Teaser: I just can’t even with Shakespeare, it is not my thing

  “You have a guest, ma’am,” Revlius said to Nightwing, with a discreet – and entirely affected – cough. As the disembodied soul of an ancient assassin that had taken up residence in the very fabric of the magical Guildhall, Revlius didn’t have a body, or at least not one with lungs.

  Nightwing – currently sporting her default physical setting of ‘beautiful and deadly ninja-girl’ – looked up from the note she was halfway through translating. It had arrived on the Guild’s doorstep yesterday, slightly smoking, and attached to a large bottle that a Guild mage had given the once-over and identified as a type of sparkling wine that hadn’t been produced in over 2000 years. It now sat incongruously on her otherwise ruthlessly well-organised and clean desk.

  “In a moment, Revlius,” she said. “You’re handy with languages: this is in some form of demonic script – can you check my work and perhaps have a stab at the last section?”

  Nightwing experienced the strange – but familiar – sensation of someone looking over her shoulder without anyone actually being there.

  “Hmm...what have you got so far ma’am?” Revlius asked.

  “We received your message, High Assassin. Our supplier agreements are very important to us and we want all our strategic partners to know how important they are to our service-oriented and delivery-focused mindset here in Hell. We therefore hope you will accept this in place of the sub-standard beverage which was provided by previous management. Yours sincerely, and that’s where I’m somewhat stuck,” Nightwing replied.

  “The signature itself is in a different hand, and indeed a higher dialect of Hell, ma’am,” Revlius supplied. “It reads: His Infernal Majesty Lucifer Morningstar the Lightbringer, Satan, King of Hell, Prince of Tartarus, Lord Ruler of Hades, Accuser, Deceiver etcetera etcetera. CEO of Hell Interdimensional Holdings Inc. It then goes on one line down: PS – loved your work with the trolls, massive influx of clients down here and opened up a huge new customer base going forward, the Q3 projections are (well, naturally) on fire, looking forward to thanking you in person...eventually.”

  “Well, that’s certainly very intriguing,” Nightwing said, with a raised eyebrow. “Thank you Revlius. Now who is this unexpected guest?”

  “It might perhaps be best if you came in person, ma’am,” Revlius said, with a slightly unsure tone to his voice.

  “Really, Revlius, is there no-one else who can handle this?” Nightwing asked, with mild asperity – the translation was just the top layer of a stack of work through which she needed to plough, and she suspected that even her immortality might be outmatched by the seemingly endless supply of admin generated by the workings of the newly-reformed Assassin’s Guild.

  Revlius gave another polite cough. “I suspect this might warrant your personal attention.”

  Nightwing paused – she trusted Revlius’ judgement in most matters, so if he thought she was needed, then she most likely was. “I see. How did she arrive?”

  “By air, ma’am,” Revlius replied.

  “Which airship?”

  “She did not appear to need one – she dropped out of the sky, landed on the doorstep, knocked and asked, somewhat confusingly, if a tip was included in the bill,” Revlius answered.

  Nightwing got up. “Yes, I think perhaps I should pop down,” she agreed. “If you’d be so kind?”

  She moved over to her office door and opened it. Usually this led out into the council chamber – now it opened directly into one of the Guild’s infinite supply of guest meeting rooms, where a young human woman was sipping a glass of wine and eating a sandwich. She was dressed, somewhat bizarrely, in rusting chainmail which was several sizes too big for her – she wasn’t a particularly tall woman, and seemed quite slender. It appeared to be glued together with strips of some sort of grey-coloured material. Her blonde hair was tied back with a scrap of leather, revealing a pleasant, attractive face. A large, garishly-coloured backpack was leant up against the table at which she sat, dripping onto the floor – it was raining outside.

  “Welcome to the Assassin’s Guild,” Nightwing said.

  “Ohey!” The girl said brightly, in what language Nightwing (who spoke several, from two worlds) could not tell. She scrambled to her feet, grabbing a scrap of parchment from the table. She smiled as she did so, it suited her, and was infectious. Nightwing – whose default setting was quiet, serious reserve – almost smiled in return. Almost.

  “Do you have any rooms for rent? The girl read out, haltingly.

  “I’m afraid not,” Nightwing replied.

  The girl frowned. “How much is a ticket to insert destination here?” She read out again.

  “Rates vary, but I suspect that’s largely irrelevant to you,” Nightwing said.

  “Thank you. Please. My name is? Was her next effort – sounding somewhat desperate, this time.

  Nightwing just shook her head at that one. “Would you be so kind as to send for the Lady Callena, with the greatest urgency, please?” She said in an aside to Revlius.

  “I shall do so at once, ma’am,” Revlius confirmed.

  The girl winced, and ran her eyes furiously up and down the page, then seemed to brighten.

  “Hello I am Psyonara I am looking for my friend McKenzie known as Crowbar the High Assassin of the Vyrinios Guild please just point I cannot speak common,” she read out, then shot a hopeful look at Nightwing.

  Nightwing had a lot of experience controlling her features, so her surprise did not show – but she was surprised.

  Revlius didn’t have a face to worry about, but he gave forth a surprised “Well I never!”

  “Revlius, have you told anyone else about our guest?” Nightwing asked him, not replying to the girl yet. For her part, she didn’t seem to be confused by the disembodied voice: and she had already accepted wine and snacks from Revlius. Clearly not one to be freaked out by strange occurences – or worried over eating unsolicited food in the headquarters of an organisation which had a near-monopoly on master poisoners.

  “I have not, as of yet,” Revlius replied.

  “Good – please keep it that way,” Nightwing said. “Did anyone else see her arrive?”

  “There was nobody nearby – the rain would have obscured her from view for anyone in the square,” Revlius answered.

  Nightwing nodded: that was all to the good. “Hello Psyonara, my name is Nightwing,” she addressed the girl.

  “Oh, oh, oh!” The girl said, with an excited and relieved grin. “I know you! I mean I’ve heard of you!”

  Nightwing frowned – one or two words had made sense there. She reached back a few hundred years – and a whole different world.

  “How dost thou, Psyonara,” Nightwing said. “Indeed a friend we in common hold. Pray tell, art thou an Englishwoman?”

  “Oh – emm – gee, do not tell me that all this time I could have just spoken, like, oldy-worldy English and people would have understood. It has been such a pain in the ass and Sergei’s phrasebook is total crap, although that’s kind of on me for not writing down the english equivalents first, big whoops there,” she waved the parchment in the air. “But no, I’m not an Englishwoman I’m an Americanwoman. I mean I’m from McKenzie’s planet.”

  “The Queen’s English is much changed, Psyonara, many a year hath passed betwixt my time and thine – I prithee speak with greater care, thus may I – and only I – I fear, comprehend. One comes, though, with god-gifted facility in many tongues who shalt render us much aid in this matter,” Nightwing said.

  “Um...I just can’t even with Shakespeare, it is not my thing, erm: my thanks, noble lady, meaneth thou that cometh a translator, like maybe?”

  “Knowest thou the Lady Callena?” Nightwing asked.

  “Oh – is she the one with the sister?”

  “A sister indeed she hath, though an eldritch curse renders these two siblings forever asunder,” Nightwing confirmed.

  “Yeah, there’s a weird deal there, I remember,” Psyonara nodded. “Do you mind if I, I mean, mayest I continue with mine lunch, verily many hours hath passed since, like, breakfast was ages ago and I’ve been airborne most of the day,” she said, indicating the sandwiches on her plate.

  “Pray resume thine repast, mistress Psyonara,” Nightwing inclined her head.

  “Thanks. McKenzie was right, by the way, Revlius does do a very nice light lunch. Um, I mean, my thanks mysterious talking building...chap for thine mostest excellentest feast of wiches of the sand,” Psyonara said, winging it.

  “I believe that was a thank you for the food,” Nightwing said, tilting her head up slightly towards the ceiling as she spoke: an unconscious bit of Assassin’s Guild ettiquette, to indicate that you were addressing Revlius.

  “Indeed, she seems much more polite than Brother Crowbar,” Revlius remarked. “Pretty little thing, too.”

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  “This ‘pretty little thing’ could, I suspect, blast a hole right through your walls if she so wished,” Nightwing stated.

  “Then I shall endeavour to be equally polite,” Revlius promised.

  Nightwing let the girl eat for a while, watching. There was no flash of recognition, such as she had experienced with McKenzie. She knew a little of this woman from conversations with him: an ex-lover of his, apparently young - and possessed of considerable power. She had half-expected her to be kin, in the same, loose way that McKenzie himself was. Nightwing was still not ready to rule that out, but neither would she make any assumptions.

  “Lady Callena has arrived,” Revlius announced after a while.

  “Please show her straight in,” Nightwing asked.

  Cally walked in through the same door as Psyonara moments later. “Hello, Nightwing. Hello mistress assassin,” she nodded to them both in turn, assuming incorrectly that Psyonara worked in the building. “I came as soon as I heard. Always nice to see you, but why the tremendous rush?”

  Psyonara looked up at the tall, golden-haired cleric. “Oh my God I thought Sharinta was supposed to be the beautiful one! Like, wow. Your photos did not do you justice, Lady Callena, I would kill for bone structure like that. Also: hi.”

  “I see,” Cally said. “Um, hi. And thank you, I suppose. And you are?”

  “Oh, right, yeah. I’m Psyonara, you might maybe know me as Christine. I’m a friend of McKenzie’s,” Psyonara said.

  “Arctan have mercy,” Cally breathed, then turned to Nightwing. “Is this true?”

  Nightwing inclined her head slightly to the left. “She speaks English, albeit a version much different from that which I am familiar with. There is but one world where it is spoken. Either she hails from there, or she has learned it somehow. On this plane, besides myself, Brother Crowbar and perhaps you yourself there are a very limited number of people she could have obtained such knowledge from: only two come to mind, in fact – my Client who likes to dress in white and his pet Muscovite mage. I’m reliably informed that she flew here – without the benefit of an airship – but that could be faked with magical assistance.”

  “Okay I didn’t get that but the atmosphere in here has turned a bit tense,” Psyonara said, eyes slightly widening. “I really don’t want to freak anyone out, especially not when they’re deadly assassins.”

  Cally immediately felt bad, and arranged a pleasant smile. “I am so sorry, Psyonara. We’ve heard about you from McKenzie, but we never expected to ever meet you. We’re just a little surprised, that’s all. Nobody here will hurt you. Why don’t we all sit down?”

  Everyone did – there were several chairs. Psyonara smiled. “It’s cool, Lady Callena. I didn’t come here expecting a welcome wagon to be rolled out just because I dropped McKenzie’s name. I get that you’re not going to automatically believe that I am who I say I am.”

  The girl’s smile did not waver as she went on, but Callena saw a quick flash of something hard in her eyes that was akin to McKenzie’s customary attitude.

  “I’m also not concerned about getting hurt,” she said, then her eyes softened again: “but seriously I’m not here to cause trouble either.”

  The door opened and a pair of extra glasses swished into the room, followed by a green bottle: one that was not of infernal origin.

  “Would either of you care for some wine?” Revlius asked. “May I refill our guest’s glass?”

  “Oh my God wow! That’s so cool! I mean I could totally do that if I want and it always gets an ‘oooh’ at parties, but do like all bottles of wine do that here?”

  “No,” Callena replied. “That’s Revlius, who is, erm, this might be a tiny bit hard to explain but essentially he is the guardian spirit of the Assassin’s Guild. He asked if you’d like a top up?”

  “Oh, please. I mean: thankest thou very muchly ghost chap, what what what, very kind,” Psyonara said to the ceiling.

  “Can you tell her she can stop doing that please, Callena?” Nightwing asked, without much of a wince.

  “I can understand you perfectly,” Callena told the girl. “Just speak to me, I can translate.”

  “OK cool ‘cos that was getting old fast,” Psyonara answered in a relieved tone. “Anyway, it is super nice to meet you both. I hope I can meet Lady Danandra too, and even Leni, I understand she’s a hot elf now rather than a big nasty troll that tries to eat you all the time?”

  “Yes, she is,” Callena replied.

  “OK good because otherwise that would not have ended well for her, or rather I would have ended her,” Psyonara replied, with another one of her hard, dangerous looks covered up with a winning smile. “Well, I don’t want to be rude, seriously it’s lovely to meet you, but...could I see McKenzie, please?”

  “Ah,” Callena replied. “There may be a slight problem with that, Psyonara.”

  Psyonara seemed to not be surprised by this revelation. “It’s McKenzie, Lady Callena. There’s always a problem, and it’s usually not slight. What’s he done this time?”

  Nightwing may have already ran down various points in favour, or otherwise, of this girl being who she claimed she was – but to Cally the girl’s tone of weary, familiar resignation was compelling evidence that she was certainly acquainted with McKenzie.

  Callena looked at Nightwing. “Be careful,” Nightwing advised her.

  “Erm,” Callena hesitated. “He’s, well, he’s resigned, you might say.”

  “Is this because of the Obelisk thing?” Pysonara asked. “Sergei – he’s the white-wearing person’s main guy on this planet, I think you met him once – he said McKenzie’d done a fairly big thing that ‘shook the world’ I think was what he said.”

  “I, um, I don’t think it was connected to that, no,” Callena replied.

  Nightwing said nothing. Psyonara blinked. “Can you even quit being an assassin? I mean I know I’m the new girl in town but I got the distinct impression from talking to him that working here was kind of a lifetime deal.”

  “I believe in the normal course of things it is, I mean I’m sure there’s some way of stepping back and becoming some sort of elder assassin-emeritus when you start to get on in years a bit, but one does not simply walk out, no,” Callena babbled, slightly at a loss for what to say.

  She was, after all, lying.

  “Unless you’re McKenzie,” Psyonara sighed, “in which case you do whatever you feel like and the hell with it. Where’s he gone? I’ll go and talk some sense into him – I’ve got a lot of practice, trust me.”

  “We’re...not entirely sure,” Callena replied, then looked at Nightwing. “Is there nothing I could tell her?”

  “No,” Nightwing shook her head. “We don’t know where he’s gone.”

  Which was another lie – but Nightwing was much, much better at it than Callena.

  “Totally understand, Nightwing, he like never leaves a note or even texts, and – ooh ooh! I did totally understand, I mean like I actually understood what you just said!” Psyonara grinned. “Wow, Cally, you’re really good at this!”

  Callena blinked. “I, um, I didn’t do anything Psyonara – but a similar thing happened with McKenzie, after a few hours in my company he acquired my facility for languages,” she explained, her eyes going wide.

  “Another quintessent,” Nightwing breathed, and this time she was unable to keep her eyes from widening in shock.

  “Hah!” Psyonara laughed. “He took a few hours, did he? Totally just smashed his record – I am quite a bit quicker on the uptake than him, though, love the guy to bits but he is not a thinker. So what’s a quintessent?”

  “I think it would be a very good idea,” Nightwing said, “if we contacted Melindron.”

  “Ooh, yes! Totally want to visit there,” Psyonara nodded enthusiastically. “Also, would you or anyone there know if unicorns are real, and if so, how do you go about meeting one with a view, to, y’know, establishing a lifelong friendship and getting them to be your noble magical steed for, like, quests and stuff?”

  “I, um, I do not know what to say to that,” Callena replied.

  Psyonara looked somewhat abashed. “I’m sorry, Cally, I’m completely getting ahead of myself – also is it okay if I call you Cally, that’s what Crowba- McKenzie always called you on the phone,” the girl asked.

  “I, er, yes, of course,” Cally replied.

  “Awesome – you can both call me Christine and Chrissie is also fine,” Psyonara smiled. “You too, Revlius.”

  “Ah, um, my thanks?” Revlius hazarded.

  “You are completely welcome!” Christine replied with another smile. “And the sandwich was lovely, thank you.”

  “Please, dear lady, think nothing of it,” Revlius replied.

  “He is so charming,” Christine said, turning to Nightwing. “I mean you hear ‘guardian spirit of the Assassin’s Guild’ and a girl can’t help but jump to a few conclusions about scariness but seriously, if you could hug disembodied voices then I’d just squish him!”

  “Erm, are we talking figuratively, here? Because I do not want to be squished like that theatre,” Revlius intoned, sounding as skittish as a long-dead ghost could.

  Psyonara just laughed. “I would never, I mean like I can feel all the power fizzing about the building, and like could probably grab it if I wanted-”

  The girl reached out with an explicatory grabbing gesture. Absolutely everyone went cold: even Revlius, the temperature in the room immediately fell to wintry levels.

  “-but that would be a bad idea, I’m guessing, because of this quintessent deal?” Christine finished, eyes wide and brows raised.

  Everyone nodded.

  “Okay then, I won’t. Promise,” she said.

  The room temperature went back to a more normal level.

  “Also, Nightwing, that is such a cool name, I am not a total douche about people’s superhero names, unlike a certain someone who shall remain Crowbar,” Christine added.

  “Thank you, he was indeed somewhat sarcastic about it,” Nightwing confirmed. “You asked what a quintessent was, and alluded to it again just now. The answer to that question would more properly be provided by the Archmage of Melindron, whom I advise you to not call ‘Xixxy’, and her apprentice the Lady Heska.”

  “Oh, she’s the not very nice wolf lady, right? As opposed to Narra-stroke-Anaharra who was nice and also a hippy wolf princess, although I’ve only really met her in the sense that she ran past me in wolf form once and only spoken to her, like, briefly one time when I got her to call McKenzie to talk him down from being in thrall to a mind control spike, so I totally get that I need to keep an open mind here, and I’m sure that Lady Heska is perfectly lovely and won’t try and turn me into a werewolf or do experiments on me or bite me or anything like that,” Christine said, nodding. “She wouldn’t, right?”

  Nightwing and Callena blinked.

  “Ahead of myself again?” Christine asked.

  They both nodded.

  “I’m sorry. It’s all just so exciting!” Christine confessed, with another wide smile.

  Callena couldn’t help it – she smiled in return. “It is, isn’t it? Don’t worry – you’ll get the answers you need.”

  “Certainly there seems to be no shortage of questions,” Nightwing remarked.

  “My bad,” Christine said, holding up her hands. “I’ll shut up now: but what do we do next?”

  “Nightwing has duties here,” Callena replied, “but I think that it might be a good idea if you and I fly to Melindron and consult with the Archmage.”

  “I can totally carry you, how far is it?” Christine asked.

  “Um, I beg your pardon?” Callena asked.

  “She can levitate, remember?” Nightwing reminded her.

  “By airship,” Callena added.

  Christine looked utterly delighted by this news. “Yay! Girl’s trip!”

  Book 3 of the McKenzie Files - The Unlikely General - is currently being written