“You’re telling me that my son is here but isn’t being treated? What kind of infirmary is this? If I hadn’t just returned from the Capital, I would’ve personally ensured things were done properly. Don’t tell me to shush! In fact, you can shoo yourself. Where’s my son?”

Eblin hadn’t been looking for the voice. He’d been watching Roryce’s reaction.

The look on the other boy’s face told the whole story, and Eblin immediately felt a lot better.

The woman who came bursting into the sick room was at least two hundred pounds. Eblin couldn’t help but notice her size first, since she was enveloped in elf-made pink silks that seemed more appropriate for a ball gown but fashioned into an every day sundress.

The fashion, usually worn by young, unmarried women, made her size apparent in Every. Single. Curve.

His mouth fell open and, unaware of his own expression, it didn’t close.

“Roryce!” the woman bellowed like a troll. “There you are! Do you have any idea how frantic I’ve been since I got the news?!”

She barrelled toward them, making Eblin reestimate to three hundred pounds as he scrambled out of his chair and backed up to the wall, next to the groundskeeper’s inert head.

Roryce visibly braced himself the instant before the woman threw her arms around him and yanked him into a hug. If the other boy hadn’t been almost as tall as her, Eblin was almost certain he would’ve drowned in that embrace.

“My baby, my darling,” the woman crooned. Then she abruptly pushed him away to look him up and down. “In one piece, no scarring, good, good. But your hair! Your lovely hair.”

She started sniffling, and Eblin’s mouth continued to drop.

“Mother,” said Roryce with restrained dignity, “there are sick people in this ward. Please lower your voice.”

“Don’t you hush me! I’ve been nothing but a mess, I tell you. A horrible mess!”

With that, her sniffles turned into wails and sobs. The only thing her embarrassed son could do was pat her shoulder and utter soothing sounds as she clung to him.

Meanwhile, Eblin’s mouth had finally found a polite position, and he edged to the next bed over, pulling a chair from there so he could watch the scene with keen interest. He noticed after a few minutes, and with growing amusement, that Roryce was refusing to look anywhere but straight ahead or directly at his mother.

No one noticed the groundskeeper’s eyelids flutter open and then closed again.

After about ten minutes of the theatrics, Eblin was pretty sure that the woman would’ve cried indefinitely if another woman hadn’t entered the room.

‘Woman’ was a stretch, since she was the same age as Roryce, but ‘girl’ didn’t fit at all.

Eblin had never seen her before, but she looked so much like Roryce that it didn’t stretch Eblin’s imagination at all to guess her identity. And as though she’d been born with the purpose to be the other woman’s exact opposite, she was tall, thin, and had the extreme air of dignity.

“Mother,” she said firmly, grabbing the woman’s arm and gently pulling her back. “Do you want to worsen Roryce’s condition? If he’s ill, hanging on him like that will only ensure he’s stuck here longer.”

That had a magical effect on the woman’s demeanor.

Once again, Eblin’s mouth fell open as the big woman abruptly stopped crying, straightened up, and became her children’s mirror in dignity.

“You’re right, you’re right. I’m so sorry, pumpkin.” She put a chubby hand against Roryce’s pinched face. She didn’t even sniffle this time, which was a strange contrast to the tears that still glistened on her cheeks. “I was just so worried. Are you alright?”

Roryce finally sighed, the tension leaving his shoulders as his face drooped against his mother’s hand.

“I am. It was an accident.”

She snorted. “I heard it was the Trovinski boy who started it. I intend to have a strong word with him!”

Her eyes flashed, and Eblin instinctively cringed back, though not with the same fear he had for his father. More like waiting for a horse to buck him off or accidentally running into a pole.

To his horror, Roryce grinned and half turned, pointing. “Well, there he is.”

Eblin yelped, and he’d climbed over the next bed, putting it between him and the human battering ram before he’d had a chance to think about it.

Behind the woman, he saw Roryce smirking.

“You!” she shouted. Probably rattling the rafters, Eblin thought.

He dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out the signet, holding it out like it was a real shield instead of a piece of useless metal.

“My father authorized me to make whatever reparations necessary!” he squeaked.

Actually squeaked. His adolescent voice, which had almost finished its change, broke one final time.

The room, for a full second, fell absolutely silent.

Eblin’s face, ears, nose, neck—tears! Every inch of skin and his insides—felt like it had been roasted by a dragon and spit out in the form of a cooked lobster.

Roryce, dignified, capable, unflappable Roryce, collapsed into hysterical laughter.

***

Present: 24 Years Old

Eblin didn’t normally review work when he was at the tavern. When he was out, and especially when he was spending money he probably should have been saving, he didn’t want to be thinking about work.

But this…

He went to the tavern early and ordered his usual light beer. He was glad that even if he drank ten of them, they wouldn’t give him more than a slight buzz because he was on his third one by the time he turned to the last page of the reports.

What in the world was this?

He put the papers down on the table and stared off into nothing.

Before the orphanage fire, he’d never seen a mashing of signatures. Ever. He’d even gone to the library and pored through the Guard’s records himself. Usually, in a case where someone else footed the bill, they left it to record keepers and librarians. But not this time. The mystery was so intoxicating that he had to help.

Even Jacques was paying closer attention than he had to anything in years.

And still, despite hundreds of years’ worth of records and half a dozen people searching, there was no repeat of such a phenomenon.

Now it had happened twice in two weeks.

Instead of absent signatures, like in the first case, every inch of magical usage in Lord Calvin’s case had the mashup.

Investigating the individual mana users would be useless. Many of them were well-known craft and maintenance mages, their signatures well recorded so they could be overlooked during cases where they’d likely show up.

And half the time, the signatures were so mashed together it was only by spotting the fragments that they could identify the original signature at all.

It was fascinating. And worrying.

Were they dealing with a completely different magic system? That’s what it seemed like. In that case, other than looking for the signature blending, how were they supposed to find the user? What were the rules of the system?

Was the user even human?

Tears. Just what he needed. Some sort of goblin or shapeshifter posing as a human.

They'd taken a picture of the woman around to every brothel, tavern, and informant. No one could forget such a beauty. And no one had ever seen her.

He leaned back and stared at the ceiling, swinging his foot around on a crossed leg.

So far, there seemed to be only two options.

One, the user was, indeed, not human. In which case, they might need to contact the elves, who had better records about and an understanding of non-human cultures and abilities. But they were a pain to work with. Since it was Ma’Shite’s case, he might have contacts willing to help them. Eblin had already made a note to visit the elf and find out. He was just waiting for a reply to his requested interview.

And, two, a bastard magic.

That second option was also exciting. He grinned at the ceiling. Bastard magics were so rare, and showed up so strangely, that it was impossible to guess where it’ll come from or how it’ll function. Or even what would trigger it. Usually something traumatic, but not always.

It might be fun to capture someone with a bastard magic. Then he could brag that he’d added a chapter to that limited book.

Someone cleared their throat, and he started. If he’d been leaning back in his chair, he might’ve tumbled over. Thank goodness he hadn’t quite regained his confidence enough to do that yet!

Because Zanie was here.

He quickly dropped his leg and gathered up his papers, glancing at her sheepishly even as he flashed her a cheeky grin.

“Sorry, sorry. Just lost in thought. Take a seat? Or do you want to go outside today?”

She seemed more at ease this time as she silently shrugged and took the opposite seat. As she settled herself in, shoulders slightly hunched and smiling awkwardly, he looked her over.

Here was another fascinating mystery.

Zanie, no surname. A woman capable enough with a dagger to face down a demon dog, but who panicked in public places. She was the kind of person who stood out, and yet no one knew her. 

Even the people she claimed were ‘allies,’ the owners of the shed they’d sheltered in, had no idea who he was talking about. He’d casually asked while thanking them for the shelter and offering to pay for the night’s stay. They’d looked at each other, a middle-aged couple in the textiles industry. The man mouthed, ‘Zanie?’ and the woman shrugged.

Without a clear past and an obvious lie dangling in front of his nose, it made him itch to know more.

“What are those?”

Zanie pointed at the papers, which he was struggling to straighten and stuff into his bag.

“Work,” he shrugged cheerfully.

She frowned, the line between her eyebrows pronounced. “I thought you were a thug.”

He snorted on a sudden laugh. There! There was something else. She displayed next to no social skills, including simply blurting out whatever was on her mind. He loved it!

“Spy, thug, cook, paperwork administrator, dock hand.” He winked, finally just shoving the mess into his bag. He’d fix it later and ignore Jacques grumbles about the creases. “Whatever I need to be at the time.”

Her frown deepened in confusion. “What kind of job requires that?”

“Guess.”

Eblin cheerfully let her chew on the mystery as he waved for another round of drinks. Meanwhile, he watched her while pretending not to. Her anxiety had completely melted away with the task, though her fingers continued to fidget, sometimes just moving, sometimes squeezing tightly and relaxing.

She was wearing the same dress as before. Probably poor, then. Likely she only had one good dress and valued this interaction enough to use it.

“So you’re an… errand boy? Or a runner?”

He grinned and picked up his drink. “If I had to put a non-commital name to it, that’s pretty close.”

“Your master must run you ragged,” she said.

He was surprised by the touch of sympathy he heard in her voice. Which in turn made him feel a little guilty, though he wasn’t sure why.

“Not really. I think I run him more ragged than the other way around.”

Her face openly twisted in confusion once again when their drinks arrived. He noticed the way she sniffed it first before tentatively taking a sip, but like before, drank very little of it as he gulped his down. Didn’t trust alcohol? Even a mild one that couldn’t get her drunk if she drank it all day? 

Or didn’t trust herself, perhaps?

“May I ask you something?”

She wasn’t looking at him. Instead, she was watching the room, her eyes repeatedly darting to the nearest exits and drawn to anyone who moved too quickly.

“Yes?” He waited, eager to see what she’d reveal about herself with her own inquiries.

“Your name is Eblin, yes?”