Something was awry here, and Tobias aimed to find out what. If some vermin or beast had been allowed to make its lair in the cellar of the Wayward King then his next visit wouldn’t be the usual social call, but an official inspection that would undoubtedly end in the negligent owner’s business being shut down. Tobias felt a momentary pang of regret that his visits would have to end. It was eclipsed by the greater surge of pious satisfaction at the thought of doing his duty to Sigmar.

‘Nothing for it, lad,’ he said, setting off for Drover’s Lane. ‘That lock’s getting broken again.’

A few moments and one swift kick later, and Tobias was treading carefully down into the darkened cellar of the Wayward King. He pointed his halberd ahead of him, its lantern light flickering as he played it across stacked kegs and boxes of foodstuffs.

‘City watch,’ he said in a loud, clear voice as he advanced. ‘If anyone is here, step out into the light now or it will go worse for you.’

He paused at the bottom of the steps, waiting, but nothing moved. Tobias had been half-ready for some belligerent duardin smuggler or worshipper of the Dark Gods to burst out and assail him. If he was honest with himself, he had rather hoped for it.

It was cold here, the district being too poor to benefit from Draconium’s thermal heating-pipe network. Ironic, he thought; they toiled to build and maintain the system that drew volcanic heat up through the pipehouse and funnelled it to the richer regions of the city, but they had not earned the right to benefit from it themselves.

From above, Tobias could hear a muffled din of rowdy conversation, singing and the clink of glass. Trickles of dust fell sporadically through the floorboards above his head, drifting in his lantern light.

‘How in Sigmar’s name can they have a hole in their cellar and not know about it?’ he wondered aloud, but a moment later Tobias’ question was answered as he realised that he couldn’t see the hole at all from where he stood. Pacing across the cellar to where he knew the hole must be, Tobias instead found a wooden wall barring his path, empty ale tuns piled up against it in a heap.

The boards were rough-cut yarrenwood, festooned with splinters.

‘Cheap,’ muttered Tobias. ‘And comparatively new.’ It had clearly been put there to hide something.

Quick and quiet, Tobias set aside his halberd, propping it so its light was pointed at the false wall. He moved the empty tuns one by one, stacking them to his right until he had cleared a good space, and then slid his gloved fingers into the gap between two boards. A quick, sharp wrench and the board he had grasped came away with a splintering crack of wood and nails.