A Serious Incident (Part 1/3) (Patreon)

This is a short story set in Glimmerhome (Anya’s base of operations for the first part of A Friendly Voidling) set at a nonspecific time shortly after her time reversal. It also marks the first time I added footnotes to a chapter, which of course patreon doesn’t support, it thinking bold and italic fonts are the cutting edge of text formatting. Sorry for the clunky replacement. They can go on the same pile as the rows of -'s for horizontal rules.

Mr Black sat behind his desk at the Glimmerhome Serious Incident Office, idly drumming his fingers. It was quiet. Too quiet. It was Tuesday, after all, and yet the city had failed to be rocked by a single explosion. Mr Black was far too jaded and cynical to believe the peace was anything other than the build-up to a very serious incident indeed.

His office only dealt with the worst of situations. Rob a bank without filling in the required paperwork beforehand? The thieves' guild would have the perpetrator strung up under a bridge by sundown, and would have delivered a posh hamper of fruit to the bank in question by way of apology. It would probably have a bow on it, and maybe even some flowers.

Of course, they'd never dream of returning the money. They were thieves, after all.

Kill someone for insufficient payment? The perpetrator could expect a visit from their friendly neighbourhood branch of the assassins' guild, who would politely sit down with them and carefully explain the economics of murder and why undercutting their business was such a bad thing for everyone involved, especially the victims. There would be large, labelled diagrams. Whether the perp understood or not rarely mattered, since the diagrams were generally carved into their stomach.

No, he didn't deal with petty things like theft or murder. The guilds could police themselves. He dealt with the serious stuff. The stuff that had the potential to end the city. If someone grew irate over the price of mangoes and tried to summon an elder god in the middle of a marketplace to smite the offending merchant? He or his compatriots would be there to stop them. If someone decided the summer sun was too hot, and attempted to teleport the entire city a hundred miles underground to get a bit of shade? The Serious Incident Office would take notice. If someone smashed down the guarded, reinforced door that led to the city's self-destruct button? They'd find Mr Black standing behind it, dressed in his neat suit and polished shoes, with an empty crossbow levelled at their face.

If they were very quick, they might even have a chance to wonder why it was empty.

But those events had all taken place the previous week. This week, there had been nothing. The mages at the Institute of Inadvisable Incantations had, for some reason, collectively decided that a couple of weeks of rest were required. They'd also outlawed all summoning magic on campus, for reasons that no-one seemed quite able to articulate.

Likewise, the Abode of Abhorrent Alchemy had spent recent days smelling positively floral, with none of the usual caustic outbursts. And now The Shed Which Explodes On Tuesdays For No Apparent Reason had gone all Tuesday without exploding. It was... concerning. The universe was saving up for a big one. Mr Black was sure of it.

The universe was never one to disappoint its believers, and sure enough, in the sewers beneath Glimmerhome, malign forces plotted the next Serious Incident.

"So, Thursday then?" asked First Brother, his face and body shape hidden under a thick, hooded robe. As was appropriate for the situation, it was blood red, for ease of hiding the stains.

"I can't do Thursday," answered Eighth Brother, dressed in an identical outfit. A casual observer would never have been able to tell the shadowy figures apart. "Next Monday works best for me."

"You..." started First Brother, a vein bulging on his forehead, before he took a few deep breaths to calm down. "Why didn't you say that ten minutes ago? You know, when I asked if everyone could make Thursday!"

"Sorry. I must have been distracted."

"Yeah, by Third Sister," sniggered another one of the brothers. "Don't think we didn't see that."

"You know what? I don't care. I will be here Thursday. You lot can turn up, or not. Up to you."

"Aww. But it's my mum's birthday!" whined Eighth Brother. "Don't make me choose between visiting Mum on her birthday and seeing the long awaited fulfilment of our glorious revenge against this rotten city and everyone in it!"

"Doesn't your mum live in this city, and is therefore part of 'everyone'?" asked Second Sister, attracting a round of insulted glares. First Sister whacked her over the back of her head. Applying logic in the middle of a group of cult members, held together only by festering grudges, deep-seated hatred and the general lack of entertainment on Tuesday evenings? Whatever was she thinking?

"Thursday. At six PM sharp," declared First Brother. "Second Brother sacrificed much to buy us this chance, and we'll not waste it. If all goes well, we can finish in time for tea."

--------------------------

Second Brother, standing in the queue at the thieves' guild reception, was having second thoughts about his life choices. The reception was, as usual at the start of a new season, fairly busy. The population of Glimmerhome, or at least the subset of it that couldn't afford their own private security force, generally preferred to get their theft quota sorted as quickly as possible, and were therefore carefully informing the receptionists that they were stepping out of their homes for a funeral, wedding, vacation or quick smoke at such-and-such a time, and what a shame it would be if anyone took advantage of the momentary absence to stage a burglary.

The receptionists would then need to check their diaries, and suggest that perhaps the following week would be better for a vacation, or could the wedding maybe be brought forward a few hours? The logistics of theft could be quite daunting at times.

The back and forth took time. Time enough for Second Brother to not only have second thoughts, but third, fourth and fifth thoughts as well. The only reason he didn't turn around and run for it was because he knew full well that making it out of the city wouldn't be enough. Suicide probably wouldn't be enough. He'd get to hell, or whatever afterlife happened to claim him, and find a thieves' guild enforcer there, waiting for him, tapping his club meaningfully.

"Next," called the receptionist, so with a sigh, he stepped up to admit his unlicensed crimes.

A distance behind that receptionist, separated by a few regular walls and one very irregular one, with so many privacy enchantments carved into it that it was a surprise the thing still had enough structural integrity left to not collapse under its own weight, four of those enforcers were standing around looking menacing. Not that they were trying to threaten anyone; it was simply the normal background menace they gave off unconsciously on account of being over six foot, heavily armed walls of muscle. It was something about their expression that suggested they'd find it easier to punch their way through a door than do something complicated, like figure out how handles worked. Indeed, one of them had a few splinters sticking out of his face. He didn't seem to have noticed.

"Professor Venenum came here in person to complain, again," whispered The Shadow, the head of the thieves' guild. "In person! I don't have to tell you how bad this looks, gentlemen."

"So? We'll find the bugger, express our displeasure by feeding him his own hands, then send his head to your professor. Same as usual," said Fred, the vice guild-master, who'd refused to take part in the latest fad of 'cool' monikers, and secretly thought 'The Shadow' sounded ridiculous.

"Yes, I'm sure we will. But that's not the point. That's the fifth unlicensed robbery this week. Perceptions matter, gentlemen. You would not like to live in a world where the population of Glimmerhome no longer believes we can police our trade."

"What are they even after?" asked Cudgel, the guild's chief of enforcement. That wasn't even a moniker; it was his real name, given by a father who was prepared to sacrifice his child's entire future to make a bad pun at the birth. Poor Cudgel had done with it what he could. "A few books? A 'sacred' chamberpot that a god once allegedly pissed in? A bunch of highly illegal mushrooms someone from the III was growing. What was taken from this professor?"

"An alchemical catalyst of some sort."

"The books were taken first, so someone looking up some alchemical reaction, and now they're pinching the ingredients?"

"It's not a proper alchemical reaction if it doesn't involve a few pounds of sulphur."

"You can buy sulphur. Maybe they're only stealing what they can't otherwise get their hands on."

"But what sort of alchemical reaction requires a god's bathroom equipment?"

"If we're talking about buying things," interjected Fred, "one of my mates at the tailors' guild mentioned getting a big order for cultist robes recently. You know the things; floor length, hoods you could lose a cow in, specially coloured to camouflage blood stains. Sounds like the sort of people who might find a use for a divine piss-bucket."

"Oh no. Not cultists[1]," complained The Shadow. "As if things weren't bad enough already. Fine. Cudgel; I want this group found. Yesterday. Maybe we can win some goodwill back by shutting down whatever evil plan they're concocting before it becomes a Serious Incident."

"Bah. I'm no time traveller," muttered Cudgel, opening the door to the warded conference room, only to find a receptionist waiting patiently, a nervous-looking figure flanked by two more enforcers waiting impatiently behind her.

"Sorry for the interruption, but this man has admitted to several unlicensed thefts."

"Umm... If it's not too much trouble, please could I humbly beg you to take my cooperation and remorse into account and make it painless?"

Cudgel stared at the shaking man for a few seconds. "I may not be able to do yesterday, but how about today?" he called back into the room.

The Shadow swore. He knew full well how devoted cultists could get to their cause. His turning up here had nothing to do with remorse. It simply meant that their group had already gathered everything they needed, and now he was sacrificing himself to get the heat off the others.

"How about you return the stolen items, and then we can talk about remorse?"

"Ah. Uh... Any chance that can wait until next week?"

One of the enforcers smashed a knee.

"I'll take that as a no, then," groaned Second Brother from his new position at ground level.

--------------------------

Mr Black sighed as he read the intelligence report. Cultists again. It was the third time in the past month!

It was greatly concerning that this was the first he'd heard of them, though. Apparently, their plans would come to fruition within the week! For them to be so close to their doubtlessly nefarious goal and yet to have never of heard them until one literally handed himself into the thieves' guild was a huge professional failure, and Mr Black prided himself on never having failed[2].

... And yet, according to the information from the thieves' guild, they'd put in a bulk order for cultists' robes. There had been no attempt at hiding it; someone had simply walked into a shop and ordered two dozen of the things. Not to mention the unlicensed theft of a god's piss-bucket. Both of those things were such enormous red flags that the regular guard should have taken care of the group long before they ever had reason to come to Mr Black's attention.

That obviously hadn't happened, and there was only one possible conclusion as to why. These cultists had someone on the inside. Intelligence had been made to disappear. He was fortunate that the report from the thieves' guild had come directly to the Office and not via the guard.

Making a note to leave a nice gift-basket on the table the next time he arranged to make his theft quota, he stood up, straightened his tie, and stepped out into the summer daylight.

[1] It's often said that you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, and likewise it was unfair to assume that just because someone placed a batch order for identity-concealing, easily washable clothing, they were up to no good. They might just be planning a really intense costume party. Nevertheless, many generations of evolution had taught the residents of Glimmerhome the importance of pessimism, and the vital role it played in not finding themselves tied to an altar with a knife through their heart.

[2] Of course, an astute reader will spot the observational bias here. After all, given the sort of Serious Incidents dealt with by the Office, had he ever failed, he would no longer be around to experience the resulting humility.