The payment took place on the dock, but social class made itself felt immediately after the clinking of coins. The Director, a man named Cornelius Van Haagen, with a triple chin wrapped in expensive lace ruffs, looked with evident disgust at Korgan and Otto. The Slayer was wringing out his crest soaked in sewage, and the Rat Catcher was feeding his dog a piece of the Ogre's liver.
"Here is your gold," said Van Haagen, signaling a servant to toss the bags to the two "undesirables." "Your service to the city is concluded. You may go. And for the love of Manann, burn those clothes."
Korgan caught the bag mid-air. "Don't worry, lard-ball. Your palace smells too much of perfume for my taste. I'm going to find an ale that tastes of honesty." He spat at the noble's feet and walked away, singing. Otto bowed servilely and disappeared into the shadows, happy to be alive and paid.
Van Haagen then turned to Alonzo and Geneviève. His smile changed, becoming oily. "Don Alonzo, Sir Gilles. You, however, are men of... a different caliber. Nobles of the sword, so to speak. The Directorate would be honored to have you for dinner tonight at the Estate of Spires. We have more delicate matters to discuss, away from the ears of the rabble."
Geneviève was about to refuse. The idea of sitting at a table with these parasitic merchants made her stomach turn. But Alonzo gave her a discreet elbow to her armored side (the healthy one). "It would be an honor, Excellency," said the Estalian with a dazzling smile. "My friend Sir Gilles is a man of few words, but he appreciates fine cuisine almost as much as he appreciates beheading monsters."
The Estate of Spires was an affront to the poverty of the Suiddock. Crystal chandeliers as big as wagons hung from frescoed ceilings. The floors were of marble imported from Tilea. Geneviève felt like an intruder. She had cleaned her armor as best she could, polishing the black until it shone, but she knew she still carried the metallic smell of Ogre blood.
The other guests were fat merchants, their bejeweled wives, and mercenary captains in velvet clothes. When "Sir Gilles" entered, silence fell on the hall. A knight in full battle armor, with visor down and a two-handed sword on his back, was not a common guest. He was a living memento mori.
They sat at the head table. Alonzo moved in that environment like a fish in water, kissing hands and telling exaggerated anecdotes about the battle in the sewers. Geneviève remained motionless, a statue of iron sitting on a velvet chair that creaked dangerously under her weight.
"Are you not eating, Sir Gilles?" asked Van Haagen's wife, a woman with a white wig half a meter high, pointing to the roast swan on Geneviève's plate.
"Vow," replied Geneviève. Her gravel voice rang disturbingly amidst the clinking of silver. "I do not remove my helm until the mission is finished."
"What devotion!" squeaked the lady, excited by that thrill of danger. "And tell me, is it true you killed the monster with a single blow?"
"Two," corrected Geneviève. "The first to parry. The second to kill."
Alonzo intervened, pouring himself some wine. "Sir Gilles is modest, madam. He turned his sword into a wall. I have never seen anything like it in all the fencing schools of Magritta."
When dessert was served (pears poached in spiced wine), Van Haagen gave a signal. The servants withdrew. The atmosphere changed. It became cold and calculating. "You were efficient in the sewers," began the Director, wiping his mouth with a silk napkin. "Brutal, but efficient. That is what we need."
He leaned forward. "There is a cargo. A barge called The Lady of the River. It was supposed to arrive three days ago from Nuln, coming up the Reik. But it ran aground."
"Aground where?" asked Alonzo, swirling his goblet.
"In the Cursed Marshes, south of the city. On the edge of the Wasteland."
Geneviève stiffened. The Cursed Marshes were a place of death. The vapors there could age a man ten years in one night, and the dead never stayed still under the mud.
"Why was a merchant barge passing through the Marshes?" asked Geneviève, suspicious.
Van Haagen hesitated. "To avoid Imperial tariffs, and... for discretion. The cargo is not registered."
"Smuggling," translated Alonzo.
"Let's say... acquisition of exotic goods," smiled Van Haagen. "There is a crate on board. Reinforced with lead and sealed with runes. It contains an artifact recovered from the ruins of Mordheim. I don't care about the crew. I don't care about the barge. I want that crate."
Geneviève focused on Van Haagen. She didn't see the red aura of Chaos or active necromancy. She saw a grey, greasy aura, made of unbridled greed and indifference to human life. He wasn't a heretic; he was just an unscrupulous capitalist. But when she focused on the description of the crate... she felt a shiver. Lead and runes. Mordheim. Anything coming from that destroyed city was inherently evil or dangerous.
"How much?" asked Alonzo, getting to the point.
"Five hundred Gold Crowns each. And a permanent safe passage to enter and exit Marienburg without customs checks."
Geneviève looked at Alonzo. Five hundred crowns was a fortune. She could buy better equipment, supplies for months, maybe even bribe officials for a new identity if necessary. But she wouldn't accept for the money. If that crate contained something from Mordheim—Warpstone or worse—she couldn't leave it in the hands of cultists or swamp monsters. And she couldn't completely trust Van Haagen either.
"We accept," said Geneviève.
Van Haagen smiled, showing yellow teeth. "Excellent. But there is a condition. You will take one of my 'observers' with you. To ensure the crate is not opened."
He signaled. From the shadows behind a pillar emerged a hooded figure. It was not a warrior. He wore black robes and a white porcelain mask, smooth, featureless. "This is The Silent One," said Van Haagen. "He knows where the barge is. You are the muscles. He is the compass."
Geneviève stared at the white mask. Her Kensai instinct, honed to sense intent, read nothing. That thing didn't breathe, or did so very quietly.
"You leave at dawn," concluded the Director.
As they left the estate, the cold night air seemed paradoxically cleaner than the perfumed air of the banquet.
"Five hundred crowns!" cheered Alonzo under his breath. "Gilles, my friend, we will live like kings!"
Geneviève didn't answer immediately. She looked at the pale moon reflected in a puddle. "Or we will die like dogs in a swamp," replied her gravel voice. "That crate, Alonzo... smells of trouble worse than an Ogre."
"Trouble is our trade, isn't it?" laughed the Estalian.
Geneviève mounted Duraz, who waited faithfully with the terrified grooms at a safe distance. Yes. Trouble was her trade. But for the first time, Geneviève feared that the real monster wasn't in the swamp, but inside the box they were going to retrieve.