Elan stood at the front doors of the estate, the soft glow of the two lanterns illuminating the porch. Ghost stood with one foot outside and one inside, her back against the door frame. Watching Elan.
A throbbing in Elan's head. The beginnings of a headache, the parting gift of the firebrand ale.
And as she waited, as her toes fidgeted inside her boots, she started to wish that she had some ale handy.
But finally, Laython came down the stairs with Spectre and approached the two of them.
"What a surprise," Laython said as he eyed Elan. "I certainly didn't expect to see you back so soon. Now. Where is my shipment?"
Elan didn't say anything. Simply presented the ruined pistol, took the message out of her pocket, and offered it as well.
Laython glanced at Ghost. Nodded.
Ghost grabbed the pistol. Started to inspect it as Spectre grabbed the message and undid the string and skimmed over it.
"It's signed Gary Blight, sir," Spectre said.
"And this pistol appears to have been melted in a way consistent with what the men described of the chest," Ghost said.
Laython took the message from Spectre and gave it a read himself. Despite herself, despite all the proof Gary had provided, she swallowed nervously. Watched his eyes move left and right and left and right as he read each line of the note.
He put the note on an end table beside the door.
Looked back to Elan.
Elan looked back at him. Tried not to shake.
A moment passed. The sound of crickets filling the gap.
Then Laython glanced at Ghost and said, "Gather some of the men from the estate. Have them fetch my carriage. We'll take it along with the wagon Elan arrived in."
"Full arms and armor, sir?" she asked.
"Yes. We don't know what we're walking into."
And Ghost did as she was bidden. Spectre stayed at Laython's side. Kept watch on Elan.
Laython's eyes drifted back to Elan then. A smirk. "Alright, Elan. It seems you may have a shred of credibility to your name. For your sake, this 'Gary Blight' business had better be genuine."
"It is," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "You'll see, Master Laython."
He tilted his head forward. "We both will."
* * * * *
The carriage and the wagon traveled down the road. Lanterns hung from the sides of both vehicles. Beacons of light in the surrounding dark. The clouded night was king out here.
Elan kept watch in the driver's seat of the carriage, the lead vehicle. She squinted, paying close attention to the road with the limited light available. Hoped she hadn't missed the spot.
But there.
At last.
The particular bend of the road and the shape and size of the bushes and the number of surrounding trees refreshed the sight of the spot in her mind. This was it.
"Here," she said to the driver, and he stopped the carriage. The wagon behind them stopped as well. The eight plate and mail wearing riflemen in the wagon all jumped out.
Spectre and Ghost exited the carriage first. Then Laython, straightening and smoothing out his jacket after he did.
"Have the men set up a perimeter around the carriage and the wagon," Laython said to Spectre, who carried out the order, and the men made a ring around the vehicles.
Elan jumped down from the driver's seat. Said to Laython, "He's not here. He's ju—"
"Not here." Laython narrowed his eyes. "You said this is the place. So which is it? Is this the spot of the proposed meeting or is it not?"
A pang of anxiety in her chest. "He's just a little ways off the road. That's where he led me before. I swear to you that it's the truth."
Laython glanced at Ghost, and she drew her pistol and pressed it to Elan's forehead.
"Oh god..." Elan closed her eyes and pursed her lips. Her arms and legs shook.
"My dear Elan," Laython said. "You wouldn't be trying to lead me into a trap, would you?"
"No! No! It's just where he took me earlier. The road's too risky for a goblin to—"
"Perhaps you aren't consciously trying to do so," Laython said as he glanced around at the darkness beyond the glow of the lanterns. "Perhaps you are merely a pawn. A piece to be discarded in a much grander game. Ghost. If you would, please."
"No! Don't!"
But the shot didn't come. Ghost grabbed Elan and held her like a human shield, an arm around Elan's neck, the lightning pistol to her head.
Spectre came back to Laython's side, stood close, his own pistol drawn and his eyes scanning the blackened trees.
"Or," Laython said, "perhaps you have struck a deal with him. Perhaps there is a connection between the two of you that I am unaware of."
"It's not like that," Elan said, her voice unsteady. "It's just what's written on the note. I swear it's sincere. Please, Master Laython, please. He just wants to do business. That's all."
"We'll find that out soon enough." Then, Laython looked back into the surrounding darkness of the forest and yelled, "Mr. Blight! You wanted to talk. Come. Let's talk. I would prefer to be civil about this."
The cold iron against Elan's head. The armored riflemen, eyeing the dark forest apprehensively, guns in hand and poised to fire.
And Laython waited, his hands on his hips.