“You can’t go in there . . .”

  “Bite me!” Lowe snapped, shoving past the Wereman at the Mayor’s front desk. Then, as the words caught up with his brain, he reconsidered. “Actually, don’t. I like my flowing locks just the way they are.”

  The Wereman gave him a look. A look which suggested he’d heard every possible variation of canine-related humor and found none of them either charming or amusing. Which was probably fair. Not many people chose a Class that left them sporting a permanent set of fangs, a thick pelt, and an inconvenient urge to chase passing carts.

  Most people, when selecting their Class, went for something practical. Something that came with useful perks, a solid career path, and, crucially, didn’t make them look like they lost a drunken bet with a wizard.

  Lowe thought he could count on the fingers of one dick the number of people he knew who had willingly chosen a Class that really altered what stared back at them from the mirror. There was Old Meryl from back when he was a kid, who’d taken Stonebound Archivist and slowly turned into something that looked like a cross between a librarian and a cathedral gargoyle. Then there had been the Headmaster at his school, the late, great Edgar Vance who’d picked Serpent Adept and had to spend the last years of his life with a tongue that wouldn’t stop flicking and a tendency to coil himself around his chair when concentrating. A regrettable decision, in retrospect, especially when he dozed off in assembly.

  So, yes. People didn’t tend to go in for the kind of Class that required changes that left them unable to pass for ‘ordinary’ on a good day. People liked the idea of being monstrous more than they did the reality of it. And who could blame them? Try finding a barber who knew how to trim around spines, or a tailor who could accommodate extra limbs without sighing loudly and then charging double. This was Soar, after all.

  But Weremen? Now, they were very different indeed. In Lowe’s experience, Weremen didn’t shy away from the crazy, they properly leaned into it. They enjoyed the whole look. The claws, the fur, the predatory smirk that made people rethink casual insults. Even the name of the Class itself was a pose. Because they weren’t werewolves, at all, actually. They weren’t bound by anything as mundane as the phases of the moon or some terrible, awful ancient curses. No, there was never any tragic, poetic transformation at dusk for these guys. They were just . . . Weremen.

  Because, as it turns out, some people really would choose to be seven feet of teeth and muscle if you let them.

  And right now, one of them was rising from behind his desk, very much considering whether Lowe’s flippancy was worth a . . . professional breach of acceptable conduct.

  Lowe held up his hands, as he carried on moving toward the Mayor’s door. “Look, let’s both pretend I came up with something less stupid and you glared me into silence, yeah?”

  The Wereman - he was called Norris, Lowe remembered - grunted, which Lowe took as both forgiveness and permission to shove open the office door before he could be ordered otherwise. Latham moved to accompany him, but Lowe held a hand up.

  “No. Somehow, it seems the Temple is bound up in all of this. I think he’ll speak more freely with you out here.”

  “Fuck’s sake, little man! We’re not going to get anywhere if you keep me at arm’s length like this!”

  “Hey, if you want to feel all important, you make sure Hairy McLairy here doesn’t stop me leaving when the time comes.”

  Norris growled. “You know, that sort of comment could be considered to be discriminatory . . .”

  Lowe shut the door behind him, leaving Latham to argue the finer points of workplace banter.

  The Mayor’s office was exactly what Lowe expected—tasteful, expensive, and designed to convey authority in a way that was just this sign of the line of ‘mawkishly ostentatious.’ The Mayor himself was positioned behind a vast mahogany desk, fingers steepled, and with his perennial look of smug self-assurance. If Lowe did not know better, he’d say he was expected and this was all a careful poise.

  "Inspector Lowe," the Mayor said, not bothering to stand. “How goes your hunt? Do you have news for me?"

  "Not really. It’s been a bit of a day so far.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Oh, you know. The usual. Attempted murder. Shimmerskins. A little light torture. Gods making threats. The oncoming end of the world. That sort of thing."

  “Sounds busy.”

  “Not really. Just another day in paradise.”

  The Mayor smiled, but it had no warmth in it. "I see. And, if you are not here to announce success in the quest I set you, to which of those fine subjects do I owe your visit?"

  Lowe paused. On the way over, he and Latham had discussed how to play this. The Mayor might not exactly be Arkola-powerful, but in the grand scheme of things, he was more than powerful enough. In Soar, you didn’t need to be able to control the nature of reality in order to truly fuck someone up. Enough gold could see you through most inconveniences. They’d not been able to come up with a foolproof plan, so Lowe just did what he did best. He led with his chin. "Arkola wants its statue back. The one of the little bird you locked away in the Vault six years ago. He says you’ve got two days to come up with the goods, or ‘all contracts will be void.’ I imagine you know what that might mean."

  The Mayor didn’t so much as blink. He reached for a small silver letter opener, turning it idly between his fingers. "Is that so? I imagine it might have been quite forceful about the matter."

  "Oh, you know how these things tend to go. Plenty of divine menace. Strong implication that if I fail, everything and everyone burns in hellfire. The usual."

  "Mm. And so it would appear that you came straight to me to whinge about it. I have to say, I don’t quite understand all of the fuss. It sounds like Arkola has simply given you the same quest both I and the Warden have already placed at your feet. If I had known you’d required some extra motivation, I would been more explicit with my own threats. Time is ticking, Inspector Lowe."

  Lowe let the silence develop until the Mayor sighed theatrically and set the letter opener down. "I imagine you have some very interesting theories about how I came into possession of this particular trinket."

  "I actually don’t. But I know you put it in the Vault. Safe behind one hell of a deadman’s lock. Arkola knew you’d got it, but couldn’t do a fucking thing about it. Apparently, if it killed you and the Warden, it would never get it back."

  “‘Or,’ actually.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The deadlock, as you call it. It was set to activate if Arkola killed me or the Warden.”

  Lowe thought back to the memory Grackle Nuroon had shared with him. It was definitely ‘and’ and not ‘or’. The Mayor clearly saw the scepticism on the Lowe’s face. “That stupid little Lead Clerk fucked things up, didn’t he? Made it so the package was sealed behind a door that would permanently lock if either of us died. I tell you, Inspector, there is simply no one in this world you can trust to do their job properly. The stress that put on poor Morholt during all that unpleasantness last year.”

  For a moment, Lowe wasn’t sure what the Mayor was talking about. Then it suddenly made sense. The Black Knight murders. “The Warden was terrified what would happen to him should you have proved to have been . . . the Knight’s next target. That Arkola would completely lose its shit should the Vault be sealed.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  And that wasn’t a wholly ridiculous assumption, Lowe thought. When the great and the good had started dropping like flies, they - Lowe’s squad - had been certain the Mayor was likely to be a key target. It still baffled him that the Black Knight hadn’t ever taken his shot. Yeah, with all those falling down dead, Lowe could see how Morholt would get . . . twitchy.

  “But now the statue has been stolen and he’s equally twitchy the two of you don’t have any more collateral against Temple retribution. And he doesn’t even know about the upcoming end of the world yet.”

  "That is an incredibly simplistic way to look at things, if I may so."

  "Yeah, well, I’m feeling particularly simplistic right now."

  "Do I presume you think I did the wrong thing?" the Mayor said. “In locking it away?”

  "Not for me to say. Arkola, though? Arkola’s got all sorts of opinions about it. It’s pissed and I’m just the messenger."

  The Mayor gave a short, amused laugh. "Ah, but messengers are so much more than that, aren’t they? After all, if you are not just messenger by a Knight Errant of your own. And if you fail to locate what is missing, it won’t just be Arkola that suffers, will it? It will be Soar itself."

  “I mean, sure. I guess you can put the weight of all this on me, if you want. Although, not for nothing, the wanker who stole something valuable from a god probably had something to do with the approaching apocalypse too . . .”

  The Mayor’s smile froze in place, although the rest of his face collapsed inwards. "Tell me, Inspector,” he pretty much spat out. “What do you remember of what Soar was like, back then?"

  "Back when?"

  "Six years ago."

  Lowe was a touch thrown by what felt like a massive non-sequitur. He shrugged. "It was much the same as it is now."

  The Mayor laughed, shaking his head. "Such arrogance! And when that is coming from me, you better believe that I know of which I speak. No, Inspector, Soar was not 'much the same as it is now' six years ago. I can only presume you think that is the case because you were comfortably insulated against the realities of the world."

  That stung. Six years back... well, yes. Things had been going well in Lowe’s life. He was moving through the ranks of Cuckoo House, breaking cases and earning himself quite a reputation. Things had been going well with Arabella—he’d actually been contemplating buying a ring, hadn’t he? And, what was more, he’d never heard of the Black fucking Knight. And he didn’t know anyone who’d ever been Classtrated. All in all, it had been a much simpler time. But ‘comfortably insulated?’ That felt a touch harsh.

  The Mayor smiled, seeing the flicker of irritation cross Lowe’s face. "Well, let me tell you, Inspector, the reality for those with less advanced Classes than you were blessed with was brutal. Gods did not want anything to do with them, you see. They simply wouldn't be their patrons. Sure, for those of us with 'interesting' Classes, we were fine. Golden, in fact. We had all the thresholds rewards we might possibly ever want. But how about the humble Street Cleaners? The Care Workers? What god was interested in caring for them? None I tell you."

  Lowe tried to remember back. Had that really been the case? He was ashamed to admit that he didn’t actually know.

  "So what changed?"

  "I changed it!" The Mayor was suddenly standing, voice loud. Norris poked his snout through the door.

  "Get out!" the Mayor yelled, picking up and throwing the letter opener towards the door. “I changed it. Me! I saw what needed to be done, and I did it. For the good of Soar.”

  “How unusually . . . altruistic of you, sir.”

  “Fuck you, Inspector. Although, on reflection, I suppose you may be right. I certainly didn’t take on a god for the poor and downtrodden of Soar. There are only so many elections a man can ever win and Arkola has the longest of memories. No, I did it for everyone. Everyone who was ever forced into a Class they didn’t want. Every second son of an aristocrat that was lumbered with a ‘profession’ in order to be able to make their way in the world. Everyone with deep pockets who wasn’t as lucky as you, Inspector. You would be amazed at the number of people in Jewel Town who suddenly became very, very grateful to me.”

  Lowe took a moment to process that. "Sorry, just to be clear, you blackmailed Arkola? For gold?"

  The Mayor paused, before moving to his window and taking several deep breaths. When he turned around his expression had completely smoothed out into something far more composed. If Lowe hadn’t been there for that loss of control, he might think it had never happened. "I wouldn’t describe it as anything as crude as that. Morholt and I merely identified an opportunity and then let the Temple know that, as long pressure was put on all gods to recognise the value of patronising all Classes, I would ensure that the artefact that had . . . dropped in my lap would be kept very safe. And when that worked, as you would imagine, the gratitude from certain quarters was … most gratifying." The Mayor frowned, fingers twitching in the air as if feeling out invisible thread. “It’s so strange,” he said. “I do not seem able to get a read on you at all. Is it true what I’ve heard? That you have found a way around the restriction the Council placed on your build?”

  “Oh, is that what the tickling sensation is?” Lowe said. “You’re trying to fumble around inside my mind. I thought it was indigestion.”

  He let all the Pressure go that had been accumulating around his chest everytime the Mayor had used a mental Skill to try and probe him. In response, the Mayor went flying across the room, landing hard on his backside with a strangled wheeze.

  In seconds, though, the Mayor had struggled up onto his feet again. “Do you know what I can do to you for that! Classtrated would the least of it!”

  “Is it worse than what you’ve already threatened me with?” Lowe asked. “Or worse than what Arkola is going to do in two days if I don’t get its statue back? See, you need to be careful with that sort of threatened escalation. If you’ve already said you’re going to kill my friends and family if I don’t find this statue for you, the stakes are already pretty fucking high. So, just so we’re all nice and clear, if you try to dig around in my head again, I’m definitely going to kill you.”

  The Mayor opened his mouth and then closed it. A flush crept up his cheeks, but he didn’t say anything more.

  “Okay, now that fun little diversion is over, here are my big questions,” Lowe said. “You need to tell me what is so important about this fucking statue. Why was simply having it enough collateral for you to be able to blackmail Arkola? And why has it been stolen from the Vault? And why is that enough for the destruction of Soar to suddenly be on the table?”

  The Mayor hesitated and then dusted himself off. “They may be the big questions, Inspector. But they are not questions I know the answers to.”

  “Fuck off you don’t know!”

  “Believe me or don’t, but what I say is the truth. Obviously, I know that the statue is important to Arkola. But I do not know why.” The Mayor rubbed his chest where Lowe’s retaliatory Pressure had struck him. “I came in one morning, and there it was. Sat on my desk with a note around its neck. ‘The First Floor will do anything to regain this. Do with it what you will.’ I thought it was all a joke. I made a comment about it in passing to a Priest and, well, you would think the world came crashing down. So, I spoke to the Warden and we made our play and after Arkola came through - as soon as everyone gained a patron god - I didn’t need to know why it was, but I certainly knew how valuable that fucking statue really was. Which is why I need it back in the safekeeping in the Vault as soon as possible. And not just to avoid Arkola destroying Soar. But to keep things the way they are.”

  That wasn’t the winning argument the Mayor obviously thought it was. Things staying the same in Soar sounded fucking terrible to Lowe.

  “What Skill are you trying to use on me?” Lowe said suddenly.. “You don’t have any Mental Skills logged with the Council as far as I am aware.”

  “The amount of things of which you are not aware, Inspector, could stun a rampaging Minotaur. And I don’t think you are really in a position to talk about having access to Skills you shouldn’t . . .”

  “Fair enough. Let’s put a pin in that one. Who sent you the package containing your collateral?"

  Another sudden change of topic clearly took the Mayor by surprise. He went to answer, then stopped himself just in time.

  “Fuck’s sake, sir!” Lowe said. “I’m flattered that everyone seems to have this high opinion of my ability to recover this statue - the Warden. You. Arkola - but if I don’t get anything to go on, then Soar is going to get flattened in two days' time. It strikes me that if a thing has gone missing, then the last person who nicked it is likely to be a good first point of all. But that’s just the opinion of a fucking Cuckoo House Inspector. What do I know? Who was it, sir? Who sent you the fucking statue?”

  "The Black Knight."

  The answer was so unexpected that Lowe thought he must have misheard. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “The name on the package that I found on my desk six years ago was from someone calling himself the Black Knight. And under that message was a single line of poetry. "The king is lost, and shadows claim the board."