Grace bent down to the leafy forest floor. With gentle fingers, she brushed aside some leaves revealing a Halfling footprint. Glancing up at her twin sister, she indicated the footprint with a silent point of her finger.

Faith nodded.

Grace rose, looking around once carefully, her right hand firmly on the shaft of her boar-spear. She continued on.

Early autumn. It never did get truly get hot here, as it did further south in the Basajaun territories, and Ispilopolis, the City of Mirrors, her home city. But it did get warm in the summer. In the winter, however, it got cold. It had taken Faith and Grace a year and a half of her two years here in Linden to get used to it. How the farmers managed to farm out here in this frigid hell was beyond her imagination, but they did manage it.

The trees in this place were old, their roots tangled. Faith and Grace had often heard stories from the locals, about how the trees were alive, how their roots interconnected so that everything was one big organism. She had heard about the animals, and the hauntings, and the demons, and mysterious Lord Hinterstrad, and to be fair, this place could get dark and creepy, even during the day. She had seen sufficient things in this forest to know that the tales were not entirely peasant superstition--but the land had so far failed to live up to the reputation. Even the land-lord, often touted as some kind of vampire lord or demon, had so far failed to cause any disappearances, apocalypses, devil-nights, or even so much as a single zombie rising from the graveyard. In fact, the farmers who paid him rent spoke of him as a quiet and personable man in his own way, and the one Faith had spoken to swore he had seen the man in sunlight at his manor.

There were disappearances, to be sure. But the Staves and Brownstone knew exactly what was causing those. A single, traumatized, escaped victim had seen to that.

And the first name she named was Steuben Trent, a Sworden mercenary from Starfall and apparently a legendary bandit king. By reputation he was a reasonably competent fighter, a shrewd tactitian in the forest, but also a bully with no sense of caution and a propensity for blackmail. All the locals knew of him. Captain Murkagh of the local division of the Staves of Justice had been trying for years to bust him.

It was Murkagh who had ordered the Staves to turn back. Apparently, in the forest, you were in Steuben's territory, and he'd lost a lot of men trying to get at him in his element. He had warned Faith and Grace.

An owl hooted behind them. Faith turned quickly, her hand starting to reach for her sword. She stopped when she saw that Faith had ignored it. She pressed on up the mountain-side, through the forest. Soon, the trail changed, going around to the north, and back down into a wooded valley. Twice, Grace stopped them to trigger a hunter's trap.

"Not bandits," she whispered, poking a toothless bear-trap. "They wanted the bear un-injured."

"Circus warden, then?"

"Could be. But look." she pointed to the Halfling-sized footprints. "He knew it was there."

"Well this is his turf."

Grace's face went grim. "He thinks a lot of things are his that aren't really." She sighed, looking up. "I don't understand. Murkagh said he usually flees south. Why did he turn north?"

"To keep from being ambushed," Faith said. "If he knows Murkagh knows that, he knows he's an easy target for an ambush."

Grace shook her head. "Murkagh doesn't think so." She continued ahead.

Across the valley now and up another ridge. The footprints became more and more fresh, and she saw no signs of ambush. There were trails and roads here and there, but the Sworden's trail did not take those. He cut across the thickest parts of the forest, now again pressing west. Before long, she came to a wooden gate in a stone wall. The coat of arms on the gate bore a crysanthemum and the spread-winged raven perched on the horns of a bull--The Hinterstrad family.

Grace stopped, staring at the gate. "Unbelievable."

Fath squinted. "He ran to Lord Hinterstrad?"

"No. He broke in. Look." She pointed to the leafy ground. "This gate hasn't been opened in ages." She shook the rusty iron lock. "It's...it's just ancient. This will never open again. It needs to just be smashed off and replaced." She bent down, pointing at a place where the leaves on the other side were disturbed. "But Steuben's prints are heavy on the other side. He climbed over."

Faith gave the wooden gate a test-shake. It rattled.

Grace stood up, surveying the area. "My gods. This place is abandoned, look at it."

Faith's face lit up with recognition.

"What?"

Faith shook her head. "Brilliant. He's a genius."

"Who?"

"Steuben." She gestured to the stone manor house behind the gate, amid grounds that had lapsed into archaeology. "The Hinterstrads no longer live here. No noble family does. I wonder how long that's been true."

Grace squinted. "He's been hiding here?"

"He's been using this place as a base, or a hideout or something." She chuckled, shaking her head. "What is Murkagh going to think."

Grace inspected the ground around. "No horse-tracks."

Faith looked to Grace. "No Rendruan lord walks. We know that by now."

She and her sister looked at each other for several seconds, both of them laughing out loud at the realization. She said it in unison.

"The farmers have been paying Steuben."

---

Clang, clang, clang.

Leather mallets were wonderful things.

Morphiel hammered on the brass innards of his furnace, grumbling violently under his breath as the metal refused to budge. He focused a little fire on the metal to make it softer, but all he accomplished was heating the air around him as the heat conducted away and dissipated in the air.

He was going to have to apply more strength. He pulled the mallet back for a stroke of pure Rakshasa-changeling might.

CRASH!

He paused, mallet in hand. He squinted, scooting himself out of the brass opening.

The sound of someone moving around upstairs. He could hear cabinets opening and closing, probably in the kitchen.

He narrowed his eyes, snarling.

Someone was in his house!

---

Now it was Faith who took the lead, carefully and swiftly checking every possible hiding place. They were in the kitchen, having broken in the back door. Cabinets, cupboards, pantries, closets, the garderobe, and around every corner. Her eyes fell across paintings of dignified Rendruan men and women, some of them painted under the auspice of a proud raven, as was the custom to depict local nobility.

She pulled her finger-tip across a wooden table top and examined her fingers for dust. The place was spotless.

"Something's wrong," Grace said.

"I know." Faith picked up a decanter of some liquor, sniffing it. "Bandit kings don't--"

Grace gasped a scream as she felt the knife at her neck and the strong hand on her arm.

"Grace!"

"Who are you!" The voice was deep and angry. "Why are you in my house!"

Grace raised her hands. The figure behind her shaking twin was a man, tall and broad-shouldered. His wavy dark hair hung around a clean-shaven face with a strong jaw and--

"Oh my god." His eyes were bright orange.

"Well?!" The man gave Grace a shake, eliciting another frightened yell from her. "Answer me!"

Faith raised her hands. She called on her training in negotiation, speaking slowly and evenly. "I'm sorry, sir. We're looking for a bandit we thought took refuge in this house."

The man paused, squinting at her incredulously. "I find it very unlikely that Captain Murkagh teaches his cadets that it is somehow acceptable to simply barge into people's homes during investigations!" He removed the knife from Grace's neck--a knife, Faith could now see, that was forged from some dark blue metal--and shoved her forward. He turned and went back into the kitchen.

"Uh, Sir?" Faith followed.

The man stopped at the splintered slab of wood that had been his back door. He clenched his fists and raised them in frustration with a low snarl.

"Sir, we will of course pay for the door--"

"Why bother. I'll do it and get the one I want." He turned to face her. He started to speak, but stopped. Faith almost thought she saw some manner of wonderment on his face. "You aren't Staves."

"No sir. We're Brownstone."

Grace squinted. "How could you tell?"

He returned the squint. "Because of your complete and utter lack of understanding of proper procedure." He shook his head again. With a resentful snarl, he said, "Aren't you a little young to be Brownstone agents?"

Faith narrowed her eyes. "That's an impertinent question."

And then something she did not expect: He looked taken aback, and even a little embarrassed. He bowed slightly. "My apologies. I meant no disrespect."

Faith and Grace glanced at each other in confusion. An instant later, Faith's etiquette training took over. "Uh--none taken, sir. It's quite alright."

He glanced at her for just an instant.

"And our apologies for the intrusion, sir," Grace ventured. "We didn't intend to--that is, we mistakenly thought the grounds were vacant."

The man took a deep breath, clinching and unclinching his fists. Faith and Grace watched him, but he seemed to relax. He opened his orange eyes, studying them for a second or two longer.

Finally, he said, "It...was a misunderstanding." He glanced around him once, then sighed, relaxing completely. He looked to Faith. "Now, let's try to handle this like civilized people. Please." He gestured into a small parlour. "Can I offer you anything?"

"Uh, no thank you, sir. We're actually quite in a hurry. We won't be taking up any more of your time than we must."

The man nodded. "This bandit king you chase, would his name happen to be Steuben Trent, I hope?"

"It would." Faith watched him. "Do you know him?"

The man growled. "He's a thorn in my side. He frightens my tenants, openly mocks and insults me, and my family, he steals livestock, robs travelers, and I've caught him in my cellar twice." He looked to them seriously. "He's a dangerous man. I would seriously recommend you get help with this pursuit."

Faith shook her head. "Are you Lord Hinterstrad?"

"I am. And the tales you've heard are about half true. Take that any way you wish. I care not for the superstitions of peasants."

"But..." Grace looked around her. "M'Lord, we thought this place--"

Faith silenced her with a quick hand on her leg. "Let's not pester the man with impertinent questions." She turned back to the man they now knew was Lord Hinterstrad. She thought she saw him look at her in curious, cautious appreciation for just a moment before resuming his noble deadpan. She asked, "Lord Hinterstrad, have you seen Steuben Trent lately?"

The man paused, seemingly thinking. When he answered, he said simply, "I saw him this morning. He came to my door, bearding me with insults and degradations, and demanding safe harbour. I sent him on."

Faith squinted. "Why would he come to you for a hiding place?"

Lord Hinterstrad scowled. "Because he has more spleen than sense. That is in fact what makes him dangerous."

Faith pressed on. "You've caught him in your cellar twice now, and today he insulted you. You're a powerful man. Why is this man not cowed yet? Or arrested, or dead?"

The man looked into some imaginary distance ahead of him, and slightly below. He said, "Matters of my own conscience. And I will go into no further detail."

Faith glanced at her twin. They shared just a moment of dubious curiosity.

Lord Hinterstrad snapped back to the task at hand. "I...would be most grateful to be rid of him. I will assist you in this matter. I know these woods well." He looked to them. "If you will permit it, of course." He offered his hand.

Faith took it. "Faith Szalic. This is my sister Grace."

Grace shook hands with the man, now taking a leaf out of her sister's book. "It's a pleasure, Lord Hinterstrad."

He nodded once. "Welcome to my family's manor."