CHAPTER 20

  Cook the Count

  Patrick stood at the head of the table, uniform neat and beard trimmed, every ounce the perfect guardsman.

  “Alright,” he said, dropping a pile of arm bands. “Old Village insignia. Right side.”

  Bash yawned as he examined the symbol, basically the letters O and V, before sliding the strip up his sleeve. “Wow, great logo. You come up with it yourself?”

  Patrick ignored the jab. He raised his hand to his brow, palm open, arm snapping out straight. “This is the salute. Practice it.”

  Luis fumbled, face twisted in concentration. Nora’s hand moved perfectly recreating the salute, the gesture smooth and natural. Bash for his part half-assed it, looking more like he was winding up for a baseball pitch.

  Patrick leaned in, voice dropping. “Here’s the cover story. The Old Village was attacked. True. On the way here, we were ambushed by bandits. Also true. I’ll meet with the Captain of the Guard. You three will function as my escorts. You wait outside the office during our meeting.”

  Nora folded her arms. “And then?”

  “Then you two...” Patrick pointed at her, then at Bash. “Make an excuse to slip away. Find Richard and do the deed.”

  Bash faintly smiled. “Sneaky business, huh? I loved Ninja Warrior. If there’s a salmon ladder, I’m unstoppable.”

  Patrick shook his head and continued. “Luis, you stay put. Stand tall, salute when the officers pass. Watch the other guards and charm them if you have to.”

  Luis nodded nervously.

  The plan was set in motion, and they left the inn in formation. Patrick strode ahead, the three of them falling behind. Everyone wore their new gear, mostly matching in color and cut. For the first time, they looked like a real unit.

  Bash tried to march, but his rhythm kept slipping out of sync, his body refusing to be serious for too long. His mind was getting used to the lack of sleep, but his body wasn’t. The night before had him physically and mentally exhausted.

  Nora glared back once disapprovingly, lips tight, before facing forward again. The streets narrowed as they walked deeper into Londonland. The keep loomed above them, climbing higher than any of the other towers. The gates opened after Patrick presented their insignia, and they crossed into its shadow.

  As they climbed the steps and crossed a vaulted hall, several guards flanking the corridor saluted Patrick, some of them even smiled faintly in recognition.

  The door to the Captain’s office was at the end of a side corridor, and as they arrived, Patrick knocked once, entering without hesitation.

  As planned, Bash, Nora, and Luis took their places outside the door. Opposite of them stood two Londonland guards, their armor spotless, hands on their spears, braced against the stone floor.

  For a time, the corridor remained quiet, and tension began to build. Bash rocked on his heels and leaned toward Nora and whispered, “So... what’s the plan? Stand here until we sprout leaves?”

  Nora’s eyes flicked down the hall, then back. She tilted her chin, the smallest nod toward the corner.

  Bash straightened, forcing a cough, and addressed the Londonland guards. “Excuse me, where is the restroom?”

  One of the guards raised a brow, then thumbed down the hall. “Left at the corridor, second door.”

  “Perfect,” Bash said, forcing a grin. He motioned to Nora. “Come on, partner. Let’s, uh... go check for ambushes.”

  Nora’s expression stayed cold, but she fell in step beside him without a word. Behind them, Luis chuckled a little too loudly. “Yeah, sure, the restrooms. Those two are always sneaking off, you know...” He winked at the opposing guards. “Rookie stuff.”

  The Londonland guards snorted and loosened their postures. Bash gave a casual wave, and he and Nora drifted off down the hallway. Conversation behind them filled the air, covering their exit.

  “Holy shit, I can’t believe that worked,” Bash whispered after they rounded the corner. “I deserve an Oscar for that.”

  Nora picked up her pace and hissed, “Focus, Bash. You may have been out all-night partying, but it’s time to get yourself together.”

  Bash sped up to match her pace. Probability arcs flickered into his vision. “Right. No fun mode. Got it.” He couldn’t help himself from yawning again.

  The hallways of the keep were wide, and faded banners of Londonland’s crest hung uniformly on the walls. Between each banner, torches were lit, their light reflecting off polished suits of empty armor.

  Nora moved with surprising precision, her every step measured. She pressed Bash against the wall as two guards marched past at the far end of the corridor. Their boots clanged in unison, fading into another wing.

  She leaned close, whispering. “Richard’s chamber is in the western wing. Patrick should be able to keep them busy long enough. But once we get there, no mistakes. We get one chance.”

  Bash nodded, trying to match her seriousness. But the probability overlays swirled in his vision, highlighting paths, patrol routes, even the chance that one of the armor stands would creak if he brushed against it. It all looked absurdly game-like, percentages hanging over real life.

  Checking around another corner, she motioned him forward with two fingers. They climbed a spiral staircase, keeping low, their boots whispering against stone.

  At the landing, Nora froze, holding up a fist. Two guards loitered by a doorway, chatting idly.

  Nora whispered. “We go past them. No noise.”

  Bash gave faint grin, “Quiet as my dad on laundry day.”

  She rolled her eyes but kept moving.

  They moved through the western wing in silence, slipping past patrols on their rotations. Every corner brought them closer to their target.

  At last, they stood at the end of a long hallway, in front of the door that led into Richard’s bedroom suite.

  Nora met his eyes. One last chance to turn back.

  Bash reached for the handle, and together they entered.

  ***

  The room stank of wine, sweat, and perfume.

  Count Richard lay sprawled across a featherbed large enough to shame a banquet table. He was wearing a set of undersized silk pajamas. stomach sticking out from under the shirt. His mouth was open in a piggish snore, and around him draped NPC companions, three women and a man. All locked in that eerie, too-perfect stillness of scripted sleep.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “Freaky,” Bash muttered, lip curling in disgust.

  Beside him, Nora froze. Her breath hitched, eyes narrowing until they burned with hate. Her hand moved to the sword hilt at her waist, and the blade whispered in its scabbard as she drew it an inch. Her whole body trembled, not with fear but with fury barely contained.

  Bash’s mind sharpened, and he moved quickly, intercepting her arm before the blade cleared its scabbard. “Wait,” he hissed. “No witnesses, remember? I’ll take care of it. You watch the door.”

  Nora’s jaw trembled. “No,” she spat, her voice low but shaking with fury. “This animal is mine.” Tears welled, sliding hot down both her cheeks.

  Bash met her eyes. Really looked at her. No more jokes and too exhausted to smile. Just the raw weight of his promise. His voice was steady, firmer than she’d ever heard from him. “Please. I’ll handle this.”

  For a moment, the world hung silent. Just the crackle of a dying hearth fire and the rhythmic snores of the oblivious Count.

  Nora’s breath hitched. She turned away, shoulders stiff, wiping her face roughly with the back of her hand. “Fine,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “But make it hurt.”

  Bash leaned close enough that only she could hear, “I know no other way.”

  Looking over the room, predictions slid into focus, highlighting branching futures.

  A direct throat cut? Too loud, the gasp, the sheet movement. Witness probability hovered around eighty percent. Pillow smother gave him maybe fifteen seconds of struggle, witnesses jumping to eighty-seven percent.

  Bash slowly circled the outer perimeter of the room, looking for something better. Glancing at Richard again, his mind snagged, I really need to pick up a pair of those pajamas. The thought came unbidden from his sleep deprived mind.

  Am I really shopping for sleep wear in the middle of a hit job? He was about to shake his head to clear the cobwebs, when he caught himself. No sudden movements, he chided himself, trying to refocus.

  Reaching the far corner of the room, Bash saw a medieval bathroom. The door was hidden behind the bed, and within it, one possibility stood out.

  Garrote in the privy... struggle contained, less than a five percent chance of discovery.

  Bash triggered Investigator for more details, and with it, he laid out the plan.

  Faint dotted lines traced through the darkness. Sound cones spreading from the bed, shadow cover beneath the canopy, a pale route to a side door half-hidden behind a screen. Nineteen silent steps from bed to privy, each footfall tolerance mapped and highlighted.

  The door hinges showed moderate decay, but if he kept the angle under forty-two degrees, no noise.

  Next step, get the man in the trap.

  Richard’s metadata flashed a problem that gave Bash an idea. ‘The man has to piss.’

  Bash’s gaze drifted slightly up, to a glazed water jug on a high table, condensation beading. A drip from that, combined with a window draft, pushed the rouse-to-urinate probability to max.

  He moved between the marked floorboards, breath measured to the hearth’s crackle. One fingertip nudged the window just enough. A thin draft spread across the room, tugging the curtain so its loose hem brushed Richard’s cheek.

  A beat later, Bash rotated the jug a fraction. A single drop over the rim hit the basin with a soft, insistent plink.

  Richard snorted, rolled, blinked. The drop plinked again. He grimaced, shoved an NPC girl aside with a meaty forearm, and swung his legs off the bed. The male servant, script-locked, didn’t stir.

  Bash crept backward along the dotted route, past the screen to the privy door. He palmed a wedge from a decorative stand and tucked it behind the jamb at knee level to prevent the door from opening too wide.

  Bash then slipped a linen sash from the dressing screen, winding it tight around his fists. The cloth bit his palms, promising pain.

  Nora stood still in the shadows near the entryway, shoulders taut, eyes burning with barely restrained fire as she watched him. Bash caught her eye and gave the slightest nod of reassurance. He really hoped she didn’t blow it.

  Finally, Richard stood up and shuffled across the rug, scratching himself, muttering curses through his half-sleep. He stumbled behind the bed and into the half-open privy door, heavy footsteps dragging.

  As soon as Richard was inside, Bash moved from his cover, removed the wedge, and slipped in behind him, closing the door softly and turning the lock.

  The privy was small, the air thick with mildew and the sharp tang of stale water. Richard fumbled with the buttons on his silk pants, half-drowsy.

  Bash moved quickly, looping the linen over Richard’s throat and twisting. Richard’s eyes bulged, his face clouded in drunken confusion and surprise. His hand shot upward, trying to claw at his neck.

  Bash yanked the cloth back and down hard, locking it tight beneath the jawline. A wet scream tried to force its way free from the Count’s throat, but died in his crushed windpipe. His tongue pushed past blue lips that started to swell.

  Richard staggered, trying to plant his feet, but the privy’s damp floor betrayed him. His heels slipped on slick stone, his weight dragging him down, knees slamming with a hollow crack. His palms frantically slapped against the wall, smearing sweat, nails screeching against rough stone.

  Bash could have yanked, ending it quick, but instead he leaned over gradually, muscles steady, the linen biting deeper into flesh. The man’s face ballooned red, then purple, veins straining. Each convulsive kick sent ripples across the puddled floor.

  And there, on the wall, above the bench, a tarnished mirror hung crooked, catching the scene in ghostly reflection. Bash stared into it, meeting Richard’s bloodshot eyes not directly, but through that warped silver glass. The distortion only made the image more monstrous: Bash, shadowed and calm, Richard grotesque and gasping.

  Bash’s lips barely moved as he whispered, his breath steady over the man’s failing gulps. “This is for Nora.”

  The last of Richard’s strength ebbed. His arms slowed, fingers twitching weakly against the linen. His eyes rolled, tongue swollen and dark. One final shudder passed through him, then his body sagged, dead weight collapsing in Bash’s grip.

  Bash released the cloth slowly, easing Richard’s body to the floor. The privy reeked of sweat and panic, the dead man’s bulk blocking most of the floor.

  He straightened, catching his reflection in the cracked mirror. His eyes were meaner than he remembered, with dark circles underneath.

  He tried to force the distance, the dissociation that usually came so easily. It’s just a game. None of this matters. But the mirror wouldn’t let him off the hook.

  He’d killed an Upload before. Carl, the bandit chief, had earned every bit of his death. But Richard... Richard never got a chance to speak. Never got to plead, threaten, or bargain. Just a linen cord and silence.

  “He deserved it,” Bash said aloud, testing the words. Nora’s face swam up in his memory. Her eyes when she’d talked about Richard. The rage. The hurt. The history he barely understood.

  “This was for her,” he told his reflection. “She couldn’t do it, so I did.”

  But was that true? Or had he taken the choice from her, the same way the system took choices from everyone?

  There was no time for doubt, guards might check, and he needed to move. Scanning the small room, his eyes settled on the toilet shaft, a medieval cesspool. A wooden hatch covered a larger hole that led down to darkness and, hopefully, a way to literally flush the evidence.

  Forcing his gaze downward, Bash grimaced at the corpse. He could maybe squeeze through once the lid was removed. But Richard was a hog. There was no way he’d fit as-is.

  Bash crouched, testing the body’s weight, and with a grimace got to work. Bile rose in his throat as he jammed his knee between ribs, wrenched the elbow backward until joints gave way with a wet pop. Each shove made bones crack and grind, flesh bulging as he forced it smaller.

  It took longer than he wanted to think about. Breaking. Folding. Shoving. His hands shook, stomach churning, but he kept going until the mangled remains finally slipped through the cesspools’ open hatch.

  The ruined shape vanished into the shaft with a sickening, echoing thunk.

  Bash stood there, breathing hard, heartbeat loud in his ears. He wiped his hands on his cloak, then wiped them again, harder. The feeling wouldn’t come off.

  Carefully, the privy door opened under his hand, and he slipped back into the room, keeping to the shadows.

  Nora was where he’d left her, tense, sword hilt clutched tight. When their eyes met, she said nothing, just studied him.

  His armor was disheveled, covered in small streaks of blood. Proof. Slowly, she gave a single nod. She didn’t need to ask. He’d done what he promised.

  “Okay,” she sighed, relief flooding her voice as her posture relaxed. “But you can’t just walk back with me. Someone will notice the blood.”

  Bash gave a little shrug, lips twitching. “It’s fine. We’ll just say it’s your time of the month.”

  Nora actually snorted, a startled sound, then covered it immediately with her trademark scowl. “Not the time,” she hissed, though amusement flickered beneath the ice.

  “Okay, okay...” Bash raised his hands. “I’ll find my own way.” He gave a mock salute, then turned back, boots quiet on stone floor.

  The only safe exit he could think of was the same poop chute he’d just stuffed Richard down.

  Returning to the privy, then to the cistern, Bash leaned over the rim, but hesitated. ‘There’s still time to climb out and confess… face consequences.’

  But Nora was out there. Covering for him. Buying time. And there was no way he would put her at further risk.

  Bash swung his legs over and dropped into the shaft.