Chapter 46

November 20, 1987 – 3:31 p.m. One minute had passed since the moment printed on the Timed Death Sentence.

Though he still had no idea how it had happened, Baron had truly survived.

The Dragon-Knight pricked the tip of his finger with a knife; blood welled, sharp and real. No dream.

His thoughts were a mess—equal parts joy and bewilderment.

The Timed Death Sentence... had he simply sidestepped it?

He stared blankly at the dwarf master. Master Baggin snorted. "Count yourself lucky, boy. You've dodged time's punishment."

"Dodged?" Baron was still dazed. "How did I survive the Timed Death Sentence?"

It sounded almost ungrateful, but... nothing spectacular had happened. No halo above his head—that would have meant death.

Jack clapped him on the shoulder. "The old—uh, the great dwarven alchemist Master Baggin brewed a potion from Timebloom. It let you cheat time itself.

That string of numbers in the Timed Death Sentence is now a forbidden phrase to you. Take 'November 20, 1987, 3:30 p.m.' You can't even grasp that moment anymore."

He went on. "A moment you can't understand is meaningless. You'll never know how many minutes or seconds have passed since then. Cruel, maybe—but that stretch of time has cast you out."

"Cruel?" Baron shrugged. "It means I've been given one extra instant of freedom."

He rose, shrugged on the long coat that hid his appearance, and said to Jack, "Next stop is the Outside. There are still questions about Anthony's death I need answered. I won't spend my life running under a cloud of guilt."

Master Baggin called after him. "Leaving so soon?"

Baron bowed hurriedly. "Thank you, Master Baggin—"

Baggin cut him off coldly. "Your thanks are worthless. Pay up. Labor, materials, emotional damages, plus a fresh set of alchemical rounds—eighty-five pounds. Call it an even hundred, friend's rate."

"That's not how friendship works," Baron muttered.

"Supporting a friend's business is only natural," Baggin replied. "Don Quixote, be a good lad—black tea, please."

The dwarf master took the cup Jack offered, sipped, and nodded. "You golden-haired bastard's finally showing sense... why am I so... drowsy... sleeping draught? You little—"

The dwarf collapsed onto the sofa, snoring.

Baron stared. Don Quixote, still holding the tray, did the same.

Only Jack spread his hands. "An old Chinese saying: repay the man in his own coin."

Then he shoved Baron toward the door. "Let's go, Brother Constantine. As you said—our journey lies across the sea... or whatever."

---

Outside London, north bank of the Thames.

Thick fog rolled over the water. A griffin descended, then a small boat glided out of the mist to the bank. Two figures leaped ashore and vanished into the streets.

They slunk to a deserted telephone box. Jack stepped inside to make a call; Baron stood watch, scanning for tails.

When Jack emerged—

"Don't move."

Baron blocked the doorway, gun barrel pressed to Jack's chest. His voice was low, hard.

"You lied. That ferryman isn't a boatman at all. No calluses from years of rowing. His feet were hidden by the life ring, but I still spotted those Louis Vuitton shoes."

He sneered. "No ferryman wears shoes like that. Ever since we left the Inside you've been steering things your way. What are you playing at?"

The cylinder clicked as it turned. The Dragon-Knight's golden eyes blazed. "I hate traitors."

Jack sighed and raised his hands toward the phone inside. "All right, come out. He's on to us. I'd rather not be roasted by Dragonfire."

Baron's hair stood on end; he spun to bolt—but his legs buckled and he crashed to the ground.

As his eyelids drooped, he saw the ferryman approaching in those same LV shoes.

Jack's whining voice drifted over: "Deputy Director, if you'd shown up any later, I swear this guy would've flambéed me. You have no idea how terrifying those golden eyes are—I nearly wet myself!"

"One month's bonus for you."

"Only one? He's the last Dragon-Knight since House Dracoon fell! Every big player—Prol Court, Holy Cross, Knights Templar, the Hunter Association—is after him!"

"Is the Timed Death Sentence dealt with?"

"Taken care of. An old dwarf named Baggin brewed the potion, but the key ingredient came from Constantine..."

Baron could almost see Jack winking. "A Dragon-Knight in perfect condition, Deputy Director. I mean—"

"If he passes the entrance exam, you get two months."

"There are grades for new hires, you know."

"That confident, are you?"

"He's a Dragon-Knight, sir. Deputy Director, bet you anything he's still conscious, listening right now, planning his escape."

Baron, feigning sleep: ...

"Enough sedative to knock out a humpback whale and the kid's still awake?" The deputy director sounded impressed. "Increase the dose."

"On it!"

Baron felt Jack crouch beside him. A cool mist brushed his face; deeper sleep surged in.

He caught the deputy director's last words: "And stop calling me deputy. When the director's away, it's just Director!"

"Yes, Director Howard-Davis!"

"Good work, Grade-D Agent Jack. When we get back I'll let you apply for Grade-C."

---

Light on his face—soft as white mist.

Baron opened his eyes. He was in a vast office, reclining on a leather sofa. Opposite him sat an elderly man with kindly eyes, dressed in a bespoke suit so perfectly pressed it might have been painted on.

Thick white hair, a face furrowed by age yet still vigorous—Baron never would have thought "lush" and "vigorous" could describe an old man.

His gaze dropped to the shoes: Louis Vuitton. The same gypsy ferryman—perhaps this was the real man.

"Allow me to introduce myself," the old gentleman said. "Howard-Davis, Deputy Director, Westminster People's Bank, European Division."

He handed Baron a cup of tea with impeccable courtesy. "Jack nominated you for Westminster. I'll be conducting your interview and assessment."

An interview? I don't remember applying for a job.

Before Baron could speak, Howard clapped. Curtains slid shut; lights came on overhead. Cold air blasted in, turning the office into an interrogation chamber.

Howard coughed. "Miss Stella, turn up the heat, would you? My rheumatism."

The chill faded to warmth. A tall, wheat-skinned secretary glided in, dressed in an elegant linen skirt-suit. Long legs, striking features—clearly of mixed heritage.

Stella smiled at Baron. The smile said, I'm rich, I make money by the second, and if you drag this interview out I'll dice you into mince and sell you to Africa for charity so I can pitch ski-resort deals to their government.

Baron was momentarily cowed by the sheer Wall-Street opulence. Then a familiar, sly voice whispered in his ear:

"Brother Constantine, flash those golden eyes—don't let that stingy witch out-alpha you!"

Before he could react, Jack added, "Micro-earpiece, latest from Logistics. Thirty guys in the back office have money riding on you passing. We're your off-site support."

Entrance exam? Bets? Support?

Baron had too many retorts and no time to voice one. Still, his anxiety eased—if Westminster wanted to cheat on his behalf, maybe they weren't like the enforcers after all.

Then Stella leaned close; a ghost of perfume tickled his nose. Soft lips near his ear:

"Someone's having a good month—Logistics can afford toys like this..."

"Uh-oh, she's onto us... Good luck, remember—gold is everything!"

The earpiece crackled, dislodged, and sparked out on his shoulder.

With the eavesdropper gone, Howard smiled and asked his first question:

"Mr. Baron Constantine, what is your view on the role of money in life?"