Bank of Westminster

Chapter 16

"Timed Death Sentence can be dispelled in two ways: either it deactivates on its own, or you convince the caster to lift it for you."

"Convince the caster... You want me to kidnap the judge who passed the final verdict on me in the Outside?"

Baron sounded doubtful. "But I don't even know where he lives."

"Every Prol Court judge is a Silver-tier enforcer," Baggin said, shooting Baron a withering look. "Going after one is suicide. The court issued the Timed Death Sentence because it found you guilty. All you have to do is prove your innocence and they'll reverse the ruling."

"So you mean..." Baron already sensed the answer.

The dwarf master gave it: "Redemption."

Baron fell silent. "I didn't kill anyone. That Knight-Commander wasn't my doing."

"I know. From the way you pinch every penny I can tell you'd never shell out for a hit. Murder's out of your budget." Baggin shrugged. "Problem is, they don't care who killed the Lion-Pupil Knight Commander, Anthony. They just want you dead."

He stepped onto a stool, hacked a slice from the ham hanging above the table with a fork and knife, and ate it with a slab of black truffle.

Mouth full, he muttered, "Anyone with eyes in the Old-Blood world can see this is a political frame-up. But once you're dead the case is closed forever."

"The Inside isn't like the Outside, with its thin veneer of civilization. These self-proclaimed blue-bloods have been trafficking slaves since the Age of Sail. They might as well tattoo 'we do evil' on their foreheads."

"Find the key witness—someone who can make the judge change his mind," the dwarf went on. "Persuade him to reopen the case while there's still time."

Without needing the prompt, a memory struck Baron like lightning: a golden-haired girl, proud as a princess.

Anthony Lancelot's sister—Freya Lancelot—once Baron Constantine's fiancée and, not long ago, his abducted bride.

---

"This will be a bloodless war, Mr. Baron Constantine. Charging the dragon's den alone—even Don Quixote needed madness for courage. Come with me."

Baggin wiped his mouth, hopped down, and took the hammer Don Quixote offered. One tap on the floor and the candle flames parted, revealing a long, dark tunnel behind the hearth.

Baron followed the dwarf through the passage into a small but spotless chamber crammed with treasures: every weapon from stone knives to modern rifles.

A polearm hung from the ceiling—double-edged, like a spear married to a sword.

"That's a sha," Baggin explained. "Ancient Chinese weapon. The side prongs let you trap an enemy's blade when you parry."

"My private armory for enchanted gear," he said. "Pick whatever suits your style—my gift."

After rummaging, he handed Baron a two-handed Kriegsmesser. "Contract knights favor greatswords or lances. Holy Cross Templars like arming swords or rapiers with a shield..."

Baron took the sword one-handed. Baggin yelped, "Careful! An alchemized blade laced with red mercury weighs more than Italian steel—" He broke off, watching Baron swing it effortlessly.

Since awakening fully at Julius's house, Baron's already formidable senses had sharpened. His old injuries—bad enough for a medieval-thesis autopsy—were gone. He could probably drop a tiger with a slide tackle or a bear with a kick.

As Lawrence had hinted, enforcers were modern supermen in hiding.

Baron tried sword after sword. In the end, under Baggin and Don Quixote's glazed stares, he chose two Colt Pythons forgotten on a workbench—leftovers from experiments in making .357 Magnum alchemical rounds.

He spun a cylinder; the click was crisp. "I've had no training—just instinct. Against real fighters I'd lose with blades."

He loaded the revolvers, aimed at the candles along the wall, and fired. Thunder rolled; only a black scorch mark marred the stone.

Snapping the cylinder shut, he tucked the guns under his coat. "These will do."

"Two hundred pounds," Baggin said.

Baron blinked. "I thought they were a gift?"

"Wall repairs and custom ammunition..."

"Fine for the repairs, but regular rounds—"

"You hijacked Freya with two shotguns in the Underground. Regular bullets barely scratch enforcers unless you score a point-blank headshot. Parrying bullets is routine for them."

"I'm not killing anyone, just proving my innocence."

"Then you'll need to stay alive to make your case. The alchemical rounds aren't for killing—they're to stop their blades cutting you in half." Baggin drew a silver chain from his pocket. "Wear this."

Baron eyed the necklace warily. "What is it?"

Baggin rolled his eyes. "Relax, lad. It's not the Necklace of the Death Goddess. Dwarves may be long-lived, but we're fond of breathing."

"Grade-C Forbidden Object: Mimic's Chain. Tie it to your wrist or belt. It lets you take the guise of anyone both you and an observer know—even a passing acquaintance. Lasts one day; recovery takes as long as you used it. Cost: you lose a random day's memory and about a third of your spirit power."

"And never look at yourself through the observer's eyes—doing so breaks the disguise instantly and inflicts every agony the target ever suffered."

After fastening the chain, Baron channeled spirit power into it. Don Quixote carried Sanji over.

The boy studied him and squealed, "A very tall Mrs. Trish!"

"Mrs. Trish was the dwarf maid this morning," Baggin said with a shrug. "Remember, Mimic copies faces, not bodies."

"Dawn's near. Prol Court's still hunting you. Rest here—today I'll craft your rounds. That gives you tonight to move."

He paused. "I won't betray you; dwarves keep their word. Besides, you haven't paid the final invoice. And give me the guns—regular steel can't handle alchemized loads."

Baron handed over the revolvers. Baggin glanced at him. "Don't fret. A bit of advice: tomorrow always arrives one day later than you think."

---

November 18, 1987, 4:03 p.m.

Baggin frowned at the crater in the armory wall, calculating how many pounds he should charge.

Nearby, rested and showered, Baron prepared to leave. He fished bills and coins from his storage ring and pressed them on Baggin and Don Quixote, then offered Sanji a gold-foil chocolate.

Don Quixote recoiled. "Sir, dogs can't have chocolate!"

"But dogs can be fed!"

The moment Baggin took the forbidden pipe Baron had handed him, his face changed. "That's a forbidden object—gold-coin chocolate that makes dogs bleat like sheep. Don Quixote, stop embarrassing us—act like an alchemist's apprentice!"

Baron watched Sanji bleat happily, smiled, and bowed to the bickering pair. "Farewell, Master Baggin, Don Quixote, and Sanji... I hope we meet again."

He slipped out, then slipped back in. "Where exactly is House Lancelot?"

Baggin rolled his eyes. "Buckingham Palace."

"But that's where the Queen lives."

Don Quixote explained, "Inner London is almost a one-to-one mirror of Outer London, yet they're different worlds. Those landmarks are anchors between realities. So in the Inside, Buckingham Palace isn't home to Queen Elizabeth but to the Lancelot heiress."

Baron nodded, thinking: dragon begets dragon, phoenix begets phoenix—and rich kids live in palaces.