The fields and ruins gave way to more concerted efforts of civilisation to colonise the surrounding green with large walls to guard the estates beyond. People worked hard to scrub gates clean and to deliver fresh food to the enormous houses of the powerful. In these buildings stood rooms that could encompass entire houses from the poorer districts, and still there was more than could rightly ever be used.

Lynda’s eyes narrowed as she spied the men on every gate they passed; all stood with uncertain purpose, each one armed with pikes, spears or other sharp weapon to deter trouble, though the quiet streets meant they were the only trouble to be had on them.

Lynda pulled back away from the window and looked over to her brother once more, her brow furrowing a little as she considered.

“Something doesn’t feel right.” She said, shifting a little to check the other side, doing her best not to upset the movement of the carriage.

“This box is a blessing then.” Clarky said, checking for what Lynda just saw. Unlike with Lynda’s unadulterated and obvious inspection reminiscent of a child’s wonder, Clarky’s glance was more subtle, noting the scene in a few quick eye darts before they returned to his sibling’s distress.

As they moved closer to the city centre the houses became smaller and more packed together, foot and street traffic growing to match the cluttered feel as bright flag stones gave way to dirty grey cobbles. As the number of people rose so did the feeling of hostility; the crowd seemed to spend their time waiting around, keeping an eye out for anyone that wasn’t part of their little group as tension hung in the air. These were not the disciplined forces of a household but the master-less and direction-less ire that looked for any release for their frustration on the first person that crossed their path; this lack of a leader lead to everything being encompassed in the malice they gave off, including stray animals, the homeless few, occasional obstructions and especially the coach.

“You were saying?” Lynda asked, ducking back behind the curtain as to not catch their unwarranted eye.

“I’m allowed to be wrong, on occasion.” Clarky smiled, though it was a little more fixed than before as he checked for something in his boot.

The coach slowed and then came to an sharp stop, the voice of the coach driver calling out for the horses to hold still. Feet crunched over uneven old paving until a voice that neither passenger recognised could be heard mere feet away.

“Hold for the Peacekeepers! State your business!”

“Droppin’ folks home.” The driver replied with confusion on his breath.

“From where?” The first voice called again with increasing impatience. Lynda shifted slightly to the open window and uncovered her ear from her dark hair.

“The Acadamy, up Brokensteel way.” The Driver continue the stick slapping the side of the coach. “Got two students an’ their baggage.”

“I see.” The first man said, accompanied by the sound of movement. 

The door was flung open, much to the shock of the occupants, and a man in uniform looked inside. His military uniform tunic was a sky blue, with white cuffs and front panel with a simple wickerwork shield held in shape by iron rods. His arm showed the gold chevron of a Sergeant. The Sergeant’s eyes scanned the inside of the coach quickly, having to take a second glance at Lynda.

Drawing a short sword an inch or two from its scabbard, to ensure that they knew it was there, he beckoned them out. Lynda and Clarky paused, taking a glance each other. “Today!” The uniformed man barked, waving at them to step out once more though with much less patience.

Lynda squeezed out as quick as she could. To watch the carriage spring back to its proper height once she had departed leaves the impression Lynda is rather obese, but it was more sheer scale that weighed it down on its leaf-springs rather than girth. Though she did have a little of the flesh of youth that padded her she had a powerful frame that was built to twice the scale of a mighty women, and even tall men would only just about rise to be on par with her ribs.

Still to see the pallid giant was more than enough to cause the assembled peacekeepers to take a quick and notable step back, pikes lowering into a readied position and the short sword finally coming free from the Sergeant's scabbard. Her hands shot to the air in surrender lest she found herself stuck like a hunted boar.

“I’m not going to cause trouble!” She said, fear marring her voice. “Just doing as I was asked!”

“I might cause trouble.” Clarky said, his tatty travelling coat flapping as he leapt from the coach and stumbled to his feet next to his Sister. This stumble upwards was made somewhat more rapid by a pike being thrust towards his face. Throwing his hands up as he stood up straighter, doing his best to avoid the pike’s rusted point. “I only said I might.” He added, taking a moment to move the very tip of the pike away with a finger.

“Search ‘em.” The Sergeant barked, and two constables stepped from the group and began to go through the pockets of the former students.

Lynda and Clarky both made general noises of protest, but found themselves unwilling to fight the rather firm rebuttals the pikes had to offer. Lynda’s red short jacket was awkwardly yanked from her shoulders and thrown to an awaiting constable along side the waistcoat while a female Peacekeeper patted down her fair hips and arms. Clarky’s muddy and tatty storm coat was removed carefully from him, at arm’s length, and laid onto the damp street and open to the air.

“Papers sir.” A constable pulled a folded sheath from inside Lynda’s jacket.

“Oh dear, oh dear, what do they say?” The Sergeant asked, looking at Lynda and Clarky with the perverse joy of one having caught a pair of conspirators in a lie.

“No idea.” The Peacekeeper said, looking over the curled writing. “Looks official though.”

“What do you have to say about this then?”

“Dismissal papers and references.” Lynda replied, arms folded across her chest in acute embarrassment, now down to just a blouse. A peacekeepers picked up the edge of her skirt and held it up, inspecting the colour and texture of it as if they were a Couturier. Lynda swatted at the skirt a little to try and bring it out of the Peacekeeper’s hand.

“Dismissal?” The Sergeant pressed. “Why?”

“That’s private." Lynda started as the 'keepers pulled a pile of dead leafs and twigs from Clarky’s pockets, and notes and pages from her own. They hesitated going near Clarky’s grimy boots, and gave up on the search there. “Look what, exactly, is this all about?”

A clunk and a creak from behind her cut the conversation short as the trunks on the top of the wagon were forcefully opened, their leather straps flapping in the wind as a Peacekeeper started to rifle through their things. “Hey, please be careful with that!” Lynda went to move, however the pikes deterred her from any swift action and forced her back to her continued inspection. Bundles of clothes, both male and female, were scattered around the roof of the carriage before they got to the under layer. Books soon started to be pulled out, shaken vigorously with no interest in keeping the spines intact, and then unceremoniously dumped onto the piles of clothes now made dirty by the roof of the carriage.

“The Regent was killed last night.” The Peacekeeper said, in an almost accusatory tone. Lynda and Clarky both turned to him, the former full of shock and the latter in perplexed disbelief.

“He’s more protected than a banker with his coins.” Clarky said, looking up at Lynda, as if he had just heard something truly impossible.

“He was, at any rate.” Lynda said, still not quite able to believe it herself. “Who was it?”

“We’re not gonna share that sort of information with you.” The Sergeant snarled. “All you need to know is that, at the moment, we’re lookin’ for accomplices.”

“And a motive.” Clarky said, not quite under his breath.

“And you’re searching the coaches coming into the city?” Lynda asked somewhat louder than her brother, trying to catch up to the logic and finding it elusive at best.

“We’re searching all coaches.” The Peacekeeper said. “No exceptions.”

At this point, as if on cue, a coach rattled to a standstill next to the stalled school’s carriage marked with a crest, the heraldry resembling a scroll of parchment unrolling off a lopsided silver shield which itself rested over a crossed spear and quill with a horse rearing to balance it, was noted by the guards and they rushed over, picked up the barricade, and shifted it to one side to allow the carriage to carry on.

Lynda and Clarky looked at the emblem on the coach, and then turned back to the Peacekeeper Sergeant as the carriage rattled unimpeded down the street. The Peacekeeper noted their expressions of acute irritation, moving his gaze from one to the other in the hopes that his reception might improve, before offering a huff of dismissal. “Some exceptions can be made for people beyond reproach.” He said.

Clearing his throat at the silent glares of the giant and her companion, the Peacekeeper turned to the small man who had clambered up and was searching the trunks. “Find anything?”

“Sir!” The small man pulled a haft of a crossbow from one of the trunks, the smaller of the two, and held it up. After a few, reluctant, moments searching through the grubby box they found the arm and the string coiled around a thick wooden dowel and even a few bolts.

“What do you have to say to that then? You think an Assassin like you could get by us?” He said, pointing at Lynda with an accusatory finger as he raised his tone in octaves. “I knew you weren’t to be trusted!” He turned, his hackles raised and about ready to take matters of law into his own hands.

“It’s not hers, it’s mine!” Clarky cut in, pushing himself off the coach wheel and ended up with a nice line of mud across his back for his trouble. His hands slipped into the pockets of his slacks as he almost danced towards the guard with a rather manic grin.

Put out by the revelation that his own story had been derailed, the Sergeant turned to Clarky with an irritable air. “Yours?”

“Mine.” Clarky repeated, the grin spreading wider and having as much warmth as a winter chill.

“Why are you armed?” The Peacekeeper asked, feeling his sturdy ground start to crumble under his feet as he desperate chased the thread to make a new case.

“I’m not; it’s for target practice and hunting and it’s disassembled and not ready to be used as you can see.” He waved a hand casually towards the wooden stock that had been separated from the arm and looked to be in a well maintained and cared for state. The wood had been polished and the metal oiled to prevent rust.

The Peacekeeper looked from the well maintained weapon, to the grubby figure of Clarky and then up to the comparatively well maintained counterpoint of Lynda. As if reading his mind, Clarky shrugged. “If I don’t look after it, it will kill me.”

“The giant?” The Peacekeeper asked, pointing the tip of the shortsword at Lynda.

“The bow.” Lynda replied, pinching the bridge of her nose. Taking a moment to grumble, the Peacekeeper nodded in reluctant acquiescence.

“Why in the Messenger’s good name do you have a crossbow?”

“I was part of the hunt team at the Academy - it was a gift from the Hunts Master as one of low standing had impressed him.” Clarky smiled again, though again it had that look of someone who was not entirely settled in their own mind.

“Still, sir, it’s a weapon…” The Peacekeeper tried, but his rather lame tone was jumped upon by Lynda almost immediately.

“Was the Regent killed with a crossbow?” Lynda asked. The Sergeant turned and glared at her with such ferocity that it was as if he was trying to kill her with the crossbow of his mind.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no; he was killed by a sword.” The Peacekeeper growled.

“Then it’s obviously not the murder weapon, is it?” Lynda asked. “Is there a new ban on weapons that wasn’t made clear, constable?”

There was an aggravated silence, and after taking a moment to glance around the rather anxious squad and the line of carriages that followed the two student’s own coach, the Peackeeper in charge of this blockade waved a hand at them irritably.

“Alright, just get out of it!” He spat and waved them away.

Lynda took up her jacket once more and slipped it back over her shoulders while Clarky snatched up the travelling coat and ineffectually patted off the street grime. They turned towards the coach with every anticipation of getting back in.

Their luggage was dumped on the ground next to them, the trunk rattling slightly thanks to the now loose locks. As it hit the ground the lid popped up and stuck out a shirt as if it was a tongue from an obscenely wide mouth.

Lynda looked up to protest but a satchel bag was thrust into her hands causing her to step back in order to catch the spilling books from it.

“T’was paid to bring you to the city; done that, now I’m off! What’ver happenin’ here is got some bad blood ‘bout it.” The coach driver threw another bag at Clarky, who caught it and as he went to move up another trunk was dumped down on top of him, though this one was actually bigger than the first. Throwing the bag in his hands to Lynda, Clarky caught the trunk and was stumbled backwards until he tripped and hit the ground, once again the lid popped open to show Lynda’s various garments.

With the expert hand of a man who often fought daily with the wills of beasts and won, the coachman jumped back into his seat, turned the coach around quickly and moved off at a gentle canter, the wheels rattling against the brick road.

Lynda easily moved the trunk off Clarky and helped him to his feet, taking his hands only briefly to pull him upright.

“I’m okay, I’m okay…” He muttered as Lynda opened her mouth to ask. “Just didn’t realise how heavy silk and lace was.”

“The oak box doesn’t help, and besides there’s not that much lace or silk I’m afraid.”

“You two done?” The Peacekeeper Sergeant asked, raising a brow and waving them away.

“But...”

“I don’t care, just get gone; we’ve got other people to talk to.” The Peacekeeper Sergeant raised a hand to slow the next carriage down as the pair stood and stared for a second or two, watching the man holding a butcher and his daughter at bay with the haughty authority and arrogance of a nearly dethroned king.

Turning away from the scene, the two gathered up their lives. They worked in tireless unison, stuffing the loose possessions into whatever boxes or bags would hold them and caring not a jot that Lynda’s garments had been placed in with Clarky’s, before distributing the containers between each other. Hauling them up, the laden pair struggled past the barricade and into the city proper as if they were their own beasts of burden.

Even without the warmest of welcomes, they were back home in the city of Trinima. 

(Continued in 1.3)