William Jacobson was a man who drank so he could do his job and did his job so he could drink. As a street sweeper in Scara City, his wages were poor, but sometimes he found interesting items or learned interesting things. If handed off to the right person, some of it was worth enough money for him to briefly upgrade to something better than the horse-water he usually drank. He’d passed on a really juicy tidbit recently, and when he got paid for it, he’d be rolling in enough coin to drink whiskey for a year.

Shame about that other guy, though. That was his last thought as night became morning, when he finally stumbled out of the bar.

He had no idea how long he’d been out when he crawled back to consciousness. His wrists and ankles chafed from how tightly they were bound into a sturdy wooden chair, his head throbbed from the hangover, and his whole body was one hugely dull ache. Voices swam through his head, though he couldn’t look up to see who was speaking.

“Could you have chosen any…re remote, Alydia?” The first voice, male, took the same tone as William’s boss after a long shift: exhausted and annoyed.

“I could have, … but then we’d be doing this … . I didn’t feel like waiting.” The second voice was satin over steel, and definitely a woman’s. She spoke with an accent that William couldn’t place, but he wasn’t good with accents. “Dex?”

“The doctor says he’ll recover. If he’s lucky, he’ll keep ...” A slip of paper rustled, changing hands between man and woman. “I found it, but it wasn’t easy. Are we ready to do this, or are we letting the princess sleep all day?”

Princess?

A hand lashed across his face sharply, startling the half-conscious man enough that he knocked over the chair. His eyes snapped open, looking wildly around. Light barely trickled into the deep cave he found himself in. There was what looked like a massive skeletal hand peeking out from a huge boulder. And three people stood around him. One, a huge man who looked like he had more muscles than brains, grabbed his toppled chair and pulled him upright to face the other two. The other man looked ordinary to the sweeper. He was of average height, a little pudgy, and had no remarkable features.

The final figure was a woman, and even though William could barely see, she was striking. One icy eye glowered at him through knife-sharp, night-black elven features. The other one was hidden behind a huge hat brim, and when she turned to address him, her crimson coat flowed around her like a river of blood.

“William Martel Jacobson. Age thirty-five. Residence: Third floor, Unit C, Eighth Street, Outer District, Scara City. Second shift sanitation in Scara City. Parents deceased, seven and three years ago. Two brothers, one sister, not in contact. One ex-wife, divorced for reasons of financial instability due to alcoholism. One twelve year-old son, James William Jacobson. Support given erratically and in small amounts. Contact nearly non-existent.”

Sweat popped out of pores all over William’s close-shaven head. How did this woman know so much about him and his family? What was going on?

“Lady…”

“William Martel Jacobson. Do you have any idea why you’re here?”

William dug deep into his liquor-soaked brain. Why would one of the dark knife-ears be beating him up? “That airship conspiracy I passed along to your government? Lady, I just found out about it, I didn –“

“Right reason. Wrong side.” Her tone stopped her captive’s words cold. “What you learned was none of your business, but if you’d simply let it go, gone about your labors, and forgotten about it, you would have slipped beneath our notice. Instead, you assaulted a man for the evidence, left him for dead, and tried to alert the Alerian government.” She held up the papers in a gloved hand, the plans he’d taken from the man’s body and the letter he’d scrawled to let them know how to reward him.

William coughed, fighting not to vomit as his stomach sank. The woman’s face curled in disgust as his breath hit her and stepped soundlessly back.

“Lissen, lady, I was stupid, it was wrong, but you got the letter, the guy’ll reco- AAGH!”

A whip cracked across his face, stinging brutally, and the woman coiled it back up while William tried to breathe, agonized tears running down his face.

“I abhor violence, William Martel Jacobson. The world would be a better place without it. We’re thieves, my people and I, which explains this… how did you put it? This plot. As a thief, I have very strict rules to ensure that no one gets hurt and there’s no unnecessary bloodshed. The first rule states that if you hurt or kill one of my people, we are at war. You nearly killed one of my people, Mr. Jacobson. You might not have known who I am, or that he was one of mine, or even what you were doing.”

Her cold eyes sliced through him, and her hand clenched on the grip of her whip, but she did not strike out at him again.

“Come, Lore. There is much to do and we’re wasting time.” She turned toward the cave entrance, coat rustling softly.

Panic rushed through William’s blood, and he fought against his bonds hard enough to nearly topple his chair again. “Wait! Stop, you black-blooded whore! You stay the fuck away from my family! You stay the fuck away from my son!”

The elf turned her head a little to glance at him over her shoulder, throwing a curly black lock into place with lethal grace. “I have no interest in your spawn, rivvil. He doesn’t know anything. Vim.” She turned to the entrance once more.

“Sing our guest a lullaby.” The elf started walking away once more.

“And then?” An unmerciful baritone sounded from behind William; the burly man from earlier who had set him upright once more.

“And then help him start a garden.”

She left with the unremarkable man, and the burly one got to work. In a deep cave many miles from civilization, William’s terrified screams for help fell only on the ears of rabbits and birds.