WHAT? GONDOR HAS NO TITLE. GONDOR NEEDS NO TITLE.
an excerpt

In which Eliot, a young magical aristocrat on the run for murder (spoiler: he's innocent!), meets, for the first time, Samantha "Just-call-me-Sam" Johnston, as yet unaware of her disgusting personal habits (hookers, ale, etc.).

“So. I assume you’ve heard about our organization’s policies regarding charity cases,” Janet said. Her voice was nasal; her nails were long, and bright red, and made a clacking sound as she typed something into the computer. She didn’t bother looking Eliot in the eyes. Timidly, he cleared his throat.
“Er. No. Sorry. It’s just, I didn’t know where else to go, and I had one of your cards – a friend of mine gave it to me...” he trailed off, unsure of whether or not the receptionist slash secretary was actually listening to him. She pursed her lips at the screen he couldn’t see, and typed something quickly.
“Well, as you know, our motto is ‘For Damsels In Distress, Be They Sufficiently Rich’,” she began.
“ ‘And occasionally gentlemen’,” Eliot added. She looked at him, visibly unimpressed.
“There’s a second footnote,” she said, in a voice that seemed to make it obvious that anyone who hadn’t seen the second footnote was clearly some sort of disastrously incapable moron. Eliot winced.
“I... I didn’t see it,” he said miserably.
She made a face at him; it was halfway between a smug smirk and a pleased grin. “It’s in very small type, upside down, on the back, along the left margin,” she said patiently. She said nothing more until Eliot awkwardly took out his card and held it under the light. Sure enough, there was a tiny line of script, barely discernible, printed in light blue ink. Eliot squinted.
“ ‘If ... if we ... advertised... that we took on charity .... cases... we’d ... never make ... never make a dime now would we’,” he said slowly. “If we advertised... you take on charity cases? I mean... do you?”
“In special, mitigating circumstances,” Janet drawled, lighting a cigarette and blowing smoke in the direction of a bedraggled-looking potted plant. “We like to keep an eye on the police networks; this is a fairly big case, and I was half expecting you to show up here at some point. Since you’re a homicide suspect, they’re systematically latching down on all of your means of travel and communication – in other words, they’ve frozen your bank account.”
Eliot’s mouth went dry. “I can’t pay,” he said numbly. “Oh god.”
“In special cases – like yours, honey – our employees that manage the database analyze you to see if you’re worth the effort it would take to offer you services gratis.” She paused, dragging deeply on her cigarette; Eliot’s eyes watered, and he tried not to cough. “You pass. We’re nice people, mostly. Hate to see a cute kid like you get shot.”
Eliot blinked. That was unexpected. “Um, thank you?” he hazarded. Janet’s gaze snapped to him; he tried not to jump. She snorted, waving her hand at him, her brilliant red nail polish almost blinding in the bright light. All of her was bright, and almost garish; her lipstick matched the polish, her hair was dyed shiny jet black in a bob cut, and her dress was an extremely colorful psychedelic sixties mini. The effect was made somewhat more odd by her eighties style glasses; they were vibrant red, cat’s eye shaped, and speckled generously with rhinestones. She seemed, at least to Eliot, rather like a novelty Christmas tree ornament. He also doubted she would appreciate his opinion.
“It’s fine, kiddo. Your buddy Charlene is on the case – we’ve been tailing her, and she’s doing her best to get you out of this. Did a good job convincing us you were innocent, too; you should see some of the footage... but of course, you can’t. Anyway, we’re assigning you the very best we’ve got to offer. You’re going to be okay, Eliot,” she said, gently. Eliot smiled.
“Thank you,” he said, humbled. “Um, how is this going to work?”
Janet cocked her head and leaned back in her chair, thinking. “Well, you’re going to have to disappear for a while. Our agent will see to that, and keep you safe until your name is cleared in the courts. A couple of our magic handlers will be seeing you before you leave, to make sure you can’t be traced by any finding spells. As you’ve probably guessed, this building is under similar shields, as is our teleportation address. It’ll take them a few days to trace you back to us, and they’ll be stuck here – we’re good at what we do. We’ll be giving your agent a device that we’ll activate when you’re free to re-enter society, so you’ll know when to come back; otherwise, you’ll be completely off the map. We’re also going to give you a magical-inhibition bracelet, just in case you try to use a spell instinctively – if you use magic at any point, the people after you will know where you are, and they will get to that spot very, very quickly. Basically, once Johnston gets here, you’ll be on the road. All you have to do is wait until she shows up.”
Startled, Eliot looked back at Janet’s desk; his eyes had been wandering, but the last pronoun had caught his attention. “You mean my bodyguard is a –“
“Howdy!” a loud voice cheered from the teleporter box, and was quickly joined by the clunking of heavy boots. These two noise sources were followed, in a short stumble, by a very tall, very muscular, very amused-looking woman. She was at least six feet even; she was dressed like a biker, and her hair was a shocking shade of golden blonde. “Sorry I’m late; had to get some fuel. This the man?” she asked, rudely jabbing her thumb over her shoulder in Eliot’s general direction. He bristled.
Janet smiled benignly at the strange woman. “Johnston,” she said, voice placid and calm, “you’re frightening the client. This is Eliot Cecil Peterson; Eliot, meet Samantha Johnston. She’s going to be protecting you.”
“Just call me Sam,” the new arrival said, grinning relentlessly as she stuck out her arm. Eliot blinked; cautiously, he held out his hand, and “Sam” shook it vigorously in a grip that seemed a lot stronger than the size of her hands would imply. Although they were small in proportion to her body, they still dwarfed Eliot’s hands. He felt like he was being handed off to a barbarian.
“Janet,” he said uneasily. “Are you ... are you sure this is... “
“Janet doesn’t like to hand out compliments,” ‘Sam’ drawled, “but I’m the best goddamn agent this organization’s got, and that’s saying quite a bit.”
“Sam’s right, much as I hate to admit it,” Janet said lightly, steepling her fingers and looking at the two of them with what appeared, suspiciously, to be amusement. Eliot suddenly wanted to run off; these people frightened him, the mafia frightened him, the whole thing was just totally bizarre and made no sense whatsoever; he felt like he might break down and cry any second. He had never really left this town, not since he had arrived from the orphanage; now he had to leave his home, this was his home now, and he felt very alone.
The strange woman thumped him awkwardly on the back. “Hey, don’t worry,” she said, hesitantly. “I’m pretty good at shooting things.”
“I’m fine,” Eliot lied, smiling over the lump in his throat. “We should probably get going, right?” He picked up his bag, shouldering it; Sam shrugged, and pointed to the far wall, the one with three doors. One of them, the one on the left, was covered with post-it notes, lists, and general graffiti; the other two were somberly identical.
“The middle one; gotta get screened by the nuts in the magic department before we can leave,” she said, striding to Janet’s desk and holding out her hand casually; Janet gave her a slim folder, and Sam nodded, tucking it under her arm. She turned to Eliot. “Uh, want me to carry that?” she asked, pointing at his bag. Eliot frowned.
“No. I can do it myself,” he said politely. Did he look that weak?
“Just being polite, shorty, no need to get upset,” she muttered under her breath as she opened the door. “Follow me.”
Eliot held back an irritated, hysterical sigh as he walked into a room full of people who wanted to stick tubes in his ears. Today was going to be utterly terrible, he could tell.