The Little Man of Fistery

A story of detectives, temples, demons, and cheese.

Disclaimers and notes:

I started writing this story two years ago, so there’s likely some shift in quality or tone along the way… especially because for most of those two years, I had some idea of where I wanted the story to go, and no clue how to get there. I also do not have an editor or proofreader. You have been warned.

About this world:

In the multiverse, you’ll find many Architects. They potter around their respective universes, fashioning the stars, and piecing together the planets that orbit them. Most take pride in their work, seeking to create perfection, readily abandoning worlds like our own when they have clearly turned out badly. Others have a cruel sense of humor; thinking that flat worlds riding on cosmic animals are very clever indeed.

And then there are the Accidents. These occur when the metaphorical cats of the multiverse stride boldly across the work tables of almighty beings, and carefully push everything onto the floor, even as they beg for a nice tuna-flavored nebula to nibble on. Accidents can only loosely be called “worlds”, and the ingredients that form them typically combust on contact. Entire planets and systems form, then vanish in spectacular fashion before the first proto-amoeba can say, “Evolution sounds like a cool idea.”

But on very rare occasions, things don’t immediately explode into bits, and an Accident turns into a semi-functioning world, of sorts . These worlds are beyond imperfect; they’re downright untidy, uppity, and prone to lashing out in fits of adolescent anger. In certain cartoons, they might be depicted with pink hair.

These accidental worlds are supposed to be destroyed, but cosmic beings that reside outside of known reality usually have better things to do. They’ll get around to it one day, when they feel like it, but not until they’ve had a few cups of coffee.

On one such Accident, life has managed to evolve, despite its own better judgement, and a lot of it looks something like us, much to its own embarrassment. Our story begins a few million years later, in a mountain range close to the world’s equator. There is only one road through these mountains, and centuries ago, an enterprising merchant guild established a city in the largest valley along the trade route. This city is called Kingsmount.

It was, for all intents and purposes, a mistake. Just like the world it was built on.

The city itself was built upon a mass grave, which holds the remains from the world’s largest battle, at the end of the longest war. The battle took place on the site where peoples long past would sacrifice prisoners to their gods, because of the convergence of ley lines just below ground. The ley lines converge on that point because an ancient sorcerer dragged them there to stem the tide of monsters coming from the Hell Mouth that was even further underground.

Besides, he wanted to see if he could actually do it.

Kingsmount is a prosperous city, full of trade, industry, horrifying monsters, and worse… politics. The Trade Council rules the city, and wrestles with the politics. The local Hero Contingent wrestles with the monsters. Lastly, the Society of Stalwart Companions (sometimes known as the Sidekicks) wrestles with the heroes in an effort to keep the peace.

It’s a delicate balance, and is often close to falling apart. Thanks to the efforts of The Old Man, that ancient figure who recruits the Heroes, trains the Companions, and stares the Trade Council down on a weekly basis, Kingsmount stands.

Principal Characters:

• Karle Thunderlegs: A member of the Hero Contingent, the self-styled greatest detective in Kingsmount, and proud Halfling.
• Gralash: Member of the Society of Stalwart Companions, AKA the Sidekicks. Professional Companion to Karle Thunderlegs, a Scholar of All Things, and reasonably content Orc.
• Arlas Norten – A newly-minted businessman in Kingsmount’s growing religious industry.

The Beginning

You could hardly have asked for a better backdrop to the scene Karle Thunderlegs had set. Well, truth be told, Karle could have wished for a bit more rain, perhaps some dramatic lightning and thunder, but the early evening drizzle would do nicely. The sun had only just decided that enough was enough, and the walls were lit with soft, very expensive magic lamps. The foreground had been prepared with the largest, most decorative, and least useful scented candles the servants could find.

Karle wasn’t sure why the wealthy bothered with scented candles. They mostly smelled of burnt flowers, like some of the more cheerful battlefields he’d been on. But the lights added drama, and the Halfling detective loved nothing so much as a good bit of drama.

And all the actors were here. On the couch, there was pretty young Ms. Dorable Burgundy, the only living heir to the deceased; it was she who’d hired Karle to find the culprit. In the corner was Grant, the gaunt butler with graying hair, and in the armchair was Mr. Abrador, the family attorney. Standing behind the couch was Mr. Alen Burgundy, a young cousin of the heiress, presumably there for moral support. Behind Karle himself, and a little to the left, was Gralash the Orc, Karle’s most excellent Companion.

There were various servants around, of course. They were among the first to be investigated, as was always the case when rich old men died. Old Mr. Burgundy, to his credit, had been kind enough as a man, and quite generous as an employer. Preferring to be loved rather than feared, he’d paid his employees well, and hardly ever impregnated the maids. All of his children were well cared for, and he’d steadfastly kept his hands off of married women, excepting his own wife, of course.

Old Mrs. Burgundy, alas, had departed long before. Mr. Burgundy had joined her five nights ago. He’d been bashed over the head with a candlestick, hung from a rope, stabbed roughly 137 times with a kitchen knife, and lightly torched. No one knew the precise order of those events, but it hardly mattered at this point. Everyone did agree, however, that he’d looked rather stoic, and more than a little resigned about the whole thing when they’d found him.

Gentlemen such as him truly were a dying breed, if for no other reason than that someone kept killing them.

The servants had little to gain, and possibly much to lose, from the death of Old Mr. Burgundy. The man had enemies, of course. Every man of means had enemies, but most of Mr. Burgundy’s had been in business with him, and also stood to lose a great deal. The few who hadn’t been in business with the man had largely been busy murdering each other on the night in question.

That left the people closest to the victim; given the manner of his death, that made sense. Someone who hated him might have used any one or two of those murderous methods. It would take someone who loved him, or at least someone who’d loved him once, to kill him that hard.

He’d died in this very room. This richly-appointed, lavish, downright gaudy room with its royal purple curtains, upholstery patterned with mildly lewd illustrations, and gold coating every other surface that wasn’t a deep mahogany. The only sign left of the murder was a singed bit of carpet poking out beneath an obviously quite new rug.

“If you’re going to die horribly, there are worse places to do it.” thought Karle.

He’d only just come out of abject poverty himself. For millennia, a potent curse had imposed a sort of mandatory destitution upon all Halflings; gods could be so very cruel over misunderstandings. Still, the curse had been lifted, bless the Wizard Bluebell, and Karle was not one to be bitter.

The lifting of the curse had brought opportunities beyond his wildest imagination. Where once he’d used his natural-born gifts to serve only his other Halflings, he could now serve all of Kingsmount as its protector, and its greatest detective!

He stepped lightly into the center of the room, and bowed.

“My lady, my lord, and your most worthy companions. I’m sure you’re all wondering why I’ve gathered you here this fine evening.”

Gralash cringed inwardly as Karle spoke, but dared not show even the slightest discomfort on his oddly muscular face. He was an Orc, and muscles came with the territory. In Kingsmount, that meant he had plenty of opportunities to practice not showing emotion.

He held his composure when ladies and gentlemen alike fainted in fear, lust, or both. He held his tongue when young braggart humans challenged him just because he was “A big fucker, eh?” He held his shoulders steady when children climbed on him without asking, and his chin high when people spoke as though he were too dumb to understand them. He held his peace because he was more than an Orc, and he was more than any mere warrior of his tribe.

Gralash came from a long line of scholar-shamans, and he would not be shamed by any blustering fool. Besides, it made things easier if people around him didn’t know he could speak almost every local language, solve complex equations, weave ancient spells to rile his ancestors, recite Elven poetry, and do it all while slamming someone’s face into the dirt with an almost elegant grace.

He was Karle’s Companion, and he adored the Halfling menace despite himself, and despite Karle’s own best efforts. Thus, he held his tongue once more, as the self-styled greatest detective in Kingsmount began his monologue.

“… I’ve gathered you here this fine evening.”

“We’re really not. Wondering, that is.” snapped Ms. Dorable Burgundy.

The others in the room shuffled uncomfortably. She was right, but they’d never have said as much themselves. Karle, like many Heroes, could be unpredictably violent.

Karle merely eyed her coolly, cleared his throat, and began again, “As I was saying..:”

But Ms. Burgundy, it appeared, could not help herself.

“You told us exactly why already. You said you’d tell us who killed Father.”

Karle stopped again, looking more than a bit put out. That had certainly put a damper on his sense of the dramatic, but he was a Hero, and Heroes were brave. He forged on, knowing the first part of his speech was a wash.

“Very well, then. That is true. I have searched this house and its environs high and low for the last three days. I have collected the evidence, examined clues, interviewed everyone who could possibly be involved, and I am quite sure of my findings.”

Gralash permitted himself a small internal grin, as that much was certainly true. Karle had run around this entire inner-city mansion wielding a magnifying glass that had been made for a much bigger person, specifically an Orc. He’d swung it around almost like a cudgel, and just about counted every fiber in the carpets.

When he tired of this, he flirted with every maid and manservant on the estate, demanded the chef’s recipes as evidence, and checked inside every closet, and under every bed looking for naked people.

Gralash had, as was his unstated duty, found the evidence quickly. There had been a diary with the murderer’s motivations and detailed plans for the murder. There had also been a receipt for rope, brand new kitchen knives (sharpened), a new candlestick (also sharpened), and lamp oil. There was also a signed note from the owner of the store that had delivered everything.

It read, “Dear Sir or Ma’am. Thank you kindly for your custom, but if anyone asks, you did not acquire any of this fine merchandise from us.

“Good luck in all of your endeavors. Yours, with mercantile affection, Eduard Darvid

“Darvid and Associates, Purveryors of Goods Aplenty

“Merchant’s Guild Number: 0000903461”

Gralash had artfully placed the evidence just under a cupboard, sticking out enough to be noticed. He’d then used a now-familiar enchantment involving a strand of Karle’s chest hair to make the diary and papers glow with a soft green tinge, but only to the Halfling detective. This usually worked.

In most cases, Karle Thunderlegs would snatch up the evidence, then read it quickly, keenly, and loudly. He would proceed crow about his “Detective’s Eye” to anyone who didn’t run away fast enough. This, however, was not a usual case; he’d handed the papers to Gralash for inspection, while he carried on with his feverish fiber-counting and naked-people chasing.

This had happened before, and Gralash had resolved to wait patiently. He now held the evidence in his hand, and waited for the right time to use it. (Karle was not stupid, far from it. He simply lacked a certain mental flexibility, and was stubborn in the extreme. He tended to reach the truth eventually, even if he had to take the scenic route.)

Gralash’s faith, if that’s what you can call it, was rewarded. Karle Thunderlegs stood to his full height, such as it was, and proclaimed, “It was you, Ms. Dorable Burgundy!”

“That’s preposterous!” interjected Mr. Abrador, the attorney, “What proof do you have?!”

His question was nearly drowned by the shout of, “She would never!” that came booming from Arlen Burgundy’s throat.

Almost lost in the din was Ms. Dorable Burgundy herself, as she calmly said, “That’s right.”

It took a moment, and then another before everyone else’s brains began to understand what she’d just confessed to doing. Every sane person in the room glanced nervously at Karle. He had a keenly-felt personal sense of, for the lack of a better word, Justice, and he wasn’t shy about enforcing it in bloody ways.

“Aha!” proclaimed Karle triumphantly, “See? I knew it was you!”

Ms. Burgundy snapped again, “Yes, you just said that…”

Not to be put off, Karle glared at her and shouted her down, “I knew it was you the moment I found one single strand of rope-weave in your closet. I matched it to an old, worn rope in the gardener’s shed!”

The young Burgundy cousin, despite having heard what Dorable herself had said, hesitantly interjected, “Then couldn’t the gardener have…”

“NO!” shouted Karle and Ms. Burgundy together, glaring at Arlen, then each other.

Dorable continued. “I used a brand new rope anyway. Everything I used was new.”

Karle was puzzled, “But I found the candlestick and the knife in the shed, too, and they were old enough.”

Grant the butler seemed unfazed as he intoned, “I believe the gardener uses the candlestick to bludgeon the more aggressive pigeons, and uses the knife to… dismantle them. They are quite large in this part of town.”

“I buried all of my tools behind the third cherub fountain from the left on the Eastern side of the estate.” Ms. Brugundy added matter-of-factly. “Though now I can’t say why I bothered. I honestly never thought you’d guess it was me, I suppose. You’re only a Neander.”

Karle struggled valiantly to stay in the spirit of this event. “So you admit…”

“YES!”

“That you killed your father so you could be with him!” Karle said, pointing where Arlen had been a moment before.

Grant stood there now, quietly brushing Arlen’s coat. He raised one eyebrow at Gralash, and the Orc shrugged in both puzzlement and sympathy.

Karle recovered and adjusted his aim, “I meant him, of course.

Arlen reddened as Dorable said wryly, “As dear as my cousin is, I think I’d rather marry the butler.”

Ignoring her, Karle laid out his findings on the matter, “Your father’s documents indicate that he thought the two of you spent too much time together. He was certain nothing had ‘happened’, but he worried that people would talk, and it would ruin your marriage prospects. When he confronted you, you threatened his life!”

Ms. Burgundy tilted her head, “To be fair, I threatened him with death a lot. As much as I loved him, I wanted to throttle the man. And I did, a bit.”

Karle looked around. Mr. Abrador nodded slowly, as did Arlen Burgundy. Grant kept brushing the young man’s coat, but managed to convey a sort of resigned agreement. Karle was, to say the least, nonplussed. Not only was this overgrown frilly wretch confessing to the murder. She simply hadn’t the decency to look contrite, or even slightly embarrassed. This was the sort of thing that gave everyone else in the room a reason to worry.

The victim’s daughter, and murderess, continued, “He wanted to cut my spending allowance. That, I’m afraid, was the last straw. I used the pitiful purse he gave me to order the instruments of his destruction.”

She chuckled, “If he’d given me a proper stipend, I could have sent him off in true style!”

Karle appeared subdued at last. Gralash knew that was the worst possible sign.

“Very well,” he said curtly, “whatever your methods, whatever your twisted motivations, we have evidence against you. We have your diary!”

Karle motioned at the evidence in Gralash’s hands, despite not having read it. Gralash nodded his confirmation.

“Not that it matters.” said Dorable with a knowing smirk, “Whatever evidence you have, my Arlen will testify for me.”

“Well I…” Arlen began, before Ms. Burgundy cut him off.

“And Mr. Abrador is the finest attorney in Kingsmount! When he’s done with you, no one will care what papers you have.”

Mr Abrador looked uncomfortable, “Ms. Burgundy, perhaps…”

But Dorable Burgundy, daughter of the late Mr. Burgundy, was not one to be cowed. She grinned almost manically as she spat, “He had it coming, the stingy goat! This is justice, my just…!”

“What, precisely, would you know of justice?” Karle’s voice rang out. It was cold, impersonal, but projected throughout the mansion in a way that even the cellar ghosts knew to fear. They decided to haunt their own graves for a while.

Ms. Dorable Burgundy looked as though she was about to say something more, but Karle continued, “You killed a man who was, by all accounts, decent enough for a noble. You did it because… what? You couldn’t buy enough frilly, useless things? You couldn’t live one more day without another ribbon? You had to kill a… your own father?“

The words “noble”, and “things” carried the inflection of an epithet. Some of Karle’s people had great lengths to acquire a great many things when their curse was first lifted. On the other hand, Karle — like most Halflings — chose to live simply.

The noblewoman would have been right if she were dealing with the local Constabulary. A few bribes here, a favor or two there, and she’d most likely have walked away as a free and wealthy woman. At the very least, she’d be alive in a sumptuous jail cell, fit to make most people weep with envy.

She’d decided to be clever, though, and this would cost her dearly. She hired a famous Hero detective, who was well-known for not actually being very bright. She’d assumed that she could outsmart him, and that his investigation, while inept, would clear her name. She’d clearly given up on this plan, and focused now on cowing this… this peasant Hero. She knew about Neanders, and Neanders were stupid.

If only she’d paid more attention to the stories.

The manic light left her eyes, and she composed herself as she said, “I am of noble blood. We are born to rule, and to have. We make our own justi…”

Gralash knew this situation was quickly going wrong. He also knew Ms. Burgundy would not listen to reason, and would talk herself into an early grave. Even so, he made an earnest attempt to save her life.

“You do have the right to remain silent.” he interjected, putting careful emphasis into his words.

“Shut up, shut up, shut UP, SHUT UP!” This came from Grant, the normally unflappable butler, right before everything went very wrong for Ms. Burgundy. The butler saw in Karle what Dorable had missed: a burning rage, and a hunger. The Halfling’s normally bright gray eyes had gone completely red, though they didn’t glow.

“Neander” was the technical term for the sort of Hero that Karle was. They were also called Berserkers, or Raging Fucking Maniacs when people weren’t feeling too kind. Scholars had attempted to devise a more academic title, but Neanders who liked the name had come in to the university, held the scholars upside down, and taken their hooker money.

In truth, Karle had more control than most, as very few things in the world and in life actually made him angry. He was forgiving of others’ faults, and preferred to make a sweaty mess of his bed with one or five consenting adults, rather than make a bloody mess in war. But he was a Neander, cursed to sometimes utterly misplace his self-control in sudden, violent ways.

Even then, he never lashed out at everyone in the vicinity, as many Neanders did. His anger was focused on those who would willingly, thoughtlessly bend Justice to their own will.

The rage was loose, and Ms. Burgundy was its clear target. He tensed, coiled himself, and sprang.

“JUUUUUSSSSTIIIICCCEE!” he screamed as he hurled his four-foot frame through the air at her. Ms. Burgundy had only the briefest of moments to be surprised.

Gralash, for his part, had seen this coming from several miles and a hearty marching ballad away. This, after all, was Karle Thunderlegs’ true gift, his true power. If he’d been been born much farther to the north, and didn’t like clothes very much, he might have been called a Barbarian.

This would have been wrong, because unless they come from the Barbary region of Brieland, they’re just sparkling angry people.

And now, Karle was Raging. With less than a second left, Gralash took one last glance at Ms. Dorable Burgundy.

She was pleasant-looking for a human, a bit plump, with the dark hair and dark eyes of the locals. Her skin had a reddish tinge to it, though that could easily have come from a cosmetic treatment. Had she not been in a large, gaudy chair, she would have stood a little taller than average, thanks to good nutrition and good posture combined.

Her dress was elegant, cut with a fashionable v-neck, and the color matched her surname. Her face looked mildly concerned, a little surprised, and not at all comprehending. She would be dead before she knew it, and that was the last mercy she’d ever receive.

Karle Thunderlegs was, well, short like a Halfling. He was also pale and blonde, and the girth so typical of his species hid his unnaturally powerful muscles. As Gralash saw him hurtling toward the girl, as though suspended in mid-air, Karle’s jowls trembled with the anger and remorseless fury that gave Heroes like him their name. He was no Paladin, but he believed in Justice of a sort.

Ms. Burgundy had quite unconcernedly and repeatedly spat on that belief. More to the point, she’d pissed off a Neander.

Even to Gralash’s finely-tuned senses, Karle was still a blur of motion. The next several instants brought several rapid thud-like noises, and then it was over. To the others in the room, it had all merely ben a flash, a single booming noise, and a shower of blood.

Ms. Burgundy, her fine dress, and her chair, were all mixed together in a slushy pile that, if you didn’t look at it to closely, would bother you less.

Arlen Burgundy fainted.

Mr. Abrador stammered. “That’s… that’s not right. I’ll… sue? No, I’ll… I’ll call the guards!”

While Karle stared vacantly off into the distance for a moment, as he was wont to do after one of his rages, Gralash spoke up for the first time. His voice was deep, throaty, but not overly harsh.

“Whether it is right or not, Mr. Thunderlegs has jurisdiction. Ms. Burgundy asked for Justice, and we have delivered. She went so far as to sign a waiver stating that she would accept whatever verdict Karle Thunderlegs delivered; a fact she should not have forgotten so easily. We do have evidence, as well as her confession.”

Gralash paused, as he himself indulged in a bit of drama himself, “You’re free to discuss this with The Old Man, if you like.”

Grant approached Karle who was, it should be noted, covered head to toe in a fine red coating. The butler held out a towel and said, “Should you like any help cleaning up, Sir, I find myself in need of employment.”

Gralash stood just beyond the front door to the mansion, and off to the side, thinking. The light rain had subsided as the local Constabulary wrapped up their investigation with record-breaking speed. A still slightly-bloody Karle had come out of his trance, and told his story. The others, having seen the consequences of attempting to evade Justice, had carefully agreed with the Halfling’s account. It was mostly accurate, anyway.

Karle would not be arrested. Beyond the obvious personal safety concerns, this was because Heroes enjoyed a limited legal immunity for the terrible, destructive things they sometimes did. It is difficult to take down a fifty-foot monster without crushing a building or two, and the citizens of Kingsmount had gotten quite good at evacuating entire city blocks in minutes.

In the case of Karle Thunderlegs, Halfling detective and occasional bloody-mess-creator, it was a matter of jurisdiction. It was a mostly unspoken rule of the Constabulary that if you were stupid enough to hire a Neander to solve your mystery, you would just have to deal with the consequences. Besides, Karle and Gralash had a habit of solving every case in such a way that the authorities were satisfied.

Few of the people in charge would be happy that a noble was killed, but she had been guilty. When word got out to the proletariat, Karle would be popular; the masses were always delighted to see that Justice didn’t only happen to them.

All of this crossed Gralash’s mind in an instant. Having nothing better to do for the next little while, he began to contemplate the nuances of a Dwarven poem he’d read recently. Memorization was the work of a moment, but contemplation took time, and Gralash rarely had the time to contemplate the arts he so enjoyed. The silence lasted for a few glorious minutes longer, and ended when a sullen-looking Karle Thunderlegs appeared at Gralash’s side.

The diminutive investigator stared out over the ground toward the elegantly-wrought main gate of the estate, only now throwing off the last of the post-Rage trance he’d been in. He looked up at his Companion, and glared at him with quiet indignance, and no small amount of guilt.

“Why didn’t you stop me?”, he asked sullenly.

Gralash permitted himself a small sigh, mostly for Karle’s benefit.

He responded in the deep, melodic tone so common among his people, “You know why. There are only so many times that this…”

He paused to tap a small charm on his left wrist.

“… can actually stop you. There will come a day when your Rage will endanger someone who doesn’t deserve to be turned to sludge by way of your fists. On that day, I want this charm to work.”

“But what if I’d gone further, my dear Gralash? What if I’d killed everyone in the room?” Karle protested, “What if I’d killed everyone in that room because you weren’t fast enough?”

Gralash allowed his irritation to show, and his response was terse. “I was ready.”

He softened and said, “But I never needed to. Your Rage is a part of you, and you’re the great Halfling detective, not some gator-brained idiot who would stoop to killing innocents.”

Karle began to brighten up, and his voice took on a somewhat triumphant tone, “Well, I did solve the mystery, and in a most spectacular fashion, if I do say so myself. My mind was incandescent with clues, burning with motivation! And I managed to acquire the recipes to the most delectable dishes.”

Gralash nodded sagely. When Karle reverted to his “grand detective” speech pattern, then all was well.

They walked together, Gralash keeping a slow, but comfortable pace for Karle’s sake. The little man could be fast when he had to, but they were in no hurry. They exited through the main gate, and prepared for the long walk towards the Hall of the Hero Contingent to make their report, and then on to their respective lodgings.

Before they got more than three steps from the gate, a four-horse-power carriage careened past them, the horses practically steaming in the night air. The vehicle slowed rapidly, horses, wheels, and occupants protesting all the way. As it stopped, Gralash noted that the carriage was finely made, and definitely a custom job.

He very nearly snorted at the plaque on the rear which proclaimed, “My other carriage is your esteemed mother!”

The driver seemed to have nearly tangled himself in the reins during his braking maneuver, but he quickly sorted himself out, and stepped climbed down to the street. He opened the carriage door, and out stepped a gentleman in his late twenties with dark brown skin, and bright purple eyes. In his frilly clothes, he looked the part of a nobleman.

The presumed nobleman called out to Gralash, “Are you Karle Thunderlegs? I have urgent need of your services!”

“I am Karle Thunderlegs!” Karle called out, then looked at Gralash with a self-satisfied grin.

“It seems we have a new mystery.” he proclaimed more quietly. “Oh, and a new butler.”

Gralash looked back to see Grant struggling along the path to the gate, dragging a large suitcase behind him. He shrugged, and ambled over to see what their new client wanted. He hoped this one was innocent.

The New Mystery

Some will tell you that a mystery is like a puzzle to be solved one piece at a time. Others might go on about trajectories and how mystery writers are total drama hogs. Gralash, like all investigators, had his own personal theory: a mystery was a living thing.

It had to be. Just like the body was made of living cells and organs, a mystery was usually made of people or things that, at one point or another if not presently, were alive. Like any living thing, a mystery could trick you, run off in unexpected directions, or get bored and wander around for a bit.

Instead of a puzzle, Gralash pictured mysteries as living humanoids, with a point of entry, some long dark corridors, some vital parts, and some bits like the appendix which he could take or leave. You had to get through it all to reach the muck at the end. Of course, sometimes you started with the muck and then…

And then Gralash would usually shut his mouth. He’d tried to explain this metaphor to Karle once, and the Halfling had looked a little green by the end of it. Most people did.

This mystery was certainly starting with a mouth, as the young nobleman would not stop talking. His name was Arlas Norten, and he was not, in fact, particularly noble; he was a newly-wealthy businessman. He had aspirations to nobility, which explained his choice of wardrobe, and was the one flaw in his otherwise boundless ambition. (No businessman in his right mind would take on the burden of a title in Kingsmount.)

Arlas and Karle sat next to each other in the carriage as it rattled down the streets at a more sedate pace. The cushions were plump and comfortable, the curtains were drawn shut, and the smoky aroma of mid-priced cigars wafted through the air.

Sitting somewhat less comfortably toward the rear were Grant and Gralash. They were sandwiched too close for comfort, and Gralash was heavy enough that the padding made no difference to him.

“… so after I disrupted the handcrafted dildo industry by having craftsmen use their feet,” he beamed, “I began to think, ‘What’s next?’ Well I don’t think I have to tell you that religion is the growing business of this decade. The potential for econo-religious expansion is…”

Karle raised his hand, his eyes looking only mildly glazed. “I’m sorry, what is it you do, exactly?”

Arlas paused, and spoke more slowly, “Ah. I’m a Disruptor. I buy businesses, and I change them.”

“You make them better? More profitable?” Karle asked.

Arlas shrugged, “That’s not really the point. I suppose most of what I told you doesn’t matter in the circumstances. I’m just… having a problem with my latest venture.”

“Your new religious business.” Karle nodded sagely. As relatively pious as he was, even he could not ignore the economic realities of worship in Kingsmount.

“Precisely. I purchased a new temple, but it’s defective. I attempted to request a refund, but the priest laughed at me. I’m at my wits end! I must recoup this investment somehow.”

Gralash could not contain his own curiosity at this point.

“How, exactly, can a temple be ‘defective’? Is it in disrepair?”

Arlas snorted, and looked at the Orc with a vaguely pitying air.

“No, no. My building inspector would have noticed anything like that. It’s just that the music is gone.”

Karle asked, “The music? Can you not simply hire…”

Arlas looked pained, “If you’d please allow me to finish. Have you not heard of the Singing Temple of Kingsmount? It’s not singing anymore.”

A hush fell over the occupants of the carriage. The wheels rattled on the cobblestones like the last two brain cells in a man’s head right before he says, “I bet I could do that. Hold my ale.”

Karle spoke first, “What the bloo…”

He stopped himself, and tried again in his carefully-practiced detective voice, “That is… The Singing Temple, one of the oldest known and most holy structures in Kingsmount, is no longer singing?”

Arlas nodded gravely, and said in a subdued tone, “The singing, the music… is gone. I have reason to believe someone stole it.”

Karle gasped in astonishment. Gralash ke his face still raised a mental eyebrow. Grant kept his peace, as he was a butler, and this was definitely not a butler’s business.

Karle recovered, and nodded sagely as he intoned, “Stole the singing from the Singing Temple? If what you say is true, that’s a mystery indeed. That’s a mystery for the record books.”

Arlas nodded somberly.

“The Singing Temple has always been an object of curiosity, and it was to become this city’s greatest attraction. I spent most of my savings on it, and on the planned renovations. I’ll give you the rest of my savings, and more in the future, if you can restore the music of the Singing Temple.”

Gralash knew Karle wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation this job posed, and he himself was curious. He permitted himself a small smile as the Hero detective practically wiggled in his seat across from him.

Karle was only barely able to compose himself before he said, “We’ll do it, or fail spectacularly in the attempt!”

Arlas chuckled, clearly thinking this was a joke. He motioned to the door as the carriage slowed, then stopped.

“Well then, we have arrived at your lodgings, I believe. If you’ll come to the temple tomorrow around ten o’clock, we can begin.”

The sun was high, and the magically-smooth paved roads were dusty. That was the thing about Kingsmount; high in the mountains though it was, you could never avoid the dust. Not completely. It was an unfortunate side effect of being so close to the equator; not that that stopped the mountain winters from being testicle-shrinkingly cold.

But this was late summer, and the sun was a welcome respite from the rains, and occasional hailstorms. For once, the volatile temperatures of Kingsmount had conspired to gift Gralash with a pleasant morning.

He’d gone to make his report at the crack of dawn, then picked up Karle from his apartment on the quite obviously-named Short Street. This name was both indicative, and inadequate. Short Street was a respectable — and respectably-sized — neighborhood which comprised several streets, wherein lived the Halflings, some of the more adventurous dwarves, and every diminutive variety of Fey.

Karle had come bounding out of his dwelling — or his “Hoard”, as Gralash had sardonically named it in his head — excited to meet a new day, a new mystery, and perhaps new sexual partners. Karle, for all that he was cursed, lived a life of nearly perpetual hope and optimism.

He now stood beside Karle, in the so-called Holy District, contemplating the Singing Temple. Arlas was right: there was no singing.

For as long as anyone could remember, this small, unassuming building had been filled with song, the cause of which had never been publicly identified. All anyone knew is that whenever a new priesthood moved in, it wouldn’t be long before the temple sang songs of praise to whichever deity was worshiped there.

When then temple was eventually abandoned for buildings that were fancier, sturdier, and smelled less like cheese, the songs changed. The temple would sing the lyrics provided by passing ambulatory merchants. Night and day, the temple sang of fresh bread, hot cups of corn, and its apparent willingness to buy scraps of metal.

Everyone in the neighborhood had grown quite tired of hearing these songs well into the night, and yet couldn’t help but sing along on some days.

“We’ll buy your copper, “We’ll buy your steel, “We’ll buy that kettle, “And that iron wheel…”

The never-ending lyrical entreaties to commerce, had encouraged many to move to quieter neighborhoods. Those neighbors who were made of sterner stuff, and those who truly enjoyed their songs of commerce, had fallen in love with this small, mysterious temple, though no one had been inside for over a decade.

Karle and Gralash, for their parts, had never been inside. What they knew of the Singing Temple came by way of urban legend and hearsay, though they had both heard the singing for themselves while patrolling the Holy District, looking for crimes to solve. Men and women of the gods, as it turned out, could be as nasty as anyone else.

Now, they would be let inside, the first members of the public to see the innards of The Singing Temple in a long time.

Whatever gods had been worshipped here before, the Temple was now a monument to dust that rivalled anything outside. The small podium at the front was covered in it, as were the once lusciously-padded easy chairs and the lone xylophone in the corner. The walls had once been a pleasant sky blue, and the chairs a gaudy shade of would-be gold, though it was hard indeed to see that now.

After they stopped coughing, what impressed Karle and Gralash the most was the silence. It wasn’t the nervous silence of guilt-ridden worshippers, the serenity that comes to the truly righteous (and good librarians), or the terror of those who’d been so unfortunate as to actually see their gods.

It was the silence of corpses who’d died of embarrassment. It was the quiet of children who’d seen their both their parents engaged in intimate relations with the nanny, the mailman, and the butcher. It was uncomfortable, and so very wrong.

“Ahem”, Karle said, as much to clear his throat as to clear his thoughts. “A bit stuffy in here, isn’t it?”

Arlas was not immune to the discomfort himself, and smiled wryly as he said, “It’s oppressive, alright. No one would come in here to worship anyone, no matter how friendly or debaucherous the god.”

Gralash began to stroll around the small temple, casually looking for clues in an attempt to comfort his own soul, as Karle and Arlas discussed details.

“You’re not wrong,” opined Karle. “Now, will you tell us why you think the singing was stolen? Perhaps whatever enchantment was here simply wore off.”

Arlas shook his head.

“No, it’s almost never that simple. This is business. Someone always wants your head, if they have to steal it off your shoulders when you aren’t looking. I have competitors aplenty.”

“Other ‘disruptors’?”

“Yes, and others who’d rather not see things changed, made different. The cause of business disruption is noble, to my mind, but often dangerous.”

Karle nodded enthusiastically, yet with a somber expression.

“I understand. Not everyone can be a detective. I have often been mocked, and sometimes persecuted, for my craft, until I was needed, of course.”

The would-be nobleman smiled, and clapped Karle’s in companionable agreement, “We are two of a kind, then! They always make fun until they need you.”

Gralash listened with maybe a third of his right ear as he wandered around the room. He wasn’t sure who’d ever need a foot-crafted dildo, but he wasn’t going to judge. As for Karle, well, it was true that the man had faced his share of mockery, from people who forgot that mocking a Neander was not good for one’s health. Karle was not one to take offence at this sort of thing, however, and so the mockers usually survived their lack of insight.

As for persecution, well… some criminals had no desire to be caught, and Gralash found it difficult to blame them. The prisons of Kingsmount were not odious, as prisons went, but they were still prisons. And then there were always stories and rumors of what happened to prisoners if anyone had an interest in them.

In truth, they did not mock the detective’s profession so much as they simply doubted his ability to perform. This, Gralash thought, was somewhat fair, but highly impolite. One way or another, usually with help, Karle got the job done.

The truth is that most criminals weren’t terribly clever, and could have been caught by a reasonably intelligent beagle.

This, though, might be the perfect crime, if there was such a thing. The cause of the temple’s singing had never been identified, so far as Gralash knew. Gralash was trained in the use of the Sight, like most Companions, and he could sense no magic had been done in this place for the whole time it had been boarded up.

There was a second floor, of sorts, with a balcony overlooking the benches toward the podium at the back, but no one was there. He would have sensed any life — and most forms of undeath — had there been any.

It was all just stale air and dust as far as he could tell. He said as much to Karle.

Karle said, “And that, my dear Gralash, is why I am the detective!”

The halfling turned to Arlas, “My assistant is a wonderful boy to be sure, but he’s not ready to take on the profession as yet. I do swear, I’ll make an investigator of him one day, if it takes the rest of my natural life, and a reincarnation or two!”

With that, he pulled his oversized magnifying glass from its holster, and began to scurry about the room. Gralash assembled his features into the most humble expression he could manage, which was difficult with the tusks that jutted from his lower jaw. He slumped his shoulders in a way that was, for him, almost melodramatic.

“Yes Sir, Mister Thunderlegs.”

Karle called back, “You know you should be calling me Karle! It’s positively unseemly for you to act like a servant when you are so much more!”

Gralash smiled in genuine appreciation. Though his subservience was never more than an act meant to impress bystanders with Karle’s benevolence and apparent superiority, Gralash knew that Karle meant every word. Whatever Karle’s opinion of himself, he’d never treat others as anything but his equal. Well, not as equal detectives, but you couldn’t have everything.

Arlas himself did seem suitably impressed. He spoke in low, confidential tones with Gralash.

“I wasn’t sure I’d hired the right person for the job, but knowing the detective a little better now, I’m confident that I did. You must learn so much from him.”

Gralash nodded, and said, “I do.”

Karle wandered the temple, looking through his magnifying glass at anything that might be odd. He checked the footprints in the dust, and found little that was useful. The priest who’d owned the temple last, Arlas, and the building inspector had been all over the place.

In the back right corner of the building, however, he stopped. He thought hard, screwing up his face into a knot that spoke to just how much he was concentrating.

“Come,” he called out, gesturing to Gralash and Arlas Norten.

They gathered around him, as he pointed to a small hole in the wall.

“What do you see?” Karle asked Gralash.

“A small hole, probably made by mice. I also see what might be some droppings.”

“Indeed! But can you tell how old they are?”

Gralash the Orc, with his Orc nose, could absolutely tell how old they were. By the smell, they might have been five days old, maybe a day after Arlas said he’d bought the Singing Temple.

“No, I’m afraid I can’t, Karle.” he said, with a slight delay before he said Karle’s name, as though he was getting used to it.

Gralash watched as Karle actually touched the droppings with his bare finger. He picked one up between thumb and forefinger, rolled it back and forth, then ground it up. He lifted his fingers, stared at them, and for one horrified moment Gralash thought he might actually taste the wretched stuff.

Karle merely sniffed, however, and then produced a napkin with his other hand. As he cleaned his fingers, he explained, “That can’t be any more than five days old. You bought the Temple six days ago, correct?”

Both Arlas and Gralash were duly impressed.

“How on the Accident could you know how old those droppings were?” asked Arlas.

Karle shrugged, “In the days before the Halfling Curse was lifted, bless the Wizard Bluebell, I spent a lot of my time befriending mice. We didn’t have much for them to steal or chew, and we were glad of the company.”

“Astounding!” said Arlas, shaking his head.

Gralash agreed, and was sincere about it. He had not expected that.

Arlas continued, “But what does it mean, exactly?”

Karle said, “It’s too soon to be sure. but have you noticed that there is no life here? At all? You had mice in your walls… wait, you did say your building inspector cleared this place?”

Arlas nodded, “He noticed the apparent presence of mice too, but said there was no structural damage.”

Karle hummed for a moment, then said, “Fair enough. But the mice aren’t here now. Neither are there any cockroaches or ants, though there’s precious little for them to eat. But feel the air in this place, my friends… I’d wager even those tiny, tiny living things the healers go on about don’t live here.”

That, all parties concluded, certainly was a clue. It was about as helpful as knowing that the person who mugged you was bipedal, but it was the only lead so far.

Karle, as was usual for him, did not allow the vagueness of the clue to stop him from forming a complete hypothesis.

“I have a theory!” he proclaimed. “It is fairly common knowledge that the singing was not produced by any known magic. Nor was anyone living here. No god has ever claimed credit for the phenomenon either.

“I suspect, Sirs, that this building was once alive.”

A genuine shocked silence followed.

Karle continued, heedless of his companions’ surprise, “Yes, living buildings were once common in Kingsmount, were they not? If we assume that every single living thing in this building suddenly died around five days ago, then perhaps so too did this temple. Without the help of a strong necromancer, it is rather hard to sing when you’re dead.”

Gralash gave this some thought. It wasn’t the worst theory he’d ever heard from the Halfling by a long shot, but it did have a few potential problems.

He cleared his throat politely, and said, “It’s certainly possible, Si.. Karle. But aren’t living buildings, well… all rather dead? As I recall, the Hero’s Contingent did investigate this temple several times.”

It was true that living buildings had been common enough. With the particular mess of magical confluences under the city of Kingsmount, they’d been inevitable. And they’d all had something ugly, tentacled, and maddening somewhere in the back yard.

As a result, the Hero’s Contingent had — on orders from The Old Man — killed all of the living buildings, and most of the cultists who tended to live in them. The city had breathed a sigh of relief when the last Chaos-infested studio apartment had been stabbed to death with approximately three-hundred enchanted, superheated knives. Now every building had wards which prevented them from coming to life.

Karle, to his credit, always gave Gralash’s objections at least a moment of consideration. He thought about it, and asked, “Well, do you have any better ideas?”

Gralash did not. Instead of saying this, he opined, “We might at least check the second floor before making any conclusions.”

Arlas suddenly looked a little nervous, but he carefully said, “Yes, you probably should.”

Karle smiled agreeably, “Well Gralash, you might not be a detective yet, but you’ve always been thorough. That will serve you well, no matter what you do.”

Arlas held back as they walked toward the stairs, and called out to them, “Just a moment!”

Karle and Gralash turned back, quizzical looks on both faces.

Arlas fidgeted. Then came clean, “There is something up there that you should see. I ah… I wanted to know what you’d find down here first. I’ll just… stay down here, if that’s alright with you. Just be careful where you step. It’s in the office.”

Gralash eyed Arlas carefully. The man was nervous indeed, but didn’t seem to mean them any harm. If he had, he could have simply let them walk into a trap. He looked at Karle, who had his stern, brave detective face on. As the ostensible boss in this business, it was down to Karle to respond.

“We will be most cautious, Arlas. Thank you for your concern.”

The two proceeded slowly up the stairs to the balcony. At the top, there were a few more benches along the edge for worshippers who preferred to be above their priests. Behind those benches were two sets of spartan living quarters, an office, and a water closet. The doors to every room were open, so as to offer a clear look into them.

Seeing no danger, they entered the office first. On the floor was something that looked an awful lot like a magical circle, and it certainly radiated a faint trace of magical energy. Gralash sighed. One the upside, this mystery would be over before long. On the downside, it would likely have a messy conclusion.

Karle whistled a low note, and said, “Well that, my dearest Gralash, is a fucking clue.”

Gralash nodded. “It would be very unlikely if this didn’t have anything to do with the end of the singing. It’s still warm, if you take my meaning.”

By this point, Arlas had come in behind the duo quietly, and stood beside them looking dejected. He shook his head and sighed, “I’d really, truly hoped you wouldn’t say that.”

Gralash was mildly annoyed. It was nothing new for a client to hold back important information. It seemed they hoped that, if they didn’t immediately divulge the most inconvenient clues, you might find a more convenient explanation for their troubles. He was also miffed at himself. When using The Sight, he’d neglected to look up.

Arlas, for his part, had hoped the magic circle was some sort of children’s prank, though this was unlikely. Even the most intrepid children of Kingsmount knew not to break into any temple, abandoned or not. On the world known as the Accident, the gods were most definitely watching. The kind ones might lightly singe you for your trouble. The cruel gods would send a prophet to your mother, the damned tattletales.

(The sort of gods who might demand the lives of the offending children were not welcome in Kingsmount. They had learned, on pain of more pain, to avoid the city.)

The businessman had suggested that, before getting any more wizards involved, they might try to “give the temple a helping hand, as it were”. Karle hadn’t objected, and Gralash had been curious, so they gave it a try.

First, they prayed. Arlas prayed to Mercanta, goddess of business, commerce, and the better class of cigars. Karle had prayed to His Bigness, the god of the Halflings, who had so recently become reconciled to his worshippers.

Gralash gave the matter some thought, then dutifully prayed to several gods he’d read about, and liked better than most. It was his first time praying to any of them, but he figured it wouldn’t hurt to try.

The Singing Temple kept… well… not singing.

On Karle’s suggestion, each of the three sang a song, to see if the Singing Temple would join in. Perhaps it only needed some new material. The gods having failed them, this seemed as good an idea as any, and so they sang.

Arlas, as owner of the Temple, went first again. His voice was a surprisingly lovely tenor, and he sang a haunting ballad of love found, lost, found again, then misplaced by accident. While Karle and Gralash were left nearly in tears, the Temple was not.

Karle, to change the mood, sang an off-key yet lively rendition of When Kobolds go A Courting. This was, as you might expect, a rather bawdy drinking song, but these walls had heard far worse in their time.

Gralash didn’t hesitate this time. There was only one song on his mind, that same Dwarven poem he’d begun to contemplate the night before. With little time to contemplate its subtleties, he hadn’t been able to get it out of his head, and he took this opportunity to do just that. In his deep baritone, he began to belt out the words to Fuck the Orcs.

They’re tall and green and grey,
What they want, who can say?
We’ll kill them anyway…
Fuck those fucking Orcs.

Steal your axe and take your gold,
Take your women to be sold,
We’ll fight them ’til we’re old,
Fuck those fucking Orcs!

We’ll stand strong in any battle,
Put them down like tall grey cattle,
While Humans hide, and Demons run,
While Elves prattle and bathe in sun,
We’ll fuck those fucking Orcs!

The song continued on that same theme for another nine verses or so. Arlas and Karle listened first in surprise, then deep shock, and then with more than a little sadness. When Gralash was done, and the temple still declined to respond in kind, the silence stretched to the point of awkwardness.

Arlas spoke first, “I ah… well. I mean… you know that was all a long time ago, right? I certainly would never think anything like that about, well… you know…”

Karle nervously interjected, “You do know I’m a Halfling, right? Not a…”

Gralash was taken aback for a moment, before he realized what that song must have sounded like to Karle and their client.

“I apologize,” he said smoothly and in what was (for him) a bright and cheery tone. “I’ve been studying Dwarven history lately, and I’d been meaning to examine the nuances of that particular poem for some time now. It’s fascinating.”

“Yes..” said Arlas, falteringly. “Nuances.”

Changing the subject, Karle clapped his hands together once, then rubbed them together as he said, “We’ve learned all we can here! I shall patrol the neighborhood, and interview those as may know what happened here. With careful interrogation, even a casual passerby might give us valuable leads.”

Gralash had left him to it. For all that Karle could be dangerous to all including himself, it was rare that he had an episode such as that of the past night. It was more likely he’d run himself ragged asking random people nonsensical questions that lead nowhere, and come back to see what Gralash had found.

No, don’t be so cynical, thought Gralash. Karle’s talent for impressing strangers with his bravado is not to be underestimated. There might be a real lead somewhere nearby. Plus, he’s still got a Neander’s talents.

In this case, Gralash was not referring to Karle’s ability to grind most people, places, and things into a fine powder. It was rather that all Neanders possessed a certain innate resistance to magic, as well as a nose for it, though it hadn’t helped in the temple. It was nothing so complex or useful as the Sight, but Karle had his ways of getting both into and out of magical trouble, all on his own. As magic was most certainly involved here, he might well find something.

But, just in case he didn’t, Gralash had stayed in the temple’s office, taking careful notes. First, he drew the circle in his notebook, being careful to put a thin crossing line through all of the magical symbols he drew.

He didn’t want to accidentally make a working magic circle in his notebook, after all. Paper was expensive.

He carefully noted the placement of any candles he saw, though it seemed the candles had been used mostly for illumination. He also wrote down that the office’s large wooden desk and three old chairs had been moved to the side, presumably to make room for the spell.

Other than that, there was little to catalogue, other than the ever-present dust. This took Gralash about an hour; once he’d taken notes of everything he could think of, he set out from the temple to find Karle.

Well, first he said his goodbyes to Arlas, who in turn took half an hour to say his own goodbyes. Arlas managed to extract a promise for a report, first thing in the morning, and only then was Gralash free to go.

The Orc found the Halfling about three blocks down the road, eyeing a pigeon suspiciously.

“Might the pigeon have a clue for us?” he asked with a perfectly straight face, being used to Karle’s investigative methods.

“If only, my dear Gralash,” Karle said almost mournfully. “Imagine if the birds could tell us all they knew. It would shorten the chase, but even so, we could dispense more justice in an hour than we currently can in a week!”

Knowing how violent Karle’s justice could be at times, Gralash simply grunted in a non-commital way.

“As it is,” Karle continued, “I have learned about as much from these people as I have from this bird. His Bigness’ Balls, I may well have learned more from the pigeon. He does nothing but eat, defecate, and fly, and yet he is happy. There may be a lesson in that.”

Gralash nodded, and said, “To be fair, the flying part sounds amazing.”

Karle grinned, regaining some of his normal effervescence. “Indeed it does! Ah well, I suppose there’s nothing for it. If we must engage a consultant to solve this mystery, then we must. I must say that I despise magic. It’s almost never enough to just follow the clues when magic is involved. The situation always devolves into a shower of light and fire and… it’s just so…”

“Unrefined?” asked Gralash, knowing his Hero well.

“Exactly.”

“Well,” said Gralash, allowing himself a full-toothed and full-tusked grin of his own, “If it’s refinement you want, there’s always Her Ladyship.”

Karle perked up even more, as he realized who Gralash was talking about.

“A capital idea! It’s been too long since I have laid eyes on my sweet Lady Bluebell. Do you think she’ll…?”

Gralash’s grin faltered, but only a little.

“There’s only one way to find out.”

The Companion known as Ordan Saint Catar and the Wizard Bluebell Darna were sat in the latter’s apartment, drinking tea. Well, that was the intended goal for this afternoon’s class, but they hadn’t quite gotten that far.

So far, Bluebell had only just managed to set the table for two, more or less. Ordan was rubbing his temples in frustration, but he managed to keep his voice calm. It wouldn’t do to overly upset his Hero, powerful as she was.

“That’s close, Bluebell,” said the young man, “But the knives go closest to the plate, and the spoons go further out, like this.”

He demonstrated his point, and looked up at Bluebell to make sure she was paying attention.

“And, I should probably note that it’s not polite to have your work on the table at tea time. I know your parents must have had someone teach you all this.”

Bluebell shrugged noncommittally as she picked the books the books up off the table, and moved them to one of the many stacks around them.

“They did, but it was three-hundred years ago. I didn’t care then, and I’m not sure I could care if I wanted to, now.”

Bluebell, who looked a healthy and lean forty-five years of age despite her grey hair and advanced years, was bored. It was expected that all Heroes would be educated in the basic niceties of the upper class, though with varying degrees of success. The Wizard Bluebell, who vastly preferred books to people, was often less polite than many Neanders.

Ordan was a local boy through and through, with medium brown skin, average height, and reasonably good looks. His only striking feature was his green eyes, and no one was quite sure where that had come from. Perhaps his minor affinity for magic had caused it.

And it was his job to educate her. The poor boy did try, and he was one of the few people who put up with her. She decided to ease his burden, if only for a moment.

“Very well, show me how it’s done.”

Ordan quickly rearranged the silverware, and sat down on the opposite side of the small table.

“Alright,” he said, sounding somewhat mollified. “Since you’re the host, you have to pour the tea.”

With a flick of her wrist, and a whispered word of power, the teapot rose into the air, and carefully poured its contents into both cups, without spilling a drop.

“I suppose that’s against the rules,” she grumped.

“Actually… there are no rules governing the use of magic at tea. At least, there are none I’ve ever heard of. Besides, it’s the sort of thing people expect from a Wizard.”

“Well, that’s not so bad then,” Bluebell admitted.

“Indeed. Now, according to the Easterners who gave us this custom, you’re to offer me milk and sugar if you have any. If you don’t have sugar, honey or some other sweetener will do.”

Bluebell levitated both the sugar and the milk, and asked, “Well?”

Ordan sighed, “We’ll work on that later.”

He took one lump of brown sugar, but ignored the milk as he stirred his tea. Bluebell allowed the floating dishes to return to the table, and they sipped their tea in silence for a moment.

“Alright,” said Ordan. “Small talk.”

“Ugh.”

“I know, but we have to practice. You never know when The Old Man will parade us around in front of some noble or other.”

“Fine.”

Ordan sipped his tea meaningfully, then said, in his most upper-class voice, “It’s lovely tea, Wizard Bluebell.”

“Yes,” said Bluebell dryly. “I have my simpering idiot of a Companion buy it for me. He knows what it’s called, if you want some. How’s the weather? I haven’t looked outside lately.”

Ordan leaned back in his chair, desperately wishing he didn’t have to do this. Then, to his and Bluebell’s relief, there was a knock at the door. It sounded, if Ordan was any judge of these things, like a child-sized hand knocking very hard indeed. It was an excited knock. It was a knock they both knew well.

Ordan grinned evilly. Bluebell’s face contorted in horror.

“It seems,” said Ordan with more than a hint of triumph in his voice, “that you’ll be getting a chance to practice. We wouldn’t want to offend our colleagues, would we?”

Bluebell looked around in a panic, as if there might be some place to hide amongst the stacks of books. But her apartment wasn’t that big, and their guest was a detective after all.

Ordan walked toward the door slowly, to give Bluebell more time to suffer. He stopped at the door.

“Shall I?”

Bluebell shuddered.

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”

“This is for leaving me with a Succubus. Again.” Ordan gloated, then he flung the door wide open.

“Salutations, friend Ordan,” boomed Karle. “Is the lovely La… I mean, the Wizard Bluebell in, today?”

There he was, resplendent in his little trench coat and silly hat. The slightly pudgy Halfling could not have been more beautiful to Ordan than he was in that moment. Gralash stood behind him, contriving to look humble while towering over his Hero, but with an edge of mirth in his own eyes as well.

Ordan bowed, and made show of it.

“The great Wizard would never let me stay here alone, with all her precious books, humble Companion that I am. Come in! She was just saying how she’d love some company besides myself. We’re just sitting down to tea. Won’t you join us?”

As Ordan turned back toward Bluebell, he caught her momentary glower. Oh, he’d pay for this later, but he’d enjoy it now.

Bluebell stood as the others approached.

“Yes,” she said, composing herself. “Join us if yo… I mean… Please do.”

This visit was difficult for Bluebell for two reasons. Firstly, it always paid to be polite to fellow Heroes, as though they were powerful allies against the monsters in Kingsmount, they could be just as powerful enemies. Being polite had never been Bluebell’s greatest strength.

Secondly, Karle worshipped Bluebell for her part in liberating the entire Halfling race from an ancient curse. Being worshipped was also difficult for Bluebell.

Karle strode in confidently and excitedly. He gave an elaborate bow, then held out his hand while hoping against hope that’d be allowed to kiss hers. He was disappointed.

“My La… Great Wizard Bluebell,” Karle began. “I have come today on a matter of utmost importance, and great urgency. I only ask that we be granted a moment of your time, and considerable expertise.”

Bluebell was momentarily taken aback. He’d never come for an actual consultation before, but he sounded serious this time. She and Ordan both glanced at Gralash, who nodded solemnly.

“Well,” she replied reluctantly, “I suppose that would be… acceptable.”

Seeing Ordan’s meaningful look toward the table, she continued, “Do either of you want tea? I don’t mind drinking the stuff, but I’m not sure I like all the talking that apparently comes with it.”

Gralash nodded, and Karle practically bounded into Ordan’s vacant seat.

“I’d be honored! I must admit that while we have urgent business, the pleasure of your company…”

Ordan and Gralash escaped to the kitchen, under the guise of fetching more dishes, biscuits, and that sort of thing. Gralash could barely fit his bulk into the apartment, but he did it all the same. The two Companions shared a brief moment of quiet mirth, before stifling themselves.

With expressions composed, they came back to find Karle desperately working his way up to maybe, just possibly, if she had the time, asking her out.

“I was just thinking Great Wizard, there’s this wonderful tavern…”

“Ahem,” said Gralash, before anyone could embarrass themselves. “We should probably get on with our business, Sir?”

“Call me Karle…” said Karle, absent-mindedly. He was lost in Bluebell’s light brown eyes, and had no intention of finding his way back.

Gralash and Ordan shared a look. It would not do to let this go too far, when their Heroes could be fragile at the best of times.

“Karle,” Gralash began again. “The Singing Temple…”

That got Bluebell’s attention. “What about the Singing Temple?”

Karle, seeing a chance to potentially impress Bluebell with his deductive reasoning, never mind the fact that they didn’t have any real leads, took his cue.

“Well that’s the most curious thing…” he said, as he launched into the story. He got nearly every detail exactly right, but neglected to mention Gralash’s choice of song.

At the end of it all, Bluebell sat in contemplation. Then she spoke.

“You say there was a magic circle. I suppose you want me to see if for myself?”

Gralash handed her his open notebook.

“No need, Wizard Bluebell. I have taken notes.”

Bluebell managed to stop herself from ripping the notebook from Gralash’s hands. She was possessive of books, even when (and sometimes especially when) they weren’t hers to begin with. She held the book close, to better see every single detail.

“Hmmm,” she muttered. “Oh, that’s a nasty one. Good thing you crossed out the… hmmmm.”

As abruptly as she’d begun, she handed the book back to Gralash.

“You’d best erase that,” she said. “Just in case.”

“Whatever for?” Karle was the first to ask.

“That’s a demon-summoning circle. Someone’s been, to put this in technical terms, very stupid.”

The Hunt for The Demon

Karle had, as expected, invited Bluebell and her loyal Companion to join in the hunt for whatever demon was involved in this mess. She’d almost-politely declined, and now the detective marched his way down the street, deep in thought. Gralash followed behind him, keeping one eye out for any sign of danger.

Kingsmount — due to several geographical and historical mishaps involving ancient shamans, sacrifices, burial grounds, ley lines, a hell mouth, and one very irritated badger — was the birthplace of many monsters. The doors to realms unknown were everywhere, hence the need for Heroes to protect the city, and for Companions to protect all the people from the Heroes.

Demons were another breed, however. Elementals, ogres, sewer slimes, and the undead… these were all playthings by comparison. Demons and Devils were organized, vicious, and most held onto ancient dreams of inter-dimensional conquest. However, they were mostly banished from the Accident, even in Kingsmount; The Old Man had taken precautions, bless her ancient heart.

Anyone who was both mad and powerful enough to summon a demon was a threat to be taken seriously. Gralash wasn’t worried about Karle, so much as himself. Thick as Orc-hide was, a Demon could likely shred through it…

…Whereupon Karle would almost certainly kill the demon in a rage, and then the city might have a whole new problem on its hands. A Neander’s Companion could not afford to throw their life away in anything less than the most dire circumstance.

Well, Gralash would burn that bridge when he came to it, he supposed. It was mid-afternoon, and Arlas had to be informed of this Demon business sooner rather than later. He was almost certainly a target.

Karle and Gralash approached a decidedly upper-middle-class apartment that held delusions of literal grandeur, much like its occupant. The maroon façade with gold-painted trim was pretty enough, though it was clear that the building behind was a much simpler brick-and-mortar affair. Still, it was well-kept, and bespoke an aspiration to better things.

Arlas and this apartment had been made for each other.

After some insistent knocking, Arlas opened the ornate wooden door with a scowl.

He came out ranting, “Jonner, I told you. I can’t drink tonight, I have a meet… oh! My apologies, Mister Thunderlegs, Mister Gralash. Have you found the culprit already?”

Karle put on what he thought was a rather convincing look of concerned reassurance. Coming from that tiny, almost cherubic face, it looked more like mild constipation.

“Hardly,” he said. “But we have discovered that whomever wants you out of business is also mad, powerful, and either versed in magic, or employing an equally-mad Wizard. That circle we found was meant to summon a demon, though we do not yet know what kind.”

Arlas barked out a short, panicked laugh. “An Demon, oh that is.. that is… oh fuck me sideways, Mercanta! You’re serious.”

About an hour later, Arlas had been squirreled away at the Hero Contingent compound. While the Heroes who lived there could be as dangerous to normal people as anything else, there were special quarters designed just for this kind of emergency.

Anything that came after Arlas would have to fight its way through several dozen Hero veterans, a few hundred active Heroes, and nearly a thousand Heroes-in-training (who were arguably the most dangerous, as they had no idea what they were doing). The only safer place in all of Kingsmount would be The Old Man’s own personal vault.

Arlas had not known who among his potential enemies would be mad enough to pull a stunt like this. These were sensible, if cutthroat, businesspeople, and Demons were always bad for business. Arlas had hardly been alive long enough for anyone sensible to hate him quite this much, so Karle and Gralash were inclined to agree.

Karle asked, “I suppose we should conduct interviews, starting with Arlas’ most competitive rivals.”

“While that is typically fruitful, I doubt that anyone with an ounce of sense will admit to summoning a Demon, persuasive as we can be. You know how The Old Man feels about summoning Demons without special dispensation.” opined Gralash.

Karle shuddered, “I think I once saw her angry. I’m not certain, as the city largely remains standing, but…”

Gralash shuddered too. The Old Man’s anger was legendary, even among the ranks of the Neanders.

Karle continued, “Even so, we might find something. But for now, we shall return to the Singing Temple, and keep watch. Any Demon summoner worthy of the title would have erased that circle, and even an amateur should realize, eventually, that they should not have left it behind.”

Gralash agreed, “And they’ll most likely come at night.”

Karle smiled. “Why yes, my boy. When else would the city’s criminal element commit their deeds most foul? And what is more foul than this?”

After acquring refreshments from the cleanest street food vendor they could find in the time they had left, Karle and Gralash politely requested the use of a rooftop near the backside of the temple. The owner said roof had made little fuss once Karle identified himself as a Hero, and they waited.

And they waited. And they waited some more. Evening turned to night, and night turned to morning. Karle, though usually talkative, understood the value of silence on a stakeout as well as anyone. Gralash, for his part, managed to complete his inner contemplation of Fuck the Orcs, and was beginning to consider the finer points of And Fuck the Humans Too, when two shadows began to shuffle down the street behind the Singing Temple.

Well, one shadow was shuffling along. The other was smaller, and moved lithely around the feet of the first. The First Shadow let out a few muffled curses, and kept moving.

“Damn it, Furfluffins! We need to be careful about this.”, said the First Shadow.

The Second Shadow whined, “Damnable human! Have I not told you? I am Lord Furfluffins! I am a general in the Armies of the Damned!”

“Yes, yes. Well you live with me, now, and we need to be rid of that circle. If you could’ve just held still a moment after you arrived…”

“I was hungry,” interrupted Lord Furfluffins, “And the food smelled so good.”

The First Shadow sighed, “I told you, I didn’t bring any food with me, what on the Accident are you…”

The conversation, though interesting to Karle and Gralash, had come close enough. As the First Shadow inspected the back entrance to the Singing Temple, Gralash gripped the edge of the roof on their two-story building and swung himself down on the right side of the pair. Being almost a story tall himself, and durable, this was no great inconvenience.

Karle, being very hard to kill indeed, simply leapt to the left of their quarry, landing in the alley with the thunderous crack of hard-soles boots on cobblestones.

For a moment, nothing happened. The First Shadow — which turned out to be an old man — was barely visible, and not recognizable in the slightest.

But Lord Furfluffins, small as he was, began to emit a glow. It was a colorless, alien glow that exuded a sensation of imminent death, the smell of ashes, and that sort of irritation that comes from looking at a creature that is completely, utterly self-satisfied. The Demon, for that is what it had to be, looked suspiciously like an overgrown house cat.

It was a very fluffy thing, with fully black eyes and fur that was tinged, at least in this demonic light, a dark purple. It arched its back, it fluffed its tail, and it hissed, “What in the fuck?”

Gralash, being closer to the old man, grabbed him and trapped his arms with his own left arm, and brought his right hand to the man’s mouth. It wouldn’t guarantee that he couldn’t cast magic, but it would make most kinds of magic a lot harder to access.

Karle squared off with the demon cat.

Karle spoke first, and rather politely under the circumstances, “Lord Dem… eh… Furfluffins, was it?”

The demon cat replied, “I am he.”

Karle quirked an eyebrow, “Really?“

Lord Furfluffins sighed, “Is it my name or my form? The latter, I can assure you, is no fault of mine.”

“But my name,” he growled, “is one that you had best use with respect.”

Karle Thunderlegs, being no stranger to light ridicule, bowed his head slightly in acknowlegement.

“Very well Lord Furfluffins, you and your uh… summoner, will need to come with us. You are not welcome in our world, on the orders of The Old Man.”

“Ha!” barked Lord Furfluffins (and please don’t tell him I wrote it like that), “The old cow is still around, is she?”

Karle stiffened, becoming even more formal, “The Old Man will wish to return you to your realm at once.”

“Fine by me!” said Lord Furfluffins. “This ridiculous human summoned me, and do you know what he demanded? Do you have any idea?! He didn’t ask for gold, power, any creature to share his bed. He asked…”

The night was torn asunder by a roar, and Gralash was very suprised to realize it was his own. The old man (the one in Gralash’s grasp, not the one with the capital letters) has managed to reach a tiny knife on his belt, and had stabbed the Orc. While the knife had been tiny, the pain more than made up for any physical wound.

Either poison or magic. was the thought that came from one strangely impassive part of Gralash’s mind. The rest of him roared again, and reached for the mage’s neck.

The mage yelled, “Lord Furfluffins, defend us!“

The words carried power, and with a terrifying and distinctly annoyed yowl, Lord Furfluffins sprang at Karle.

Karle was ready. His hat flew off and his long (for a Halfling) coat trailed his movements as he ducked to the side. His Rage was not in evidence, but he was fast and strong nonetheless, and the demon cat leapt past him, bunched his paws together as he landed, and somersaulted backwards back toward the Halfling.

Karle was already waiting, and landed what seemed to be an almost gentle open-handed strike, batting the cat to the side. Lord Furfluffins soon discovered the full force of that blow when his momentum carried him into the alley wall… and almost through it.

This he thought is a most excellent fight. The best in millennia.

And he could already see it playing out in his mind. The surprisingly strong Halfling would be trying to capture, not kill him. He’d attempt to grab Lord Furfluffins by the scruff of his neck if he could, and pin his legs. The demon cat would counter by unleashing his full speed, leaping over, diving under. He would rake his claws against this Halfling’s legs and…

“Lord Furfluffins! Save me!” came the yell from that accursed summoner.

The binding jerked his attention to the mage, whose neck was even now being enveloped in the mighty hand of an enraged… was that an Orc? Fun.

Lord Furfluffins changed his trajectory in an instant, leaving the Halfling chasing after him. He leapt, grabbed onto the Orc’s arm with his left front paw, and left deep scratches in the Orc’s hand-veins with his right. Then he kicked up, swung himself onto the Orc’s arm, ran to his shoulders, and left a rent in his neck that no cat should have been able to manage.

The Orc’s roar turned into a scream, but the summoner was loose and running. Lord Furfluffins was about to follow, when he heard the Halfling’s footsteps closing. He made the mistake of stopping to look, and he saw a sight that would haunt his dreams as he dozed by the fireplace for centuries to come.

The pale, blonde Halfling’s eyes had turned a dull red. His face, while not exactly snarling, held a killing intent that rivalled anything he’d seen on a fellow demon. Lord Furfluffins had a brief moment to regret injuring the Orc quite so much, when the tiny fist of Justice slammed into his lower body, right below his head.

Lord Furfluffins flew. He flew down the alley with such force and speed that he overtook the summoner in an instant. He flew so far, his demonic healing abilities had begun to knit bone, muscle, and tendons back together before he even landed.

For the first time, Lord Furfluffins knew true and desperate fear. Though limping, he was already moving off as far as he could, given the binding used to tie him to the summoner. For all that the foolish mage was old, he’d never been sedentary, and he was moving at a fast clip.

The whole encounter had lasted maybe 5 seconds, all told.

He heard a roar that shattered glass, and shook the cobbles under his paws, and he prayed. Yes, the demon Lord prayed to any god that would listen that the he and the summoner could run faster than that Halfling.

Karle could barely see for the magical blood-haze that had gripped all of his senses. Gralash and he had been partners for some time, and though the boy wasn’t always the most sensible (How had that mage gotten free?), he was one of the best people Karle knew.

And this was the first time he’d really been hurt. He was probably dead.

Well Karle certainly had the means to avenge him. He would track down that stupid, reckless mage. He would tear him limb from scrawny limb. He would bathe in the demon cats blood and…

The haze left him. He took a deep, shocked breath, the cool night air filling his lungs with life, the scent of garbage that had yet to be collected, and the light scent of stale cheese that occasionally emanated from the Singing Temple.

He looked at Gralash. The Orc was lying there, having managed to activate the charm on his wrist. There weren’t too many more times that would work, but the Orc had done well. It wouldn’t do to have Karle rampaging through the city.

“You stopped me.” he said.

“Ugghhh”, gurgled Gralash.

“Right,” said Karle, grabbing Gralash’s pack, and looking for the bandages. He’d seen this done before, by Gralash no less, and he knew he needed to stop the bleeding with bandages and pressure.

Now… how much pressure can you put on an Orc’s neck before it becomes a bad thing?

Aloud, he said, “I don’t know what happened, but you’d better not die on me boy. You’re the smart one and we both know it. I’ve always known it.”

The Wizard Bluebell was alone in her apartment in the city. It was quite early, but there were books to be read and people to be ignored, so the early morning suited her just fine. She thought briefly of taking the tea things that still sat on the table, and binning them all.

She thought better of it. Ordan would be heartbroken, and he’d bought the tea set for her himself. Fine work, not that she was any judge of such things. People were just awful, but Ordan… Ordan wasn’t people. He was something better, though she recoiled at the very idea of the word “friend”. Why, if she hadn’t known him when…

There was a knock at the door; a tired, heavy knock. She considered opening it with a blast of ice shards. She reconsidered. What if it was Ordan?

Bluebell stood from her desk and scowled. If Ordan was bothering her this early, Companion or no, she would skin him alive. The Old Man would understand. She wasn’t a morning person either, however much she liked the boy.

But when she opened the door, she saw Karle Thunderlegs, the Cretin Detective. She was about to loose a blast of ice shards anyway, when she saw Gralash. He was… sitting? No, that wasn’t right. He was facing away from Karle, his lower torso supported by ropes the Halfling had tied around his chest and shoulders. His legs dragged out behind Karle, and Bluebell could see hastily applied bandages around his neck.

“Come in. Don’t let him bleed on the books.”

Mistakes

Gralash awoke in a rather cramped space, surrounded by books, and several faces. Some looked relieved, others annoyed. The one halfling in the small crowd looked overjoyed, and nearly jumped with triumph.

“He’s alive! I knew he’d pull through. Gralash, my boy, I’ve never had a more reliable assistant.”

Two pairs of strong hands went under his shoulder, and lifted him to a sitting position. He tensed, waiting for a shock of pain that never came. Bluebell stood in front of him.

“You’re an idiot for letting yourself get stabbed with a spelled knife and several large demon cat claws all at the same time.”

“My Lady Bluebell!” said Karle, shock and aggrieved worry in his voice.

Gralash took the moment to test his vocal cords. To his very pleasant surprise, they worked.

“It’s alright Karle.”

Karle looked at him. Gralash hadn’t even used any of the usual honorifics.

The Orc continued, “It really is my fault. I was too focused on watching for threats from the demon, I didn’t make sure I had the summoner subdued.”

Ordan spoke from behind Gralash, “It was a demon. I can’t blame you for thinking it was a bigger threat than us ordinary humans.”

Still sitting, Gralash twisted to see the bemused humor in Ordan’s expression, and the obvious twinkle in his eye. It was all there. So was The Old Man.

It was Gralash’s turn to nearly jump, but with fear and embarassment. He began to scramble to his feet, and nearly knocked over some blessedly blood-free books before he felt The Old Man’s hands on his shoulder again, for the second time in a day.

“Easy, now.” she said, “Just because you’re all fixed up doesn’t mean you can just go haring off.”

Gralash finished his maneuvers a little more carefully, watching her. She looked no older than sixty-five, had skin like dark coffee with the barest hint of cream, and eyes that had probably seen whoever created The Accident, whenever it happend. And she’d probably told him to fuck off, and that this was her world now.

“What happened? I mean… after I was so foolishly incapacitated.”

Karle, in a gentler tone of voice said, “I brought you here, it was the closest place. The Wizard Bluebell changed your bandages, and found your spelled knife wound. I never even saw it. She summoned Ordan, and Ordan summoned The Old Man.”

The Old Man looked stern, but her voice was kind when she said, “When I hear that a Companion I personally selected has been taken down by a Demon, it’s not something I take lightly.”

Gralash felt humbled. The Old Man herself had doubtless finished the healing, considering how good he felt. He moved back away from them all, and bowed his head.

“Thank you. All of you. By the fire in my blood, and the iron in my soul, I owe you all my life.”

“You’re darned right youooof.” said Bluebell, who shot Ordan and his elbow a dirty look.

Karle reminded him, “The city probably owes you a few times over. We are Hero and Companion. It’s what we do.”

“Besides,” said The Old Man wryly, “you getting stabbed helped us. Between the demonic essence in your arm and neck wounds, and the magic found in the knife wound in your side, we can track them.”

Three hours later, when Karle and Gralash had said their goodbyes to the others, gone home to clean up and eat, they came again to the Singing Temple. The Old Man was there, waiting for them.

“I won’t be coming with you. I expect you’ll not make the same mistakes.” she said, charitably glaring at the both of them, and not just Gralash.

“No Ma’am!” they said, almost in unison.

“Good, while I normally take a personal interest in demon-related matters, this demon’s power is severly diminished by the manner of his summoning, and his form. Properly prepared, you are more than capable of handling this. Here.”

She handed each of them a charm.

“Karle, yours is attuned to the demon’s power. Gralash, yours is attuned to the mage. Good hunting.”

And with that, she was gone. No lights, no smoke, no drama. Just gone.

Karle, looking tired and not a little worried, turned to Gralash and said, “Are you well, my boy?”

Gralash, towering over him, said, “I’ll be alright Karle, I promise. But… could I borrow some of those ropes you had earlier? And where did you get those? I normally don’t carry rope that thick.”

“It’s a funny story, now that you’re healed.” said Karle, “I’ll tell it on the way.”

He did, and it was hilarious. At least that’s what I was told.

The Demon’s Shame

It only took fifteen minutes to follow the twin magical signatures to their source. It seemed that the Singing Temple hadn’t been a target, so much as the most convenient place to summon a demon. It was quiet, thought to be abandoned, and the latent holy energies could certainly be twisted to the purposes of any spell you chose.

Why else would you summon a demon that damned close to wear you live?

The house they found was simple, but well kept. It was divided into two apartments, with both magical signatures leading to the ground floor. It wasn’t unlike Bluebell’s apartment, in many respects, though Gralash would never say that where Karle could hear it. He’d probably feel bound to protect her honor.

They crept close, and flashed their respective seals at an onlooker who looked like he might object. They could see through what passed for a living room, though it had been turned into a magical workshop. The sewing machine on one side seemed out of place, but it was otherwise a standard mage’s workspace.

The mage was there, his back to the window. A fluffy tail stuck out to one side, presumable attached to the demon cat, whose body was blocked from view by the summoner.

On the other side of this living-room-turned-work-space was the kitchen, and what looked to be the back window.

Karle couldn’t quite see any of this, so they retreated across the street to discuss their plan. Moments later, Karle was running off down the street, and Gralash crept back to the front window. Praying to all of his new favorite gods that Karle could keep time as well as he, Gralash readied himself, and leapt through the window, breaking glass and moulding as he did so.

He just barely fit, truth to tell.

Blessedly, at the exact same time, Karle came smashing through the kitchen window, his preternatural strength and speed putting him in the workshop in an instant.

Gralash did stick to the plan. He grabbed the mage and, wasting no time, he hogtied the man. He too was a local. Probably a reasonably successful summoner of other, non-demonic entities, hence the reasonably nice apartment.

He let out a reasonably successful scream.

“No! Lord Furfluffins! You must stay on this plane for all time! You…”

It was the last command he would give, and a problematic one. But that could be sorted out later. For now, he had a cloth gag in his mouth, and Gralash used more rope to secure it.

Karle was once again squared off with Lord Furfluffins. Lord Furfluffins just sagged in defeat.

“I have neither the strength to fight you, mortals, and I am fast losing the will to live. Look at me. I’M A PET.”

Demonic biologists never really asked themselves if a demon cat could cry. That day, they received an answer they never asked for, as Lord Furfluffins, that beautiful purple beast, sobbed heavy sobs. He cried thick, sulfurous tears that threatened to ruin his rather fetching yellow dress, and yellow sunhat.

Gralash looked at the demon cat, looked over at the sewing machine, looked back to the cat, and then to hogtied mage, who was himself crying. Karle looked nonplussed.

The Halfling turned to the cat, and said in a confused tone, “Very well, I accept your surrender… um. I supposed this is another case solved by The World’s Greatest Halfling Detective… I suppose we’ll try to banish you now…”

The demon cat sobbed harder. “Didn’t you hear that wretched man? I am commanded to stay here forever! Just let your ‘Old Man’ kill me.”

Karle relaxed, and said kindly, “Perhaps there’s some other option. If not, I will see what I can do to hasten your demise.”

“Promise?” asked Lord Furfluffins.

Karle looked at Gralash. Gralash shook his head emphatically.

“I promise to investigate the options and possibilities, no more.”

The demon cat’s sobs began to dissipate, and he replied, “That is more kindness than I have offered you. I accept.”

Gralash slowly asked, “I do have one question…”

Karle brightened, “Ah yes! What in the Accident did you do to the Singing Temple?”

Cats are very good at giving people a look that says, “I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”, and Lord Furfluffins gave them one such look now.

“What singling temple?”

The Contract

It was night, Karle walked ahead of Gralash, explaining the last details of the situation to Arlas.

The client was nervous as he asked, “So you’re certain the demon cannot be banished or killed?”

Karle shook his head, “It seems not. Having been given that command, it is bound to stay. And I am informed by some very reliable sources that actually killing a demon can result in… well, as you say, disruption. But the kind that disrupts the very ground we tread for miles around.”

“But it will not come after me? Or my business?”

“Strictly speaking, it never did. And The Old Man talked that idiot who summoned a demon for a pet into transferring control of the demon to someone whom it fears and respects. And well, I thought it would be wonderful if Lord Furfluffins and my new butler, Grant, could keep each other company while Gralash and I are out working.”

Arlas looked nonplussed.

“Oh, worry not,” said Karle, “I have given Lord Furfluffins strict instructions not to eat anything smart enough to speak and question its own existence.”

Gralash privately thought that left a lot of the city’s population at risk, but he said nothing.

Arlas began to relax. “You’re as wise as I knew you’d be. Then it’s really over?”

“As the brains of this operation,” at this, Karle looked back at Gralash and winked, “I am officially declaring it over. We just need to get your singers back.”

Arlas looked back too. “I assume that’s what the giant cheese wheel your assistant has been rolling behind us is for? Are my singers mice?”

He chuckled. Then he waited. Then he asked, “Wait… are they mice?”

In answer, Karle simply stopped walking. They were in the same alley behind the Singing Temple. Gralash touched his own neck lightly. He didn’t exactly like that the demon cat now lived with them, but Lord Furfluffins had promised to be civil, and had even graciously apologized to Gralash.

But all thoughts of the demon cat were washed away when Karle let out a series of squeaking and chittering sounds that echoed into the night. No more than thirty seconds later, the first mouse appeared. Then they came in larger and larger packs, until the street was full of them.

Karle said, “Thank you all for coming, but my business is with the mice who used to sing in the temple.”

At that, most of the mice scurried away, leaving a much smaller, but still sginificant group of mice around. They gathered around Karle, and chorused in unison.

“Our savior comes! Our savior comes!”

It had the rythm, cadence, and tone of a religious hymn. Karle looked embarrassed. Arlas looked on in amazement. Gralash was suitably impressed.

Recovering his composure, Karle asked, “Then you know the temple is safe once more?”

“We do!” they said in their sing-song way.

Karle said, “Some other night, I should love to hear how it is you came to speak our language, and how you were never discovered. For tonight, I would like to introduce Arlas. Arlas? Come here next to me please.”

“Hello Arlas!” called the mice as they made room for him.

“Hello.” he said, uncertainly. “I am the new owner of the temple. I was wondering if… uh… if you’d like to come back.”

He thought quickly, making mental calculations. Then he nodded to Gralash and said, “I am prepared to offer you one cheese wheel of those precise dimensions per month.”

One mouse shouted, “Cash or nothing, Asshole!” but the others quickly hushed him.

After conferring for a few moments, they chorused, “We accept, but may need more in time as our clan grows. Also, whatever god you plan to worship here, you must also offer tribute to The Longtail!”

“Is that… your god?”

“Yeah, and it wouldn’t kill you to change up the flavors now and then! And to hell with brie!” shouted the one intrepid mouse, and the others didn’t argue this time.

Arlas smiled broadly and said, “My fine furry partners, you have yourselves a deal!”

Karle and Gralash strolled away as Arlas and the mice negotiated the finer points of the deal, and decided how exactly the mice intended to sign the contract. They walked in silence, enjoying the night air, and the sheer pleasure of each other’s company.

“Karle,” said Gralash, “You have doubtless come to understand the nature of Companions, and what we are meant to do for you. Some Heroes never fully realize it. But I want you to know… you have annoyed, exasperated, and often confused me, but I have never seen you as a fool.”

Karle grinned, “And you have played the fool with admirable precision. Takes real genius to do that right.”

Gralash would have said more, but he heard the mice began to practice their singing once more. They burst out into a melifluous, ethereal chorus:

They’re tall and green and grey,
What they want, who can say?
We’ll kill them anyway…

Karle paused, taken aback. But Gralash doubled over with laughter, and Karle soon joined him in a laughing fit so hard, it became difficult to breathe. The practically tripped over themselves on the way to the nearest bar to, as Karle sometimes said, solve the mystery of the well-earned drink.

Investigating might take all night.

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