The iron tang of his split lip had long since been drowned out by the oily, stinging fire of the grog. Barison Veril sat slumped in the corner of his cramped quarters, his aching leg extended like a piece of deadwood. He had entertained the fleeting, noble ambition of seeking a bath to scrub the Garden District’s filth from his skin, but the bottle had proven a far more persuasive companion. The room swam in a gentle, rhythmic haze, the rough-hewn timber walls swaying like the mast of a ship in a calm sea.

"Barison Veril, you have been called on for assistance in a matter of the utmost urgency."

The voice was dry, devoid of any warmth that usually characterized human interaction. Barison blinked, his vision slowly resolving the intruder into a lean, hard-eyed man standing in the threshold. Behind him, more shadows shifted, armored shapes that blocked the light from the hallway.

Barison offered a sloppy, magnanimous wave. "Ah, brothers. You’ve come at a most... precarious time." He squinted, trying to count the men. One, two, three... or was it four? The numbers slipped through his mind like wet fish. He let out a soft, bubbling chuckle. "I'm afraid, my brothers, I just can't be bothered today, for you see, I am completely occupied." He gestured vaguely at the empty air, having already forgotten what he was counting.

"So you are Barison Veril?" one of the guards asked, stepping into the room.

Barison squinted at him, shrugging his lopsided shoulders. He attempted another swig from his bottle to punctuate his indifference, but his lips met only air. He looked down, confused, finding his hand empty. The bottle was gone. With a sigh of profound loss, he began to suck the residual moisture from his fingers.

"What was the question?" Barison asked, his voice thick.

"This is Barison. What trouble has he gotten into this time?"

The new voice was like a bucket of cold river water. Sister Syril stood at the door, her skin sun-browned and mapped with the hard lines of a woman who had spent her life wrestling with both the soil and the stubborn souls of Marchand. She looked at Barison with a familiar, weary disgust.

The lead guard didn't look at her. "He is needed on urgent business. Lord Hoff has requested his immediate audience and has stressed that we do not have time for the regular papers."

Syril’s eyes flickered to the guard, then back to Barison. There was a brief, unspoken moment of understanding between the woman of the cloth and the man of the sword, a recognition of a coming storm. She turned to leave, but paused, a fleeting shadow of sadness crossing her face. She nodded once at Barison.

"Barison, I will handle your charges until your return," she said. "Report back when you are able and we will, "

"Sister Syril!" Barison interrupted, his voice rising in a sudden, drunken panic. "I must insist that I handle the Dorishmire rugs personally. It would not do for me to break a covenant such as that in the eyes of God. A man’s word is his temple, and those rugs... they are the foundation!"

Syril departed without a word, her footsteps echoing a finality that made the hair on Barison’s neck prickle.

"Lord Barison, you will accompany us now," the guard stated, his voice tightening. "Your audience has been requested, and we have already wasted much time tracking you down."

Barison tried to wave them off, a half-formed joke about the quality of their boots on his tongue, but the humor died as two pairs of iron-clad hands gripped his arms. They hoisted him up with a jarring force that sent a spike of white-hot pain through his injured thigh. As they dragged him toward the door, he saw his grog bottle clutched in the hand of a trailing soldier.

"Brothers, I see that you are all blessed with the gift of purpose," Barison wheezed, trying to find his footing as they hauled him into the hallway. "And I can't help but wonder how I can assist such fine specimens of, "

The blow came without warning. A gauntleted fist buried itself in Barison’s midsection. The world turned inside out. He was instantly doubled over, his knees hitting the floor as a torrent of acidic grog and bile erupted from his throat. He retched until his lungs burned, his face inches from the stone.

"Move," a voice growled.

They dragged him out of his quarters and into the street. Barison feebly wiped a smear of vomit from his chin. He caught a glimpse of his neighbor, Dreben, peeking through a cracked shutter, but the man’s face vanished the moment their eyes met.

The afternoon air was biting, a cold wind cutting through the humidity of the city. It brought an unwelcome hint of sobriety to Barison’s mind. He managed to wrench his arms free for a moment, straightening his ruined coat with a trembling hand.

"I do believe a point of order has been breached with your invitation," Barison said, his voice regaining some of its merchant’s edge. "Where is the seal? I see no parchment from Lord Brock. He handles judicial procedures, does he not? I am a citizen of standing, however muddy that standing may currently be."

The guard in front, a man with a scar running through his eyebrow, didn't turn around. "Well, Lord Brock isn't in charge of enforcement, is he? Besides, you haven't been charged with anything."

Barison let out a sharp, sarcastic bark of a laugh. "Ah, of course! I am rendering aid on a voluntary basis. Why didn't you tell me? I would have dressed for the occasion. Perhaps a nice silk waistcoat to match my bruises."

They walked in a tight, suffocating formation through the mid-afternoon market. The air here was a cacophony of sound and stench, the screams of hawkers, the lowing of livestock, and the heavy, cloying scent of overripe fruit and unwashed wool. The guards kept him close, their shoulders acting as a wall that prevented Barison from catching the eye of any passing merchant or calling out to the few friends he had left. To the world, he was just another drunk being escorted to a cell.

"So," Barison said, his head beginning to throb in earnest. "Who has requested my assistance on God’s most blessed day?"

"Lord Hoff," the guard spat.

Barison feigned a look of wide-eyed humility. "Lord Hoff? Whatever could a man of such stature want with a humble furrier? Is it the winter collection? I have a set of mink pelts taken from King Casam’s own palace in the North. Soft as a maiden's sigh and twice as, "

"You talk too damn much," a guard growled, raising a hand.

"Enough," the leader said. He turned his head slightly, revealing a face as hard as the city walls. "Cain, shut up. And you, Lord Barison... I grow tired of your endless chatter. Kindly shut up for the duration. When Lord Hoff requests something, you snap to it. Understand?"

Barison weighed the possibility of a third beating against the itch in his throat. He offered a shallow, mocking bow. "I look forward to assisting in the humble duties of Governance," he whispered.

As they approached the palace district, the atmosphere of the city shifted with a terrifying suddenness. The noise of the market faded, replaced by an eerie, unnatural silence. Usually, this area was the heart of Marchand’s industry, a place of constant motion. But today, the carts were gone. The pedestrians had vanished. Even the great metalworking shop, which usually filled the air with rhythmic bellows and the scream of iron on stone, was deathly still.

The guards’ formation loosened instinctively as they entered the shadow of the palace walls. Barison looked around, his heart beginning to drum a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The shopfronts were empty, their windows dark and vacant like the eyes of a skull. A heavy oak door to a grain merchant’s warehouse hung open, swinging slowly on a single hinge with a mournful, rhythmic creak.

"Brother," Barison whispered, his voice trembling. "What has happened here?"

The guards didn't answer. Their eyes were fixed forward, their hands white-knuckled on the hilts of their swords.

They crossed into the inner grounds, a space usually manicured to perfection. But near a stagnant puddle of dark, brackish water, a pack of wild dogs had gathered. They were mangy, rib-thin creatures, their fur matted with filth. As the group passed, one of the curs looked up. It didn't bark. It simply watched them, its lips pulled back to reveal red, glistening teeth that seemed to glow in the fading light. The image burned into Barison’s mind, a jagged mark of gore in a city that had suddenly forgotten how to breathe.