The Sanitation Department office was surprisingly empty today. Most of the desks are empty, rarely the people of this department are seen working, outside.
Crawler sat behind his desk, a small man lost in a too-large chair, sleeves rolled, eyes dull, appeared to be a bit heartbroken as he had to sign a bill of 50 Darics to Tryn.
Tryn waited, hat in hand.
"You've settled the Pinewood House invoice," Crawler said without looking up.
"Submitted all the vouchers, to Ms. Drew's Table" Tryn looked at the papers he left on a wooden small table pressed by a glass square. "Though she is not here to receive it."
Crawler nodded. "You will be informed if there are any issues with the paper."
"Certainly." Tryn looked at Abenizer's table, empty as well. "I guess all took an early weekend today."
"You talk too much Tryn" Crawler growled.
"When you can't talk about the work you do all day, all the repressed interest of human communication bursts with unnecessary small talk." Tryn nodded.
Crawler's gaze sharpened. "Keep it that way. Especially about your work yesterday. I appreciate your services but the city's nervous enough—Hubre Abbey already stirred panic. I don't want whispers of resurrection rituals spreading."
"Client confidentiality," Tryn said. "Always."
"Good. And if anyone asks why you were at Pinewood Street, you were collecting mold samples. Clear?"
"Crystal."
Tryn tipped his hat and walked out, the scent of bureaucracy clinging to his coat.
The afternoon air was crisp, the Thames alive with hammer strikes from the half-built bridge clawing its way across the river. Tryn paused on the embankment, watching sunlight fracture on steel beams.
Tryn likes to watch sun-set on the Thames, soon he realizes to be industrialized.
He stood a while longer, then turned back toward the maze of Rockshire. The city stretched and grew like something alive, devouring its own shadow. And he is trying to print this amazing view in his memory as when this magnificent yellow waves will hide behind the steel bars, he can reminisce about it.
By evening he reached home—an old war-era shelter turned alchemist's den. Charred sigils still scarred the stone walls, but the place suited him: quiet, forgotten.
He lit the lamp. The cluttered front table was chaos—glass tubes, scribbled notes, half-melted candles—and in the center sat the vial.
Half full. Transparent as water. Serum of Pink Wisehysteria.
He threw the letter he collected from the doorstep on his way in. It's a letter from the Butcher family, as suggested by the sigil, a red cow in wax. He does not have enough time for this today.
He packed the vial into his satchel and stepped into the street.
"To Monktown Pub," he told the driver. The carriage rattled away through lamplit mist.
Monktown was the city's underbelly—where monks once prayed and drunks now shouted. The carriage stopped at a squat brick tavern with a flickering sign: The Monktown Pub
Inside, heat and noise hit like a wave—laughter, rum, the scrape of boots. Tryn slipped between tables, coat brushing against miners, gamblers, artificers. Civilization at its loudest.
Infront of the bar stood Abneizer Dfoul—keeping a vigilant eye to the pub, waiters, bars, and especially fights.
"Expected to find you here," Tryn called.
"I expected to find you here, my friend," Tryn said, pushing through the din of the pub.
"It is my pub, sir," Abenizer replied, his tone cool and cautious.
Tryn smiled faintly. "Had a job nearby in Monktown. Simple family business."
Abenizer's eyes narrowed. "Of what kind, if I may ask?"
"You may ask," Tryn said, pulling out a chair, "but I can't answer. Client confidentiality. And I didn't come to my friend's pub to talk about work!"
He had to shout the last words—three drunken sailors had started singing off-key in the corner, clapping their mugs together.
Abenizer's shoulders eased a little. "Yes, sir. No work talk." He raised a hand toward the bar. "Something to drink?"
"Rum Grog for me," Tryn said. "And an ale for my friend here."
"I shouldn't start drinking this early," Abenizer muttered.
"Why not? It's on me today," Tryn grinned. "You know I only come here when there's something worth celebrating—and no one in Rockshire mixes rum quite like your pub does."
Abenizer chuckled under his breath as the drinks arrived.
With a smooth flick of the wrist, hidden beneath the flicker of lamplight, Tryn uncorked the vial and let its contents slip silently into Abenizer's ale. The liquid vanished without a trace.
He raised his own mug. "To friendship," he said.
"To friendship, sir" Abenizer echoed, and they drank.
Tryn took a long pull of his cocktail, then set it down with deliberate calm. "Now then," he said softly, "tell me about the Pinewood House."
Abenizer blinked, confused. "Pinewood…?"
"There was no odor," Tryn pressed, voice low but firm. "So why was the smell such a problem? What were you really trying to erase?"
"Sir Nigel ordered it."
Tryn's pulse kicked. Sir Nigel—the Arcane Order's commander.
"Why would the Order want a sanitation job?"
Abneizer blinked, voice mechanical. "Orders came sealed. We burned all organic remains. Sealed the well. Removed… the smell."
Tryn's jaw tightened. "Who lived there?"
"I don't know. No names. Only the order."
Tryn studied him— Someone higher up had buried something—and used the Sanitation Department as the shovel.