The next morning, the two arrived at Kag’s primary constabulary. It was a six-story brick building, nestled in between the garrison and library with tall, proud windows and a thin iron fence surrounding arched roofs, stables and a well-mended courtyard. The city was primarily under martial law, guardsmen and soldiers taking legal matters into hand; however, for more intuitive detective work, the constabulary and its six branches came into play. On imperial tax forms, it registered as part of the military. More of an overgrown intelligence division set out to rectify rustled cattle, civilian murder and stolen house goods, but lately the institution had been of increasing demand. Regardless, the citizens did have a charter, courts and a more progressive legal representation than most.

  A statue stood in the middle of the courtyard, surrounded by a trickling stream and scattered flowerbushes. It was a stone imitation of Kag’s first constable, Samu Salin, with a sword glistening above their head as the high-collared uniform of the force rested proudly on their immortalized shoulders. As a scribe, Jan would often read about their feats, taking down the once proud highwayman who had littered the countryside. It was brutal stuff, ripe with torture, pillaging and a tendency for action that blurred ambiguous morality. Regardless it had been fun to read about the time Samu went undercover as Grownsprout to bust illegal swamp gambling rings or tracked convicts for miles across heat-blistering jungle. The kind of fun that would make a great story after it occurred, and certainly not before, and certainly not with Aloat. A lamppost glittered on the solemn street. It was still barely daybreak.

  Sill had been stitched into Jan’s robe. It was a pocket he had made with magic the night before that shielded the rock from the world’s view. Laura walked beside him. The two looked about as overjoyed as wet pancakes, their eyes still full of sleep from the early hours and minds toiling over the events ahead in anticipation.

  “Commanders, is this Aloat Barka the one who tormented you in your undercover work at the university?” Sill beeped.

  Undercover work…..Sill really had less of a grasp on things than they previously thought. Jan didn’t know what to say, trying to come to terms with the words he would put forward.

  “Yes, they are Sill,” Laura replied.

  “I was trained in over 88234.3 forms of unarmed combat, Commander Laura, if she gets in the way of the mission, we can take her!”

  “Still how can you help us? You’re a rock,” Jan replied slowly.

  “Oh………zh…..zh…. Good point, Commander! Until I get your command chip back online, we're going to have to rely on your Jannic magic,” It replied with a confused tone.

  Visions of rock-fu, granite-chi and staligmite drop-kicks flashed through the air. He didn’t want to take Sill’s advice for granite but sometimes you could only humour the creature so much. The best Sill could do is shout the moves he wanted them to do as a fight was commencing, and that seemed about as useful as receiving tips from a peanut gallery in a boxing match.

  “I am also fluent in chemistry. Perhaps we can poison her, if she falls asleep, we can make the border by daybreak!” Sill replied, oblivious to the depth of the statement at hand.

  “Chemistry? What’s that? Do you mean Alchemy?” Jan replied. Pwol? Star battles? potion-making? Whoever this deluded rock thought they were was likely the source of all of Crous’s successes. It’s no wonder he scrambled from the castle all those years ago.

  “You two be quiet, we're not poisoning Aloat!” Laura muttered firmly.

  They stopped speaking for a moment, in a bit of an embarrassed tone.

  “Jan, you can suck it up and endure her insufferable conversations, and Sill, us capturing the Dawnshire bandit is vital to the mission,” the young scribe repeated.

  “What do you mean? Are we finally getting rescued?” Sill asked in hesitation.

  “Our mission is to get my password, find Crous and have him rescue us, correct?” Sill added slowly.

  Laura and Jan looked at each other with a guilty expression. Jan coughed forward, trying to change the subject.

  “Yes….Sill, something like that…. Maybe we deviate a little bit, but something like that,” Jan added.

  Laura eyed him for a moment before elbowing him in the stomach. It was cruel to lie to the rock, but there would be moments of rehabilitation later. Once they had their revenge, they would be a little more liberal with their conversations.

  “No! No rescue, Sill, we are exactly where we need to be…..but if we're going to get your password and find out more, we do need money, don’t we?” Laura stated.

  Jan looked at her with a puzzled expression before she sighed and walked to the nearest lamppost to wave a finger vigorously at a wanted poster. Even Sill let out a questioning buzz as she made her point. A sketch of an empty carriage was all that marked the image with bright flashing letters of a 50,000-quand reward printed below.

  “This would cover the exact cost of a research institute, and fake passes into Crous’s records, and read the fine print, it says lawman included,” Laura added.

  “We're never going to get that money. How in the world do you expect to beat Aloat? If we're lucky, she’ll give us a dime after taking all the credit! That’s even if we find the Dawnshire bandit in the first place,” Jan added in a defeatist tone.

  Laura turned, a serious expression forming on her lips as her eyes furled.

  “You and your little rocky pet better bet your life savings were beating Aloat.”

  “What?” the two others muttered simultaneously.

  “Now, both of you be quiet, I’m doing the talking,” Laura added sharply.

  “But!...” Jan added.

  “Quiet, it’s time for us to prove to Aloat who you really are!” She added in a little more of a whisper.

  A few minutes later, they had walked up the front steps. Jan straightened his robe. He could feel Sill buzz in his cloak pocket as Laura brushed back her hood and made a firm stance. They passed their first guard, nodding in his direction as the two swung open the constabulary’s proud blue doors.

  “Late!!” Aloat said with a smirk on her face.

  “Just what I expected from Jan! But also Late!” She added quickly.

  She stood on the opposite side of a large reception chamber. Scribes and imperial bureaucrats worked their way through a spiralling line of complaints and ill-waiting citizens as they scribbled into ledgers at the front desk. A grand chandelier hovered above as the building's gilded interior and painting-covered walls came into play. It seemed the funding was definitely not short in terms of interior decorating. A citizen cast them a wayward glance as another three merchants stared daggers into their hearts while seemingly arguing over the possession of two chickens. A gigantic scale was set up in the furthest corner to settle trade disputes as three prisoners in chains were escorted into the lower levels. The rest of the citizens sat in chairs, waiting ever-so-slowly for their turn at the desk while the scribes worked their way through the crowd. The two instantly saw Aloat, who almost grabbed them by the scruff of their cloak’s dragging them from the public section of the station and behind a closed door into the offices.

  “Wake up, wake up, at this rate we’ll leave here after sunrise,” She muttered enthusiastically.

  Jan twisted and moved away as the soldier stuck deputy badges on both of them. She seemed to press extra hard on Jan, causing him to welp as the pin stuck him in the shoulder.

  “Oh, Hi Laura!” She added softly.

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  Why did they always like Laura?

  Aloat was nearly 5’8 in a mixture of mobile plate-mail and a bright red imperial cloak. She wore baggy pants and a fine silk shirt with the imperial crest resting proudly on her shoulders. Her dark, long hair was tidied neatly into a bun while her eyes scanned the room, impervious to the sensitivity of the hour. She was clean, very clean, almost as if she had taken a shower less than an hour before. A sword sat tucked neatly into her sheath as she rested her palm on the hilt and held a wicked grin on her face.

  She was going to enjoy this.

  “Aloat” Laura responded gruffly.

  Jan took a second to compose himself and fell into Aloat’s office chair. The girl was the same age as him and already had a corner room on the first floor. Books and memorabilia were scattered around a neatly arranged desk as swords lay mounted on the wall, and even a siltabear skull resting on the windowsill. Everything was perfect, down to the last articulate detail. The books were coded by author’s last name, her pens and writing instruments neatly piled, and the space between them measured. A portrait of Aloat sat mounted on the wall. It was the same used in the newspaper, and Jan hated to admit that while it was narcissistic, it did look good. The two Aloat’s in the room both seemed to loathe his presence. Painting and real-life form watching through their stiff black eyes.

  “What are you doing as a Sheriff of Kag?” Jan added sharply.

  “Unlike some people, I actually have to work on my resume to be appointed to positions, but lately it seems babysitting upstart, wastes of space like you,” She added sharply.

  Jan gave her a look as she paced around the room, almost admiring her new victims.

  “Your cloak is dirty, by the way, very dirty. Did you sleep in it?” She asked as she picked up the cloth and felt it in her hands.

  “Uh, no, but not as dirty as your…..!

  Jan stuttered for a moment. He couldn’t think of a comeback in time. He totally slept in it.

  “Really, Jan?.... Oh well, at least I trust you two have been briefed?”

  They shook their heads.

  “No?! Laura, I would expect more from you at least…look, Jan, I know you're an insufferable laze, but how much combat experience do you have?” The soldier asked.

  “Uhhhh, lot,” He replied slowly.

  “Yeah, every time I beat you up, how about you, Laura?” Aloat questioned. Jan’s face paled as Laura let out a stern glance.

  “Don’t worry, Jan, you were commissioned for combat experience! You were made to fight riots on Jaul, to field entire armies, to watch worlds burn! We can kill this filthy jannic!” Sill muttered in a voice no one else could hear.

  Sometimes he had to be careful about the loyalty of that rock.

  “Not too much, we have never been in the military like you, Aloat.”

  They were sitting down now, and Aloat rested her elbows on her desk. She was certainly scheming, but they could tell she was definitely excited about a chance to capture the Dawnshire bandit; her face was almost brimming with a mixture of ambition and anticipation. She twisted a miniature statue of herself that she kept on her desk as she spoke. Jan could spot a clear itinerary of the day, sprawled on parchment, resting in her hands. Aloat gave an all-too snide expression on her face. The kind that spelt I’m going to commission three more portraits of myself after we succeed and then give twelve speeches in glaring tones. Paintings lined the walls, all expert craftsmanship and all exact replicas of Aloat. Not a single image, apart from a crowd or coronation ceremony, had anyone else in the center but her.

  “No worries, Laura, that’s understandable for you, but for a consul for the archmage, it's completely unheard of,” She added.

  “Poison?” Sill added in hushed breath that only Jan could hear.

  The young scribe rolled his eyes. This was going to be a long trip. He scooted his chair back for it to hit the wall, and a wooden board came loose. Jan panicked, pressing his whole body against the gilded wood in the hopes the plank wouldn’t collapse infront of Aloat. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to notice. Laura cast him a glance.

  “Not that you’re unqualified, Jan, but you are, and I’m going to prove it to you, every step of the way,” She added silently.

  “I’ll prove you wrong,” Jan whispered under hushed breath.

  Aloat likely heard him but chose to ignore. She had turned to face her window now and was overlooking the garden. Jan took this opportunity to do some quick magic and flick the wallboard back into place.

  “What did you two bring because we're going on a trip?”

  “Trip? No one mentioned a trip?” The two scribes both exclaimed in surprise.

  More than a few consecutive hours with Aloat? What was Irwain trying to do, cause Jan to age fifty years in a week? Myocardial infarction? This was ridiculous. Last time, he had almost blown up a full quarter and gotten less of a punishment. Copying manuscripts on vertical dung-swill farming with Damnu would have made a more enlightening pastime.

  “You two do realize the Dawnshire bandit is in Dawnshire, right? That’s a full day's ride,” Aloat added sharply.

  Jan looked pale. At least he had remembered to blow out the candles last night. He had just bought three sandwiches in the icebox. Fresh lettuce, sliced ham, tomatoes, and pickles on soft bread. They were sure to expire. This was preposterous.

  “Okay, come with me to the armoury, because I’m not waiting for you two to run back home.”

  The three shuffled through the station’s narrow halls. They were twisting and overtly complicated with sharp turns and dead ends at every corner. Aloat made a side comment on how this was on purpose to dissuade any attackers or thieves from an easy poach. Still the place seemed almost alive, a twisting maze hell-bent on letting those who disfavoured the capital be lost in a swirl of bureaucratic chambers. A few times, they pressed pass guards or bureaucrats who simultaneously saluted Aloat while almost growling at Jan. That was if they recognized him, of course. It seems they weren’t fans of his work. Dockworkers were rolling fresh barrels of water into the briefing room for the guards' enjoyment as Jan saw heavily armoured knights laughing about their latest raid on a gambling den. At least they reached a large iron door where a watcher hovered above. The armoury was quite literally a giant iron box, with six doors on either side and a bundle of provisions and supplies inside. The magic stone seeped Jan’s power as Aloat pushed the slab sideways and let them walk through. She muttered to yet another guard as she picked up a few items and turned to face her new servants.

  “Jan, I expected you to be an idiot, so here I packed this for you.” She pressed some supplies into his hands.

  It was a thick, coarse blanket wrapped over a satchel containing a trowel, tinderbox, soap, dry rations, a filled water canteen, pen and paper and whatever bare minimum an imperial soldier might need on campaign.

  Jan muttered a gruff curse word at his dire enemy as he slung the pack over his shoulder. Strangely, it was nice of Aloat to pack him something; perhaps she wouldn’t be as bad. It was an unusual amount of paper, wrapped in a leather-bound journal. There was even ink and fresh quills stuck to the side of the container.

  “Don’t think I’m being nice, Jan, I still hate you, but we need an official chronicler for my autobiography, and you aren’t half bad of a writer, I expect six pages per day no less, twelve when we return, I’ll edit of course,” Aloat said without flinching.

  Jan cast a glance at Laura, who instantly burst out laughing behind Aloat’s back. She saw humour in this that Jan definitely couldn’t see. Aloat, on the other hand, was completely serious.

  “Was that a compliment?” Jan added.

  “No, I kill smearlings for a living, you know, a couple of loose adjectives, we are not the same,” Aloat added gruffly.

  "Smearlings are nothing compared to you, Commander!!! You're the highest-ranked authority on this entire planet, ignore this filthy jannic!!!!!!" Sill muttered in Jan's ear.

  Jan coughed loudly, drawing view from Aloat.

  “Laura, my apologies, I didn’t know you were coming, but pack your own things from our stores.”

  She threw the other young scribe a leather bag and then turned.

  “Now, where are your swords?”

  Twelve minutes later, Laura had her own provisions arranged, and the three of them were sitting on fresh horses. Aloat had turned them into virtual pack-mules with Jan now hauling a ten-pound mirror, sixty pages for an autobiography that would soon be chock-full of hidden curses and another six pounds of imported chocolate they were both not allowed to touch. Pans clattered against his hips as Aloat made him carry enough cookware for a four-course meal they were likely never to even touch. That is, unless of course she expected him to whip up something like Deconstructed Forest Toast with Essence of Morning Dew, or Sun-Braised Root Medley à la Canteen Tin. Pancakes weren’t hard either, as long as they were allowed to be a little burnt.

  “Relax, Jan, if we succeed, you actually might be able to salvage your reputation, your presence with me has already raised yourself in the eyes of the public, you're basically living off me like a little charisma parasite,” Aloat grunted.

  “We will be reinforced by the local garrison, so no need to bring too much, as you can see we packed light,” She added quickly.

  A veritable pack-mule stood infront. Or two at least from the way the bags pressed into Jan's back. The horse sagged from the pressure as the young scribe muttered under the heat. He reached down to comfort the poor creature and fumbled for a moment, almost dropping Aloat’s mirror and latest commemorative trophy. A stable-boy saluted the three, and they were just about to take off when another horse rode forward.

  “Kiff? You’re early?”

  Aloat muttered as the party began to almost teeth in anticipation for the road. It seemed someone else would be joining their group. The familial face relieved some of the tension slowly. He was a simple guardsman with bright red hair and a pale face. He didn’t say much, introducing himself to the group as he slunk back into their ranks. He had a long sword at his side and a bundle of arrows in a quiver on his back. He seemed tired yet was likely their same age. Jan could swear he recognized him from classes, but the other had seemed to be more of a quiet type and loose, aloof in conversation. The soldier's armour was expensive but scarred and well-worn, indicating ancestral use. His horse seemed loyal and likely wasn’t the same imperial issue steed the two scribes rode now.

  “Wait!!” A voice peeped from below, and Jan cast a glance down towards a dark-haired girl in well-sown silk clothing. She seemed nice, with a pleasant smile and a kind appearance.

  “Reporter for the Sam Herald, I’m interested in the Dawnshire case. pose for a picture?” She muttered slowly. The three agreed, and she quickly started sketching away, pencil in hand, as her illustrious vision breathed to life. Surprisingly, she was quite good, and Jan cast a glance at the soon-to-be duplicated picture with an intriguing glance.

  “Photography is definitely in its infancy among these primitives, Commander. Perhaps mention that you are carrying a rock? I want to be in this too” Sill muttered in his breast pocket.

  Photography? What did that even mean? Is that another way of saying calligraphy? Perhaps Sill was foreign, which could explain all of these strange words. It would be a nightmare tracking down the rock’s family. Or an avalanche the very least. He would purchase a dictionary and check for verb recognition later.

  “Aloat Barka, you were recently listed in Kag’s 20 under 20, best upstanding citizen in the Sam Herald Times, winner of the local Kag best looking public servant award. Do you have any comments for your many fans? And the Dawnshire case?”

  “Yes, we're going to catch them, and of course, anything for my fans, always follow your dreams, passion makes success and read all about it in my brand new autobiography, coming out just this month!” She spoke too easily. Almost as if it had been completely rehearsed.

  Next month? Was she insane? Was there nothing but dust between her perfect ears? How could Jan write something as unbelievably pompous and strikingly narcissistic as that swill of pages in a month! He didn’t even get paid overtime! The quill would go on strike before his hand even rested on the page for indecent punishment. There were librarians for the Arlon who had to stuff less vile propaganda down each other's throats for monetary gain. His desk would grow legs and sprint out the door in chastized agony, along with any hint of writing morals, and leave him sordid and destitute forever. He would need six bottles of laual to keep his stomach down alone. Perhaps he could outsource the work to cheaper labour. That wasn’t a bad idea.

  The reporter nodded with a warm smile as she flicked back her hair and turned to face Jan.

  “Jan Theric? Sorry, I almost didn’t recognize you, as Consul For The Archmage. Do you have any comment on your most recent scandal in the Kag cou……..”

  “No time, sorry, have to go, world-famous bandit to catch, history to be made…..and we ride!!!”

  Jan muttered quickly and sprang the horse forward.

  With that, the four departed onto the winding streets infront. Their task, glory, their methods, noble, and their members, dubious but full of heart.