“God, I look like an attraction…”
The reflection that looked back at me was almost entirely coated in tattoo ink. All things considered, my solution was elegant – Wulfram with a shirt, and no tattoos might as well be an entirely different person, and as for Rum, her injury did most of the disguising for us. To the medicine magus, they would be unrecognizable… but as a trade-off, I’d have to sit out elsewhere – a third musketeer would be too suspicious.
Unfortunately, I did not take into account the fact that Wulfram would need to store his tattoos somewhere, and more pressingly, that Wulfram is much bigger than me. His carefully-constructed map of inked patterns was composed on a much larger canvas of skin, so now, they’ve all been “pushed together”. The tattooist’s tapestry of war paints has been reduced to a blueish body suit. And I have to wear it.
Suddenly, pain began radiating from my punctured hand. Just one more day – by then, Wulfram will have had enough time to buy me some ointment, maybe a cream; anything to stave off infection. In the meantime, I should probably find a place to rest, while the sun is still up.
Before Wulfram and Rum rode straight towards the medicine magus, I was dropped off at a fork in the cobblestone road – the coachman mentioned something about a village, although his exact words were “glorified survivor camp”. The tiny fractures across my ribs and forearms start humming in unison with the hole in my hand, amplifying the pain across my entire body. My shuffling feet pick up the speed, grinding across the rough cobblestone road. I could really use a bed. And a drink.
Welcome to Scélére.
The phrase has been chiseled into a stone marker that had been burrowed into the ground; a re-purposed gravestone, perhaps? There isn’t any gate, nor walls, nor nobody standing guard around the perimeter of the faux village. The only thing that designates the area as Scélére, other than this easy-to-miss marker, is an expansive block of smooth rock, stretching out further than I can immediately see. This small town has been built entirely on a sheet of stone to prevent the surrounding greenery from invading it, like a card-shaped platform ripped out from the forest. Stepping into the settlement, it’s clear that Scélére must not have been erected with long-term habitation in mind – there’s a variety of stores, selling everything from weaponry to war rations, but the gaps in-between these buildings aren’t filled in by homes. An entire street here seems to be dedicated to brothels and bars, with clusters of vagrants, and passed-out drunks littering the alley. Even dive-bars scattered across this entire town have their own, dedicated street. The window of each tavern I pass seems to be leaking a musty odor, and a rowdy atmosphere – the interior animated by a mixture of peddlers, local blacksmiths, paranoid criminals trying to stay incognito, and mercenaries getting into pointless arguments. Every nation has a handful of ‘rat dens’ spread out within their borders, and Scélére seems to be Fleurand’s. A well-trodden cobblestone path, leading to a miniature town built on a sheet of rock… the perfect place to hide from the Queen’s prying greenery.
Each dive bar I walk past is a menagerie of thieves, and other people wanted by the law, but each seems too unruly for me to put up with. As I walked deeper into the alley, the gaps of space in-between each store became longer, and longer. Eventually, I reached the end of the stone platform; between me, and the expanse of trees and grass, another tavern: Hydromel. No signs of life were visible from the outside.
“I don’t think I can walk all the way back anyways…”
It takes considerable effort to heave the metallic door open. Once the creaking hinges let up, I’m greeted by a remarkably empty, but nevertheless well-looked-after dive bar. Besides myself, there are only three other people here: a woman tending the bar, and two sleazy-looking patrons, playing some sort of card game. A thunderous boom erupts behind me as the door shuts, and awkwardly, I shuffle over to the counter to take a seat.
“Yes! Hello! How can I help you?”
“…can I have a drink?”
“Of course! Today we have beer from a barrel, our signature mead, and…”
The girl trails off, like an orator whose script has suddenly gone missing. Did she just bite her tongue?
“…feel free to ask for anything, and I’ll check if we have it.”
“I’ll try some of that mead then, thanks.”
The bartender lights up, and disappears into the back. What is going on here? The poor girl doesn’t seem to know how to run the bar, not to mention the aesthetics… A tavern built this deep into Scélére only seems to attract the most unsavory individuals, and yet, the furnishing borders on being opulent. The floor’s checkered pattern, the oil paintings hung up around the tables, a wooden bar counter?! This place feels like it’s supposed to cater to nobles, not criminals…
“Here you are, sir! That’ll be 1 silver.”
“…Please tell me you know what a tab is.”
She blushes slightly.
“Your name, sir?”
“It’s Erland.”
There’s something going on here. How does such a hole-in-the-wall end up with furniture more expensive than the entire building’s foundations? I reach for the honey wine, which has been poured into a rocks glass. The translucent, yellowish liquid tastes like flat, white wine – the overwhelming sweetness fighting to death against a horrific, vinegary aftertaste. My body demands a chaser, while my mind, something to do.
“Sorry, I never asked your name, Ms…?”
“Oh, uhm, my name is Miel.”
“Then, Ms. Miel, could I have some of that ‘beer from a barrel’? And also…”
I point my head towards the two men playing cards at a nearby table.
“If you could tell me what they’re up to?”
The bartender starts fiddling with the spigot drilled into the barrel, carefully twisting the valve as though the entire thing were to erupt at any second.
“Oh, they’re gambling – you’re in the house of the Thousand, you know?”
“The what, now?”
For the first time since I’ve sat down, Miel looks a little smug, like I’ve tripped and fallen into the one impressive thing about the bar as a whole.
“Each pub here in Scélére has something that makes it stand out, and for us, it’s our nail-biting tournaments for the game Thousand.”
One of these brave tournament contestants coughs up phlegm in the corner of the tavern.
“Why not poker? Or Blackjack?”
“The owners of Le Pokér and Le Blackjack have already lay claim to that, unfortunately.” There’s a remnant of a grudge in her voice.
“Why not call your bar Le Thousand?”
Miel looks ready to respond, then, stutters for a second, and starts seriously considering the proposition.
“Well, how do you play?” I ask, trying to stop her spontaneous brainstorm.
“Oh, I haven’t a clue. You’re better off asking them to join – Thousand works best with three players, from what I hear.”
And so, I do.
“Augh, take these.”
Thiol 'Tubby' Escoffier hands me the King of Hearts – a gargantuan stroke of luck. He wouldn’t give these up if he had an Ace, or even a 10 in the same suit, which means I should be able to declare a pair easily. The 100 points are already mine, but since he’s declared 220, he’s probably got at least two other suited pairs. Not to mention, I still have the other one to worry about. Louis’ poker face is solid – he doesn’t let anything slip. In my hands, I have an ace of Hearts, but I still feel like he could spin that to his benefit.
Thiol starts his assault by declaring a diamond pair. Thousand has a myriad of rules to keep track of as is, but this particular variation of the game has an added caveat: cheating using magick is permitted. However, if at any point a player figures out exactly what was manipulated using magick, they gain 100 points. The game is in the court of the rotund man, who’s just finished unloading all his diamond-suited cards. While he’s still deliberating, Louis speaks up.
“Tubby, we both know you don’t have any other aces, so just drop a 10 and be done with it.”
A bold declaration. Why is he bluffing? I’m the one holding the ace of hearts, but Louis has no way of knowing that, unless he’s just guessing based off the card Thiol gave him.
“Merde… shut your mouth, Louis.”
I’ve been counting the cards in play. The large man could just declare a pair by playing a King of, say, Clubs, but chances are that Louis will swoop in and steal his turn with an ace when he does. He needs the extra points that 10 would give him; even I’m nervous–
Wait. Thiol 'Tubby' Escoffier is under a lot of pressure here – a whole gold coin is on the line – so why isn’t he sweating? This isn’t a physically fit individual, and he’s clearly drunk a lot. And then, there’s Louis’ overwhelming confidence… didn’t he deal cards this turn?
Suddenly, the puzzle pieces click. Previous experiences lock into place. Louis’ inexplicable nervousness last round, despite having an excellent hand. Thiol’s inconsistent poker face. My finger moves onto my Ace of Hearts, and feel an infinitesimally small notch carved into its corner.
The round concludes. Tubby lost his lead to Louis, and had 220 deducted.
“Erland, your turn, deal,” he says, half-dead.
“Thiol, you’re the magus of sweat. You’ve been controlling your own body, and manipulating others to make them look nervous. And Louis, you’re the fingernail magus.” I hold up one of the Aces. “You’ve been cutting notches into these, haven’t you?”
Both men, drunk, and now out of a month’s wages, look ready to murder me.
“200 points to me makes 1080. Thank you, and good night.”
Tubby raises his voice first.
“Bastard! What are you the magus of?! I’m sick and tired of guessing!”
“You will have a chance to find out, tomorrow.” My words have to push their way past my shit-eating grin. I’ll have to thank Wulfram for leaving me the gold coin, tomorrow.
I make my way over to the counter, whereupon Miel has already fallen asleep. The heavy metal coins clatter onto the wooden surface, snapping her awake.
“Sorry to wake you, but I wanted to pay off the tab. Oh, and also: is there a good inn nearby you can recommend?”
The inn was actually quite close to Hydromel – something which, in this unique case, is not a good sign. The empty lots of Scélére have been repopulated by vagrants as the night grew older. Even from a cursory look you can tell a lot about the people forced to stay here – mercenaries out of a job, criminals wanted by Fleurand’s nobility, disgraced knights… At least tonight, I get to sleep on an actual bed.
I arrive at the reception desk, and go through the motions of renting a room for the night with the proprietor. Only one thing catches my attention: a sign that reads ‘Stilts for Rent’.
“Sorry, what’s with the stilts?”
He looks at me quizzically.
“They’re stilts. For rent. I’m not sure what’s there to clear up.”
“Right just… why would I need stilts?”
His expression reads ‘it’s too late for me to be explaining this’.
“Plants are excellent at picking out wanted people from a crowd. The greenery looks for weight, smell, but first and foremost…”
He points at his feet.
“Shoe size.”
The realization washes over me, and a smile spreads across my lips.
“Can I reserve the stilts for tomorrow morning?”
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