The mansion’s front door fights back, then the servant yanks it wider and nods. I’m past him, boots on gravel, cutting for the service yard.

The yard’s a wedge of hard-used ground trapped between the east wing and the boundary fence—packed gravel, deep wagon ruts, built to take mud and keep moving. Our cart sits in the thick of it, and the crew’s gathered there: Pitch in his blast bib, Saffi in her dive jacket, Kestrel’s tall frame, and Hobb Rusk standing off to the side in that kiln-black Ash-Seal coat.

Past the fence, the canal runs parallel and close, separated by a narrow strip of towpath. The water’s wrong: tar-black, sluggish, filmed with a dull sheen that catches lamplight in greasy swirls. The smell reaches us in waves—sour rot with metal underneath, like wet iron left in a bucket too long.

I stop at a distance, far enough to address my crew as a group. I meet their eyes one by one: Pitch, Saffi, Kestrel.

Then I sigh. Lower my head.

My tail starts thumping against the gravel—slow, rhythmic. Old habit. I raise my gaze again, and something hardens in me.

“Alright, crew. Client’s one Lady Eira Quenreach. I had only heard of her. Now I wish it had remained that way. Had you followed me inside that trap room, there would have been far more shouting. Short version—we’re screwed. Long version—Lady was renovating her underground galleries when they dislodged an ancient artifact in a silted culvert. Messed with the seal or the ward or whatever. It started leaking that rot that has blackened the waters and made them stink something awful.”

I jerk my chin toward the canal.

“As you can see, it’s spreading far out of the estate. They reckon in two days the rot’ll be in range of the city inspectors. Of course Quenreach wants us to get rid of the artifact before someone sniffs her way. And the artifact won’t stop spewing that black shit, which means it’ll eventually ruin Brinewick’s whole canal network unless we stop it. Somehow that ain’t the worst of it.”

The silence stretches. Morning fog drifts between us, and the canal churns wrong behind the fence—thick, sluggish, a sound like something rotting from the inside out.

Kestrel laughs. Sharp. Involuntary. The sound cuts through the fog and dies fast.

I rub the fur of my brow, then meet their eyes again.

“The construction workers who approached the artifact reported pressure headaches. Fell into trance states. Got mind-wormed—intrusive compulsions toward moving water. Two workers drowned. Afterwards, all the workers quit. Some took at least a couple of the grate keys with them. A fuck-you on their way out, maybe.”

I shake my head.

“A mind-controller ancient artifact that risks rotting the whole canal network’s water. Which of course includes Brinewick’s drinking supplies. Lady Quenreach should have kissed our boots for coming down here to fix this quick.”

My jaw tightens.

“Instead, she handed me a contract that says the moment we touch that artifact, custody falls on us. Including responsibility for further contamination and deaths. And if the inspectors trace the mess back to the source and want to squeeze money out of anyone responsible, we’re supposed to pay for the protected parties’ losses—which would include the whole of Brinewick, as if we shat the ancient turd ourselves. Of course, by ‘we’ I mean me and our bossman back at headquarters. Nothing legal’s going to barrel down your way.”

I draw a breath. Let it out.

“Guess I’ve gotten through all the setup. This is the part where I tell each of you—Saffi, Pitch, Kestrel—that if you want to walk, you walk. Truth is, though, I don’t think this can be done without any of you.”

Kestrel laughs again—another sharp burst, then another, each one cutting out fast like her throat’s choking them off. Her eyes dart from me to Pitch to Saffi to the canal and back, that worried look deepening across her muzzle while her mouth keeps trying to laugh.

I turn my hands palm-up toward the sky, then drop them and force myself to meet each of their eyes one by one.

“Yeah, it was a lot to take in for me too. Let’s hear it, folks. What do you decide? I promise to shield you from any legal consequences—I’m the only one who signed, and if push comes to shove, I’ll claim I worked alone—but we’re risking more than legal here. Whoever’s staying, we gotta know soon, because we must move straight to logistics. Every minute counts.”

Pitch stands there in his blast bib, expression unreadable. Saffi’s golden eyes are hooded, slits tracking between me and the others.

Kestrel turns her head toward them both, then back to me. A broad smile spreads across her muzzle. She laughs.

“Yeah, I’m in. Not walking on this one, Jorren. You need muscle for hauling, pinning, or dragging someone out of a trance state before they drown themselves? That’s what I do.”

Another involuntary laugh bursts out of her.

“Besides, if that rot hits the drinking water and people start dying, that’s on all of us if we could’ve stopped it and didn’t. So count me in. Let’s hear the logistics.”

A sigh of relief escapes me before I can stop it.

“Don’t know how glad I am to have you by my side in this rotten mess, Kestrel.”

I turn my gaze to Pitch and Saffi.

“We got at least two old ironwork grates to crack open because their keys have flown. I’m talking thirty feet from access point to the half-collapsed culvert where the artifact is entombed, so we’ll need expert handling of bolt cutters or handsaws while mind-worms push into our brains. That’s where you’d come in, Pitch. And Saffi, intrusive compulsions toward diving into rotted flows means we need a line tender. The best in the business. The rope-meister. Not guilting you—just stating facts. We pull that artifact out of the water or soon enough Brinewick’s going to be drinking rot.”

Pitch meets my eyes directly. His voice comes out flat and certain.

“I’m in. Ironwork cracked and grates breached while mind-worms push into our heads? That’s demolition work under pressure, and that’s what I do. The rot’s real, the timeline’s real, and if we don’t stop it Brinewick’s drinking supply goes septic. So fuck the paperwork. I’ll handle the breaches. You’ve got your demolition specialist.”

Saffi’s tail curls once, then goes still. She speaks.

“You need a line tender who can read wrongness through rope before it becomes visible. Someone who won’t freeze when mind-worms start pushing compulsions. The artifact’s already killed two people. So yeah. I’ll handle the line work. You’ve got your rope-meister.”

The relief hits hard.

I catch movement in my periphery—Hobb Rusk stepping closer, circling around the crew’s loose cluster to position himself near our group. Still in that meticulous Ash-Seal coat, still silent, but the proximity signals engagement. Not commitment, though.

I thump my tail against the gravel once, decisively. The sound cuts through the fog and settles something in me. My face shifts—the worry-frown giving way to the harder focus I get when I’m mapping logistics.

“About thirty feet from access point to flooded section that contains our half-collapsed silted culvert and the buried artifact. Can’t wade straight to it—at least two grates we don’t have keys for. We get through the grates first. Then we dig the artifact out, slow and careful. Client believes it’s currently sealed, so we can’t risk cracking that with a quick extraction.”

I crouch down, fingers tracing an absent map in the gravel while I think it through.

“The sealed version of the artifact is already rotting the canal network and killing people, so we don’t want to know what the exposed version can do.”

The line draws itself in my head: access point to first grate to second grate to artifact location. Thirty feet of blind work underground.

“Zero visibility in those underground tunnels. Lanterns are a must.” I turn my head toward the cart. “We brought a couple. Alright, so we illuminate our steps from the access point to the grates. Imagine we’re cutting through the locked grates when mind-fuckery worms its way into our brains, telling us to dive into the canal waters. Need to be clipped to a rope, with Saffi as the anchor on the back. Anyone strays, sharp pull. These mind-compulsions don’t sound like the kind of worm you can squash easily, because construction workers just walked into a drowning—any of us starts looking loopy and tries to unclip themselves from the line, we need strength to restrain them. That’s where you’ll come in, Kestrel.”

Pitch heads toward the dredgers’ cart, his stocky frame cutting through the fog. He reaches for the bolt cutters, testing their weight and grip with practiced hands.

“I’ll take point on the grate breaches. Bolt cutters for primary cuts, hacksaw for backup if the ironwork’s thicker than expected.”

Pitch grabs the bolt cutters fully, the metal catching what little light pushes through the dawn.

“Thirty-year-old grates, no keys, zero visibility, mind-worms pushing drowning compulsions—yeah, I can work with that. Just need to know: are we cutting clean to preserve the infrastructure, or are we cracking them fast and dirty to hit the timeline? Because those are different approaches, and I need to know which one we’re buying before I start planning the cuts.”

I straighten up from the crouch, and that’s when I notice the newt-folk liaison, Hobb Rusk, standing to my side. Close—touching distance. That kiln-black coat, the ash-gray collar standing crisp despite the fog. Those large round eyes fixed on me, waiting. He’s positioned himself to hear my answer to Pitch, but he ain’t dressed for tunnels and he sure as hell ain’t volunteering to come down with us.

I meet his eyes briefly.

“Thank you for paying attention to our logistics, Master Rusk, even though I won’t even bother asking if you’re coming down to contain the artifact at the extraction point. You ain’t even dressed for it. But all we need is your magic box and a thorough destruction of the ancient terror so we can all cart back to our lives.”

I turn to face our sapper directly.

“Pitch, don’t know where you got that thing about grates being thirty years old. The way the Lady and her right-hand man sounded, the infrastructure down there is ‘ancestors-old.’ Maybe a couple hundreds of years old. Ironwork that age may be easier to saw through. Regarding infrastructure, this ain’t a ‘blow shit up’ situation, I’m afraid to disappoint. Silted culvert containing the entombed artifact is already half-collapsed—a blast may send down slabs of stone onto the artifact’s seal, then all hell’s broke loose. Lady Quenreach agrees to ruining them locked grates, just not to the point of collapsing the tunnels and fucking us all.”

Pitch moves back toward the cart and grabs the hacksaw, testing the blade tension with his thumb. His voice comes out measured.

“Ancestors-old ironwork. Right. That’s brittle, oxidized differently than modern stock—fails at different stress points. Makes the cuts trickier but maybe faster if I read the weaknesses right.”

He slides the hacksaw into his belt loop alongside the bolt cutters.

“Got primary and backup. No explosives, no structural collapse risk. Just precise cuts through old iron while mind-worms crawl into our skulls.”

A burst of wild laughter from Kestrel punctuates Pitch’s resolution. She stays quiet otherwise, that worried look still carved deep across her muzzle even as her mouth twitches toward another laugh.

Saffi moves to the cart and takes one of the hooded oil lanterns, the motion efficient and practiced.

“Alright,” I say, “both phases seem separated to me—first, clear our path to the flooded section where the artifact waits buried under two feet of contaminated water. Once we’re done with that, we head back up, leave the bolt cutters and hacksaws and whatnot, then pick up the planks and trenching shovels and block-and-tackle for the by-the-book extraction. We will enter with Pitch on point, the four of us clipped, rope-meister on the back as anchor. Let’s think perils—bad water that’s also a lure. One of us may pause, stare at the flow, step in, stop fighting to get out. Being clipped should help.”

I approach the cart to browse through the remaining tools. My hand scratches at my chin.

“Might wanna bring the throw line… but we’d have to hope the person who walked into the water wants to catch it. Rest of the risks come when we reach the silted culvert—I’m talking zero visibility sludge, confined space hazards. Two feet of water over uneven rubble is ankle-breaking terrain. Will need planks for that. And of course: crack the seal, and everyone loses.”

Saffi moves to the cart and takes a coil of long rope, looping it over her shoulder.

“Logistics of the first extraction phase look fine,” I say. “Now, worst case scenarios—imagine Saffi’s tending to the line when she suddenly decides the rotted waters look sweet enough for a dive, and we find our diver underwater in waters she shouldn’t dive in. Or what if the first one to look loopy is our gentle giant Kestrel, but nobody’s strong enough to restrain her? What if Pitch’s cutting through a grate only for his hands to drop the tools, then for him to jump pantless and ass-first into that liquid darkness? Any ideas?”

Kestrel lets out a succession of laughs that manage to sound both compulsive and nervous.

“C’mon, folks,” I say. “I’m thinking our most reasonable contingency plan is ‘don’t get mind-wormed.’ Anyone clever enough to come up with something better to do once someone’s eyes go blank?”

Pitch moves toward the cart again, reaching for one of the remaining hooded oil lanterns.

“Need light to read the ironwork properly. Can’t assess cuts or oxidation patterns in the dark.”

He takes the lantern, metal catching dull morning light through the fog.

I rub the fur of my forehead, working through the problem.

“Let me think about this… Two construction workers drowned. Plenty reported the mental compulsions but didn’t jump into the water. We need a taste of how those mind-worms actually feel like. A probe of sorts. Once we go down there—clipped of course—for the first phase, the moment one of us gets mind-wormed and starts hearing words in their head that don’t belong to them, we hurry them back up to the surface, or at least out of the access point. See how long it takes for the mind-worm to go away. Which we know it does because the affected workers all fled.”

“Alright, worst-case scenarios,” Kestrel says. “Here’s what I’m thinking—we can’t stop the mind-worm from hitting, but we can make it harder to act on. First: multiple clips on the line. Not just one carabiner—two, maybe three per person. That way if someone’s brain tells them to unhook and dive, they’ve got to fumble through extra metal while we’re yanking them back. Buys us seconds, maybe more.”

She shifts her weight, that worried look still carved deep across her muzzle even as another involuntary laugh bursts out.

“Second: watchers. We pair up—one person works, one person watches. Pitch cuts the grate, I watch his eyes. Saffi tends line, Jorren watches her. The moment someone goes blank-eyed or starts staring at the water too long, the watcher yells and we haul them out of the access point, back to the surface, see how long it takes for the compulsion to fade. Third, and this is the uncomfortable part—if the worm hits me and I decide I want that water, rope tension and crew strength might not be enough to stop me. So we need a fallback: Saffi’s line-work has to be strong enough to drag dead weight, and the rest of you need to be ready to pile on if I start moving toward the canal. Same goes for anyone else who gets wormed hard. We can’t prevent it, Jorren. But we can plan for the aftermath. Make it harder to drown ourselves even when our brains are telling us it’s the right call. Not a great plan. But it’s the only one I’ve got that’s honest about the risk.”

“Brilliant, Kestrel. Multiple clips. Pair up. I think that’s as good as it’s going to get for our first extraction phase.”

I turn my head to look up at the Ash-Seal liaison. Hobb Rusk’s standing there in that meticulous kiln-black coat, large round eyes fixed somewhere between me and the crew. He’s been listening this whole time—close enough to hear every word of our contingency planning, silent enough that I almost forgot he was there.

“Master Rusk, what exactly do you need from us? We’ve worked with other Ash-Sealers in the past but not in these fucked-up circumstances. What constraints are you relying on so you can contain the artifact in your box and pulverize it, or whatever the hell you tight-lipped fuckers do?”

Hobb’s eyes shift to meet mine directly. There’s a pause, like he’s organizing his answer into the specific order he wants. His hands stay at his sides, webbed fingers motionless. Then he speaks.

“I need the artifact intact and sealed when you hand it to me. If the seal’s cracked—if you drop it, if stone slabs crush it during excavation, if someone gets mind-wormed and drags it through contaminated water—the containment process changes completely. A sealed artifact goes into the box with standard ward protocols and salt geometry calibration. An actively leaking artifact requires layered suppression, extended calibration time, and significantly higher risk of containment failure. So your extraction needs to be precise enough that what you bring me is still structurally intact, even if it’s covered in sludge. Beyond that, I need workspace—clean ground, adequate humidity for the box’s adhesion wards, and enough light to verify seal integrity before I start the containment sequence. If you can’t provide that at the extraction site, we bring the artifact back here to the service yard before I touch it. And timeline: sealed artifact, maybe an hour for full containment. Cracked artifact, could be three to six hours depending on how bad the leak is, and I can’t guarantee success if the damage is severe enough.”

His lipless mouth compresses into a thin line.

“So the short version is this—bring me what you promised Lady Quenreach you’d extract, don’t fuck up the seal during the dig, and give me the workspace I need to do my job properly. Do that, and we’re fine. Crack it and hand me a disaster, and the timeline you’re working with collapses completely.”

I nod at Hobb Rusk, processing his parameters.

“Got it—clean ground, adequate humidity, enough light. Perfect arguments to stay topside instead of crawling through contaminated tunnels with us. Alright, we’ll bring the ancient, sludgy turd straight to your hands, and hope we don’t ruin the package along the way.”

I look around at the opulent estate grounds—manicured gardens, precisely trimmed hedges, wide gravel paths that probably cost more than my year’s wages.

“As for providing you with a good enough workspace…” I gesture at the space around us. “If the open air won’t do, we can talk to the steward. Man’s an amphibian too—maybe you two will reminisce about your family tree as you save the day.”

My tail thumps against the gravel twice. I turn to face my crew. Pitch stands there in his blast bib, bolt cutters and hacksaw collected, lantern in hand. His expression’s unreadable—that demolition-specialist look that doesn’t give away whether he’s got questions or he’s just waiting for me to finish talking. Saffi’s got her rope coiled over one shoulder and her lantern ready, golden eyes tracking between me and the others with that hooded, calculating look she gets when she’s reading group dynamics.

“Folks,” I say, “unless you’ve got some last-minute objections, let’s gear up. Nobody’s dying today. Otherwise I’ll be forced to drag you out of whatever afterlife you believe in, and that’d ruin my afternoon.”

THE END

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