The office of Aven Morholt, Warden of the Reserve, was not what Lowe had expected.

  Given the ridiculous opulence on display in the rest of the building, he’d anticipated something particularly grand. An overstuffed chair made from something extinct. A desk so large it could double as a duelling platform. Giant paintings of Mr Morholt looking ever so patriarchal positioned, imposingly across every inch of the walls.

  However, the reality was surprisingly different.

  As much as it pained Lowe to note, the space was actually quite tasteful. Restrained. Understated, even. And in the way only true wealth could actually afford to be. The office was all dark wood, soft lighting, and with an antique grandfather clock ticking away happily on the far wall. Even the sigil of the Sovereign Bank of Soar was a simple brass plate affixed behind Morholt’s desk rather than an ostentatious display.

  Money talks, Lowe thought, but the kind that lasts doesn’t need to shout about it.

  Morholt himself sat behind the desk, a big, heavyset man whose bushy mustache and small eyes made him look like a walrus who had taken a brief but promising detour into human affairs. He was impeccably dressed, of course—tailored waistcoat, polished cufflinks, and the whiff of expensive aftershave clinging to the air—but, even so, there seemed to be a tightness to him. Which was weird considering, as far as Lowe had been able to ascertain, the Sovereign Bank had pretty much insisted to Staffen that he personally attended this meeting. A faint sheen of sweat stood out on his forehead that suggested he was very much not enjoying the prospect of talking to him.

  That or he was just hot, Lowe thought. Sometimes, you could read too much into body language.

  Then he felt the massive impact of someone aiming an absolute cannon of a mental skill at him, and he started to rethink his opinion.

  Someone in this room really wasn’t happy to be answering questions.

  A squeezing attack tried to snap around his brain, seeking to tighten like the ghost of a noose. It sought to move downwards, coiling over his arms, around his ribs, and the white-hot fire of the psychic attack was weightless and crushing all at once. However, even as Mental Fortress shredded through the attack, effortlessly swatting aside the attack, something else kicked in.

  The manacle around his wrist went ice-cold and The Board is Set triggered.

  Pressure.

  It wasn’t pain. Wasn’t damage. But it felt epically heavy around his chest as it was stored. Banked, Lowe supposed, like some sort of unseen reserve. A tension curled through his limbs as he could feel the chain waiting to be used. It was holding still, but it didn’t want to hold for long. The pain of the attack might be gone, but the Pressure remained.

  That was… interesting.

  But not as interesting as the fact that either Morholt or his blonde PA had just tried to influence him. Fuck influence. Someone in this room had just tried to lobotomise him.

  He looked to Rook on his right. If the attack had hit him too, there was no sign of it. Maybe Threshold Guardian’s had some sort of natural defence against mental attacks? Once again, he wished he’d spent a bit longer learning about his friend’s new Class before blundering into this meeting. As it was, Rook was simply looking vaguely uncomfortable and was continuing to fidget with his coat.

  Lowe turned his attention to the blonde, Miss St. Clair. Morholt’s personal assistant. A quick check showed Personal Assistant, Level 13 floating above her head.

  Lowe had come across plenty of low-level assistants in his time. This was not one of them.

  The young woman stood off to the side, clipboard in hand, expression cool. But it was the way she stood that set off alarm bells in Lowe’s head. Too balanced. Too still. She reminded him very much of Hel. And Hel could hide her Level and Class.

  So she was definitely a bodyguard. Maybe an assassin? Probably both.

  And she hadn’t so much as pretended to look Lowe in the eye since they’d entered the room.

  For shits and giggles, Lowe concentrated and turned the Pressure into Retaliation, interested to see who it would focus upon. His manacle suddenly heated up as he let the power of that mental attack back towards its point of origin. Yeah, suddenly Miss St. Clair wasn’t so disinterested in him anymore. The mental impact damn near knocked her off her feet.

  “Are you okay, Miss St. Clair?” Morholt asked as the woman visibly swayed against his desk.

  “Absolutely fine, Mr Morholt. I just went a little light-headed there for a moment.”

  Morholt blinked at her for a moment and then steepled his fingers before him in what was clearly a well-practiced expression of concern. “As you can imagine, Inspector Lower, this whole thing had been a huge shock for everyone at Sovereign Bank,” he said, his voice a rich velvety baritone. “It has been years since there has even been so much of an attempt at a robbery at one of our institutions. Let alone a successful one! For the Vault to have been emptied out in such a fashion is . . . appalling.”

  “Appalling,” Lowe said. “Yes, I am sure.”

  “And as for the loss of life . . .” Morholt sighed again. But it was all a performance, Lowe thought. A man playing at being troubled by all the death rather than there being any real emotional weight to it. He wondered what the Warden of Reserves wanted out of forcing this meeting. Time to stir that particular pot.

  “I wonder what you are able to tell me about the deceased, sir?” Lowe asked, hoping Rook was watching the P.A’s reaction carefully. He was very much focused on Morholt.

  The banker’s brow furrowed slightly, but not in grief, more in mild irritation. He really didn’t want to go down this road at all, did he? “The deceased? I’m sorry, I don’t understand. I am afraid I have absolutely no idea about the individuals at all.”

  Miss St. Clair, having regained her composure, flicked through the pages on her clipboard and put a piece of paper before her boss. Morholt did not so much as glance at, batting it away. He didn’t seem especially delighted that the woman was hovering so close to him, did he? Guilty? Scared?

  “This is all a regrettable situation, for sure,” he said smoothly, as though he were discussing an unfortunate clerical error rather than a massacre. “But I have not asked you here today to talk about the deaths. And, in any event, I have been assured that all proper reparations are being made to the families of our lost employees. That is correct, is it not, Miss St. Clair?”

  “I appreciate it might not be on the agenda, but just for my own clarity,” Lowe said, before the woman had time to speak. “I would like to know a little more about those who were slain. I’m funny that way.”

  “He is,” Rook said. “Not funny ha ha, perhaps. But he always does get worked up about dead bodies. It’s a fault.”

  Morholt frowned, then nodded at St. Clair. “Tell him what he wants to know.”

  “Lead Clerk Jaron Whitlow, aged fifty-six,” she said, voice crisp. “Branch Security Officer Harlen Vost, thirty-two. Senior Account Manager Ellise Drennan, forty-two. Several junior clerks, three interns, six accountants including, of course, Mr Stern, and a number of—” she paused, glancing briefly at Lowe. “—customers. We are, of course, not free to share information about those. However, if this is something you are especially interested in, I am sure that we would be happy for you to have the personnel files of our ex-employees. Would that would be helpful?”

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  A stack of files appeared on the desk and Lowe transferred them into his inventory. “Yes. Most helpful. Thank you.”

  “I have to say, though, I am not sure I understand the purpose of looking at the people,” Morholt said. “It’s not like any of the dead bodies emptied the Vault is it? We all know who did that, don’t we?”

  “Perhaps,” Rook said. “But you must recognise that it appears you are oddly unconcerned about the fate of those who worked for you.”

  Morholt spread his hands. “What can I say? The whole thing was a tragedy. An undoubted horror. But you must understand, Inspector, my first priority - indeed the basis of my whole Class - is to secure the Bank’s interests. There are others -” he waved a hand airily in a gesture which, regrettably, looked nothing so much as if he was requesting his next fish supper - “who I am sure will be concerned with the . . . erm, the human details. However, assets can be recovered. Lives, regrettably, cannot. Therefore, from my point of view, there is no sense at all in dwelling on what cannot be undone.”

  “No sense at all,” Lowe echoed.

  Morholt gave a small nod, entirely missing—or entirely ignoring—the disgust curling around Lowe’s words.

  “Now,” Morholt said, making another flappy gesture for St. Clair to come forward. “Perhaps we can move on to what I have requested your presence here today for?”

  Miss St. Clair laid another file in front of Lowe. But this one was different. It was bound in supple black leather, embossed with the Sovereign Bank’s sigil in gold leaf. Much more impressive than the ones that held the human details. She opened it for him with a flick of her fingers before taking a step back, once again assuming her carefully neutral posture.

  This file did not contain a ledger of names, nor was it a straightforward financial spreadsheet. At least, not in any way that made immediate sense to Lowe.

  He flicked through the pages, eyes scanning the words, trying to find something to give what he was being shown real context. Instead, however, he found himself looking at rows upon rows of generic, unclear descriptors. They were vague and infuriatingly unhelpful.

  Asset ID: 00012-F

  - Category: Secured Holdings

  - Description: Archival Material (High Sensitivity)

  - Disbursement Status: Unauthorised Removal

  Lowe flipped to another page.

  Asset ID: 09384-K

  - Category: Restricted Inventory

  - Description: Unclassified Object (Internal Reference Only)

  - Disbursement Status: Breach Confirmed

  A third entry.

  Asset ID: 57921-X

  - Category: Contingency Stock

  - Description: Executive Access Required

  - Disbursement Status: Clearance Violation Pending Review

  "I’m sorry, Mr Morholt, what am I looking at here?"

  There were no itemised values, no specific breakdowns, no actual descriptions of what had been stolen—only a collection of deliberately vague, bureaucratic labels. It was almost impressively unhelpful.

  Almost.

  “Naturally, certain details must remain confidential,” Morholt said with oily insincerity.

  “Hang on. Let me get this straight,” Lowe said. “You’ve clearly pulled rank to get me here today because you want me to recover something. Fair dues, not the first time that has happened. But it would be oddly unique for me not to be told what it is I’m looking for?”

  Miss St. Clair didn’t move, but Lowe caught the barest flicker of amusement in her eyes before it was gone.

  Morholt dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief. “I believe you are an intelligent man, Inspector. I’m sure you will manage. When you locate the . . . the Black Knight, you will doubtless find the assets contained in that folder. When you do, you are not to examine them in any way. You are, instead, to contact me personally. Do you understand?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” he said. “I’ll just keep an eye out for a mysterious unclassified object of high sensitivity that requires executive access and has been stolen by persons unknown. Now I think of it, that really narrows things down. I’ll probably have this knocked out by lunchtime.”

  Morholt’s mustache twitched. Miss St. Clair remained still. Rook let out a quiet chuckle.

  “Well,” Lowe said, tapping a finger on the folder and standing, “this has been illuminating.”

  “I trust you understand the discretion required,” Morholt said, noticeably not rising. “And, to make things worth your while, I want to make it clear that the Bank’s sole interest is in those assets. Any gold that may or may not have been within the Vault is neither here nor there.”

  “Oh, loud and clear,” Lowe said, pulling the folder into his inventory.

  He didn’t miss the way Miss St. Clair’s fingers twitched. If he had to guess, she had been expecting him to leave the folder behind. But he wasn’t feeling that cooperative.

  This meeting had never been about all the lives lost in the Vault. To this man, they were just irritating collateral damage. Unfortunate statistics in an event that had rocked the bank to its foundations. Morholt wanted Lowe here because something had been taken, not to actually find a murderer.

  Then St. Clair adjusted her glasses and something else brushed against Lowe’s mind. He let it sit as Pressure for now as she spoke. “For absolute clarity, Mr Lowe, the Warden is asking you, in a private capacity, to work with Sovereign Bank on this matter.” she said. She might as well have been dictating meeting minutes for all the emotion in it. “Whilst he understands that you will, doubtless, have conflicting loyalties with the Security Services, he does not wish there to be any muddiness here. You can catch The Black Knight for Cuckoo House, but you recover the assets for the Bank. And anything else you find is yours to keep. Isn’t that right, sir?”

  Lowe turned his head just in time to see the sweat on Morholt’s brow go from a damp sheen to a visible stream.

  “Yes, Miss St. Clair,” Morholt said quickly, dabbing at his forehead with a silk handkerchief. “That is perfectly right. Just… let me know, personally, Lowe, when you have a line on the sneaky bastard and, well, we will not be unappreciative.”

  Lowe watched the way Morholt tried to maintain his composure, but the Warden of the Reserves was utterly rattled. Whatever had been taken, it was something big.

  “I can assure you, sir,” Lowe said, “that when I bring the murderer of all those people to justice, everyone who needs to know about it, will be informed.” Morholt opened his mouth, but Lowe wasn’t finished. “If, at the same time, I happen to stumble upon some unnamed trinkets—” he let the words hang there “—I will, of course, ensure they return to . . . their rightful owner.”

  The sweat on Morholt’s brow thickened, trickling down his temple as he adjusted his collar with a nervous cough. And then Lowe let the Pressure go.

  St. Clair stumbled. Not as much as last time. Barely a falter, really. But it was there. And this time, she reacted. Lowe saw it in the tightening of her jaw, the sudden fury in her eyes as she straightened too quickly, her grip on her clipboard going white-knuckled. No polite neutrality anymore. Just raw, unfiltered rage.

  If looks could kill, Lowe would already be ashes. And he suspected she might be taking that beyond mere looks in the near future. It was always good to make new friends.

  Rook must have noticed something too, because he pushed back from his own chair, and moved to stand between the two of them. “Well,” he said, “that was just as delightful as I think we all expected it would be. Should we show ourselves out?”

  Morholt cleared his throat, clearly trying to regain control of the room. “We appreciate your time, Inspector and, I’m sorry, I’m not sure I know who you are?”

  “That makes two of us,” Rook said.

  Morholt clearly didn’t know what to make of that. “Well, we will await your… findings.”

  Lowe nodded back. He was buttoning his coat as he turned for the door, with Rook ahead of him. The delectable Miss St. Clair hadn’t moved from her spot next to the Warden, but Lowe could feel her watching them, feel the white hot wrath roiling off her as she stepped forward to usher them toward the exit.

  “Inspector?” she said.

  Lowe stopped. Half turned.

  Her expression had smoothed back into something neutral, but there was intent behind it now. A razor-edge of warning just beneath the surface. “I’ll be in touch,” she said.

  It wasn’t a question.

  Lowe gave her his best lazy grin. “Looking forward to it.” This didn’t seem to improve relations.

  Then they were stepping through the door to leave the office of the Warden of the Reserves behind.

  “Did that fucker just try to bribe you?” Rook asked as they walked away.

  “Right after the blonde tried to kill me. Twice.”

  “Really?

  “Really.”

  “Fuck. You’re life’s ain’t dull, is it?”

  “Tell me about it.”