Regency Candidate for the post of Jandor's Agricultural Concerns and former Earl of the rather expansive and southern Riverstone, Lord Harif Bryce, was not having a particularly pleasant evening.

It had, of course, not begun so unpleasantly. Only moments ago there were delightfully scantily dressed dancers, beautifully aged and matured wines from the east and posh, imported cheeses. Now, of course, in all the to to-do, the dancers were weeping inconsolably, the wine had been unnecessarily spilt and the posh, imported cheeses'¦well, actually, they seemed to have weathered the flurry of frightened activity rather well, Harif pondered as he floated insubstantially above the mess.

'You all right, dear?' The reassuring tones of an elderly woman, the sort who offered children lollies covered in whatever lived in her giant, red handbag but with the best intentions, whispered gently in Harif's ear.
'What? Oh yes, thank you.'
'You seem a little confused, Harif.'
'Confused? No, not at all. I'm merely waiting for all the hub-bub to subside before I re-take my seat.' Slightly miffed at his retainers, honestly how did this woman get so close to me as to whisper in my very ear, Harif patiently folded his arms.
'I'm sorry Harif, but it's time to leave, son.' The elderly woman softly patted Harif's shoulder. They always denied it at first.
'Time to leave?! I should think not! If you will excuse me,' Harif made to motion the woman to the door.
'Harif, dear, do look at your hand for a moment,' said the elderly woman in tones of one enlightened of a situation and patiently waiting for the penny to drop for everyone else.
'Look at my ' honestly!' Merely to placate the woman, Harif raised his hand to his face and wiggled his fingers. 'You see? You can see straight through my hand, now will you leave me ' Oh Gods! YOU CAN SEE STRAIGHT THROUGH THEM!'
The elderly woman smiled and nodded her head.
'Does this mean I'm'¦'
'Yes, dear.'
'And I shan't be able to'¦'
'I'm afraid not, no.'
'Oh.'
'Off we go, then.'

**

A great wave of people swelled and ebbed against the new Regency Chambers' gates, their collective 'oohs' and 'ahhs' forcing those at the rear to impatiently ram against the main body of the crowd in fear they were missing out on something. Those at the front would, naturally, retaliate by unnecessarily ramming back against the hundreds of bodies and so a giant, murmuring, sweating wave of dirty bodies rose and fell like fetid waters over sand. Snippets of conversations could be heard rising above the wave, most of them whispered conspiratorially, but the comments that stood out were as follows.
''¦nah, nah, there's no way anybody'd have the bottle to take out a Candidate, not even the Corckrans. E's prob'ly just choked on a bit'a pheasant, is all,' stated an unnamed, sweaty blacksmith still wearing his tell-tale leather apron.
'I'm telling ya, Cron, the Guard's are sayin' 'e was murdered!' Came the reply from the sweaty blacksmith's compatriot. 'Caught a bolt right between the eyes,' he gestured accordingly.

Self-importantly strutting down the length of the Regency Chambers' long and expensively paved driveway, Lord Porter Housen, official spokesman and Commander of the Jandoran Constabulary, attempted to hush the crowd.
'Ladies and Gentlemen! It is my honour to approach Branke's fair citizens, to impart upon them this most dire of news ' Jorry, hush them up will you? I need awe-filled silence for the dramatics of my speech to come off right.' Ostentatiously setting his horse-hair wig in the centre of his head, Lord Housen impatiently waited for his silence.
'Right you lot! The lot'v'ya! Oi! SHUTUP! Bit'a shush please!?'
The crowd, having finally noticed Lord Housen's presence, dimmed their conversations to a slight hum.
'Good evening citizens of Branke!'
'Just tell us wha' 'appened!' The blacksmith again, probably.
Clearing his throat and smiling through his displeasure, this was not at all how it was supposed to go, Lord Housen continued. 'Yes, indeed do I have news of the direst sort.'

Several members of the mob made calculating glances at the gates cordoning off the Chambers. Surely it wouldn't take much to get over them and into the 'murder scene'. Reading the crowd, Housen wisely decided against lengthy, suspenseful sentences.
'Lord Harif Bryce is dead, a cross-bow bolt I'm afraid. The assassin will be found and justly dealt with,' he flourished a sorrowful bow, the dramatic 'swish' of his mourning-black cloak emphasising his last word.
At once, the crowd's slight hum reached a crescendo, everybody's voice battling to be heard. If Lord Housen had had anything to say after that, no one would have been able to tell you what it was.
'I told ya!'
'Hand'em over, all bets, all bets, hand'em over. Those odds again, Bryce four to one and the use of a cross-bow, three to one. All bets, all bets!'

In a far corner of the assembled mob, a rat of the filthy and shifty-eyed kind, nibbled inconspicuously on the laces of a well polished, possibly brand new, boot. The boot's owner casually looked down to spy the source of an irritating tug at his feet, found the filthy rat nibbling on his brand new laces, then proceeded to crush the animal's skull under his heel. The rat mess clung unpleasantly to his soles, but the man believed it a small inconvenience. He hated rats.
'Do you have what I asked for?' The menacing tones of a self-important villain caressed the man's shoulder.
'Would I be here if I didn't?'
'I would not even begin to judge your character or predict your moods, Nameless. Now, hand it over.'
Nameless mentally calculated the situation.
'Payment first, goods later.'
'I told you, in the bloody letter, that Shadowrider would fix up any monies owed within the next day or two, now hand it over!' The self-important villain bounced on the balls of his feet, part in anticipation and part due to his height - he barely reached Nameless' shoulder, a fact that irked him no end, and so was forced to bounce when he gave him dirty looks.

Now Nameless had experienced very odd, mixed feelings about this transaction. It was not normally the way he worked, nor wished to work, and only the urgency of it all had managed to get him to agree. Now that the event had finally arrived, that he had a chance to see into his employer's eyes, he was glad he'd decided not to go through with it all.
'I've arranged for the goods to be held in a secure place until I am given half the payment agreed upon. Upon receiving that amount, I will arrange another meeting for exchange and final, financial settlements. Agreed?'
'What!?' the little villain spluttered. 'No! No, not bloody agreed! I want my goods NOW!'
Nameless judged the impatience of his pint-sized business partner. 'You haven't told anyone about this job, have you, Marcus?' It wasn't a question.
'I, well of course I did! Oh yes, my father, yes, yes, my father! HE knows of our ' our ' our arrangement! Oh yes, don't you lay a hand on me!'
Casually turning his back to the rest of the crowd, Nameless quickly and efficiencly crushed the little villian's wind pipe. In a murmur of suffocation, the little man fell limp against Nameless' shoulder.
'No you didn't, you little shit.' Casually dragging the body down a side alley, Nameless emptied the man's pockets, cut off a few gold buttons and ripped off his boots. 'To think, you almost had me there. Oh, uh-uh-ah!' Pulling a poison tipped dirk from under the little man's breast plate, Nameless sent a silent prayer to his patron God of Luck. 'You would have killed me, Nancy, do you know that? Could you have lived with that?'
Nameless gathered the man's belongings in his cloak, rolled the body over so that the face would not be as noticeable from the street and left the alley. Walking past several of the city's homeless, he began to dole out the stolen items of clothing, buttons and currency as fairly as he could. His generosity was met by various 'thank yous', 'bless yous' and 'hijakrifry! Gormorra!s' as he made his way further west, toward some of the more mentally unstable homeless.

**

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