"Enough bonding. If we’re doing this, we need to plan. Greta’s information gives us a location and a rough timeframe, but we don’t know the security arrangements, the layout of the facility, or how many people will be attending this meeting."
"I can help with some of that." Vael lowered herself back onto the bed, her burst of energy already fading. "The guards at the Hollows talked. They thought I was too broken to pay attention, but I was listening. Always listening. They mentioned names. Ranks. Organizational structures."
"Write down everything you remember. Every detail, no matter how small."
"I will. But first..." She looked at Sera, something vulnerable flickering across her face. "Could you stay? Just for a little while?"
Sera’s expression softened in a way Nacho had never seen before. All the iron and steel melting away to reveal something tender underneath.
"I’m not going anywhere."
"I’ll give you some privacy," Nacho said, already moving toward the door. "Going to check in with Greta, see if she has any more useful information about the area. Maybe scout some possible routes."
Sera nodded without looking away from Vael. "Be careful. The Consortium knows we’re in the region."
"Careful is my middle name."
"Your middle name is probably something ridiculous like ’Danger’ or ’Storm.’"
"It’s actually Kenneth. But that’s a secret I’ll take to my grave."
He slipped out the door before either of them could respond, the sound of their quiet laughter following him down the stairs.
The village was called Thornbury, and it was exactly the kind of place that existed because someone had to live there.
A collection of maybe forty buildings clustered around a single muddy street, serving as a waystation for travelers moving through the mountain passes. The architecture was functional to the point of ugliness, all rough-cut stone and timber frames and roofs that looked like they leaked whenever it rained.
Nacho walked through the morning crowd, his senses extended to their maximum range. His Mind Fortress skimmed across the surface thoughts of everyone he passed, cataloguing the flow of information like a fisherman sorting through a net.
—need to patch the roof before winter—
—can’t believe the price of salt these days—
—strange visitors at the tavern, wonder what their story is—
—husband’s been drinking again, might have to talk to the priest—
Normal concerns. Normal lives. People who had no idea that the world might be ending in less than two months.
He found Greta in her bathhouse, scrubbing down tiles that already looked clean. She didn’t look up when he entered, just kept working with the steady rhythm of someone who’d learned that keeping busy was better than thinking too hard.
"Come to pump me for more information?"
"Something like that. Also wanted to thank you for the warning about the notice."
"Don’t thank me yet. Information like that isn’t free." She straightened, dropping her brush into a bucket of soapy water. "What I told you earlier, about the meeting, I wasn’t doing it out of the kindness of my heart."
"I figured. What do you want in return?"
"The Consortium has a man in this village. His name is Reeve. Runs the general store on the north end of the street." Her jaw tightened. "He’s the one who gave them the information that led to my husband’s death. Told them he was planning to refuse their demands before he even had a chance to make his decision."
"You want me to kill him."
"I want him to face consequences. What form those consequences take is up to you."
Nacho considered this. His old self, the debt collector from another world, would have understood the request perfectly. Would have carried it out without hesitation, because that’s what you did when someone crossed lines that shouldn’t be crossed.
But he wasn’t that person anymore. Or at least, he was trying not to be.
"What if I offered you something different?"
Greta’s eyes narrowed. "Different how?"
"Information for information. You tell me everything you know about the Consortium’s operations in this region, every detail you’ve picked up over the years. In exchange, I don’t kill Reeve. Instead, I make sure he knows that someone knows what he did. That he’ll spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop."
"That’s not justice."
"No. It’s something worse. Justice ends. Fear doesn’t." He met her eyes, letting her see something of what he was underneath the pleasant exterior. "I’ve spent time around people like Reeve. They’re cowards at heart. The kind who sell out their neighbors because it’s easier than standing up for what’s right. Death would be a mercy for someone like that. But knowing that someone out there knows their secret, that any day could be the day they face consequences... that’s a prison without walls."
Greta was quiet for a long moment, her expression unreadable.
"You’re not what I expected."
"Most people say that. Usually right before or right after I do something weird with my tentacles."
A surprised laugh escaped her, harsh and genuine.
"Fine. Your way. But if he ever does something like that again, if he gets someone else killed with his cowardice, I want to know about it."
"Fair enough."
She nodded, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. Then she gestured for him to follow her into the back room of the bathhouse, where a small desk sat buried under piles of paper.
"My husband kept records. Names, dates, shipments moving through the area. After he died, I went through everything, trying to understand what he’d gotten himself involved in." She pulled a leather-bound journal from the bottom of a stack. "This is what I found."
Nacho took the journal and began to flip through it. The handwriting was cramped and utilitarian, more concerned with accuracy than legibility. Dates stretched back almost a decade, documenting the Consortium’s gradual expansion into the region.
Supply convoy, 3rd of Autumn, 47 crates marked "agricultural equipment." Actual contents: weapons.