Wet-Foot People

Ever since he hired Vera, Gordon no longer had to check the gutters for anyone lying in wait on his way to and from university. Vera was like a razor blade. Anyone who wanted to touch him first had to work out how many lives they had to spare.

At the same time, he hadn't torn up the search-and-rescue commission, because someone really did need to look for the missing people.

So he subcontracted the search-and-rescue commission for half a gold pound, leaving the investigation to people more familiar with the underground rivers outside the city. He also filed an extension for Vera, so she wouldn't have to die, and the commission hadn't been abandoned either.

Vera had no objections to any of these arrangements.

In fact, she was starting to adjust to this new rhythm of life. Her brain finally had enough room to distinguish today from tomorrow and the day after.

For instance, this evening, Vera knew Gordon had invited her to somewhere at the university.

The place had a very high ceiling, and Vera felt uncomfortable as soon as she entered.

Looking at the men and women in their uniforms, and the scholars of every height and build, she felt that her life should never have crossed paths with theirs.

But Gordon pulled her down into a seat and gave her a plate and cutlery, as though she'd had a place reserved here all along.

Once seated, Vera looked around, judging where someone might be hiding and who deserved to die.

Only slowly did she lower her guard and begin to realize that this was the best kind of place: somewhere to eat.

This was the university's... dining hall!

The hall was long and narrow, with rows of exceptionally long wooden tables and bright gas lamps.

The dean, professors, and senior scholars sat at the high table at the far end. The students sat below them, divided by year. Second-year students like Gordon sat on either side of the tables to the left.

Portraits of scholars hung on the walls.

The dead professors wore black robes and stern expressions. Even as oil paintings, they looked as though they were urging people to hand in their assignments.

Clang! Clang!

The dinner bell rang out, leaving solemn waves of resonance in its wake.

Everyone stood except Vera, who remained seated. It wasn't as though anyone could expel her.

A priest who also served as a part-time lecturer stood beside the high table and recited a prayer in a low voice. It flowed like a little stream, winding gently through thanks and grace.

"When do we eat?" Vera asked quietly.

"Once the prayer's over," Gordon said.

"You can't eat a prayer. Why does it come before the food?"

"Because Saint Joshua distinguished Source Substance from things that weren't Source Substance, and Aberrants from animals, and led humanity out of the Dark Ages."

"Did he distinguish hungry from not hungry?"

"He could feed people with bread and fish, so I suppose he did."

"Then he ought to know that when my stomach's empty, I can't really hear what he's saying."

The prayer ended in an elaborate chant, and the students sat down in scattered groups.

The university servants moved between them carrying large platters, distributing dinner.

Gordon had done this sort of odd job before. He had to stand all evening, and only when his legs were aching could he eat his fill of the leftovers. Even so, it was actually the best job on campus.

Now that he had a little more money, though, he wasn't particularly keen to face those fat faces that did nothing but demand food.

Dinner gradually arrived on the table.

A servant came over and glanced at Vera, still wondering what year a student had to reach to dress like that. She cut him with a look, and he hurriedly set down the food and left.

[Beer. Very weak, as though someone had told water a story about alcohol.]

[Rabbit stew. It ran all its life, only to run straight into a pot.]

[Jellied eel. Recent events have left you wary of anything involving fish.]

[Beef...]

Before Gordon could finish reading, Vera grabbed a piece of beef and stuffed it into her mouth.

"Too tough," she said.

"You've only had one bite."

"If it's old on the first bite, will it get younger later?"

"Fair point."

She took a bite of pudding next.

"Not enough sugar," Vera said.

"I didn't expect you to be a gourmet."

"Being hungry and being blind are two different things," she said. "The more I eat, the more taste I ought to develop. Otherwise, wouldn't I just be a bucket?"

"Buckets can't fight. Let's get down to business," Gordon said. "Take a look at this letter."

He placed the letter with the wet handprint beside her plate.

Vera didn't read the words. She held down the paper and sniffed it, then immediately gave him a clear answer.

"Wet-Foot People," she said.

"I'm not joking. That really sounds like some disease you catch in a public bathhouse," Gordon said.

"They're actually cultists," Vera said. "They worship this river. They can be drowned without dying."

"You can deal with them, right?"

"Of course."

Vera unfastened the longsword on her back and laid it flat on the dining table.

Clunk.

It wasn't loud, but it was enough to make three nearby students stop eating at once. They politely picked up their plates and never came back.

"That's a fine sword," Gordon said approvingly.

On closer inspection, it was a long length of black iron designed specifically for piercing, with its center of gravity set far back.

"Black Piercer," Vera said. "I named it myself. The source substance is inside."

Gordon liked source substance.

His gaze settled on it, and the surrounding clamor slowly faded away. At first, he couldn't see anything. Gradually, the source substance captured his attention completely. Deep within the black iron, spiritual light formed something resembling an unfinished sword.

[Fragmented minor source substance-"the Never-Healing Wound." Whatever it cuts open will not close. Hatred endures forever.]

"...Do you know what source substance is in here?" Gordon asked.

"No. The seller said it was source substance with a fragmented aspect and recommended it for inflicting damage in close combat. I tried it. It works."

"I imagine it cost quite a bit."

"A year of risking my life," she said. "Can't think about it too much. It'll ruin my appetite."

"If you buy source substance artifacts on luck alone, it's easy to lose money, isn't it?"

"There's no helping that. No one knows exactly what it does."

"I suspect..." Gordon said, "this source substance causes wounds that never heal. Am I right?"

Vera stopped moving, her fork suspended in midair.

She stared at Gordon for a while. Quite a long while.

"Yes. Now that I think about it," she said, "the monsters I've stabbed with it had wounds that wouldn't heal. I also stabbed a few people who didn't know better. They were only small wounds, but they howled in the hospital for hours, then died. Somehow, they just wouldn't get better. If it's what you say, then it all makes sense."

Vera found it rather wondrous.

Before, she hadn't known what this sword was saying. If what Gordon had just said was true, then she was beginning to understand its language.

"By the way, how is source substance forged into weapons? It doesn't sound simple," Gordon asked.

"There are specialist swordsmiths. Their own source substance has to do with making things."

"What else is there in the world of hunters?"

"Spiritual consumables." Vera pointed at her coat. "It's full of things like that. Combat mixtures, regeneration mixtures, suppression mixtures, smelling salts, restorative salts, blade oil. If I had money, I'd use guns and bullets too."

Gordon was starting to understand how the hunters' world worked.

Gold pounds were stuffed into gun barrels, spirituality was smeared onto blades, and source substance was infused into equipment. Every commission meant calculating a profit or a loss.

This was an enormous business.

"So when someone like Gray fires a gun without a second thought, he's actually burning money too," Gordon said.

"Yes. Burning money. Only people with that much money can do it. Money buys equipment. Equipment keeps you alive. Live better, earn more money."

Just then, Gordon suddenly heard a bright, lilting voice behind him that sent a chill straight through his heart.

"Good evening. I didn't expect to see a hunter here." Charlotte placed her hand on Gordon's shoulder.

That hand was warm and soft, waiting for an explanation.