[DAY ELEVEN…]

Will

Brimstone gathered his closest advisors—which did not amount to a great number, these days—in the great hall of his keep to hold a war council, and plan out his imminent march on Stormfront.

Present were Will, Handsome, Captain Griff, the newly arrived Commander Thorpe along with Captain Wynn, the leader of his elite commando unit, and of course the lord himself, draped upon the high chair as gracefully as an old sock. They all sat around a heavy, circular table that had been brought out before the high chair at one end of the bright hall.

So far, most of the meeting had been going over logistics and troop movements, topics requiring little to no input on Will's part, meaning he had a good deal of time to study the two newcomers. Thorpe was a Level 17 Laborer-Builder, bearded and broad-shouldered. His subordinate Wynn was a plain-looking Level 12 Explorer who had not spoken a word thus far.

Notably, the militia commander did not appear to see any issue at all with Brimstone's plan of marching north with all the king's horses and all the king's men to knock on Lady Winter's door. The fact that the only one looking green in the face was Griff made Will feel like he was on crazy pills. Could they not see the disaster they were walking into?

"My lord," Commander Thorpe said at some point, "considering the potential of evening the odds against Winter with superior weaponry, I took the liberty of bringing my gunsmith with me so that you might utilize him however you see fit. He is the one who outfitted my commandos, so I can vouch for his skills personally. With your leave, I'd like to give him the chance to say a few words."

"By all means," Brimstone said.

At a nod from Thorpe, Captain Wynn went to show the man in. Upon his entrance, Will felt his jaw slowly slacken in surprise, and the unlit cigarette he had been flipping over his knuckles went rolling across the table.

By every measure except its rough body plan, the thing that entered was not human. He could not help but classify the seven-foot-tall machine that entered the room with the only word that seemed to fit—a robot.

The thing was nothing less than sublime in form; a masterpiece of interlocking metal plates and struts with delicate clockwork gears making up the internals, all ticking along in perfect harmony. At the same time, its chassis was rusted and dented in spots, and the soft blue light behind its gemstone eyes flickered periodically.

Most shocking, however, were the twelve AP crystals that studded its left arm, along with the mark of an Artisan etched into the plating.

"I greet you, Lord Brimstone," said the robot in an echoey, tinny, and distinctly masculine voice as he stepped up in front of the round table, and sketched out a perfect bow. "I am an Autonomous Domestic Advancement Module—but you may call me ADAM."

"Greetings," Brimstone replied with a curt nod. "You are the one they call the Toymaker, yes?"

"That is correct." The robot straightened, peering down at the seated group from his high vantage point. He was entirely expressionless, his ornately carved face plate bearing no mouth or nose.

Again, the only one who seemed to match any of the astonishment Will felt was Griff. Is this real life? He had heard of the Toymaker, of course, but had never been given any reason to suspect the man was anything other than human. He could not quite believe his eyes, but a cast of Identify confirmed what they were seeing—the thing was really there, and it really did have Concord access.

"I asked to accompany Commander Thorpe on his journey to Sheerhome," ADAM continued, "so that I could present myself to you. I wish to formally pledge my talents to your cause, as I have been led to believe you may have need of many firearms in the immediate future."

Brimstone's lips—such as they were, burnt to scraps—peeled back in what Will thought was meant to be a friendly smile. "That's right," the lord said.

"Then I will begin mass production at your leisure. However, I will require significant monetary funds and raw materials in order to increase my current output."

"Done."

"Thank you, Lord Brimstone."

"I would like to ask one thing of you in return, Toymaker."

"Yes?"

"You are currently based out of Timbryhall, as I understand."

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"That is correct."

"You will relocate your operations to Sheerhome. Do this, and I will give you the resources needed for a grand foundry—one whose fires will burn hot enough to overpower the grave chill creeping out of the north."

The robot stood perfectly still for several long moments, gears whirring quietly beneath his metal plating. "Very well," he said at last. "Timbryhall has been my home for many years—but perhaps it is time to let the past die."

"Agreed," Brimstone said with a raspy chuckle, "and the witch soon to follow."

The lord directed Handsome to work out the specifics of his deal with the gunsmith after the meeting adjourned. With another bow, ADAM turned and left.

There was barely time for the discussion to start up again before there was another interruption—this time coming from one of Griff's guardsmen, who was seeking the captain's attention.

"There is a woman who wishes to speak with you urgently, my lord," Griff said somewhat doubtfully once he had interrogated his man over by the doors. "She claims to have vital intelligence on Lady Winter's plans."

"Who is this woman?" Brimstone asked, fussing with the torn sleeve of his crude robe.

"Apparently her name is Irina, my lord. A Level 6 Scholar."

"Philly Upnorth's widow," Will added, recognizing the name. "That merchant from Stormfront, you may recall. The one you had me kill."

Brimstone nodded to himself. "Ah. Thank you, my friend." He waved a moist, pink hand toward the captain and his footman. "Very well—let's see what she has to say."

Griff's man soon returned through the doors with Philly's widow. Will remembered the woman's face well, having seen her expression of pure horror many times in his sleep. Even so, he hardly recognized her. She was thin and hollow-eyed. She looked reasonably clean, but her clothes were discolored and rumpled, as though she had worn the same set for days on end.

"My lord," she mumbled, led by the arm across the hall. "I have a—"

"She means to kill you," Handsome said calmly.

A moment of collective confusion passed—Irina herself looking perhaps most shocked of all. Then her eyes went wide, and her nostrils flared, and she yanked herself free of the flatfooted guardsman as she broke into a mad sprint for the high chair.

Will moved first in response. Given the occasion, he wasn't wearing any of his weapons; instead he picked up a lead paperweight that had been holding down one corner of a map, and cast an Amplified Repel into it. The little block of heavy metal went zipping between the heads of Thorpe and Wynn, flew straight across the hall, and sank an inch into Irina's forehead with a sickening thwap.

The woman went down. By the time Griff and his man had their blades out, she was already lying face-first in a growing puddle of her own blood, only the occasional twitch going through her limbs.

"I don't understand," Griff muttered as he stood above the corpse, rubbing sheepishly at his badly scarred jaw. "She was unarmed—we checked her thorough on the way in. Detected on her, even."

"What about her mouth?" Will asked. He left his seat and had the guardsman turn the woman over so he could examine her properly without getting so much mess on himself.

"Well, not specifically," Griff replied in a cagey tone, already understanding that he had messed up somehow, "but we Detected her, like I said. No metal."

Irina was still blinking dumbly at the ceiling and emitting a strange snoring sound as she was swallowing her own tongue. Will motioned for the guardsman's dagger, got it, and put it through her eye. She was still after that.

He pried her mouth open and dug around inside with his finger, grimacing at the macabre nature of it all. Soon, he had retrieved a thin razor from the inside of her cheek, and handed the little blade to Griff before wiping the saliva from his fingers onto the guardsman's trouser leg.

"You can't Detect any object inside a person's body," Will explained. He stood out of his crouch with a sigh and clapped Griff on the shoulder. "So now you know that, buddy."

Then he walked away so he wouldn't have to look at the woman any longer. She would never have gotten anywhere near Brimstone—and even if she had, what exactly would she have done to him? To call her actions a plan would be generous to the point of stretching categorical boundaries.

He hadn't intervened on Brimstone's behalf. He had intervened to spare Irina a drawn-out death by torture in the lord's dungeon. Half for her sake, and half for his own, considering he'd probably be the one holding the knife and asking the questions.

No, Irina Upnorth had never had a chance at killing her target. Unfortunately, Brimstone himself did not see it that way, and became rather riled up over the whole affair. He called an end to the meeting immediately, and pulled Will aside to one end of the hall while the others milled about looking uncomfortable.

"You see?" Brimstone hissed, a febrile intensity in his rheumy eyes, and he gripped Will's arms painfully tight. "It's the witch. She's sending even more of them now—filthy assassins. Getting them to do her dirty work so she doesn't have to fight me in earnest."

Will did not point out the fact that Brimstone was in fact speaking to a filthy assassin, who had in fact been doing the lord's dirty work on a semi-regular basis for some time now. He also did not point out the fact that Irina had most likely been acting on some mad impulse to avenge her husband rather than orders from Stormfront. If Lady Winter had been behind the attempt, it would not have been nearly this slipshod.

But speaking sense to a madman was like discussing philosophy with the ass end of a cow—unlikely to yield the response you wanted.

"The attacker has been dealt with, my lord," Will said, impressed with himself at how calm he sounded, "you're safe now."

"Safe?" Brimstone shook his head slowly. "No. Not until the witch is dead, and I have uprooted her web of conspiracies from my city."

Will clenched his teeth to suppress a sigh. "I will defer to your wisdom on this."

"Listen to me, my friend. The targets I outlined for you—I want them dead. Tonight. No more waiting. Kill them, before the witch can seduce them to act against me—if she hasn't already."

Will had feared that it was headed in this direction. "Consider it done," he said, since he really did not have another option.

Motherfucker.

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