A servant closes the door from outside without so much as a nod. Through the narrowing gap I catch a last glimpse of the foggy canal landing, the estate fence lost somewhere in the mist, before the latch clicks.

Inside, the vestibule’s churning with movement. Servants in uniform—animal-folk and humans both—scrubbing floors, rushing through with laundry. Frantic enough that something went wrong recently.

I stand on the mat by the threshold, waiting for someone to receive me. They flow past like I’m furniture.

“Hey,” I call out. “I’m with the dredgers. I was told to meet the employer here.”

Not a glance. A servant with a bucket doesn’t even break stride.

I thump my tail on the pristine tiles.

“Folks,” I say, keeping level. “Your canal water’s gone bad. That Lady of yours should come meet me as soon as possible.”

That breaks through. A human woman glances my way, then hurries toward the double doors at the far end of the hall. She swings one open and disappears inside.

Moments later she’s back out, and a toad-folk man in a tar-black waxed oversmock follows her into the hall. He makes straight for me.

I nod as he reaches me.

“I’m guessing you ain’t the Lady. I’m Jorren Weir, dredgers’ crew leader.” I hook my thumb back toward the estate grounds. “I saw you have a serious problem with your canal waters. Flow’s tar-black, rotten-looking, and it stinks something awful. This ain’t a simple spill situation, given you hired us dredgers.”

“You’ve got the right read, Weir. It’s not a spill—it’s sealed work gone wrong, and the Lady’s waiting to brief you herself.” He gestures with one padded hand toward an interior doorway, already turning. “This way. She’ll explain the contract terms and the site conditions. I’ll be handling your crew’s logistics once you’ve seen what we’re dealing with.”

He’s moving before he finishes speaking. I follow him through a short corridor and into a sitting room.

Upholstered chairs in pale colors, low table stacked with papers, muted lighting. A white-furred ermine-folk woman sits in one of the chairs, dressed in layers of ivory and pearl-gray, document in her gloved hands.

The toad-folk man moves to the second chair and settles into it, easy and practiced, angling so he’s facing both the lady and the empty third seat.

“Mr. Weir, this is Lady Eira Quenreach.” He nods toward the ermine-folk woman. “My Lady, Jorren Weir, crew leader.”

He gestures with one padded hand toward the third chair.

“The contract’s ready for your review, Weir, but the Lady will want to walk you through the site conditions first. What you saw from the canal edge is the surface problem—the sealed work’s below, and it’s nastier than a simple extraction.”

“Guess I’m sitting down.”

The chair’s more comfortable than I’m used to. Once I’m squared away, I address them both.

“Our boss was awfully cagey about this job. Even requested an Ash-Seal liaison to handle artifact destruction on-site.” I gesture toward the window, the canal beyond. “The rot on the waters tells me this is some shitty business. Never seen a cursed item taint our waters like that. Straight talk—what are we pulling up?”

Lady Quenreach extends the contract toward me—smooth, deliberate motion, held at an angle that reads as courteous rather than urgent. Her voice stays soft, measured.

“Mr. Weir. I appreciate your directness.”

The document passes from her gloved fingers to mine. Heavy.

“What you’re being asked to extract is a sealed artifact—very old, pre-estate construction, entombed in a silted culvert. We don’t know what it is.” She pauses, letting that settle. “What we do know is that it’s been leaching corruption into the canal water since it was dislodged during excavation work two days ago.”

I flip the contract open, scanning the first page while she talks.

“The workers who handled it reported pressure headaches, intrusive compulsions toward moving water, and trance states. Two drowned. The rest quit.”

My eyes flick up from the page.

“The site is partially flooded,” she continues, gray eyes level, tone factual. “The access routes are tight, and some of the grate keys are missing. You’ll need people who can work in bad water without losing focus, and you’ll need your Ash-Seal liaison on-site for destruction. That document establishes that you’re claiming the artifact under salvage and quarantine protocol. What it also establishes is that the artifact’s origin point is documented as somewhere in the broader canal network—not specifically here.” Her voice remains calm, almost gentle. “If inspectors trace the taint, your records will reflect that. The terms are there. Read them, and then we’ll discuss site access and compensation.”

I scratch the fur on my chin. Two drowned. A lure in the water. That’s new. Something this nasty needs to be dragged away from our canal waters as soon as possible.

First, though, I’ll read through this legal text of hers, see what fine print they’ve included.

“There’s always some, right?” I say, settling the contract flat across my lap.

The room goes quiet. I read through the standard clauses—salvage rights, quarantine authority, non-disclosure about site origin. All expected. Then I hit the section that makes my jaw tighten.

I lower the contract carefully to my lap, keeping my gaze on the text for a moment before I raise my eyes to both of them. I feel the frown pulling at my muzzle.

“Quite the one-sided contract, ain’t it?” I say, calm.

Lady Quenreach’s expression doesn’t shift. The toad-folk man stays still.

“I understand a legal document handing us off a cursed item,” I continue, “and requiring us not to tell that we found it in a noble’s estate. Standard stuff—nobody wants the stink to trace back to them, and most of the cursed shit’s been there for gods know how long, so the landowners aren’t at fault.”

I lift the contract, angling it so they can see I’m reading straight from the page.

“But what’s this crap?” I read aloud: “‘The moment a dredger touches the artifact, custody, disposal authority, and responsibility shift to the dredgers, including responsibility for contamination, downstream spread, injuries/deaths, and any public hazard that follows.’ Fuck, and this part—’If inspectors investigate, if fines happen, if scandal erupts—the dredgers must defend and pay for the protected parties’ losses.'”

I lower the contract again, meeting their eyes.

“So, it ain’t enough that we’re here to risk our necks in your canal, we’re also meant to eat the shit your artifact is already spewing?”

The silence stretches. Lady Quenreach’s face stays calm, her hands motionless in her lap. She lets my objection sit there in the air for a measured breath before she responds.

“You’re right, Mr. Weir. It is one-sided.” Her voice stays soft, but there’s something underneath it now. Thread of steel. “Because the artifact is already spewing, as you said. The contamination isn’t waiting for signatures—it’s spreading through the canal network right now, whether you take this contract or leave it. What this document does is formalize what’s already true: the moment you extract it, you’re the ones handling a quarantine-class object. That’s not me imposing liability—that’s waterways code. Cursed artifacts don’t stay clean just because the paperwork’s polite. If inspectors trace the taint and you’re standing there with no contract, no documented salvage claim, and no legal authority to have moved it—what does that look like? It looks like dredgers who freelanced a removal without protocol and made the problem worse. This contract is what makes your work legitimate. It establishes that you claimed it under salvage and quarantine authority, that you’re coordinating with an Ash-Seal liaison for proper destruction, and that you handled it by the book. The terms are harsh because the artifact is harsh. But they’re also what keeps you from being the ones blamed for amateur handling.”

Her voice softens just slightly.

“I need it gone, you need the pay and the proof your crew can do this kind of work, and the canal network needs it out of the water before the rot reaches Brinewick’s drinking supplies. The terms don’t change. But you can sign knowing that walking away doesn’t make the liability disappear—it just leaves it unassigned, and unassigned liability has a way of landing on whoever was closest when the disaster got worse.”

I shift in the chair, feeling the upholstery creak under me. I keep my voice level—calm, but firm enough that they hear I’m not bending just because the setting’s nice.

“Lady Quenreach, I respect your position as a noble of the realm, but let me tell you—I know the waterways code better than the bastards who wrote it. You wanna test me on that? Section twelve, subsection four. Salvage claim transfers on recovery, not on your say-so. Get it straight—we pull your trash out of the water. That don’t make us trash. Not river scum picking through garbage. We touch the occult shit so you don’t have to. Just because we’re built for water don’t mean we’re built to die in it for your convenience.”

The toad-folk man stays perfectly still in his chair. Lady Quenreach’s expression doesn’t shift.

“Thing is,” I continue, “we both know you can’t find another crew in time to risk their necks in that canal. Not when the rot’s spreading bad enough it’ll ruin the water system of our great city in a couple of days. That’ll affect far worse than your reputation, milady. So we can’t in good conscience leave your canal clogged with whatever ancient turd’s lodged down there.”

Silence settles over the room—the deliberate kind, where someone’s letting your words breathe before they respond. Lady Quenreach’s hands stay folded in her lap, her gray eyes steady on mine.

Then she speaks. Measured, almost thoughtful.

“You’re absolutely right, Mr. Weir. You’re not river scum. You’re professionals. That’s exactly why I called you. And you’re right that I can’t find another crew—not one that can handle contaminated salvage on this timeline, not one with an Ash-Seal liaison already coordinated, and not one whose boss understands that quarantine-class artifacts don’t wait for polite negotiation. But let’s be clear about what’s actually happening here. That artifact is already spewing its poison into the canal network. Whether you sign this contract or walk out that door, the taint is spreading. If it reaches Brinewick’s water supply—and it will, if no one extracts it—inspectors will come. They will trace it upstream. They will demand to know who knew, who delayed, and who refused to act.”

She leans forward slightly.

“If you walk away, they will find out professional dredgers were offered legitimate salvage work under quarantine protocol, were told about the contamination risk, and even though they had an Ash-Seal liaison ready to coordinate destruction, they refused. And when the disaster gets worse, when people start asking why no one acted, your boss’s reputation suffers. Not because you did the work badly. Because you didn’t do it at all.”

I tsk.

“Tough one, aren’t you?” I lean back in the chair. “I’ll bring my crew down there and get rid of the artifact. This ain’t about your fancy reputation or mine any longer—it’s about my little one not needing to drink rotten water thanks to whatever cursed piece of occult crap some ancient imbecile buried in your land.”

I pull my pencil from the vest pocket. Chewed at one end, but the graphite’s still good. My eyes catch the quill sitting on the coffee table between us—proper writing instrument, the noble kind.

I hold up my pencil.

“Is a dredger’s pencil good enough to sign, or do I need to use your quill as well?”

“Your pencil is perfectly acceptable, Mr. Weir. The contract’s binding either way. Sign wherever you’re most comfortable—margin, footer, wherever your crew protocol requires. If you want witness marks, Mr. Siltwell can countersign as landowner’s agent.”

Her gray eyes stay steady on mine.

“Once it’s signed, we’ll walk through site access, key inventories, and liaison coordination. The faster your crew can begin extraction, the better for everyone.”

I rest the contract on my thigh and sign using the pencil. When I straighten, my gaze sweeps from Lady Quenreach to the toad-folk man—Siltwell. The frown’s still pulling at my muzzle.

“Done,” I say. “All the dredgers’ crew responsibility now.”

Siltwell leans forward just enough that the room’s weight shifts with him. His tone stays practical.

“Good. Now we move to site access and coordination.”

I watch him settle into it. The quiet third chair’s gone—he’s running the show now, and the Lady’s sitting back to let him.

“The artifact’s lodged in a silted culvert beneath the east wing,” he continues. “Partially flooded, tight access routes, and some of the grate keys are missing because the workers who quit took them when they left. I’m working on recovering those keys, but in the meantime I’ll need to know your crew size, your equipment load, and whether your Ash-Seal liaison needs separate access or works embedded with your dredgers. You’ll report findings through me, I’ll handle access schedules and keep staff clear. The faster we can map crew movements and equipment staging, the faster you can begin work, and the faster that thing’s out of the water. What’s your crew’s standard operating procedure for contaminated salvage sites, and what do you need from me to make the first descent safe?”

I pull out my notebook—dog-eared, water-stained, pages crinkled from getting soaked and dried too many times. Flip it open to a clean page.

“Alright,” I say, pencil already moving. “You’re the key toad-man. Keymaster.”

I catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, but close enough.

“We’re four dredgers, counting me. I wouldn’t count on the Ash-Seal fucker to venture into trouble with us—he hasn’t decided yet, as he wanted to know the details, but I’m guessing he’ll wait by the cart with his containment box for us to show up muddied and dragging the problem to him.”

I jot down a quick note about staging area, then look back up.

“My people are outside, waiting. Regarding standard operating procedure, need to know what tools to bring. Those missing keys, we don’t have time to wait for them. Will bolt cutters and saws do? Brought them with us, no problem carrying them. Just need to know if you can handle ruined grates.”

“Bolt cutters and saws will work—the grates are old ironwork, not secured against professional tools, and I’d rather you cut through than wait for keys that might not come back in time.”

I tap the pencil against the notebook.

“Also, artifact’s lodged in a silted culvert? Does it need to be dug up?”

Siltwell leans forward again, keeping that practical focus locked in.

“The artifact’s lodged in a collapsed culvert section, partially submerged in about two feet of contaminated water—silted channel, tight access, and yes, you’ll need to dig or dredge around it to get clean extraction leverage without cracking whatever’s keeping it sealed right now. Your four dredgers can stage from the east courtyard. I’ll have it cleared and your cart positioned there so your Ash-Seal liaison has clean line-of-sight to containment without needing to descend. I’ll walk you through the access route myself once we’re done here: down through the service stair, through the lower gallery, then into the construction zone where the culvert’s exposed. The flooded section’s maybe thirty feet from the access point, tight enough that your people will be working in close quarters with bad air and worse water.”

I raise my eyes to Siltwell, and let the look settle into something grave.

“Bossman had us bring muscle,” I say. “Are we dealing with beasties down there—the rabid or transformed kind—or does this artifact of yours just ruin our canal waters and mind-control people?”

“No beasties so far—no transformations, no rabid-kind threats, just the mental compulsion pull and the water rot. The workers who drowned walked in on their own, or slipped and didn’t fight to get back out, and the ones who got close reported headaches and intrusive whispers telling them to touch the flow or step into the channel. But I can’t promise the flooded zone’s safe from escalation. We don’t know what happens if someone stays submerged too long near the artifact, and contaminated sites have a way of getting worse once you start moving things. Your muscle’s a smart call—bring them, keep them close, and if anyone on your crew starts hearing whispers or staring at the water too long, pull them back topside immediately and don’t let them argue. The artifact’s not attacking people directly, but it’s pulling them in, and that’s dangerous enough when you’re working in tight quarters with bad air and two feet of tainted water underfoot. Treat it like the threat could escalate the moment you start extraction, and we’ll both sleep better once it’s in your Ash-Seal liaison’s containment box.”

“Alright,” I say. “Don’t need nothing more. I’ll get my crew up-to-date with this gods-awful shitshow, then flag down one of your servants when we’re ready.”

THE END