The street was quiet of an afternoon, as it usually was. Maybe more so, with the whisperings of the war in the air. Only a few folk were out at all, much less on the main street.
It was less of a disturbance than might have been expected, then, when the town doctor staggered out into the street, staggered under the weight of a man from whom maroon-red blood poured. A red gash on chest disgorged the heavy, sticky fluid that was now staining Dr Argo’s no-longer-sterile smock.
“Help!” she cried. “Somebody!”
But no help came. The town might as well have been deserted after all. She nearly fell to her knees as a patch of mud slipped away under her foot. It was only a hundred paces or so to her own surgery, though it felt as if it may as well have been a hundred miles to her at that moment.
Still, she struggled back upright and kept moving, knowing that she was Deputy Springfield’s best hope at life. She looked down at him, his eyes staring back at her blue and pleading. He had maybe minutes. His strong heart was beating incessantly, not understanding why each pump ebbed his strength yet further. Argo groaned and began to mutter to herself, an old mantra her mentor had once taught her, a physician’s secret.
She looked back up at the surgery. It was close now, tantalisingly close. If she called Kin, she could take over perhaps-
No. Because if she took a break then this man would die. Damn him. Why couldn’t she have had one day easy? How could this have happened to the man when the Messengers were locked up, and as docile as could be? She ascended the wooden steps to her building and yelled for Kin, for a bed, for anything.

It was an hour later when she finally allowed herself to relax again. Springfield’s wounds treated, his eyes closed and he fell into a fitful sleep. She slumped into her own chair and watched his eyes, the eyes that had implored her so pathetically, as they rolled and reeled in his skull, and wondered what he saw inside his own head.
A glass of water was pressed into her hand, and Argo realised she must have been asleep.
“You have to take care of yourself as well, doc,” said Kin, her mandibles clicking disapprovingly. “You should have gotten help.”
“If I had gone to get help, he wouldn’t have made it,” said Argo, trying to stand. Her legs shook and gave out, and she fell back into her chair. “It doesn’t matter what happens to me.”
“And if you had passed out like you looked as if you were going to when I got you in here? He would have died as well, just the same,” Kin said.
She was right. Argo knew it. “What would I do without you?” she said, sipping the water and watching the tiny little movements as Springfield’s mind fought a private battle.
“Never sleep, for one,” Kin said. “Speaking of which… I think it’s time for you to take a rest.”

The watchman swung the sharpened shovel through the air a couple of times, experimenting with the balance.
“It’s a little heavy on the top end,” he remarked. “Could take some getting used to.”
“It’s a shovel,” said Monte. “People’re used to it.”
The watchman shook his head and little flecks of slime splattered on the floor. He tried a thrust, then a parry. “Not as a killing tool, they’re not. Whole different kettle,” he said. “But I think we can develop something functional. A martial art for farmers and labourers, the people that have spent their whole lives putting force behind an implement.” He smiled. A good fight, that’s what he had been missing. It had been ages since he had had a good fight.
Monte sniffed, licked the tip of his pencil, and said: “So how many can I put you down for?”

It was so rare to see the Mayor’s son, the staring-eyed, bald-headed Mickey, outside of the town hall or the big house that he shared with his mother that the patrons of the Gravel Pit tavern didn’t believe it was him at first. But who else looked like that, moved like that, was that?
“Can I help you, Mr. Skath?” said the girl behind the bar, her arms full of clay beer mugs. “Drink? Food?”
“I do not drink,” said Mickey, with an expression somewhere in the middle of a smile and a snarl. The girl decided on ‘smile’ and proceeded accordingly.
“Something to eat, then? Or were you looking for somebody?”
“I require Racul,” said Mickey. After a moment’s thought he added: “Do you have anything I can gnaw?”

It was astounding he had so many teeth, thought Rania Racul as the man’s sharp white canines scraped against the yellow bone. They must be made of strong stuff to keep up with a diet like this.
“What seems to be the problem?” she asked, tenting her fingers like she had seen others do before when they wanted to seem worldly-wise and thoughtful.
Mickey kept gnawing for a while, then stopped abruptly and looked sideways. “It’sh Mother,” he said, not taking the bone out of his mouth. “She’sh acting… shtrange. I wouldn’t shay anything only with all thish word of war going around…”
“I shee. I mean I see. You think the stress may be getting to her?”
“I don’t know. I says what I sees,” said the man, removing the bone. “She won’t take her medicine, and she’s usually so stringent about things like that. When I ask her what’s wrong with it, she says ‘it tastes wrong’. My mother has no taste,” he went on.
“If I had a penny for every kid who’s thought that…” said Racul. Mickey looked at her reproachfully. “Sorry. You think she’s trying to signal you?”
“Maybe. Can you come around to the house tonight?” Mickey asked. Was it some preternatural animal instinct that told Racul not to do it, or just simple wariness? If something was seriously wrong, there was no sense in walking straight into its trap unprepared.
“Not tonight. If anything is seriously wrong, the sheriff showing up in the middle of the night is going to raise alarm bells, if you coming to see me hasn’t already. I’ll come around tomorrow morning first thing, and we’ll take care of this. Alright?” she said, cutting off a slice of baked mutato and popping it into her mouth.
Mickey groaned uneasily. “Maybe you’re right. I didn’t think of that.” He stood up, tucking the bone into the pocket of his heavy canvas overcoat. Racul watched him lurch out of the tavern and found herself wondering whether the unassuming, nervous young man might harbour darker impulses somewhere in that egg-like head.

The night passed quickly and it was time for the sheriff’s visit. She looked up at the high, boxy house and wondered how the Skaths had maintained their hold over the town for so long with taste like that.
She couldn’t put it off for long, though. She sighed, raised her hand, long fingers closed in a fist, and rapped sharply on the wooden door. She heard a meow from the house cat, which seemed to be able to see her easily. “Mickey? I’m here to talk!” she said. No answer came, and she groaned.
Kneeling down, she put her ear to the wood and listened carefully. Mites scratched inside, but no sign of any machine connected to the door. She pulled her set of lockpicks out of her coat and went to work.
It was quick work to get the door open. It swung aside noiselessly, and she stepped into the entrance hall of the building. Red-carpeted, lush and lit softly by candles, it reminded her more of a cathouse than a public servant’s building. Something to bring up at the next town meeting. Not the business at hand.
She rested her palm on the crossbow in her coat. The bow was collapsed right now, a bolt in place ready to load once the string snapped taut. It was a reassuring presence as she went deeper into the house.
“Mayor Skath?” she called. “Mickey?”
“Sheriff!” came the reply from the top of the stairs. Racul looked up and found she was looking upon the mayor herself. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” She descended, looking elegant in a wide-breasted suit, and offered her hand to the sheriff.
Racul looked at the hand. It was pale, a little wrinkled, with delicately pointed nails painted a gentle peachy colour. Most importantly, it was bare, ungloved.
“What have you done to her?” she said conversationally. “The mayor, I mean.”
Behind her, she heard the door slam shut. She spun, and Mickey grinned toothily at her.
“Sorry, missus, but last night she told me everything. It really makes a lot of sense,” he said, and giggled creakily.

In the surgery, the patient’s eyes snapped open, and Argo stood up suddenly, a fact that probably saved her life a moment later.
“They’re here! They’re everywhere!” he said, and looked at Argo.