Inside his massive overly book filled study, the weird ugly Fae shrugged his shoulders. “I believe off-worlders call it, a quest.”

  “What do you call it?”

  “A snowball’s chance in a dragon’s throat.” When he saw the confused, worried expressions, he blathered, “I mean, uh, hope?”

  “Finally,” exclaimed Bodi. “This is exactly what I want to do. Questing. Fighting. Quipping. Maybe even,” and here he paused carefully, “not caring about anyone but my party members.”

  He clapped his big hands together like a very small child. “Eeeee. This is great. So, I let her go and we prep and meet tomorrow?”

  Nettle quickly outlined the basic needs of their trip, and when and where to meet him in the morning. Bodi freed Laural. With a price likely on her head, she would show up. But she wondered why he would trust her to return in the morning. Did he know? Maybe the Fae was actually really stupid. It wouldn’t matter until they left the walls. Then she could strand them without the horses, if she could stomach it.

  First, she’d see how far this mess could take her.

  #

  The city’s recent plague of a romance off-worlder had evidence everywhere. Everything smells of roses or cherry blossoms. Men could only be scented as sandalwood, which reminded her of toe fungus, and women only strawberries, which was weird because she’d never met any woman that smelling like strawberries when it wasn’t their soap. People held hands more often, and generally the violence had been turned down to fisticuff and duels. All her horses cleaned their coat helpfully so they all gleamed and never would roll in dirt. They smelled only of hair, manure forgotten. It was nice to skip mucking though. When a small shower rained in the early morning, umbrellas mythologically found way everywhere, but only ever one per two people. They disappeared after the rain faster than puddles.

  Everyone, well all the NPC’s (negatable in popular content), knew the fact that off-worlders of any kind had an impact by their proximity. Every once in a while, a new flavor profile entered the world, or an old one came back. But generally, everyone knew the overall style they got into. PC’s, playing characters, tended to run towards action while MC’s, main characters, often reshaped the world more aggressively. Literary or gaming, nobody could be sure with off-worlders. You had to stay out of their way or accept the world refitting itself for them. It could be hard to keep track of, but the sheer danger to your life meant everyone knew of or about them and it was a frequent discussion topic of how to handle them. Which things were just cult information and what things were or weren’t real. A few got upset when they considered an ever shifting world of overpowered men and women, but then near as she could tell Earth a common other world, seemed to shift more than her planet ever had. Cultist existed who called it “World Bleed”. Their general policy was if they could make this world exactly like the others, nobody would visit anymore and our world could be PC or MC free. Nobody much believed them though because they also kept swearing, they knew the greats song of all time had the lyrics, “Galileo, Galileo, Figaro” if only they could remember the rest of it.

  On her way there, she noticed even her new “Wanted dead or alive posters.” Got a little cheerier and cheeky. They’d been redone in crisp white and she’d been prettified. Hopefully, nobody saw those. She hurried on.

  She resolutely told herself if she saw anyone extra, extra beautiful or handsome you run the other way. Being a love interest had to be the worst role ever assigned to a woman who cared about animals. You never got to spend time with your horses without mooning about a man during it.

  She took quick track of all her fourteen horses on lead. Sleepnir, being himself, she rode for safety. She had herself loaded plus the horses and ready to go outside the appropriate Fae heroin chic house at five AM. The nanny bear pulled out a brand-new looking cart wooden open backed buckboard. Couldn’t afford a hackney cab, could he? Trust a Fae to make his bear get everything ready on the streets while he slept in. The big horse, Dusterian, she hooked to the back of the provided Fae cart. Beside two matched buckskins, she hooked up Pair white with no hair on stomach and Par a big sorrel, reddish-brown, but did not attach them into the harnesses for the cart.

  She instead picked The Quad. Four identical horses. Nobody was sure if they were clones, two sets of twins, or a horse mysteriously, impossibly, birthed a quadruplet of foals. Maybe a quest item abandoned by an MC. They worked mostly cart and packing, but in a pinch, they can be ridden. But they’re not as friendly in the saddle. Perfectly colored together all dappled grays, matching, although their markings do appear change on occasion. The Quad are all mares. All the mares names are Tire, Tyre, Tyra, and Tyer. Four tires. But each tire is different. There is front right Tire, front left Tyre, back right Tyra, and back left Tyer. Laural never ever put them in the wrong harnesses.

  She acquainted herself with the six new to her horses and found herself surprised at how critical her horsepower would be. This Fae didn’t know how many horses he’d need. A long journey like this would need horse swaps so having twenty horses plus the risk of feeding would be considered lightweight. Six never would have done it unless everyone road in the carriage.

  The bear loaded gear. Once all the horses were ready. Nettle strode out of his strange many branches home. She had to blink four times to make sure she’d not made him up. Instead of wearing the ridiculous silks, this time he wore simple cotton spun tan pants, with a slight sheen of magical water resistance. A blue pullover shirt with a wider neck and a bottom edge that hung down baggy and out of fashion beyond his hips. And the finest boots she’d ever laid eyes on. A masterwork leather article that had been polished days ago stopped just below his knees. Every toggle perfectly aligned and she couldn’t tell just by looking at some spells, but she suspected a spell on it. Despite his size, the shine on the rounded boot toe practically led the way. All these colors and simpler adornments fit him much better. He’d tied back his hair just passed his shoulders in a single black ribbon, that she desperately wanted to make a bow out of. The yellow white locks looked to have been brushed down and washed. The new clothing fit his lanky body in a comfortable familiar way. And the leather on the boots made a gently, friendly creak as he walked.

  He smelled ever so faintly of autumn leaves and moss. He was still ugly. His chin, ears, and nose angled every which way, but now a confident happy craftsman along with his negative features. After a hug to the bear, she growled softly, “Please, travel safe. I might get fired if you die.”

  “I’ve left instructions!” He moved stiffly away. “You’ll be retained in your position.”

  She didn’t hide the flash of skepticism but then shrugged.

  “Good-bye, Nettle.”

  “Good-bye!”

  He swung up onto one of the six not her horses with shocking skill. Most Fae didn’t ride. They had carriages and rickshaws for silly things like transportation within the city. And she’d not heard any stories of them making items.

  Behind them, the door snicked shut. Just them. Alone. Nobody else. They both sat there. On their horses, awkwardly. Two enemy species, not ready to go because they were missing a crucial link

  The Fae squinted into the sky. After packing, it was now seven. “Do you know where the orc went?”

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “I don’t guard your guard.”

  “Right,” he stammered, seeming more like a lost student than a very hateful immortal, “but you surely know where he lives?”

  She shook her head. “He’d not from here and I don’t know where he stays.”

  “We did say seven?” He asked her.

  She was already regretting her choices to not go to prison. “Yes, we said seven! Stop asking me things.”

  His face clouded, “Right.”

  Neither of them spoke or moved. Both mounted horses shifted around ready to get moving in the warm sunshine. It stank of roses, like someone farted every flower in a thirty-foot square radius. Being forced to wait for an orc that both of them had forgotten the name of and would feel strange asking for because they were now going on this big long trip together sucked.

  By the time the orc arrived at eight, they’d both dismounted and Fae lay in the back of the buckboard fanning himself and Laural had extensively conversed with every horse available but said no other words to the Fae. She sat with Sleepnir speaking softly to the horse that whickered back occasionally.

  The orc arrived at last, knuckling sleep out of his eyes. He wore the exact same ugly blue top and red pants. Even world flavor couldn’t manage to make his shirt unwrinkled and the slight bit of mud on the pant leg disappear. Same heavy boots not at all acceptable for riding.

  “Where have you been?” demanded Laural before Nettle could clamber out of the cart.

  “Uh, sleeping?” he frowned. “You said we’re leaving at seven. It’s seven. I’m here.”

  “It’s eight!” She snapped. “We’re already behind and haven’t moved a single step. Traffic over the bridge is going to be terrible now.”

  “It’s seven,” insisted the larger orc.

  “You great hulking idiot can’t tell time!”

  “Mini-me can’t tell time!” He snapped back.

  “Are you using outside time or Adville time?”

  They both turned to watch the Fae stumble catch himself on the wagon wheel then blush.

  “There’s an Adville time? The city itself has a time?”

  “I can’t even explain this to you.” Laural jumped onto Sleepnir. “Are we going to get on the road or argue?”

  “We can do both!” insisted Bodi. “I’ll ride and complain.”

  “No way!” Laural frowned. “I have to ride, for the horses. Nettle can drive the horses.”

  Already having lost control of his group, Nettle simply shook his head. “I’ve no bloody idea how to do that. Don’t orc’s know that kind of thing?”

  “No!” Both Laural and Bodi shouted.

  “You can learn. I‘m paying you a lot.”

  Bodi climbed onto the buckboard and picked up the reins. “If a tiny elf can do it, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  #

  Another day, another death. Kriti Reddy adjusted her headscarf. Blue birds on a pink silk fabric. It matched her royal blue smock. Chosen for the irony. It’d been a very busy morning. She was heading home for the afternoon in her lovely town of Adville. A romance off-worlder had flavored the place which allowed many unique opportunities for her to ply her trade. The triple crown of murders for an assassin, royalty, immortal, and an unusual species. That ooze wouldn’t even show the needle stab when its body disintegrated five days from now. She’d also bagged a bonus cheap death of a guard who’s death would mimic perfectly a raging case of syphilis. His wife and family would do the covering up for her. Cheap, but rewarding in its own way.

  Her husband didn’t know about the occupation, but he was quite gay and never told her. She figured it made them even. Her killing sprees were perfectly safe so long as nobody put money on your head. He’d always been an ideal partner, including his various flaws. And his food, she could die happy in that restraint. The Naan alone would be worth it.

  She’d come into the closed at noon eatery, taking a big deep breathe of the spices. Now she could be home and rest, let out her hair. She went behind the bar and through the kitchen up the back stairs. They had their living quarters above and from there she could plan to pick up her payments.

  She pushed open their bedroom door, asking, “Why aren’t you on dinner prep?”

  But the answer came first with the familiar tang of blood. Oh no.

  Laying on the ground, throat opened, her dearest husband had a blade sticking out of him. It was very melodramatic. Lit by the window with blinds pulled down but open. Letting in slanting light so dim that she had to squint to see the written in blood note. Across her favorite wheat fan wall paper.

  Krit.

  As if she’d stoop to using a kitchen knife. Or that she would kill such a useful man. Her husband lay there his eyes open, and she toyed with the idea of getting rid of the body. If needed it was possible, but that would be so messy. Plus, then how would she find who set her up?

  Tutting at the mess made across the room, she went to her desk and inspected the note. Her framers really wanted it to be obvious.

  In forced handwriting, it simply said, “My whore wife did this. Avenge me.”

  She winced. Amateurish. He never called her a whore. Could they be this bad and know her identity? For now, it might take time. Rushing off could only be the act of fools. If someone came for her and didn’t know, well they’d made a dangerous mistake.

  It took no time to ransack her room collecting her clothing, that old crossbow she couldn’t part with, and various poisons. Leaving here would be the wisest choice. Perhaps this offer gave her freedom to embrace her real self. She moved over the blood loath to get her shoeprints or the clothing in the subpar presentation. Loaded up she went down the stairs, casting only one glance behind her to wonder just who could have made such a poor display.

  She stepped out onto the streets, trying to think several moves ahead. If she went to the guild, anyone who knew about her lifestyle would go right there. On the other hand, any family members or other djinn would give her away too. The city didn’t have a huge scope for her to work with. She headed towards the market, wondering if she had time to visits her lab or if it might be booby trapped. This perfectly pleasant day had been ruined by poor workmanship! And the Naan. She didn’t consider herself cold, but the man could be replaced. His cooking couldn’t be. Not anyone that she knew of anyway.

  Luckily opportunity might present itself and then she’d have no problem moving on. Kriti Reddy hefted her too heavy sack. Wouldn’t be nice to have a cart with four horses?

  As she walked, a loud clattering of hooves on stone reached her. She politely stepped off the main area, and watched with mild interest as a cart, driven by a wildly failing orc clattered by. Behind it a whole string of horses lead by an elf, and on the worst horse of all and definitely quite behind, road a red faced Fae. She’d never had the chance to kill a Fae before. And that one she knew was on one of the lists. Better go see if opportunity might fall into her lap.

  She followed them to the crash sight. The orc rammed the cart into a very angry cabbage salesman. All four horses thrashed and panted.

  The orc flapped the reins at the trapped angry animals. “They’re bad at this!”

  “Stop, stop,” the elf swung down, “I was trying to help you!”

  The left loose dark colored horse the elf had left, laid its ears back and looked directly at her. That horse, she slowed down her rapid planning. A fourth kill today might be pushing it. And this situation, it had too many wrong variables. Horses tended to be unpredictable. This one glared at her headscarf, like it might try to snatch a big bite off her head. Her headscarf moved uncomfortably in no wind.

  “I can’t do it alright! We won’t even make it out of the city if I keep crashing and taking the wrong turns.” The orc threw away the lines in disgust. “You’re the only one that can, Laural.”

  The elf shook her head. “I can’t.” She shifted uncomfortably. “My horses aren’t all good in the city.”

  As if to help her point along, the horse she’d left stomped its hooves aggressively, locking its eyes on Kriti. Laural threw herself back over grabbing the horses and rubbing at it’s nose.

  Still on his lathered short horse, the Fae glanced down and asked. “Excuse me. Are you leaving the city?”

  Her target. Rich bonus. But also, useful as a way out. She’d wished for the horses and cart, not more work. And all work with no play makes an assassin ever so boring.

  “I might be. Why do you ask?”

  “You smell like excellent Naan. I suspect none of us know how to cook and I’ve realized we probably really need a cook and cart driver.”

  The elf glanced at her making a face. “I don’t think you can drive a cart.”

  Interesting, the elf didn’t want her along probably because she could control most of the horses and dump the guys at will. That would ruin her prize purse. She didn’t carry around dead bodies outside of her noob phases.

  “Can’t everyone drive a cart?” She’d learned when traveling with her husband to Adville to start his life as an entrepreneur. And no, not everyone knows how to Gah and Hee, or Gee and Haw? It had been awhile ago now.

  “You can’t just hire anyone off the streets?” insisted the orc. “She needed vetted.”

  “Why not? Her sack clearly has her life stashed in there. And anyway, you can’t stop me. I have all the money. I’m sorry. Madam, could I have your name? Then I’d like to offer you a job starting right now.”

  “It’s Kriti Reddy.” She gave him a pleasant smile as they haggled over her fees for a long-term trip. Fortune had smiled on her before, but never so quickly. There would be plenty of chances in her future. Getting away for a bit first, sounded more comfortable due to the unprecedented murder of someone she hadn’t killed. Very unpleasant that scene. So sloppy. She could do better.