The girls cowered in the corner of the chamber, flinching every time Sim so much as turned in their direction. There was a furious pounding on the door leading to the concealed sub-basement which Miter answered with a mocking knock of his own, occasionally punctuated by the last giggles of the Aesh release. The fat man and the rest of his customers were locked out, Sim having bolted the door behind them. They, and the rangers, were no longer any of their concern.

Miter strolled over to Sim lazily, his thumbs tucked down the back of his trousers and the butt of his Dragoon plainly visible over his waistcoat. “Upwards and onwards, friend Sim?”

“What about the girls?”

“Best if you leave them, friend Sim. This is not the time nor is it the place.”

“The rangers-”

“Will never get through that door. The girls would have all the time in the world to escape before that could happen. They must live around here. Come on, Sim, upwards and onwards, before this night is truly over.”

Sim extracted a slim metal wallet from a pocket of his waistcoat and opened it, offering the Pora cigarettes to Sim after taking one for himself. Sim declined the offer, and Miter lit his own from a wall lamp while returning the case to his pocket.

“It’s not as good as the tea, sure, but you should take Pora after Aesh. It sooths the soul.”

“What street do you think this house fronts on, Miter?”

“Mind only knows, Sim. Hazel Waystation? Could be…”

“If it is, we’re getting a shuttle. First one going anywhere. This has been a bad, ugly night.” Sim stalked to the stairs leading into the house proper, and held his repeater at the ready. “Don’t stay mellow, there could be others home.”

“More than likely the house belonged to that fat fellow with the flattened nose, Sim. Besides, I’d only the one load of shot for my Dragoon.”

“Mage’s Luck,” spat Sim as he wrenched the door leading into the house open. Miter followed lazily, winking at the trembling girls as he passed. The tori sat between them, it’s long, slender neck broken savagely in two. Miter tossed them a small, milled edged coin and exited their lives.

The doorway led Miter to a stairwell that ascended in darkness. An arm’s length ahead he could make out the shadowy form of Sim, paused tensely. “There’s someone moving,” he whispered.

“Lord of the house?”

“Maybe…”

“Quite like, then. But quickly, too, Sim.” The shadowy form in front nodded, and the two men crept up the stairs and into the child’s nightmare of a domestic room lit only by the faint lights of the stars and street outside. Then there was the tell-tale sound of a darkshade deftly spinning open and the two men quickly ducked to the floor, still hidden by the stair well but shielding their eyes all the same

“Knight-at-Arms! This house is seized under the authority of the Carnelian Order. You dogs picked the wrong jurisdiction for your fun,” an authoritative voice sneered.

“Mage’s Luck,” cursed Miter.

“Language,” Sim chided ironically as he drew his Repeater.

"If I wanted to read Wuthering Heights, I'd shoot my self."