About five minutes later, I adjusted the gas mask on my face before stepping out of the outer door of my home. The fog hadn’t been too bad this season, but it was best to be safe.

In some places, they had sandstorms; in others, they had blizzards; but here in Gaerrana, we had the fog. At its worst, the fog fell across cities, towns, and occasionally whole regions as a thick blanket, but deathly cold. I had always been careful to keep my mask in good condition, but people whose masks had leaked described the sensation of breathing in the fog as smothering, like you’d swallowed cotton. Even a tiny gulp would leave you with a cough for weeks. There were countless tales of people having gotten too much fog in their lungs and suffocating to death. There were even more stories of people who’d had too much to drink or had taken a wrong turn and gotten lost, never to be seen again.

Like every world after the Rift opened, people had adjusted. Every door had a small space full of magical filters and a second door behind it, like the aviary at a zoo (except instead of trying to keep birds inside, we were trying to keep the fog out). Gas masks and thick greatcoats had long become fashionable outerwear. As a matter of fact, a whole new fashion industry had developed around the need for garments to protect against the fog. Besides, the fog wasn’t a constant menace - during the daytime, it usually cleared up enough to be able to walk around without a mask. On occasion, the nights were clear, too.

We stood waiting, in our heavy coats and masks, for the tram. Most masks had short range communicators that allowed conversation at talking distance, but chatter through the masks was accompanied by a staticky crackle that was very painful to hear, especially for me. Nadrire, out of respect, refrained from using the masks’ communicators unless absolutely necessary (plus Ella, as an automaton, didn’t need to wear a mask, and normally chose not to).

Normally, I didn’t mind the silence, but now I was buzzing with questions. The tram took much too long to rattle to a stop, and it took much too long for us to clamber in the tiny, cylindrical compartment and remove our masks.

“So,” I said, as soon as Nadrire pulled her mask off over her head and punched our destination into the computer running the tram. “Where are we going again?”

“The Brass Bell Hotel. Suite 402.”

I nodded. “Figures.”

Coloksha was a reasonably small city, and the Brass Bell was the nicest hotel in town. The fourth floor has the luxury suites, too.

“When was the politician killed?”

“His PA found him about forty minutes ago. The PA was staying in the adjoining suite and had been working on some paperwork down in the lobby after they got back from dinner. He came back to find the door smashed to pieces and Jiorre Othorian in a pool of his own blood.”

I couldn’t resist a chuckle. “Wow.”

Nadrire just looked at me and shook her head slightly as the tram stopped. A mechanical voice over the PA system warned us that the door would be opening shortly and we were advised to don any necessary equipment. The doors hissed open, and we exited to chaos.