Must Love Hellhounds

Pooka Palace had opened its outside section in honor of the balmy weather. The place was full of familiar faces from the Collective. Though Britlingens had the run of the city, they tended to linger close to the hilltop castle. Naturally, the shops that clustered in the winding old streets around the base of the hill were mostly dedicated to serving the bodyguards and assassins who lived in the ancient castle. There were a lot of storefronts that advertised repair services, either of armor or of arms. There were magic shops filled with arcane items the witches of the Collective might need or want. There were dark-fronted shops filled with bits of machinery that the mechs found intriguing. There were at least a score of bars and restaurants, but Pooka Palace was Clovache’s favorite.

Waiting at a fairly clean table was a friend of theirs named Geit, a broad-shouldered and genial man who could swing a sword with enough force to take off a head with one lop. He was an assassin; though Clovache and Batanya were in the bodyguard division, they didn’t discriminate in their friendships as some did.

Geit had already ordered baskets of fried pooka and fish, and they’d just toasted with three tankards of ale when they saw a child from the castle approaching, wearing the red vest of a messenger. Though walking quickly, the boy was also playing with a conjuring ball; it was clearly a cheap one, but the ball was still charged with enough magic to keep it in the air for a few seconds each time he tossed it up. The child interrupted his play to scan the faces at the tables. He spotted them and trotted over.

“Lady Warrior, excuse me,” said the child, bowing. “Are you Senior Batanya?”

“I am, squirt,” Batanya said. She drained her mug of ale. “Who needs what?”

“Commander Trovis has, ah, requested, that you and your junior come up to the fortress immediately, to the Hall of Contracts.”

Geit whistled. “But you just got back from a job. Why would Trovis send you out again?”

“After the last one, I’d hoped we’d rest longer,” Batanya said. “Getting out of that hotel was no fun, especially carrying a client who would burn up in sunlight. Well, we must go, Geit. Have a drink on us.” After hastily finishing their baskets of food (a Britlingen never passes up a chance to eat), she paid the bar tab and looked away as Clovache gave Geit a quick kiss on the cheek. The two women followed the child back up the winding streets to the gate of the Collective. The guards on duty recognized them and nodded to indicate they could reenter without the usual search.

The Hall of Contracts was conveniently close to the witches’ and mechs’ wing, since witchcraft (enhanced by science) provided the transportation to at least fifty percent of the missions. In fact, Batanya couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone overland to a job.

The hall itself didn’t look important. It was a just a large room, one wall of which was decorated with some indifferent paintings. This was called the Wall of Shame; the art hung there depicted employees of the Collective who had screwed up in some notable way. (The Britlingen instruction model was heavily weighted toward learning by the mistakes of one’s predecessors.) Aside from the paintings and some benches, there was only a table with a few chairs, a large lightsource, and some writing instruments.

Trovis was leaning back in one of the wooden chairs, his feet propped on the table. This was inappropriate behavior for the Hall of Contracts, for these contracts were the lifeblood of the Collective. Signing each contract was an important moment. Not only was this the main source of income for the Collective, but each contract might bring about the death of the Britlingens charged with fulfilling it.

“His promotion’s gone to his head,” Clovache muttered. “He wouldn’t have dared behave so a halfyear ago.”

The child scampered off once he’d gotten his tip, and Batanya and Clovache advanced to the table. One of the senior commanders, Flechette, entered from a side door, and since she had a staff in her hands, she used it to sweep Trovis’s legs to the side, neatly knocking him out of his chair.

“Respect for the room,” she said harshly, as Trovis scrambled to right himself. The two bodyguards kept their faces absolutely blank, which took a lot of effort. Flechette paid no attention to the lower-ranked Trovis’s shock and anger, but threw herself into one of the chairs. Despite Flechette’s apparent age-she looked at least sixty, which few Britlingens attained-she moved like a much younger woman. “You’ve summoned us,” Flechette said. “What have you, Sergeant?”