While Coin was finishing his business with Albus LeBon, Essine and Domajor were making their way back from the Merchant’s Quarter, each one carrying a box from the grocer’s and the general goods store. Ordinarily Domajor could have carried both with ease, but he had relented under Essine’s insistence to help.

  Not because she needed to, but because she wanted to. Such was the kobold’s nature.

  It was for that same reason why she now regularly helped the cooks in the kitchen. They had been wary of her involvement at first. Not because she was a kobold, they hastened to explain, but becaus it was not the ‘done thing’ for a guest to help in the kitchen. But when Domajor had relented, and allowed her involvement, she had been quite welcome in aiding the cooks.

  After all, cooking had been her main talent well before she became a conduit for profane magic.

  “Are you quite sure you want to carry that?” Domajor asked without looking her way. “It’s rather heavy.”

  “This... this one is fine, Domajor,” Essine replied, adjusting the weight in her forearms. It was heavy, but Essine was stronger than she looked.

  “Very well. Let’s hurry back. I’m sure, by now, Master Coin will be finished with whatever urgent business he was working on. And I’d like the cooks to get started as soon as possible.” In the past they had gotten such things delivered straight to the manor. But after the attempted assassination, Domajor was wary of trusting deliveries for the time being.

  Nowadays he preferred to get ingredients on site, where the risk of it being poisoned or tampered with was far lower.

  As they went through a few winding side streets, the two became aware that they were followed. For Essine it was a matter of her sharp, kobold senses at work. Her ears were far stronger than those of a human. For Domajor, well, it was a matter of instinct. The man could put a tiger to shame. He slowed his pace until they were walking side by side.

  Then, reaching a broad backlot behind a row of houses, Domajor stopped and turned to their pursuers. Five men in total, leering and scornful in their disposition. But not, Domajor noticed at once, professionals. These weren’t hitmen, just scum.

  “Walking your rat through this neck of the city?” one of them, a fat bearded man, growled.

  In the past, Essine would have wilted at such a barb. But she was not as helpless these days. She glared at the group, her ears pinned flat against the sides of her head. “This one goes where she pleases, and does not need to answer to scum!”

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  “Ho! Rat’s got a bark to her,” one of the scrawnier men mocked. “Still ain’t welcome in this part of the city. So we’s doing our civic duty, teaching you a lesson.”

  Sighing, Domajor carefully lowered his crate to the ground. “It would be a waste of time and energy to try and negotiate with your ilk. Come on, let’s get this over with.”

  “Mouthy rich ponce,” the bearded man said.

  Domajor cracked his neck from one side to the other. “For the sake of whatever families you have, I will try to not leave you with any... life altering injuries.”

  To call what happened next a ‘fight’ would be an insult to the very concept of fighting. The first two men who rushed the butler, tall and burly by most standards, swung wide and missed against Domajor’s fleet footwork. The first was brought down by a crushing blow to the chest, the sound of cracking ribs echoing through the alley. The second was fiercely backhanded across the face, blood exploding from his nose and mouth, and he lay screaming and writhing on the ground with his hands clutched over his face.

  Domajor loomed over them, shaking blood from his hand. “Now, have you learned your-” A third man came screaming at him, brandishing a knife from his pocket. “No, of course you haven’t.”

  Three swift stabs came his way, but Domajor danced between them with uncanny quickness. He looked bored. And, in some ways, disappointed. He ducked under a broad sweeping slash and buried his fist in his attacker’s gut. The man doubled over, puking, and lay shivering in a foetal position.

  “You’ll live. Though, I would advise avoiding solid food for some time,” Domajor said. He looked to the other two men at the mouth of the alley. “And you? Would you like to be taught a lesson too?”

  One of them turned and ran, smart enough to recognise how poor his odds were. But the last of the group, the portly barded man, seemed only partially worried. “Some sort of freak, are you?” he growled.

  “Name calling? Is that what we’ve devolved to?” Domajor huffed and shook his head. “And not even creative name calling at that. How utterly disappointing.”

  Grunting, the man threw his coat open. Essine caught a glimpse of steel that made her heart catch in her throat, her body going rigid as he drew a hand cannon from a hidden holster.

  Her own hand snapped up on a reflex, alien power pulsing through her body. Strange runes glowed along her upraised right arm, instantly spewing forth a column of nebulous black smoke that whipped toward the man. The fumes wreathed around the man, making him scream and thrash before he had a chance to even take aim.

  It was one of the weaker applications of Sheol magic that Essine had learned. Something non lethal, specifically. A dark smoke that could blind folks and smother breathable air. It could still take a person’s life, Essine knew, but only if she used it for an extended period of time. Thus she was mindful to only use the magic for a brief spell. She did not like to kill, even against violent scum. She did not like to use her magic at all, if she could help it. But she had heard many tales of the lethality of hand cannons, and did not want to risk Domajor being harmed.

  Seizing the opening, Domajor sprinted at the man as the smoke vanished. He caught him in the jaw with a mighty punch, sweeping him to the ground. He lay still, groaning weakly, as blood drooled from his mouth.

  “Well now.” Domajor lifted the weapon into his hand and examined it. It was the real deal alright. “My thanks, Lady Essine. I doubt this fat-fingered oaf could have actually hit me, but it was not a risk worth taking.”

  “It was no trouble,” the kobold said. She smiled, anxiously rubbing her shoulder as the glowing runes faded. She told herself the power was not evil if she used it for good. It was some comfort.

  Domajor lazily planted a foot atop the downed man’s chest. “My good chum, I think we are owed a chat. And, believe me, you are not in a position to try and turn me down. I would like to know where you acquired this,” he said, dangling the hand cannon in one hand.

  The look on the butler’s face made it clear that it was in the thug’s best interests to answer quickly and honestly.