to it as one.

  Did people live in bigger houses than this? What the fuck did they need all that room for?

  Ludvdich was in a back room, which Reggie was more familiar with given that it was where all the alchemist’s valuable work materials were stored. Four steps into the room, William turned to him and glared.

  “Take anything and I’ll have the guards on you in minutes,” he growled.

  “I’m not going to steal from you,” Reggie assured him. William stared at his face, searching it for deception. That was just fine by Reggie, as he’d already pocketed a jar of phosphorus, and time spent scrutinising his expression was time William didn’t spend studying the bulge under his jacket.

  Ludvich cleared his throat irritably. “We need to focus here,” he gently reminded the room. William snapped his concentration back onto the Witchfinder with the urgency anyone might have at receiving instructions from a person three times their strength.

  “Right, yes.” He made his way to the table at the end of the room where, Reggie saw now, a heavily dissected bear corpse was still resting.

  “What are we doing?” Reggie asked, keeping his distance from the bear in case it still wasn’t dead.

  “Us? Now, nothing,” Ludvich told him, “save for a bit of preservation on this corpse for when the Circumscribers arrive.”

  Reggie went cold. Circumscribers was a word he’d heard, of course, everyone had. The elven protectors of humanity, the footsoldiers in the dark. If Witchfinders were the world’s watchdogs, then Circumscribers were the gunmen who put down whatever their loyal hounds barked at. But they didn’t just show up, not in towns like Norvhan.

  “It’s that serious?” he croaked.

  “This bear was affected by something magical and powerful, I’ve never seen it before. I know, though, that it came from another creature, and if it can do this with just its influence…yes, it’s that serious.”

  Well shit.

  “I’m going to go home now,” Reggie told the Witchfinder, turning to make his way back and hopefully get a head start on turning his shack into the most dangerous fortress he had the resources to manage. He was halted two steps in by Ludvich’s voice.

  “Wait,” the man called, “there’s more business between us, not settled yet.”

  Reggie reluctantly turned, and was promptly hit in the face by another sack. He didn’t fall this time, but stumbled and barely caught it. The jingling in his ears took a second to register.

  “Coins,” Ludvich told him, “thirty ryven for your help today. You did well.”

  Thirty ryven was literally more than Reggie made in a year, though that figure was somewhat variable on how many windows were left unattended in the upper districts of Norvhan. It was certainly more than Ludvich’s usual allowances amounted to, probably more than any dozen of them. He felt the weight of coins in his hand as if it were ten times greater, arm trembling where he gripped them.

  He left the room in a sort of daze at that, not even remembering whether Ludvich or William said anything as he did. His only thought was on the sum now held in his hands and the risk of losing it. He sprinted home, covering two miles in under fifteen minutes.

  Reggie stashed the coins fast, having long since perfected the delicate art of hiding valuables. He had just enough explosives still made that he was able to rig up a trap in the compartment he slipped the bag into, giving it enough power that anyone who tried stealing from him would end up losing at least a few fingers.

  After that, Reggie started checking on the rest of his projects. He’d made a fair amount of booze already, that was quicker than the explosives, and the alchemical processes he’d left to slowly finish up were progressing nicely enough. The only concern was the equipment he’d brought with him to the grimwood.

  His guns were fine, and that was the main thing. Flintlocks weren’t cheap after all—the iron in them cost a pretty penny, or fifty. The long gun had been a little banged up, but it was still perfectly functional and all the components that’d actually been chipped were easily, and cheaply, replaced. The pistol was essentially undamaged.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  It was his pack’s loss that made Reggie wince. That’d been a good one, that, and buying it had cost him a good deal of money. It’d cost him a good deal more to replace too, but that much wasn’t optional. He certainly wouldn’t be roaming around with a badly made pack stuffed full of shock-triggered explosives.

  Reggie killed a few hours making sure everything was good, then jumped when a knock came on his door. His first instinct was to load both guns and get ready to kill someone. Then he thought about things, and realised that armed robbers probably wouldn’t be knocking so gently.

  Ludvich was the one at his door, which relaxed Reggie only slightly.

  “Are you here to kill me?” he asked.

  “No,” Ludvich told him.

  [He’s lying]

  Shut up, demonic voice that lives in my head.

  Reggie had no reason not to take the Witchfinder at his word, it wasn’t like Ludvich would have an easier time overpowering him with the element of surprise compared to without. So he spoke instead of shooting.

  “What do you want?” Reggie had a feeling he knew, felt the dread building. If Ludvich was here for his money back Reggie would…just give it to him. He’d feel the loss, but it wasn’t like Ludvich had ever actually done anything to him before. Not apart from burning his demon-worshipping parents, and really that was probably more their fault than Ludvich’s himself. He’d been living off allowances given by Ludvich, he couldn’t just rob him outright if the man asked for his coin back.

  But the Witchfinder didn’t say what Reggie feared he would.

  “I’m about to head out for a bite to eat and something to drink,” he said instead, “would you like to join me?”

  “Why?” Reggie asked him. Ludvich stared. Reggie stared back.

  “To socialise,” the Witchfinder said at last. Socialise? Reggie knew the word of course, but it was weird to hear in this context.

  “Are you trying to kill me?” he asked again. Ludvich sighed, turned, and started walking away. Reggie was left to stare in thought for a few more moments before the situation finally clicked in his brain, and he set off to follow after. He kept the pistol on him, of course. Never knew when you might need to shoot something.

  Walking through Norvhan with Ludvich was actually about as silent as walking through the grimwood, to the point where Reggie found himself wondering how much of the Witchfinder’s general quiet had just turned into reflexive behaviour. You probably dropped a habit of excessive talking when doing so might get your dick ripped off and eaten like a sausage.

  Funny how Reggie had done the opposite. But then his situation was sort of the opposite, too. Talking to people who were so very often unwilling to talk was a way of turning things away from violence, for him. And while the good people of Norvhan didn’t like demonically-possessed lunatics very much, they were at least sometimes possible to dissuade from violence. More so than a demented bear, in any case.

  Ludvich led Reggie to a pub. He’d seen the place before, though never been inside. It wasn’t that Reggie didn’t want to go into the building, just that he had things thrown at him whenever he tried. As usual, the moment he walked in through the door after Ludvich he caught the place’s owner—Garwin, now behind the counter—staring up at him with a face like thunder.

  “What the fuck are you doing in here, you little animal?!” the man growled, already making his way around.

  Reggie braced himself for an altercation. He couldn’t just shoot the man of course, but he had a sizable rock in his pocket that would add a bit of spicy surprise to his physical blows. It didn’t even come to that though.

  “Calm down, Garwin,” Ludvich growled. He didn’t do so with any particular menace, at least no more than usual. He just spoke, and the words came out like a rusted meat cleaver scraping along whetstone.

  Garwin didn’t calm down, but he did pause. A big man, he was prodigiously muscled from long hours spent hauling kegs of beer to and from his backrooms. Reggie knew that all that hardness about his arms and back would count for approximately jack shit in a contest with the wiry Witchfinder, even as Ludvich crept up into middle age.

  But it didn’t come to that either.

  “What are you thinking, bringing that mad fucker in here?” Garwin kept a touch of anger to his voice, but Reggie could see it was being suppressed with a good deal of effort.

  “I’m thinking I want a drink,” Ludvich told him, “and I’m thinking, also, that my investigation—a lengthy affair that lasted three weeks I should remind you—turned up no evidence of corruption in the boy’s soul. The culprits for this demonic investiture have already met the fire. If you would like to contest my findings, you’re free to present your own so that we can evaluate their validity.”

  He’d put it all in such stark, Witchfinder-y terms that Reggie was having a hard time imagining any sort of argument that didn’t come from his own order. Apparently, Garwin felt the same way. After hearing that whole spiel, to contradict Ludvich would be to implicitly cast doubt on the competence of his investigation.

  Which, of course, was what everyone did by still asking for Reggie to be hanged or burned anyway. Except it’d be a bit more undeniable now, which meant it could easily turn into a fist fight.

  Nobody wanted to fist fight a Witchfinder. Nobody human, at least.

  “Keep him in the corner,” Garwin spat, “and don’t let him kill any of my guests.”

  Reggie had never killed anyone in his life. Still, that didn’t stop people from assuming he would. A few years ago, he’d never attacked anyone. That hadn’t stopped people from assuming he would either.

  Ludvich didn’t answer, didn’t back down, just met Garwin’s eyes until the barkeep turned back to his counter.

  “I’ll have two beers,” the Witchfinder growled, “put them on my tab. If I see any spit in either of them I’ll investigate you for heresy.”

  Reggie doubted he’d actually do that of course, but Garwin apparently didn’t by the way he suddenly paled and got to work. They’d reached the corner table when Ludvich finally allowed himself a smile.

  “Cunt. There are perks to my job, at least.”

  Reggie grinned at that.

  “You didn’t have to…you know. I mean, it is Garwin’s place, he deserves to decide who comes in here at least.”

  “Garwin’s a cunt,” Ludvich said. Reggie waited for more, some elaboration on why cuntiness superseded the sovereignty of a man’s personal property perhaps. Instead Ludvich just took a swig of his beer and settled deeper into his seat. Reggie tried his own.

  He’d drunk beer before, of course, but never fresh from the tap and never cooled and poured by a professional. Compared to the dregs he’d gotten to enjoy scrapping before it was like liquefied heaven.

  “This is amazing,” Reggie gasped.

  “Best brewery in Norvhan,” Ludvich grinned. The joke there, of course, was that it was one of precisely three breweries in Norvhan, the others of which Reggie had found to be an exquisite source of rats.

  “Why do you eat rats?” the Witchfinder asked him abruptly. Spooky. Very spooky, in fact spooky enough that for a panicked moment Reggie wondered if he had some mind-reading ability. No, just coincidence. Now un-knot your hands, Reggie, that’s right, he’s not going to try and kill you here.

  “What do you mean?” Reggie made himself ask, “it’s to save money.”

  “I give you money,” the Witchfinder noted, “not a great amount, not as much as I wish I could, but enough to survive off of actual food at least.”

  Reggie bristled at that. He felt a big mass of shame uncoiling in his gut and threading its tendrils out through the rest of his body, making everything sharp and painful.

  “Yeah, you do,” he muttered, “I…uh, I spend most of that on material for my alchemy.”

  He wasn’t looking at Ludvich, didn’t want to meet the Witchfinder’s gaze. A few moments of silence eventually dragged his eyes upwards. He didn’t find hatred, betrayal, irritation or anything of the sort when they finally came to a rest, though. Just uncertainty.

  “Why, lad?” Ludvich asked him, voice gentler than Reggie had ever heard it. And more familiar. Lad. That was the sort of thing you called someone close to you, right? The sort of word people with nicknames heard. People who got nicknames from others, who didn’t need to give themselves one to pretend. Lad. Almost like ‘Reggie’ instead of ‘Reginald’.

  Maybe Reggie was just stupid, but it made him answer honestly.

  “Because I need money. Not enough to just feed myself and live, not enough to have a house that isn’t drafty. I need money to move somewhere I’m not known as an agent of demons. I need money to have a secure house with deadlocks and fire-proofing, maybe a guard, money to live off if some disaster or mob destroys my livelihood, money to sustain me if…when you die. I’m surrounded by people who hate me and want me dead, it’s not enough to just feed myself. I need security and I can’t get that without making more money than you could possibly hand over.”

  Reggie decided not to point out how uncomfortable it already was to be taking so much money from Ludvich when he was a grown man, that would just be pathetic.

  [You’re a parasite, a worm in his guts.]

  Shut up, demonic voice that lives in my head.

  Ludvich was staring at Reggie with a look of pain on his face. He washed it off with another swig of beer, partly, but still took a while to speak again.

  “I’ll try to help you become a Witchfinder, then,” he said at last. Sounded angry, sounded sad, sounded a dozen other things at once. But more important than any of that, he sounded like he was finally agreeing to help.

  “Thanks.” Reggie felt his words just drop out of his mouth, land awkwardly between them. Ludvich nodded again, took another swig. Reggie took one too. The problem with having the only person you liked being a heavily traumatised, paranoid Witchfinder who killed supernatural beasts for a living was they didn’t tend to be great for conversation.