DIRTY CASH (MONEY TALKS)

When In Doubt

Filed under Case File Twelve. Nathaniel Harrow, Inquiry-Agent to the Guilded Crown.

He was there. At the gate, just as I had known in my bones he would be.

The storm had carved a circle about Ludgate. Rain fell everywhere else, but within that circle, the stones were dry. He stood at the center, sword planted in the earth, helm bowed as though listening to voices no man could hear. Lightning crawled across the sky, yet none of it struck him. It was as though he called it down only to dismiss it, a judge weighing a case already decided.

I spoke my warrant. My words quavered, yet I forced them into the air. “Grathok, I come as sworn agent of the Crown. I come to end your work.”

He did not answer. The silence deepened. It pressed into my chest until I thought my ribs would splinter. Then he raised his helm. Slowly, as though unveiling the inevitable, his visor lifted toward me. There was no face within. Only depth. Only night, shaped like a gate, waiting to be opened.

My knees faltered. I confess it without shame. Every step toward him felt like descending into a sea where breath cannot follow. Still I advanced. The thirteenth bell rang. My ears bled at the sound, though Dray, who stood behind me, swore he heard nothing.

The lightning revealed more than stone and storm. For an instant, the air was written upon. Words formed in fire above the gate, and though I could not read them, I understood them. They said: You are late.

I drew my pistol. I aimed it at his helm. He inclined his head as though in greeting, not defense. I fired. The shot rang, sparks upon armor. The bullet fell flat at his feet, as though the metal had swallowed its purpose.

And then the truth came. My coat pocket stirred. I drew forth the envelope that had appeared there days ago, the one I had sworn to burn. It was sealed shut though I had left it open. When I broke it, the page within bore no words in ink. Instead the letters were carved into the parchment itself: Harrow, stop me.

I knew then. The hand that had written those words was the same gauntleted hand that stood before me. My patron and my quarry were one. Grathok had hired me, not to destroy him, but to bring me to this place, to this hour.

He raised his blade. He did not strike. He simply pointed it toward me, as though inviting me to step into the void within his visor.

The bells tolled again, a fourteenth stroke never heard in London before. And I understood: this was no hunt. This was an inheritance.

If I do not return from this night, let it be known that Nathaniel Harrow understood, too late, that the quarry had chosen the hunter. That the gate does not open for those who seek it, but for those who are summoned.

—Nathaniel Harrow

Chapter XIV: Statement for the Record

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