NEVER SPLIT THE PARTY: The Adventures of the Creeping Bam (BOOK 1: The Job)

CHAPTER TWO: GAEL

The first thing I see are the crossbows, sharp steel tips glinting in the firelight on those bolts pointing right at us. My fingers start tracing through the motions for a fore bolt on their own, and I can feel the tingle in my fingertips spreading into my palms and slowly creeping up into my wrists as it builds. I don't need to see the blue energy starting to build in my hands, I can see it well enough in the reflection in the cautious, steely eyes of the four mailed men aiming towards us, wearing surcoats and felt caps in white with silver trim. That's what first gives me pause, then that familiar voice comes again and I can't helping starting to relax.

It's not strictly a spell, it's just the way he talks. He's been like this as long as I've known him, Wenrich Clearwood, First-Tier Caretaker of the House of the Silver Order, one of the most talented wizards I've ever met, although he doesn't brag about it, barely ever uses serious magic to tell the truth. Calling him a Caretaker is a fancy way of saying enforcer, the kind of person the Order sends out to ensure particularly sensitive undertakings go without a hitch, or unstick a problem that's already stuck. More often the latter, to be fair. He can do it with magic, and occasionally he does, but like the best Caretakers he's most adept at doing it with words.

Words are his greatest skill, the way he talks. It's not his wide vocabulary, or even his crystal clear speech, although I'm sure that's part of it. It's the way he speaks, his tone, his silken voice, calming and soothing and, perhaps, that thing I've heard people describe as seductive. To be honest I wouldn't really know anything about that.

You really wouldn't know any of that to look at him, of course. He's good-looking, at least for a halfling, sandy curls framing his face in an unruly mop that could almost be styled the way it's so artfully tousled, but it's just like that. There are more streaks of grey in there than I remember from the last time I saw him, especially in the thick muttonchop sideburns he's always affected. A few more wrinkles to his face too, but he's getting on in years, must be pushing a hundred years now. He's still spry, though, that much is clear given his carefree step as he trots out on tough, oversized bare feet, poking out under the sweeping hems of his official robes, and there's still that old twinkle in his hazel eyes that often makes me smile.

The spell snuffs out with no more thought than I had in conjuring them. There's no threat here, despite appearances.

"Well met, Master Clearwood." I tip a shallow but formal bow, placing the tips of my right-hand fingers to my forehead for a moment.

Wenrich cocks a brow towards me and his lips quirk into a more casual smile as he returns my gesture. "Well met indeed, young Master Foxtail. I trust you'll excuse me for curtailing formalities, but there's business best done away from the possibility of prying eyes."

"Of course." I nod in kind, step close to Kesla's side and place a calming hand on her shoulder as she did for me a few minutes ago. "There's no more danger here. We should go inside."

"And these ... sharp-eyed lads here?" She relaxes a touch, taking her hand from hilt of her extremely intimidating sword, but I can still feel a subtle, watchful tension still in her. "Crossbows ain't exactly friendly."

"Oh no, these really aren't for you, Mistress Shoon." Wenrich adopts that beaming bright grin he usually reserves for the most difficult negotiations. "These are to make sure we're not disturbed again."

"Really?" Kesla gives a chuckle, but there's little humour to it. "Coulda done with a hand earlier, mate."

"Ah, but you clearly had the situation well in hand." He spreads his arms wide in calm supplication. "If we're to continue our business within, on the other hand, perhaps they're more necessary."