It was just before five o'clock, a few days later, that Martin walked into their usual bar. He was seldom here this early, and he recognized only a few of the patrons. None of his crew had arrived yet, so he made his way to the bar, greeting the owner with a nod.

  “A pint please, Moe.”

  “Sure, Martin. Haven’t seen you here this early in a long time.”

  “My day off today. Meeting a few people before I’m off to another engagement.”

  “I see. Well, you’re always welcome. I heard you’ve been helping Nate with his daughter.”

  “I’m trying to.”

  “You’re a kinder man than I am. It’s all I can do not to ban him from the bar. Good luck to you.”

  Moe turned to pour the pint. He then started to pour a second as the clock outside began to chime five o’clock. A man walked in and made straight for a seat at the end of the bar. Moe turned away from the tap and placed a pint in front of Martin, then continued down the bar to place the second pint in front of the man.

  “The usual, sir.”

  The man wore an old grey derby hat. The edges of the wool were starting to fray a little. He kept the high collar of his coat popped up, whether to hide the threadbare nature of his cap or conceal his identity, Martin wasn’t sure, but the get-up made him even more conspicuous. Martin wouldn't have spared him more than a glance, but the noise of frustration that escaped his lips brought him back.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Moe was saying, “You always order a pint, and I assumed you would want one again tonight.”

  “Of course I want it. I want the pint, but why would you assume and not wait for me to ask for it?”

  “Just thought I was being friendly.”

  “Don’t think. Just play your role, or the whole thing’s ruined. We had made it a whole week. Can’t we go back to that?”

  “Understood. My apologies, sir.”

  “Thank you. Now, how much do I owe you?”

  Moe made a face like he’d been pestered by the same question again and again by a small child.

  “3 halfpennies.”

  The man in the derby hat handed over the money smoothly and lifted the pint like he was tasting the beer here for the first time.

  “Thank you,” he said again, settling into his seat.

  “Sure.”

  Moe slipped the coin into his pocket and walked back down the bar. As he passed Martin, he could just barely be heard whispering, “Somehow I get all the weirdos in Alderbridge.” Martin spared one more glance at the stranger and returned to his own thoughts. He had enough to worry about without inviting any more characters into his life.

  On his way into work yesterday, he had met with a Faceless boy, who had asked him to stop by the Faceless Chapel by six thirty this evening, cautioning him strongly not to be late. He wondered if it was more training with Jacques or if Aelar had decided to call him in for help again. Without realizing it, his fingers had risen to lightly touch his breast pocket, confirming the thumbtack Jacques had given him was there.

  His musings were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Sly had arrived. The two exchanged greetings while Sly ordered his own pint, and then they retreated to a table in the back corner of the room.

  “Do you recognize the man in the hat sitting at the end of the bar?” Martin asked in a low voice.

  “Yeah. The Worm they call him.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “Because only the early birds catch him. I got Moe drinking after closing a few days ago, and he started grumbling about a few of his regulars. The Worm always comes right at five and orders a pint. Never wants to talk. Always sits at the same seat, orders the same thing, and only asks—”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “How much do I owe you?”

  “That’s right. Moe claims he’s answered a dozen times already. We think he’s fresh out of the Stillhouse.”

  Martin raised an eyebrow and leaned back. He took another long drink of his beer, peering at the Worm over the rim of his pint. The Stillhouse was the street name of the Imperial Sanitorium located just outside of Alderbridge. Jacques had taken Martin there once when he was first showing him around the city. It was an oppressive building that seemed to absorb sound even from a distance. In whispers, Jacques had told him about some of the patients who had spent time there, for illnesses both natural and Cosmic in nature.

  “How’d it go with Nate’s kid?” Sly asked.

  “Well, her friends seem the nice enough sort, though just as foolish as we’d feared. When I told her that her dad was suffering, she did at least look a bit ashamed.”

  “Monika said you told her it was better for them to live apart.”

  “I might have said something to that effect. Do you disagree?”

  “If it were left to me, I’d stay out of the matter entirely and let her find her own path.” Sly took a drink and shook his head at the foolishness of the lamplighter.

  “Did you find out anything about organized crime in that area?” Martin asked.

  “Yeah, there’s really not too much, thankfully. Her friends either did their research or lucked into one of the more tame corners of Alderbridge. There’s one gang that might cause some trouble, a new group calling themselves the Scuttlers, but the rest seem like they’d roll over pretty easily.”

  “Maybe let’s take a deeper look at the Scuttlers if you think they’ll—” Martin’s next words trailed off as the door banged open. Gascoigne entered with the walk of a man finishing his evening out rather than starting it. Monika hurried in behind him, quickly closing the door and then following behind him, ready to catch him if he went down. Judging by the mud on his knees, Martin imagined he had gone down at least once on his way here.

  “Martin, you sympathetic bastard. Where’s my daughter?” Gascoigne roared.

  Martin rose from the table to help Gascoigne into a chair. Drinks were ordered, and Martin quickly sketched out for Gascoigne how his trip to visit Margaret had gone. Gascoigne, to his credit, kept himself contained as Martin retold his visit—slightly edited for his audience—and left off with the promise that he and Monika would be making regular visits back, the next one would have a message from Margaret for her father.

  “It's too slow, Martin. How long do you expect me to wait while my daughter is in the hands of that brotherhood of contemptible vermin?"

  "Don't you think you're being a little hard on them?" Monika asked. "They seemed like a nice enough sort."

  "Don't you get all sympathetic on them. They stole my daughter. My Madge. My one good thing left in life. How could I not hate them?"

  Gascoigne had started to rise during his tirade, but he caught himself and sank back down into his chair, covering his face with a deep drink from his pint.

  "I get it's not an immediate reunion, Nate," Martin said after he'd placed his glass down. "But these things take time. I'll keep a close eye on her. I promise."

  "You'd best do that. I still have my shotgun. I'd be lying to say I haven't thought about using it on bastards just like that."

  "Nate. I need you to keep your distance for now so we can avoid any accidents. Margaret will return when she's ready, but you have to give her time. Can you promise me that?"

  "Since her mom died, I've had to do everything on me own. We—Margaret and I have had to do everything on our own. Everything in me says I shouldn't let this go to others, but... alright. I'll stay away for now."

  "Thank you, Nate."

  Gascoigne looked up again at Martin, his face red from drink and emotion. "You're a good man, Martin. He's a good man, isn't he?" He looked around the table as he said the last.

  "Sure is," Sly replied quickly, raising his glass in toast, "proper sympathetic and a right gentleman all around."

  Monika clanked glasses with them enthusiastically, oblivious to the look Martin shot Sly.

  Martin hurried from his meeting toward the Chapel of the Faceless God. His conversation with Gascoigne still fresh in his mind, he stopped periodically to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Despite his caution, he managed to arrive at the Chapel at a quarter past six. Jacques was waiting for him when he walked in.

  “Greetings, Martin. I’d let you take a look at yourself in the mirror, but since I’d asked you to practice releasing your disguise at home, I assume you’re plenty familiar with your features.”

  “I’ve been getting a look in a couple times a week, whenever I know Boudica is going to be out of the house for a few hours.”

  “And how do you feel?”

  “It’s hard to describe, but I do feel better. It’s as if the forces inside of me trying to pull me apart aren’t weaker, but maybe better in balance? I’m not keen to rush into a Confessional, but I may be ready soon.”

  “Good. It shouldn’t matter tonight, but just in case things go astray.”

  “I brought the lighter and the thumbtack as well.”

  “Martin, if things go astray, you might as well be tossing those into the Varn for all the good they'll do you.”

  “Why? What are you asking me to do?”

  “Aelar’s asking you, actually, and it’s fairly straightforward.” Jacques produced an envelope from under his cloak. “All you need to do is head to a local public house and discreetly give this to a maid.”

  "Whose maid?"

  "Admiral Rooke's"