The room is named for the map of Elftown that's carved on the table in front of Jet's black-leathered chair. Here's where he tracks his 'investments', plots to increase his influence, and plans his campaigns against his rivals. It's a small room, but fairly unique in Elftown. First, it's clean. Except where mud is dripping from my cloak onto the wooden floor. Second, it has a fireplace, where an actual wood fire is burning. The only heat most of us get on cold days comes from loitering at the blast furnaces or charcoal kilns.

Third, and most incredible, is the elf-girl leaning back against the wall, sipping from a pewter cup and watching the rest of us with copper eyes. Her name's Lynae, and she sticks out in this dump like lace on an orc. She's a cool one, all lean curves and feline grace, with a rapier on her belt and a hint of the sea about her. Attractive too, no doubt about it. And dangerous. But I don't think Jet ordered me here to gawk at his girlfriend. 

Standing in front of Jet's table is another of his enforcers, Enturi. Great. This stinkin' day just keeps getting better and better. Enturi and I've been working together a fair amount lately. I don't like him much, though, with his pretty boy good looks and quiet air of superiority. There's something not quite right about him. Something twisted beneath the surface, like a hunk of rotten carp in a fish stew. Rumor has it he might be a sorcerer, but that's not allowed in Elftown either.

Seeing me, Jet breaks off the low conversation he's having with a dwarf from the smelter. He doesn't look happy.

"I have a problem," he says, scowling. We wait silently.

"There was a murder at the Bouncy Tart last night," he continues. "Norien, the prettiest girl there, was found dead by one of the other whores. She'd been cubed."

"Cubed," rumbles the dwarf.

"Like stew meat," says Jet. "Several hundred pieces of stew meat. Everything but her head."

Yeah, this is a problem, all right. One of the services Jet provides in Elftown is protection. The Bouncy Tart is on his roster. Elftown's only whorehouse is important enough to merit two of his guards during busy times. If a working girl was murdered, it means someone didn't do their job, and Jet's reputation will suffer a big black mark because of it. No wonder he's in a foul mood. I'm glad I wasn't one of the guards on duty.

He gestures toward me and Enturi.

"You two have been getting results. So I'm giving you an opportunity. Go to the Bouncy Tart. Find out who did this. And make an example of him. A very clear and very public example. Got it?"

"Yeah," I nod. Stuck with the pretty boy again. Who Jet partners me with is up to him, of course. But it really chafes me that when Enturi and I work together, people are more intimidated by his vaguely menacing aura of mystery than by the sharp edges of my sword and sickle. I'm the bloody muscle here, idiots.

"It will be done," says Enturi with smooth confidence. "Can we speak to the guards who were on duty?"

Jet's reply is perfunctory.

"No."

Which means, of course, that they are dead. As is only right. That magnitude of failure cannot be tolerated. I get that. I assume that if they knew something, Jet would have told us.

Jet speaks again, catching our eyes in turn. "I want everyone in Elftown to know that this vengeance was taken by me. But I don't want the city watch to have any evidence of my involvement. Understood?" We both nod.

"The dwarf's a freelancer," continues Jet. "He'll help keep you alive."

The girl leaning against the wall lowers her cup and speaks to Jet. "Would you like me to tag along? The other girls are more likely to open up to me."

He looks at her briefly, then nods. "Yes. Just be careful."

"Certainly, boss-man," she says with the barest hint of derision. Jet wouldn't tolerate that from anyone else in his employ. But from her, he doesn't seem to mind. He stares at us expectantly.

Like me, Jet is not long on speeches. It's fairly clear he's done talking. We have our assignment. Before he becomes impatient, I turn and walk away. There's work to do.

* * *

We're barely out on the street when the dwarf gets chatty.

"I'm Bolin," he offers. "I work at the smelter, in the-"

"I know who you are," I interrupt irritably. "Do you not see what I'm wearing? I bought this ringed leather from you, dumbass."

The dwarf squints at my cuirass. "Oh, yeah," he mumbles. "That's my handiwork. I remember you. What's your name again? Dark? Lark?"

"Arq," I scowl. Enturi snickers. Yeah, this is gonna be a fun assignment. At least there's a bakery on the way. I am not killing someone on an empty stomach.

"So how you plan on keeping us alive, dwarf?" I ask. "Repair our armor in mid-fight, if it comes to it?"

"He's got a mace," Enturi observes. "And he looks like he knows how to use it. He's probably just extra muscle. As a dwarf, his involvement won't implicate Jet."

The dwarf shakes his head. "I can fight, sure, and I can repair armor if need be. But Jet hired me because I am a healer. You get hurt, I'll fix you up. You get dead, though, you're on your own."

A dwarven healer. Great.

"Can we have some quiet, please?" I mumble, even more irritably. "No need to announce our business to everyone in the damned alley."