Iskal was in a trance-like state as he walked down the cream marble steps that lay before the Palisade's entrance. The last few days had been a constant whirl, which had now culminated at this locus in time. Despite his continuous, pervading weariness, he had slept poorly during the few hours he'd grabbed before his summons. There was a weight pulling at him still, anchoring each step, and the conclusion of the assembly had added to it further. Since his discreditation all those months ago, he'd longed for a chance to assuage the dishonour of it, to right a wrong which he felt in his heart to have been an unjust punishment in the first place. But now, with the return to the rank of chieftain, it was as though were being lauded for his failure to protect his unit. A parade marching over the graves of his soldiers, his friends.

  Iskal stopped still at the bottom step and sat on the hard marble. His lower back bashed against the sharp edge of the cream stone, sending a dull shock of pain up his spine. He knew he needed to talk to Viella about this, about everything, about the stolen ajers. She'd kept by him even as his joy had faded over time, as his disillusionment for a job he'd once loved had grown within him. He dragged himself back to his feet and headed due west to his home. Maybe he should consult with Ney as well? His best friend for many years had always had the knack of lighting some spark of mirth to even the darkest of times.

  Iskal ambled along The Ram's Eye, the long, three-blocks-wide road that split the Ruling and Arts towns, and acted as the focal centre of Embestour. It was really more of an enormous plaza than a road, with markets and taverns and trinket stalls crowding its banks, and miniature parks in which plants and trees bloomed happily despite the near absence of direct sunlight in this city beneath the Velvet Mountain. The only sunlight that did find it's way through came from the main western entrance, and this was still occluded somewhat by the forebuilding fortifications that guarded the city.

  Eventually, Iskal took a left and wandered the winding dusty streets of the Materials Town towards the neighbourhood where he worked as a constable soldier. Where his unit had also worked alongside him. That was another thing to consider, with his reinstatement and new role alongside the valley units, Frontstock Officer Yered, Iskal's now-former superior, would probably be moved down to his old position. This realisation brought with it mixed emotions. Shallow jubilation that the clueless yet demanding Yered now had to answer to his orders, but also fear that Yered's totalitarian attitude about how the people of Embestour should live their lives would become more targeted towards the people in the neighbourhood. Just another concern for the list.

  Iskal took another left down a brown-brick alleyway, a shortcut to his house. It was so narrow that the green leathers covering his shoulders occasionally scraped against the occasional protruding brick or disused pipe. Suddenly, he began to hear the faint, unmistakable sounds of commotion. A quick guess told him it must be coming from around the corner, where Old Tolph's hole-in-the-wall silk embroidery shop was situated. He ran towards the clattering sounds, bashing against the old grainy jagged walls with each tight turn.

  Eventually he reached the windowfront of Tolph's shop and peered in. The window was made of warped bull's eye glass set in concentric circles, so it was difficult to see what was occurring inside, but Iskal could vaguely make out several shapes moving erratically. He instinctually reached for his partizan, but it was back home. He'd been made to leave it there by order of the summons. It was another ten minutes to his house and eight to the neighbourhood garrison where the nearest arms locker was located, and based on the noise inside the shop, it didn't sound like Old Tolph would be happy to wait.

  Iskal took a breath and then burst into the shop, the scratched wooden door swinging hard inwards and hammering off the right hand brick wall. Old Tolph was on the floor, propped against his dark mahogany counter table, blood dripping eagerly from his right eye and mouth. His eyes were pointing upwards as if in prayer to the Goddess Collosea but his hands remained pressed to the floor, probably to steady himself.

  At his entrance, the three assailants that had infiltrated the shop turned to glare menacingly at Iskal, stopping still in their respective poses. At the ornate register on the counter above Tolph was a skinny tanned man with neglected-looking teeth and bony knuckles protruding over spilling fistfuls of Ryal and Ducad coins; to the far left, holding a pile of silk tunics was a broad, portly man with leather straps all up his arms and a club foot, and, stood in the doorway to the inventory room at the back was a boy no older than 16 with a mean-looking face holding what must have been Tolph's pocket timepiece. Each of them had polished slicked-back black hair on their crown and shaved sides, and in the belts of all three were light brown billy clubs with string nooses at the handles - the mark of the Archet Crime Family's Alley Bruisers.

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  For a second the only sounds in the room were Tolph's whimpers and the still-rattling door. Iskal met the gaze of each of

  them again, and mentally fixed himself into his constable persona. 'You three bastard-fussocks are a long way from home it seems,' he said finally, 'run out of old men to beat up in the Spirits town? I've had a shit day so I'm going to let you leave your wares where they are, and tuck tail back to the east of town, under the condition that you remind your double-act bosses to stay out of the Materials town.'

  'Say that's nice of you.' Replied the skinny one in a wistful, and alarmingly calm, tone. 'As a peacekeeper, is it not your responsibility to march us to the Ruling Town Dungeons? For what reason would you let us go scot free? Would it be because you appear to be without even a toothpick as a weapon?'

  A few coins continued to drop out of his hands as he spoke, accenting the occasional word. The skinny one had a finer gift of the gab than the average hoodlum Iskal had come across. He was probably a middle management man in the Archets' hierarchy. Still he matched the calmness with his answer. 'I'm letting you go this time because my unit are still a few minutes away, and I recon your thick brained friend over there might land a few blows on me before I put him down. Which I'm far too tired right now to deal with.' There was some truth to this lie. Parts of Iskal were still swollen and sore from his fight with the cultists in the forest.

  'Funny', retorted the skinny one as he dropped the coins on the glass counter, causing it to crack, and sauntered round to the shop floor, talking as if to himself as he walked. A sickening, knowing smile was growing up the side of his face. 'We heard from our sources in the Palisade that the unit in this neighbourhood were all put down not long ago... all apart from a bony Frontstock with brown hair and a scar through the beard on his right chin. You look like you match that description. We heard it was your fault. Is that true? Did you kill them yourself? I guess you may as well have-'

  This was enough to set Iskal on his attack. As the Skinny one had been expatiating, Iskal had rememebered the small snap-knife in his inner breast pocket, the one Viella had gifted him years ago. He reached for it and, snapping it open, threw it at the head of the big man holding the tunics at the far left of the room. Iskal figured he needed to be taken out early, he looked nearly twice his weight. With some luck, the little knife arrowed through the air, across the room, and sunk into the Big Man's left eyeball, splitting it neatly in two. A great wail followed almost immediately. He looked at his comrades, the knife moving with his eye like an insect antennae. It clearly hadn't gone deep enough to hit the brain but it should keep him occupied.

  The skinny one slipped his billy club up out of its holster and caught it smoothly in the air.

  'I wonder if he practices that at home' was the thought that popped into Iskal's head as he advanced. The Man swung the club hard towards Iskal as they came together, but Iskal managed to catch and hold it between his arm and his ribs. The blunt wooden baton found a damaged rib from the last fight though and a sickening pain pierced through his chest. He grappled his opponent, the two grimacing faces close together, each hand on the other's lapel. In the background, the young one was frozen with indecision, while the big one wailed and knocked silk garments onto the floor with his panicked flailing.

  The young one looked quite out of his depth in the flashing moments Iskal could catch as he tussled with the leader. That's good, it's probably his first assignment, a rawflesh, thought Iskal at the back of his mind as the front focused on the fight. The skinny one released his grip on the club and punched upwards into Iskal's chin, sending white sparkling dots into his vision. He stumbled back a bit and into the open door, breaking one of the glass panes set into the wood. The leader looked wildly towards him, all of his previous calmness now vanished. His once-neat, slick hair was flaring outwards in random spots like witch's fingers.

  Still slightly dazed, Iskal mustered enough nouse to pick a strewn undershirt from the floor, and cast it at the Leader's head. The momentary distraction was enough for him to charge and tackle the bony man to the ground just to the left of Tolph. He fell against the wood of the counter and was knocked out cold. Iskal sat there, heaving breaths heavily into his lungs. He was still a little dazzled from the uppercut but he could tell something was different about the room. What was it? He could hear his own laborious panting. Wait! That was it, the room was quiet again. The wails had stopped.

  He looked up to see the big man looming over him like a leather-bound mountain. Iskal's knife - Viella's gift to him - was in his hand, while blood and a milky fluid seeped from the left eyeball and mingled in a stream down his cheek. The Big Bruiser held a hauntingly calm look, almost like he was lost in thought.

  He reached down and, with one hand, picked the drained Iskal off the floor. Iskal tried to gain purchase on the slatted wooden floor but he kept slipping on the sleek silk garments and the legs of the unconscious leader. The big man pointed the knife towards Iskal but kept it low, aiming to gut his side, but suddenly, the sound of a few urgent steps came from his left, and the slight curve of a Collosean black carbon shortsword plunged neatly into the neck of the brute holding him. The Man's one remaining good eye lolled upwards and its lid closed languidly.