“You’re telling me the Black Knight is the one who gave you the statue?"

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

  "The Black Knight!" Lowe repeated, unable to stop himself. "The serial killer who haunted Soar—who hunted it—murdering, let me remind you, a whole host of people you were supposed to be friends with! Lords, merchants, high priests, Council members. People who, I was repeatedly told, mattered. And now you're telling me the collateral you used to put a fucking god in a chokehold came straight from them?"

  “I am aware of the history of the Black Knight, Inspector,” the Mayor said. “But do keep in mind that this was six years ago. Well before you and the rest of Cuckoo House failed, time and time again, to capture the person slaughtering the great and the good of Soar. I had no reason not to assume this was simply a gift from an appreciative constituent.”

  Annoyingly, that was a fair point. Six years ago was a long time before the murders. The first of them, anyway.

  "But you just... took it? No questions asked? Not even a why me?"

  "Inspector, I don’t know how things work in your world, but in mine, when someone offers you a gift that can change the world, you don’t ask frivolous questions. You accept it. Gladly. And then you pray it doesn’t come with too high a price."

  Lowe couldn’t help but think that the best time to count the teeth of gift horses was before you stuck your whole arm in their mouths. "And what was the price the Black Knight demanded, sir?"

  “You see, that’s just the thing.” The Mayor said. “He’s actually never asked me for anything.”

  Bullshit. Lowe didn’t need Arebella sat next to him to know a lie when he heard one, even if it was wrapped up in a politician’s trick of technically being true. Maybe the Black Knight hadn’t asked, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t taken.

  And, Lowe thought, it didn’t mean the bill wasn’t still to come due.

  That made Lowe think about the deal he had made with Grackle Nuroon for access to that memory. Maybe the Mayor wasn’t the only one in this office to make stupid pacts. "But why you, sir?" he asked.

  The Mayor’s lips twitched in something close to amusement. "Perhaps he saw something in me. Potential. A shared vision. Or perhaps he simply knew I was the only one who had the balls to do what needed to be done. But, let me be clear, Inspector Lowe. I am ordering you now to let me to worry about handling Arkola," the Mayor said. His voice had cooled, any pretense of affability stripped away. "It is for you to focus on doing your job. Two days, Inspector. Apparently that’s all the time you have to recover that statue. And, when you do - and I have no doubt that you will - you will make sure you return it to me, and not to Arkola. I’d make more threats, but I think I’ve already got that covered, right? You bring me the statue, and I’ll take care of the god’s temper tantrum. Me. Just like I have done so before. Now, I think this is the point where I will tell you to get the fuck out of my office."

  Lowe held his gaze. He wanted to argue. Wanted to demand answers, push further until something, anything, cracked. But he knew it was pointless. The Mayor wasn’t going to give him anything more. Not even if Soar was burning around him. Some people were just constitutionally incapable of playing it straight. So instead he stood, smoothed down his coat, and walked through the door.

  As he stepped out, the soft click of the door shutting behind him felt oddly final. As if something had just been decided, and probably not in his favour. Lowe assumed Arkola had been watching and wondered what it made of the conversation.

  But he didn’t have time to brood on that, as half a second after re-entering the reception area, he noticed it had developed quite an atmosphere. The type you got when two people had spent a while not quite trying to kill each other but were definitely working their way up to it. Latham stood stiff-backed, hands on hips, face set in the deeply unimpressed expression of a man who had been arguing with a brick wall and resented the brick wall for not having the decency to get bored first. Opposite him was Norris and the Wereman’s fur was standing up along the back of his neck bristled, his claws flexing at his sides.

  “Fuck’s sake! Are you both still doing this?”

  Latham didn’t look away from Norris. “That depends. Does the little lapdog here still think he can stop us from leaving?”

  “I have a duty to ensure the security of this office,” the Wereman said.

  “You also have a duty to remember that, when I do report this, I’ll be doing it directly to the Council,” Latham shot back. “So, by all means, try me. Pup. Level Forty Three? Are you fucking kidding me stepping up like this?”

  Norris’s hackles raised another fraction, and Lowe decided that, entertaining as the inevitable results of this particular clash might be, he had places to be that weren’t here.

  “Okay, okay,” he said, stepping between them before any bloodshed (or, more likely, paperwork) became necessary. He gestured towards the door. “We’re leaving, he’s staying, and we all get to go home in one piece.”

  A long, charged pause. Then, with great reluctance, Norris let out a low growl, stepped back behind his desk, and deliberately flicked open a ledger with a single claw.

  Latham strode past him, and Lowe followed, letting out a sigh of relief as the doors swung shut behind them.

  The cool evening air hit like a splash of water to the face. The manalights of Soar all flickered to life, the streets stretching ahead, teeming with people moving through the city’s arteries, oblivious to the noose tightening around them. Oblivious that the game was already in motion.

  The Black Knight. The statue. Arkola. The Mayor. Shimmerskins.

  It was all connected. But how?

  Two days.

  That was all he had.

  ***

  “And you still haven’t heard anything from the mistress?” Mylaf asked, putting two very different dinner plates down in front of Lowe and Latham.

  Latham eyed the heaving plate of fried food in front of him like a man about to propose marriage. The platter was a masterpiece. Golden, crispy and glistening with oil that had seen things, survived multiple fryers, and come out fighting for its life. Beside it, Lowe’s green leaf salad sat looking like it had lost a fight with a lawnmower and never quite recovered.

  Lowe prodded a wilted bit of green with his fork. “I want you to know how much I hate you right now,” he said, watching Latham gleefully dunk something battered into something gooey.

  Latham grinned, chewing happily. “You hate yourself more, though, don’t you?”

  “I really do.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr Latham needs the calories,” Mylaf said, setting down a tankard next to Latham’s plate with a thud. “His Skills burn fat for Stamina. Yours… don’t.”

  “And I suppose my meal was carefully chosen for maximum nutritional value?”

  “I’m not having Arebella get back and find that none of your suits fit.”

  Lowe slumped back in his chair, making a point of looking as tragic as possible. “You know, there was a time I thought you liked me.”

  Latham nearly choked on a fried mushroom, shaking with silent laughter. Lowe turned his fork over in his hand, watching a thin strand of something suspiciously healthy droop over the edge. “So this is where my life is at,” he muttered. “A world-ending conspiracy, a serial killer playing games from beyond the grave, and yet it is my waistline which is the key focus of discussion.”

  “The mistress?” Mylaf prompted again.

  “No, nothing,” Lowe said. “You had anything from Hel?”

  “No, but that’s hardly a surprise. Hel’s a pro. If she’s gone to ground, then she’s gone low. We’ll hear from her when she’s ready to be in touch with us.” Another wodge of fried food vanished. “Look, I’m loving your White Knight energy right now, but between you, me and the garden post, you’re literally the weakest link in our chain. A bunch of Shimmerskins attacked us, and you’re the only one they dropped. Your girlfriend is a walking lie-detector. Mine is, quite possibly, the scariest person I’ve ever met, and that’s saying something. Add in a fucking Auditor and a Druid and I think they’re probably set. Of all of us, you’re the one most likely person to be splattered. Again. Which is why I’m staying here until we wrap this all up. Or until the world ends in two days. One of the two.” Latham looked at Lowe, who had gone entirely pale, dropping his fork onto his untouched salad. “What is it?”

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  But Lowe had long ago stopped listening.

  White Knight.

  With just those two words, Latham had transported him back to just over a year ago. To a conversation where, after some of the revelations of the last couple of days had started to make a whole lot more sense.

  ***

  The chessboard was older than Lowe. Possibly older than Soar itself, if you believed Cenorth. The Commander said it had been his for decades, the edges of the wooden squares softened from years of use, and the pieces smooth as river stones from their constant handling.

  Although Cenrorth was pretty good at it, Lowe suspected his friend tended to use the game less for developing his skill levels and more about developing patience. Lowe’s, mostly.

  The Commander sat across from him, posture impossibly relaxed. Especially considering all that was going on in the rest of Cuckoo House. A major operation to capture the Black Knight was in play - an entire park was being, subtly, ringfenced - and the boss and his Golden Boy, the man with the plan, weren’t doing anything more than playing chess! Lowe knew it must look ridiculous, but right now, he didn’t care. He needed help to focus, and Cenorth’s proposed game was just what was required.

  The game was only a few moves old, and despite Lowe’s attempt to dictate the tempo, Cenorth’s knight-heavy defence already meant he was feeling the pressure. After a moment’s thought, he brought out his own queen’s knight to try and push an attack on Cenorth’s developing central structure. “You’re playing aggressive today, boss,” he said.

  Cenorth responded instantly, sliding his knight to meet the attack head-on. “As I’ve always told you, Jana, aggression isn’t always a bad thing. In certain circumstances, especially when the heat is on, it might be the only real option open to you. Of course, though, it’s a question of whether you’ve accounted for the consequences.”

  Lowe tried to block out the chatter. Cenorth always talked like this when they played. Like he was discussing the game and not discussing it at the same time. It was the same with the case, he supposed. The Black Knight had taken Highberg’s child, and it was time to be aggressive in response.

  They had a plan. His plan. And that plan should work. The plan had to work. And yet, rather than helping with the final preparations, here they were, playing chess.

  Lowe pushed a pawn to attack one of the knights. Cenorth barely paused before lifting it and tucking it safely back in cover, preserving the shape of his defence. “You don’t like knights, do you?” Cenorth said. “You seem to spend an inordinate amount of time and energy trying to push them back. Time you could spend actually getting on with things and building your own attack.”

  Lowe reached for a piece, then stopped, realising too late that moving his bishop would be a mistake. He hesitated, wishing he could redo that action. Seeing his frustration, Cenorth shook his head. “This is your constant problem, Jana! What do I always say? Indecision will cost you the game faster than aggression ever will.”

  Lowe grimaced, and then moved the bishop anyway, trying to pin Cenorth’s knight against his queen. Cenorth, unimpressed, immediately moved it to the side. Lowe forced the exchange with his queen, but his attack was poorly planned, and the turn he had to waste repositioning was going to cost him.

  Which was when Cenorth’s knights started to dance.

  He swung the one from left to right to guard his centre. Then, after Lowe castled kingside, he moved the other knight forward to take a central spot Lowe had carelessly given away. Lowe tried to push him back, but Cenorth responded more aggressively than Lowe thought he’d ever seen him, and after a series of trades, Lowe realised—too late—he had no answer for what was coming.

  One of his knights attacked Lowe’s king’s position. Lowe, rattled, tried to kick it, but Cenorth simply shifted his other knight, covering everything he might have planned. Lowe pushed another pawn forward, trying to hold back the tide, but it was obvious the game was pretty much over

  “Knights are at their best when working together, Jana,” he said, something odd in his tone that, even back then, had seemed strange. “A knight alone is a nuisance. A useful nuisance, for sure, but nothing more than that. But two knights, working together? Well, they’ll take your board apart before you even realise what’s happening.”

  Lowe frowned. That was a little too close to the thing that had been gnawing at him all evening. He barely registered the next move as Cenorth's knight came forward for check. Lowe moved his king out of danger, but the board was collapsing around him. Cenorth repositioned his remaining knight to prepare for the coup de grace. “You see, you’re spending much too long thinking about the immediate threats,” he continued. “Which is admirable. It means you care. But if you care too much, you will end up missing the bigger picture. The key to this game - to life, really - is in knowing that pawns exist to be sacrificed. That’s the only reason they’re on the board in the first place.”

  Lowe looked down and realised—too late—how much trouble he was in. He shuffled his rook into a blocking position, but Cenorth’s pieces were already where they needed to be. Lowe saw the mate incoming a second before it hit. His king was boxed in, the exit squares eaten by his own pawns. The knights’ movements had looked superficially scattered—but together, they had cut off every route to safety, shifting one step ahead of his defence each time. There was no escape.

  Lowe reached forward and tipped his king onto its side.

  They looked at each other for a moment, and then Cenorth reached forward to pick up Lowe’s white knight and turned it between his fingers as if examining its shape.

  “I assume this is the part where you tell me what I should’ve done differently,” Lowe said.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want to patronise you, Jana. You’ve played the whole thing exactly how I thought you would. The only way in which you know how.” Cenorth gestured to the toppled king. “You like playing the white pieces, don’t you?”

  “Most people do.”

  “Most people do, indeed,” Cenorth echoed. “Because white moves first. Because white acts, and then black has to react. Because, in the stories, the white knight is the hero, and the black knight is the villain, right?” His fingers continued to brush over the knight, and then he tapped it against the board. “But in chess, and in life, white doesn’t always win.”

  “Certainly not if you play like me, no!” Lowe said, trying to raise a mood that seemed to have become a bit dark.

  Cenorth moved the knight back to its starting position. “I need to ask you something, Jana. If you were playing a game, and the board was full of Black Knights… what would you do?”

  “Well, that’s kind of how it feels right now, boss, to be honest.” Lowe pushed away from the table and stood. “Look, if you don’t mind, I should run over a few last details for this operation with the boys.”

  “You are not excused. Tell me, what would you do if you came across a whole board of Black Knights?”

  Lowe frowned, unsure where this was going. “I’d try to take them off the board, I guess. Mind you, one of them is bad enough. No idea how I’d deal with an army of them.”

  Cenorth shook his head, face oddly sombre. "It would, ironically, be easier than just taking on one of them. An army of Black Knights would be chaos. You see, knights - those of both colours - are rather unpredictable. It turns out they are hard to contain. Dangerous, even to the ones who put them in play in the first place."

  Lowe wasn't sure where this was going and said so much. "What’s your point, boss? Look, I should be getting back to my team. We can pick this up after we’ve got the bastard. Drinks on me!" He expected Cenorth to stand, but he didn’t.

  "I’m just saying, Jana, that sometimes, the very worst way to take on black knights… is by being a white knight.” He stared up at Lowe. “There are other options available. If you want to take advantage of them."

  Lowe’s mind was already on Goldleaf Park. On the operation that was about to take place. “Right. Well, I appreciate the pep talk, boss, but I think I’ll stick to doing things my way. I think you’ll find all of this will be over and done with coming the night.”

  Cenorth studied him for a moment. Lowe sensed he’d let him down in some way. “Of course, Jana. Don’t let me hold you up any further. After all, as you said, you always play white.”

  Lowe had left the game thinking he'd just been schooled in chess. But looking back now, knowing some of the things Cenorth had been up to, he realised he was wrong.

  White Knight.

  Cenorth hadn’t just been idly chatting chess when he’d called him that. He’d said it as if it meant something. As if it meant something specific to him. And then, not two bells after this conversation, Lowe’s team was dead, they’d found the body of Highberg’s kid, and he was on his way to be Classtrated.

  Knights are unpredictable. Hard to contain. Dangerous, even to the ones who put them in play.

  Cenorth hadn’t been speaking metaphorically, had he?

  He had a very particular Black Knight in mind! He had known. That fucker had known who the Black Knight was and he’d been feeling Lowe out during this chess game, trying to offer him some sort of alliance. Not out of trust. Not even out of necessity. But out of sheer, cold-blooded calculus. Because, apparently Cenorth had read the runes and decided that the clash between Lowe and the Black Knight was a variable he couldn’t predict.

  Had the boss betrayed the Goldleaf Park operation?

  Of course he had! That was what he’d been doing all along, wasn’t it? Not helping with the pursuit. Not trying to support Lowe in bringing the Black Knight down. He'd been fucking directing the killer’s work.

  Cenorth had sold them out that day, but not before he’d made some sort of strange, cack-handed attempt to recruit Lowe to his side. One he’d not even realised was being made. If he’d known what was being hinted to him back then . . . If he’d recognised that the boss he’d looked up to was something very different, would all of his friends still be alive?

  Latham, mid-bite, frowned. “What’s with the face, little man? You look like you’ve just realised your life is a tragic joke.”

  “Not quite. But I think… I think I’m finally realising what game I was playing.”