“Quit squirming, or the stitches will rip!”

Wulfram was leaning against the lacquered, wooden walls of the medicine magus’ clinic, watching as the once-empty lodge became chock-full of the sick, and the mortally-wounded. An inundation of mercenaries, criminals, knights, and refugees have been passing through the building since 8.00 in the morning, and much to Wulfram’s amazement, the only doctor staffing this entire operation has not yet taken a single break. Esmé Medeor… The tattooist reminded himself of the fact that after the trio scammed this person, the Fleurand royals declared them wanted in under a day. What’s a noble of such enormous influence doing as a healer to the country’s criminal underbelly? And more worryingly, what could be threatening her enough to request protection?

“You’re the 8th one today with lacerations this ugly… something I ought to know about?”

The short-statured patient, trying to distract himself from the pain, started answering in between deep breaths.

“They hired our mercenary band… in the frontline against Czarnia… there was a saw magus… wasn’t pretty…”

“Mmmmm… guys like you go by the dozen – be careful for a few days.”

For a split second, Wulfram felt a strange warmness coming from the doctor – a thought that she seemingly detected the moment it was conceptualized. Suddenly, Esmé barked an order in the tattooist’s direction.

“Baldy! My break’s on – give everyone in line a number slip, and tell them to clear out.”

“…I can count, but I can’t read numbers.”

“Âne… Give them a random slip then. Or learn.”

Begrudgingly, Wulfram started ushering everyone out into the outdoor ‘waiting room’, which was just code for ‘large patio’. Surprisingly, the hardened lawbreakers that the clinic attracts accepted this without any objections, and even more strikingly, the few who tried making a scene were quickly shut down by their surrounding peers. Despite that woman’s sharp tongue, Wulfram could sense an air of respect rarely seen within such sordid circumstances. Ironically, without anyone lashing out, his newfound job resembled being a nurse more than it did a bodyguard. The honest work he and Rum tried pursuing just a few days ago.

“…This is boring.”

Once the army of injured cleared out, Wulfram climbed up the stairs into the intensive care unit – a section of the lodge dedicated to cleanliness, and treating those whose lives are in immediate danger. The only other room adjacent to the ICU was Esmé’s private office, where she regularly retreats for short breaks in her busy schedule. The one person still being treated here is Rum, and although her complexion has greatly improved, the doctor insists on not removing her bandages for the time being. All the tattooist can do is wait–

*knock knock*

Two dull sounds were enough to launch Wulfram into fight-or-flight. The knocking came from a window – the only one in the entire ICU, and presumably, only used to air out the stench of death for when the unit is overwhelmed. The tattoo magus cautiously approached the pane of glass, grabbing a broomstick in the process (for self-defense).

*knock knock-knock-knock knock-knock*

Unmistakably, the sound of someone tapping their knuckles against a window. It took all of Wulfram’s mental fortitude to ignore the fact that he was on the building’s first floor, but protecting Rum was a priority. On the count of three, the bodyguard ripped away the blinds to reveal…

“Erland?”

Much to the magus’ chagrin, his comrade had somehow managed to reach all the way to the window, and was now mouthing the words ‘open up’. A guttural groan rang out in the ICU, masking the grinding of the rusted hinges swinging inwards.

“It is the east, and Wulfram is my Sun! Arise, fair Sun!”

The tattooist’s piercing gaze offered no accompaniment.

“Your line is ‘Oh Erland, Erland, wherefore art thou, Erland?’”

Wulfram’s eyebrow was cocked with such gravitas, it could hold up the roof of the entire clinic.

“I was going to do a spin on Rapunzel, but you were kind of lacking in the hair–”

“Erland!” the man hissed.

“Okay, okay, noted, ‘no’ to the thespian arts.”

For the first time since opening the window, Wulfram was able to peer just outside of the lodge.

“Are you wearing stilts?”

“Yeah! Turns out they rent them to people who want to avoid being detected by the greenery here.”

The tattooist’s hand acted independently of his mind, grabbing the bridge of his nose in irritation. Erland continued:

“Jokes aside, you should light up some tobacco. Judging by the sound that it made, I don’t think this window is supposed to be open at all; have some excuse ready.”

“…Yeah, fine,” Wulfram began fishing out the fragrant flakes out from his metal tin, “And before I forget, this is for you.”

Using the windowsill as a ledge to balance himself, Erland immediately unscrewed the small container, revealing a white cream.

“Heavy duty stuff,” added Wulfram.

The stilt-walker could feel his injured hand tingle with anticipation. The tattooist lit up his pipe, blowing clouds of serrated smoke while speaking to Erland.

“Anyway, we don’t have a lot of time. Where are you staying?”

“Remember that fork in the road where I got dropped off? There’s something resembling a village nearby – a place called Scélére. Full of criminals and such.”

Wulfram chuckled.

“So, not much different than here…”

“Yeah, what’s with the armada of mercenaries waiting outside the door?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure. The medicine magus – the one we scammed – she doesn’t seem to attract any other clientele. And it’s not like she’s a hack either – Rum’s already looking much better.”

The comment clearly scratched an itch in Erland’s mind, but there wasn’t any time for him to speculate the magus’ motivations.

“Regardless, I’m okay. Scélére was built specifically to hide from the Queen of Fleurand and her plants. There aren’t any guards there, but the general etiquette is that you don’t involve anyone else in your problems.”

“…And where did you learn about etiquette in a single night?”

Immediately, the eye contact between the two broke. It was clear Erland would’ve preferred not to answer, but balancing on stilts did not give him a favorable negotiating position.

“Thiol 'Tubby' Escoffier”

“Who?”

“Someone whose ass I wasted in cards last night – and before you ask, I didn’t lose the gold coin you gave me.”

Wulfram’s blood pressure was, fortunately, being kept in check by the copious amounts of nicotine condensing in his lungs.

“A gladiatorial battle, it must’ve been.”

“Hey, Thiol can bluff – I didn’t even catch whether he had a tell. Also, give me a puff.”

“Just buy some in Scélére.”

“I know my poker face would imply otherwise, but it’s really racking my nerves to talk to you from this high up. I don’t have a harness, you know.”

With a roll of the eyes, the tattooist passed over his walnut tobacco pipe.

“You could’ve just walked into the clinic like everyone else. I can’t imagine the medicine magus picking you out from that unsavory crowd, even with all my precious tattoos.”

The stilt-walker took a few seconds to answer, too busy fighting against the pipe’s burning steam cooking the roof of his mouth.

“And risk her kicking Rum out from the clinic?”

“Erland, to be honest, I’m not convinced she would refuse us.”

“Why? Because of the diamond we’re paying her with?”

“No – she didn’t even accept it when I offered. Maybe she has a soft-spot for mercenaries, or something?”

For the first time since arriving, Erland was visibly surprised.

“Wait, then what are we paying her with?”

Now, it was Wulfram’s turn to break eye contact.

“Well… do you remember the details of how we scammed her before?”

“Vaguely. Something about protection – I got her to pay-up front, and the next day we split. Why?”

The tattooist’s expression became exasperated, as though Erland’s recounting of events left out a lot of small details. Details that he would’ve had to hear about from Esmé.

“She was convinced that a magus had been hired to wreck her clinic, and after we left, she was proven right. The dry leaf magus showed up–”

“Yeah, real magickal gentry, that one.”

“Listen. My point is: after that little brush with arson – which we could’ve easily prevented – the doctor got much more paranoid. Shut down her clinic for the time being, such and such.”

“…The clinic is open, though?”

Wulfram takes a long, viscous breath of tobacco. Then, everything clicks for Erland.

“You were supposed to give her options ‘a’ and ‘b’ – diamond or no diamond – how the hell did she end up with option ‘c’: security detail?!”

“I don’t know!” Even if his face didn’t betray any emotion, the tattooist sounded genuinely upset over this. “Once she saw the diamond she turned into a bloodhound; I ended up lying to her about being the lightning magus…”

Erland’s mouth hung agape.

“What’s done is done, okay? We only have to protect her, and the clinic, until Rum is healthy enough to leave, which should be in two days.”

“Wulfram, just… Should I do anything, then?”

“Whoever is targeting the doctor, they seem to care more about destroying this lodge than anything else. If they do hire another magus for the job, we could end up dealing with someone that has long-range magick.”

“Hold on, do we know who is targeting her? Isn’t the medicine magus a Duchess? She reported us to the royals, for God’s sake.”

“She wouldn’t tell me. For now, hang around Scélére, ask around about Esmé Medeor – maybe you’ll learn something, or better yet, catch the next arsonist with their pants down.”

*creak*

The conversation between the two mercenaries came to an abrupt end, as the door to the doctor’s personal office swung open. Wulfram’s sinewy muscles contracted before he consciously decided on what to do, pushing Erland to the right, and out of immediate view from the window. The stilt-walker, miraculously, managed to regain his balance on the high-reaching poles – a feat which was immediately met with cheers and applause from the body of criminals waiting to be let back into the clinic. Meanwhile, without any sudden movements, Wulfram continued dragging smoke out from his pipe, waiting for the doctor to call his name.

“Moron!”

Esmé’s hand passed right by his face, slamming the window shut.

“The whole point of this room is that it’s 100% clean – and now, you’ve filled it with pollen and tobacco smoke.”

“Wha..?” Playing dumb was probably the safest strategy.

“Just… go downstairs. Start letting the sick in.”

That was all Wulfram needed to hear. Before he started to slink away, the tattooist shot one last look out the window – Erland managed to make it down onto the cobblestone path, despite the circumstances.

For a moment, the intensive care unit fell completely silent. Small voices began emanating from downstairs, but it would take a few minutes before enough people stepped into the lodge. With no one to see it, Esmé stepped towards the infirmary bed where Rum was sleeping, and sat on its edge.

“I know you’re awake, girlie. The oaf must’ve been blind to not notice you squirming around like this.”

Reluctantly, the injured mercenary opened her eyes, although only one wasn’t wrapped in bandages.

“I have to re-apply your dressing, but before that, I wanted to talk…”

Esmé paused, as though for dramatic effect, and whispered.

“…noble to noble?”

                                                   While you wait, check out these other Tourney novels!