B3 Interlude 8: Questions

Wakefulness came slowly, punctuated by the cold splash of a drip hitting the tip of his nose. He was leaning on something hard, a polished wood grain warped by his bleary eyes. Whisper frowned, struggling to fight through the haze that held him tight. Had he fallen asleep at his desk? That wasn’t like him — too much risk in that habit, he much preferred his sleeping places unknown and warded to the high heavens.

A dull ache radiated through his shoulders, reaching up the back of his neck. He must have slept on his desk — the few times he’d done that in the past he’d woken feeling like his guard had used him as a training dummy overnight.

Whisper yawned, sitting up as he went to stretch his hands over his head…

And found them stuck fast, bound at the wrists in front of him.

Every scrap of fatigue fled, panic as effective as a winter plunge. Snapping his eyes open he found himself sitting at a plain table, in a room made of hewn masonry blocks. Two figures sat across from him.

A woman, staring at him like she wished she could rip out his spleen with her eyes alone. Middling height, with the ashen blonde and golden skin of a northern Hiwiann. Dressed in simple clothes woven out of what immediately recognised as the unbreaking silk of tuantun moths, her hand fluttered to the bastard sword belted at her hip — toying with its pommel.

Whisper gulped, and flicked to his other captor.

He looked more bear than man, with blocky features and hard brown eyes that could shatter stone. Leaning on a great warhammer that must have weighed as much as he did, the man stared at him silently.

Both of them screamed strength. In their quiet confidence, and the simple pressure that exuded from their every pore like all who had crossed the boundary of the first tier.

He knew them. He knew them well. It was his job to know them.

Rieker. Ro.

Whisper swallowed, his mouth suddenly as dry as parchment.

How? Why? He couldn’t think of a single op he’d had even a passing involvement in that would have pitted him against the Guild. No one did that — it was suicide! Most importantly, how the fuck had they grabbed him?! He was under guard and ward at all times. His office was supposed to be impenetrable.

Sweat rolled down his brow. It didn’t matter why. It didn’t even matter that the guild was operating extra-legally, he was no fool — even if they had no legal right to hold him, that wouldn’t protect him. Hells, he wasn’t even under a Resource lock — he didn’t need to be. Both of the people across from him could kill him as soon as he tried to influence them, or learn more than he should.

They had him, and they wanted something.

“Hello, Whisper,” Ro said quietly, sharp as a barred knife.

Whisper had few cards, and none that were good, but he had to try. A cell in the keep wasn’t his idea of a holiday, but by the dead earth of this good city, it was predictable. Safe. He had levers he could pull — networks he could leverage. He’d spend a month or two in lockup, but without any evidence, he’d go free.

“I…” he stammered, “I request you release me to the custody of the guard — you have no right to hold me for questioning under criminal suspicion.”

Rieker smiled; it peeled him apart — picked at him layer by layer until he squirmed. A terrible thing.

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Every word was gravelly, a deep frustration and anger radiating through Whisper’s ribs to throttle him from the inside.

In some ways, the blatant fury brought him relief, in others it terrified him. He was an infobroker — it was his job to know things. What he did know was that there was nothing he was involved in that could inspire this particularly personal fury. He also knew that someone in the city had fucked up — fucked up bad.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t the faintest clue who, or how. A dangerous position to be in, considering he was trussed up like a prized swine.

Rieker reached into his pocket and slapped a folded leaf of parchment on the table. Opening it, the guild master turned it and slid it in front of him.

Whisper scanned the page, paling. A writ of authority, signed by Governor Hanrick himself. The real deal, with a glow of mana still emanating from the heavy wax steal imprinted with the signet of his office stuck to the bottom of the page.

This was even worse than he thought — someone had roused the Wardog. There would be blood before this business was done. He needed to go to ground, should have gone to ground, he realised.

With the evidence staring him in the face, it was easy for Whisper to start connecting the dots between the string of disappearances that had been spreading through the enforcers and low-level thugs of the slagheap. Gods’ scorn, he’d thought it was a gangwar! A reshuffle as some up and comer tried to take advantage of the instability that had followed the integration moving to its next stage.

He’d been wrong, and some rotten bastard had dobbed him in.

Whisper swallowed again, mouth still dry, and looked at Ro. The man at her right was many things, but this kind of subtle work wasn’t his style.

“Who sold me out?”

The left-hand woman of the guildmaster didn’t so much as twitch. “No one; I followed someone to the Coal House.”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

That was all he was going to get, he knew that much — and his second favourite office had been burned. Whisper sighed.

“I’m guessing by the fact that I still have all of my limbs —” he was not so stupid as to think legal propriety would protect him from harm in the face of the Guild’s fury” — that you already know I am not directly involved in whatever this is?”

“We think that is likely.” Rieker’s expression was perfectly schooled, giving his Skills nothing to work off.

Whisper suppressed a grunt of frustration — if only he could read them. He was much more comfortable when he was the one with all of the information.

“Then what do you want to know? I am not so stupid as to face off against the Guild, not like whoever has so clearly pissed you off.”