(Note: This doesn’t take place in the same setting as stories in The Weird. It’s a separate fantasy world.)
Hector Malthus stared down at his doorstep. It was too early for this. He wanted his coffee. He wanted his paper. He wanted to sip one and read the other as he leaned on the parapet on the corner and watched the morning clouds drift through the canal.
His liquid breakfast was going to taste more bitter than usual because of the clipped flower at his feet, its petals blacker than he took his coffee. A tan envelope sat under the flower, a name neatly inked on the paper.
Andrei Vostolari.
“Hand’s sake.” Hector bent down and carefully picked up the flower, pinching the end of the stem between his thumb and forefinger and looking over it for thorns. It was smooth, trimmed with the utmost care and precision.
He lifted the envelope with less care, grumbling at the elegant calligraphy on the front. He flipped it over and shook his head, sighing deeply. Sure enough, there was a red wax seal in the exact center of the envelope’s back, a circular sigil pressed into it. It was a skull with two small horns sprouting from just above its forehead, framed by two laurels.
He didn’t need to open it. He carried it with him to the tiny desk in his den and grumbled. “Every week with this.”
Hector opened the top drawer of the desk and removed a violet crystal in a dull, worn brass cage with three dainty, curved legs. He set the crystal on top of the desk and it began to glow gently. The dusty mirror mounted above the back of the desk shimmered, its smudges vanishing as words and faces appeared.
His fingers rolled slowly above the crystal, and the words spun and shifted. Hector rubbed his temple as he found the name he was looking for. He tapped the crystal sharply and the mirror’s surface began to undulate outward, as if a stone was dropped in the center of a pond.
The crystal’s glow brightened and the mirror went still. A chime rang out from it and a haughty, flat voice spoke.
“Welcome to the Shadow Brethren. Please state your purpose.”
Skies below, it was the same damn mist presence. “Parley and Ameliorations.”
The mirror stood silent for a moment before responding. “I believe you have selected ‘Parley and Ameliorations.’ If that is correct, please affirm.”
“Yes, put me through to someone!” Hector growled, wishing he went out for his coffee and newspaper first.
The mirror paused again. “Please wait.” A pleasant harp began playing.
“I swear, the next time this happens-” The harp was cut off and a soft, slightly hoarse voice spoke.
“Thank you for contacting the Shadow Brethren. Please state your name.”
At least this voice sounded sentient. “Hector Malthus.”
“One moment, please.” The harp began playing again. Hector tapped his fingers on the desk, hard enough to make his fingertips sting. He wanted to throw the crystal into the mirror, then start setting fires. “Yes, Mister Malthus? We don’t have you in our records. There is no contract to parley or wrong to ameliorate.”
He sighed. “Yes, I know. This isn’t my contract. It’s for Andrei Vostolari.”
“If you wish to modify your contract, I will require confirmation of personal details.”
“It isn’t my contract!” Hector snarled, then closed his eyes and slowly breathed. “This isn’t your fault. I apologize. What I mean is that for the third time I have received a black orchid with his name on it. I’ve tried to clear this up twice. This is the third time.”
“Of course, Mister Malthus. One moment.” The harp played again, for three interminable minutes. “Mister Malthus, I am sorry, but to correct this error you will need to present proof of your identity and residence.”
Hector reached into a lower drawer in the desk. “Yes, I can give it to you. I already did it twice, but-”
The voice interrupted him, apologetically. “Mister Malthus, I’m afraid that I cannot correct this contract. You will need to bring the documentation to the nearest guild hall.”
He shouted. “I have to bring it physically? That’s not what you said the last two times I contacted you!” He closed his eyes and clenched his fists, then released them again. “Sorry about that. This isn’t on you.”
“I understand your frustration, Mister Malthus, but I don’t have the ability to make the necessary corrections. What city-nation is your residence?”
They didn’t already know from the contract’s address? Hector bit his tongue. “Gyrreign. I know where the hall is.”
“It is on the Row of the Fallen Saints, number twenty-seven.”
“Yes, I know where it is!” Another slow breath. “Is it still a pink chrysanthemum?”
“Please wear a pink chrysanthemum upon entry to indicate your negotiation status and avoid summary contract execution.”
“It’s… not… my… contract.” Hector hissed through gritted teeth.
“Is there anything else I can assist you with today, Mister Malthus?”
His fingers were already dropping onto the crystal. “No. Thanks.” Another tap and the glow faded and the mirror grew still and silent.
***
The fog trolley from Hector’s home to the Row of the Fallen Saints mercifully required only one transfer, through City Center. Hector dressed, packed his documents and the ominous envelope and orchid (wrapped in parchment) into a leather valise, and headed out. He purchased coffee and a newspaper at the trolley stop.
Each leg was barely long enough for him to read more than a few pages on the best of days, and the trolleys were both crowded enough that he was forced to stand during the trip. He juggled the paper, the coffee, and the leather strap that kept him and every other standing passenger from tumbling every time the trolley swung in a wide curve or jerked to a stop at a new station.
Hector kept his balance, and was even able to enjoy a few sips of coffee and skim a few headlines. The Ports Authority was stepping up security against gray pirates in the Gyrreign-Bruk and Bruk-Tovar shipping lanes. Caugh separatists again failed to get more than twenty-percent in an independence referendum. An archaeology professor at the Gyrreign Academy of Science and Technology was excommunicated over some academic scandal. The usual stories.
The trolley shuddered and the pale green fog beneath it hissed as it came to a stop above the Row of the Fallen Saints. Hector stepped off and made sure the pink chrysanthemum on his waistcoat was visible, then he descended the stairs to the street.
The Row of the Fallen Saints was a narrow street just off of the main artery that was the Avenue of Wheels. Fog lamps glowed green even during the day, illuminating what was otherwise perpetually caught in the shade of the spires of the City Center. It consisted mostly of office buildings, with a few scattered storefronts. There was an apothecary, a cafe, a sundries shop. They all clearly served those who worked there, as few tourists bothered to leave the Avenue of Wheels.
Despite what the flower represented, Hector strode warily down the row, watching every corner and alcove for a possible assailant. It was much more likely that any altercation would come in the lobby, but if the guild couldn’t even check a name he couldn’t trust them to stay their blades.
It was a five-block walk to number 27, an unremarkable brick building with gray stone gargoyles on either side of the brass-framed, glass double doors. The gargoyles were weathered, though some sharply flattened surfaces about their heads, hands, and feet indicated some recent modifications since the last time he saw them. Three fingers (including the thumb) and Three toes (including the rear talon) instead of what were likely four and four each, and horns filed down to flat nubs. The work was rough, but they had looked much more like offensive caricatures of Skykin in their original states. The gargoyles hardly looked nicer like this, but Hector was relieved that they weren’t quite so embarrassing anymore.
The brass double doors swung open as Hector approached them, and he walked through into the tastefully appointed lobby. Gentle organ music played and yellow-white fog lamps on the ceiling flickered. Brass fixtures on the side walls poured water down carefully shaped plaster alcoves, producing a pleasant waterfall sound. A receptionist’s desk sat behind a wide, dark desk in the center of the room.
There were no visible crevices potential assassins could hide in. Still, Hector stayed alert as he approached the desk.
The receptionist was a Skykin, navy blue with thick horns that curved back over his bare scalp. He wore a black shirt with red piping along the collar, partly obscured by the wings folded elegantly around his shoulders. He smiled warmly at Hector.
“Welcome to the Shadow Brethren.” Sharp fangs poked out past his upper lip as he spoke. “How may I help you?”
Hector opened his valise and pulled the envelope from it. “My name is Hector Malthus, and this is the third time I’ve gotten one of these.”
The Skykin frowned diplomatically. “I apologize. To resolve the contract peacefully, please proceed to Parley and Ameliorations on the third floor.”
“No, I’ve tried-” Hector took another slow, frustrated breath. “The contract isn’t for me. The mark is for someone named Andrei Vostolari. I’m not him, and he doesn’t live at my address.”
The blue-skinned receptionist nodded, his wings twitching slightly. “Ah, of course. Then you should speak to Contract Fulfillment on the sixth floor.” He gestured to one of the doors behind him. “Please use the green lift, sir.”
Hector nodded curtly and put the envelope back in his valise, walking past the desk towards the door. Behind it was a short atrium lined with six brass-barred doors. The grim, cloudy sky could be seen through the skylight over his head.
Every door had a brightly glowing crystal above it, each one a different color. Hector identified the green light and approached the door. The bars slid aside, providing access to the closet-sized glass compartment behind, with a second set of bars opposite the entrance. He stepped through the doorway onto the wooden platform in the compartment, and the bars slid closed.
The back of Hector’s neck itched. He could identify three easy, simple ways one could be dispatched in a lift like this, without even breaking the glass. The walls of the lift showed only bare brick, and the atrium was too shallow to provide an interesting view.
Hector leaned back against one of the walls, watching both sets of bars and counting the floors that dropped away. The lift came to a smooth stop. The bars that had been the back of the compartment swung open and he stepped out onto the floor.
A plaque on the wall identified the floor as “Contract Fulfillment.” Mist lamps on either side of the plaque glowed an ominous red, with more lamps leading down the corridor in either direction. At one end was a closed oak door with a violet crystal embedded into the side of the frame. At the other was a simple glass-and-brass door that led into another, much smaller, lobby. Hector walked through the latter door.
Instead of a receptionist, the lobby held a handful of short, comfortable-looking velvet chairs arranged around two low coffee tables. The space opened up into a space filled with waist-high, wooden walls, each cubicle illuminated by a yellow mist lamp covered with a green glass shield over it. A dais sat between the sets of chairs, in front of the office area. It held a lectern with a small brass bell and a plaque that said, “Please ring for assistance.”
Hector’s eyes darted around the parts of the office he could see. Low walls hiding multiple spaces, plenty of shadows cast by the desk lights, plenty of angles from which he could be ambushed. He adjusted the pink chrysanthemum on his waistcoat and struck the bell on the lectern.
A short human woman appeared from around the left corner and Hector stiffened, bracing himself. When no attack came, he nodded slowly at her.
She had a shock of red hair, pale gray eyes, and freckles on her round cheeks. She wore a smart black blazer with the same red piping as the Skykin receptionist’s shirt, with matching black trousers. As she approached, her blazer shifted slightly stiffly on her left side.
“Can I help you?” She was abrupt and direct, lacking the diplomatic warmth of the receptionist downstairs. Hector was fine with this.
He slowly opened his valise, keeping both hands visible. Her eyes flicked between his face and his hands. “Yes, I’ve gotten three black orchids from the Shadow Brethren over the past month, and they haven’t been addressed to me.”
A sharp red eyebrow rose. “An incorrect contract? Do you have proof?”
“An incorrect address.” He carefully pulled the letter and parchment-wrapped orchid from his valise and set it on the lectern. “Alexei Vostolari. I’m not him.”
The eyebrow stayed lifted. “Do you have proof?”
Hector rolled his eyes and produced two thin stacks of paper from his bag. He held them out to the woman. “I’m Hector Malchus. Here is a copy of my Ports Authority pass and my most recent mist invoice. Note the address.”
She eyed the papers with disdain, then took them from his hands and looked over them. She then picked up the envelope from the lectern and slit it open with the long, sharp knife that had appeared in her hand. Her blazer seemed to move more naturally now.
She looked between the identification papers, to the letter, and back. The papers. The letter. The papers. The letter. Hector held his breath and counted slowly in his mind to distract him from the wait. How long did it take to confirm that the two names were different?
After an uncomfortably long wait, the woman folded the papers neatly over the envelope. “This appears to be in order. I will arrange to have the correction to the contract made and the target properly located. Our apologies for the inconvenience.”
Well, then. Hopefully that would be it. Hector visibly relaxed. “Great, thank you. How long will the correction take? This is the third letter I got. That means-”
She waved her now-empty hand at him. The blazer was stiff again. “The correction should be processed and disseminated through our records within the next two days. You can consider the matter resolved, Mister Malthus. You shouldn’t be accosted by our representatives anymore.”
He nodded, bowing softly. “Thank you. Do I need a receipt or some sort of letter of protection?”
“That won’t be necessary. The corrections will be made, Mister Malthus. Please see yourself out through the green lift.”
***
The next four days went by without incident. Hector enjoyed his morning coffees and newspapers, and traveled to and from the City Center for his work unmolested.
The fifth day, Hector returned home and began preparing dinner. Water began to boil in the copper pot on the small fog-powered stove in his kitchen as he carefully chopped vegetables.
The knife glided smoothly through each piece of onion with a soft crunch before striking the wooden cutting board sharply. crunch-Chop. crunch-Chop. crunch-crunch-Chop.
Hector paused, then chopped again. He sighed deeply and spoke out. “Check your contract. You have the wrong man.”
There was silence.
He groaned, “And you’re two days too early even if you had the right target. Please leave.”
More silence.
“I know you’re doing your job. I’ve done it, myself. Please just take a minute, walk out, and confirm the records.
More. Silence.
Then, crunch-crunch-crunch-crunch-crunch-Chop.
***
Organ music played gently as the double doors of the lobby swung open. The Skykin receptionist behind the desk smiled warmly.
“Welcome to the Shadow Brethren. How may I help you?”
Hector stomped towards the large desk and set a leather satchel on it with a muffled thud. He opened the flap on the bag, reached in, and gripped a length of black hair. He lifted it, and a severed head appeared under it, swinging gently. It appeared to be an adult male, with a scar on his right cheek and a black metal circlet wrapped around his forehead and temples. The circlet had two small horns in the middle, and the ends formed intricate laurels.
The stump where the neck would begin was covered in a canvas cap, stained brown-red. Hector dropped the head on the desk with another thud. He gestured at it.
“I’d like to speak to his supervisor.”