On my way down the steep stairs I heard the opening salvos of an argument. A young clerk and his wife lived there by night and, from what I could remember from my day-brother, the same marriage held during the day. That was increasingly uncommon in Esteberg, and likely the whole of the Kingdom of Reikova; there were even rumours of the King’s daylight dalliances. I hurried on my way.

Blank faces looked up from their meals as I strode past the dining room and out of the boarding house. The evening air had lost the day’s heat, instead holding a taut anticipation of a clearing storm. I pulled up my collar as much for the small anonymity it provided as its protection against the first sputters of rain. Felden Street and those nearby were starting to fill with the night’s workmen and women, many mirroring my own sense of weary purpose. Stalls and shops were slowly opening for the night; the same stalls and shops that opened during the day, perhaps run by night-brothers and night-sisters but perhaps not. Like my day-brother and I, others did not necessarily share the same occupation both night and day, both sides of the ettiene. Not all were suited to honest labour. I passed hawkers setting out their trays in the street. They looked up at me, bleary-eyed, yet to find the wherewithal to call out their wares – some consolation for an early summons.

Though St Leonars prison was inconveniently placed on the other side of the city, I was called there so regularly I knew the way well enough. I had, on occasion, paid for a carriage during the winter months but that had necessitated collection of certain other revenues; a Special Inspector’s salary was not as generous as most people assumed.

Incorrect assumptions were a fairly common occurrence with regards to the King’s Special Inspectors. We were just one small branch of the constabulary, not many in number, and not so visible as our uniformed colleagues. A branch formed nearly a hundred years ago, not long after Reikova was formally ratified as a state. The Special Inspectorate was, at the time, considered a more modern response to certain questions raised by the arcane and the unknown. Before, such things were dealt with in a more ad hoc, individual, and, dare I say, chaotic way.

Special Inspectors were assigned cases, and we completed them to the best of our ability. But to many citizens we were still a delicious mystery. Witch hunter, they whispered, demonologist, inquisitor, and more such words they didn’t really understand. Every Special Inspector was different – specialising as many in the constabulary did. Though throughout my years I had arrested and hanged a number of men and women guilty of witchcraft, I had also arrested and hanged men and women guilty of murder, of arson, of treason; all of the mundane variety. Citizens were quick to forget this when Special Inspector was uttered, assuming I was only interested in the arcane. Something I found advantageous at times.