With Sir Alder Band’s signet ring in the palm of her hand, it was child’s play to create a plausible imitation of an official missive to the captain of the guard. It only required the cautious hand of a scribe and the precise tint of sealing-wax used in the keep. The wax was easier of the two – the wax was a cheap kind not far removed from the sickly-smelling tallow of the candles that burned in the castle braziers, that Duet easily sourced – “by appointment to Sir Band and his household!” – from a local merchant.
The scribe’s hand was a little more difficult. Duet could read well, especially large numbers, but her writing was the scrawl of the self-taught and the alchemist, not meant for presentation. Her mind leapt immediately to Brakenib, the unfortunate she had ousted from his lodgings when she arrived in town. He had relocated to a penny hang just outside the walls, which was where she found him up to his neck in coarse ale.
“Come to kick me out’f my ’ouse again?” he asked. He glowered at her over the top of his pint. “I’m paid up here. They won’t stand for that.”
“I’m here to make you an offer, actually. Could be quite lucrative… But I understand if you’re not interested.”
He sat up. “Lucrative offers,” he said hesitantly, “have a habit of being on the dangerous side.”
Duet shook her head. “No danger. Not to you. All you have to do is write exactly what I tell you.”
“Just writing?”
“You never even have to leave this building,” said Duet.

Brakenib’s name proved to be inaccurate: his deliberate hand looped and swirled through the improvised message Duet dictated, making the hesitant words seem elegant and well-chosen by dint of penmanship.
“My word,” said Duet.
“Your words,” Brakenib replied with a smirk. “I’ve put a nice shine on them, I think.” He reached for his ale, but Duet caught his wrist.
“Just one more thing…” she said “One more thing I need from you.”

The scribe’s robes whorled around her ankles as she strode through the streets of town, heavy-soled shoes squelching in the mud – she hoped it was mud – and her straw-coloured hair rolled up in the traditional hairstyle of the profession.
“Message for the Captain,” she said breathlessly to the guard on duty outside, “from the keep.”
The guard snatched the letter from her hand and glanced at the seal, the paper, the snatches of ink showing through to the other side.
“Looks good, take it up,” he said gruffly.
The scribe nodded and tucked the message into the pocket on the left side of her robe, just below the heart. “Thank you, sir,” she said, and hurried past him into the grey-brown building that sloped to one side like a labourer leaning against a scaffold.
She raced up the rough staircase two at a time, knocking guardsmen aside all the way up to the top, to the panelled door that entered the Captain’s office.
Captain Hackford was a robust man with aggressive facial hair, engaged in a serious conversation with two other men: a curly-haired merchant traveller, and a member of the local Guild.
“If you can’t reach an agreement with Mr Patsy, you know I have to favour our own over outsiders,” said the captain. “You’ll be out on your ear, Mr Bortoni.”
The travelling merchant covered his ears. At the same time, there was a knock at the door.
“What is it?” said the captain testily. He motioned for Bortoni to put his hands down.
“Message from the keep!” came the reply. “Urgent, for Captain Hackford!”
“Oh, bloody hell. You’d better come in,” he said. Motioning to the merchants, he added: “Wait outside. I’m not through with the two of you.”
He waited while the sheepish men made their exit, Bortoni bowing deeply to the entering scribe. She offered an incline of the head back to him, and stepped past into the office.
Hackford looked her up and down. “Have I seen you before?” he said. Scribes all looked more or less alike, at least the ones from approved schools did, but this one was unfamiliar despite that.
She shook her head. “No sir, I just arrived recently. From the South, sir, near the border.” This was true. She never specified which side. “I’ve got a message for you,” she said, extracting it from her pocket and holding it out to the captain.
“What does the old boy want from us now,” he said, half to himself. “Are we to start shaking folks over a bucket and delivering what falls out to the treasury?”
“You don’t approve of milord’s policies?” said the scribe so innocently it must have been a put-on. Hackford roared with laughter.
“If you’re a spy, you’d better tell the man you won’t get anything more useful out of me than that!” he said, wiping a tear from his eye. He broke the seal on the letter without looking at it and laid it flat on the desk.
The smile faded. A vein stood out on his forehead. Slowly, very slowly, Captain Hackford looked up.
“Thank you for delivering this, young lady,” he said, his voice so level you could have built a house of cards on it. “I’ll have one of our scribes draft a response and send it over forthwith.”
“What does it say?” said the scribe.
“Oh, it’s very complicated,” lied the captain. “I wouldn’t worry yourself about it.” His eye twitched.

The letter which he had just read was as follows:
Dear Capt. Hackford
As you are aware, the solvency of our fine town is my foremost priority. As you are also aware, the town guard is one of our greatest expenditures. On the suggestion of the Master of the Guild, Mr. Broome, I am notifying you that the allocation of gold to the guard-house for purposes of wages will receive a one-third reduction, effective immediate. I hope you will understand that these measures are necessary, and will continue to perform your duties to the same high standard nevertheless.
Respectfully yours,
Band

“Your boss wants to cut us out, eh?” said Hackford to Mr Patsy from the Guild. “Well, he’ll soon see what’s what when the word gets around that Guild properties are no longer under the protection of the guard!” He slammed his fist on the table. “Good day to you!”
Mr Bortoni raised a hand. “Mr Captain,” he said. “May I-”
“Of course, of course. Get out of here,” said the captain. “This case is officially dismissed.” He waved his hand at the curly-haired man.

Back at the bar of the Thistle, Duet laughed along with Brewere over a tankard.
“And for an encore…” she said, tears in her eyes. “I told Mr. Patsy the guildmaster has parasites!”
Brewere nodded approvingly. “Para-whats?” he said.
“Let’s go with fleas,” Duet said. “Fleas are good. He’ll be wondering why everyone is giving him a wide berth,”
“The Guild causes a lot of trouble around here. I’ll be glad to see the back of the bloke. He’s turned it into a gang of thugs. Nearly as bad as the guard, they are, only they don’t threaten to knock your teeth out, they threaten to repossess them.”
“Repossess teeth?”
“Old folks’ gnashers got to come from somewhere, eh? Number one contributor: tourists getting bashed. Number two contributor: the Guild’s bloody bailiffs.”

The next day, Duet went out amongst the people again, in the guise of a merchant called Helg. “I heard the poor man can’t even go out in public anymore, so strong is his affliction,” she said to a fishmonger who listened eagerly to her gossip. It can be remarkably easy to start a rumour in a small community. Two or three points of contact were all she usually needed. She had Patsy, now she had the fishmonger. If she told the story to too many people, they might suspect she was forcing it. A guard strolled past at that moment, and an opportunity knocked. “Is it true?” she said to the guard, and when he asked her what, she explained it in as deep a detail as she could stomach, which was substantially more than he could.
That would do it. If guards did anything, they talked. She grinned to herself as she pulled down her brown hood and prepared to return to the Thistle again.

A scribe – not Brakenib – was waiting for her at the tavern, flanked by two guards. Brewere stood very still, his hands laid flat on the bar.
“The Baroness Du ’Ouette?” said the scribe, one of his eyebrows raising inquisitively, sending ripples up his forehead like a particularly stormy ocean. “I’m here to serve you with an official notice from Sir Alder Band, Lord of the Ridge and the Fall.” He extended a small note to her in a pale, paper-skinned hand. Duet snatched it up and glared at it.

There, in pale blue ink, in a neat, cramped hand, were the words:
With regret,
I demand satisfaction.
One of the guards stepped forward and produced a gauntlet of iron segments. He threw it on the floor stiffly.
“A duel?” said Duet incredulously. “Who does he think I am?”