Adventure of BonerFart 1

Rain greets them at the inn step, cool after the steam-thick room. The canal district shines in broken ribbons of lamplight, and the clatter of boots softens into a measured walk.

Merrin tucks the black powder deeper into her satchel and glances sidelong at BonerFart, no longer hurried. Joe keeps pace a little behind, watching the water instead of the doors.

Garrick gives a short grunt that might be a laugh. He looks from face to face, weighing them, and the hard set of his shoulders eases by a fraction.

For a few steps, nobody speaks. The rain drums on the canal water, the city hums low around them, and the little company moves as if it has room to breathe at last.

BonerFart leaves Canal district street behind and arrives at Merrin's apothecary.

Merrin’s apothecary greets them with herb-bitter air and the soft crackle of drying bundles over a banked stove. Shelves of glass and mortar crowd the room, and the rain ticks faintly against the shutters.

BonerFart adjusts Joe’s gear with quick, practiced hands, shifting straps and weight until the man stands straighter and less exposed. Garrick watches, then demonstrates a few blunt but solid grips, making the lesson look simple instead of humiliating.

While they talk, Merrin spreads a charcoal sketch across the table, made from a page torn from an account book. It marks a servant stair, a sealed hall, and a private chamber tucked behind the records room, with fresh notes on which watch pattern passes when.

BonerFart takes the sketch, the rain, and the hourglass of urgency and turns them into work. Coins change hands in the canal market for oilcloth wraps, a hooked chalk line, soft-soled boots, and a narrow belt sheath for Garrick. Steven watches the lanes while Merrin packs powders. Joe and Garrick trade positions and hands, learning how to move as one.

BonerFart shows Steven how to disappear beside a shutter and leave a looped cord where an ankle will later find it. The trick is simple, cruel, and clean. Steven copies it once, then improves it with a grin that never reaches his eyes.

By the time the rain thins, the group looks less like scattered allies and more like a plan with arms. Their gear is sorted, their footing tested, and their breath quieted for the wait.

Two hours before the chosen hour, they settle into rest behind Merrin’s shuttered back room, listening to the canal water and the city above it. Then a hard knock lands at the front door, followed by a low voice asking for Merrin by name.

BonerFart lifts one finger, and the room falls silent at once. Merrin squares her shoulders and calls through the door that the shop is closed for the evening, unless this is a medical emergency.

Garrick shifts beside the table, blade low and ready. BonerFart and he angle themselves toward the front of the shop, listening for the reply.

A pause hangs on the other side of the wood, thin as wire. Steven moves off without a word, slipping toward the window line and the shutter gap.

The knock came from only one set of hands.

Joe eases closer to the front room, watching Merrin's face and the door together. Garrick plants his feet, ready for whatever answer reaches them.

Steven reaches his vantage and peeks out at the street beyond the glass, trying to catch the visitor before they speak again.

BonerFart sets his bow in hand and angles it toward the latch, steady as a trap laid in silence. Garrick mirrors the motion, dagger ready at his hip, while Merrin keeps her shoulders square to the door.

BonerFart gives the door a small, deliberate shake, just enough to invite a push. The latch rattles, and the wood answers with a thin creak.

A beat later, the visitor speaks again, this time from just outside the threshold, as if they have stepped closer to the seam of the door.

At the window, Steven stiffens and lifts two fingers in warning. Whatever stands outside is known to Merrin, and now it has named a path straight into the apothecary.

Garrick moves first, yanking the door inward just enough to seize the visitor by the sleeve and haul them over the threshold. Merrin slams it shut behind them, and the latch bites hard with a dry click.

BonerFart keeps his arrow trained high over Garrick's shoulder, the drawn string creaking under strain. The visitor stumbles one step, seal case still in hand, while Steven turns from the window and reaches for the side entry.

The door thuds under Merrin's weight, but the latch has already shaken loose and drops a little crooked. A narrow ribbon of rainwater beads on the stone threshold, and the visitor's seal case knocks against the table with a sharp, expensive tap.

BonerFart eases the visitor into a chair by the worktable, and Merrin keeps a hand near the lamp while the others hold the room. The seal case stays visible, untouched, like proof waiting to be opened.

BonerFart questions him hard on Barack, and the courier finally cracks the surface of composure. He names habits, not legends, a man who favors late dinners, keeps records in coded marginal notes, and trusts mirrors more than servants.

At last the courier sets two fingers on his own chest, then on the table, a quiet offer of honesty. He waits for BonerFart's judgment, ready either to join the hunt or walk away with the truth left in the room.

BonerFart folds into the chair beside the courier instead of looming, and that small shift loosens the room. His fingers tap once, low and unseen, a signal for the others to get ready.

Merrin catches the signal and turns her attention to the seal case, while Garrick quietly shifts to the back corner, putting his bulk between the courier and the door.

The courier’s polite mask tightens, but he does not bolt. Instead, he leans closer and, thinking BonerFart is only probing, starts answering in fuller detail than before.

That gives BonerFart the edge he wants. The courier has already revealed the one thing Merrin needed most, a hidden distinction in the seal set, and now Garrick is in position while Steven watches the side entrance.

BonerFart stays seated, but the room tightens around his words. Garrick moves at once, planting himself behind the courier's chair, while Joe and Steven close the other angles without drawing steel.

BonerFart lays the decision on the table without raising his voice, and the courier feels the weight of everyone watching. The seal case is nudged open, and the ward-key is set beside it for all to see.

The courier exhales, but the cost lands with a scrape of wood and metal as the ward-key is pushed into the center of the table. Outside, rain ticks softly on the shutters, and the room settles into a hard, listening silence.

BonerFart slides behind the courier, silent as a drawn breath, and the room obeys the motion. One blade rests at the man’s back, the other kisses his throat, while Merrin and the others bend over the seal case and the ward-key.

Merrin mutters over the papers, matching dates, inks, and routes with quick, precise fingers. Joe and Steven lean in from opposite sides, trading quiet confirmations as they sort the courier’s story from the contents on the table.

BonerFart eases into the chair beside the worktable, blades still low and ready, but his posture says this is a hearing now, not an execution. The courier swallows and squares his shoulders under the pressure.

Garrick shifts his weight and brings his hand closer to his hilt. The motion is small, but it lands like a verdict in the quiet room.

Edrin reaches for the ward-key pouch with careful fingers and sets it within BonerFart's reach, a quiet pledge sealed by the scrape of leather on wood. A bead of blood slips from the edge of BonerFart's nearer dagger where the blade has nicked his palm, just enough to sting and remind everyone how close the room is to violence.