A sharp sting, then, bubbling. Is medicinal cream supposed to make an open wound bubble? Then, the pain subsides, and to my amazement, the hole in my punctured hand slowly fills with what looks like a scab. Wulfram wasn’t lying – ‘heavy duty stuff’.

The sun hadn’t even started to set, but already, some of the seedy establishments of Scélére have opened for business, followed in-suit by a few of the cheaper bars, and taverns. Wulfram asked me to find out more about this Esmé Medeor, but in places like these, nobody would be willing to give up information for a reasonable sum, let alone for free. That is, nobody except the people who aren’t well-tuned to criminal etiquette; people who don’t view information as currency – people, like, for example, the bartender of Hydromel.

Oh, my Goodness – if it isn’t the bartender of Hydromel, already managing the bar despite nobody being here!

She perks up immediately once she registers that for the first time in ages, she could be dealing with, potentially, a regular customer.

“…Erland, right?” She poorly feigns forgetting my name. “I hope the inn I recommended was up to par?”

“My room was fine – I was more impressed by the fact that they were renting stilts out to anyone who asked.”

Miel wasn’t good at masking her expression, and the moment I mentioned using the stilts, the left half of her mouth curled into a wide smile, while the right half desperately tried compensating by pulling downwards. Oh God…

“…Which I’m now realizing could’ve been a practical joke.”

The bartender lets a snort of laughter past her defenses.

“Just don’t get too upset if anyone hollers ‘stickman’ at you today,” she chortles.

“Let it be known that maneuvering from Scélére to the clinic on those poles of death takes a lot of gumption, and core strength – the patients at the lodge even cheered for me at one point!”

They definitely meant it as a dig, but maybe I can play to her guilt a tiny bit.

“My advice – just take it on the chin. The people here will like you more for it.”

Okay, nothing there… Let’s pivot to Esmé.

“By the way – I was surprised that the only people who seemed to be waiting by the clinic were…”

“Criminals?”

“Well, I was going to say law-flouting individuals, but yeah. I mean, the doctor there – she seems to really know her stuff, and yet her only clientele are mercenaries and such? It confused me is all…”

Miel stops wiping the glasses at the bar counter, and looks up to make eye contact.

“People don’t end up in Scélére because their lives are going well – anywhere else, we wouldn’t be able to afford medicinal tea, let alone a proper doctor’s treatment.”

“What about the mercenaries? I’ve even seen a few people dressed like Fleurand knights – it’s not all vagrants.”

“Mercenaries that get stuck here are usually hiding from an angry employer, same as the knights – although they are usually targeted by nobles whom they’ve somehow wronged. Neither has income, is my point.”

I’m not sure when, but sometime during our conversation, I realized my judgement was off – this girl may not be a proficient bar-tender, but she’s intimately familiar with Scélére as a whole.

“Then, where do they get the money to visit the brothels and bars here?”

She thinks about it for a second.

“First, they burn through their savings. Then, they either start pawning off their belongings, or they try their luck elsewhere, and usually get caught by the Queen’s greenery. Eventually, they only have one thing left to sell, and end up living as vagrants on our streets.”

“And that last thing is..?”

“Information. Dirty secrets of the nobility. Secret combat operations they were a part of. Et cetera.”

Wait. I asked her about why Esmé only takes in criminals, and somehow, we’ve ended up talking about the criminals instead of the doctor. Has she been steering the conversation away from her? Clearly, she knows that information here comes at a price…

“Dirty secrets… would the fact that the medicine magus is a duchess fall under that umbrella?”

Let’s see how she responds…

“Yeah, although Esmé’s a unique case, so that’s probably not the best example.”

What the hell? She didn’t even bat an eye!

“What do you mean – ‘unique case’?”

Miel looks back at me, genuinely puzzled.

“Huh? How’d you hear about her nobility if you don’t know?”

“Oh, I… uh… I overheard her mentioning it to someone – you know, while on stilts?”

“…Uh huh.”

The bartender doesn’t look the slightest bit convinced, but our conversation continues.

“It doesn’t matter how you heard, but you should at least know to never let that information slip. It’s Scélére’s biggest open secret for a reason – nobody here would snitch on Esmé.”

“Even the vagrants?”

“Especially the vagrants. You don’t lose everything overnight, Erland. Those people have fallen ill, or gotten injured countless times, and the only person who wouldn’t turn them away is the medicine magus. They spend their lives starving, exposed to the elements… but not one them here would ever sell information about Esmé.”

On Miel’s face… is that nostalgia?

“The older folks are especially protective. My grandfather used to brag about the fact that she was a regular at the Hydromel; a few of the business owners here have known her for most of their life…”

…But most of them have already passed away. The surrounding furnishing immediately began to feel drained of its color – a heyday that Miel is, on some level, still chasing.

“I guess I didn’t get that impression… didn’t the clinic close because Esmé couldn’t find protection from something?”

Finally, a tinge of surprise passes by the bartender’s face.

“She never reached out to us,” Miel snorted.

“Why? Did she have some falling out with Scélére?”

“No! Quite the opposite – it would’ve taken one wave of the hand for her to mobilize the entire settlement to guard her,” she chuckles, her eyes searching for a certain memory, “but she’s far too doting, and we’re far too prideful.”

“Erland,” she adds, after pausing, “we’re all criminals here, but we’re not all bad people.”

If an attack were launched on the doctor’s clinic; if the entire weight of the Fleurandian Grande Armée were to descend onto that lodge – nearly everyone living on this slab of rock would turn to a garrison in retaliation. Miel paints a picture of reverence, where Esmé Medeor reigns as a patron saint. Then, that just leaves one question:

“Who does she even need protection from?”

“That’s not something she shared with many people, even back when my grandfather was alive. You’d have to ask her yourself.”

Damn. That was the part I wanted to hear the most.

“Miel, what do I owe you? For the conversation?”

Suddenly, her calm demeanor shifts, jamming in the transition from informant, to bartender.

“Uhh… Could you just stay here tonight? We can get more than three customers, but the first is always the hardest…”

“Deal.”

The word “noble” was enough to launch Rum into a fight or flight response, scrambling to get out of the infirmary bed she was in. On instinct, she tried kicking away the doctor as hard as possible, but despite her age, the medicine magus moved swiftly forward, pinning her down by the arms.

“I am the one who brought you back from the brink, you know? I want to talk – so quit thrashing before you tear apart the stitches holding your face together.”

Even if she was feeling better, Rum could still feel the fatigue and numbing agents weighing her body down. There wasn’t a reason to trust this person – at least not yet – but there wasn’t an ‘option B’ available. The only option was to see what the doctor had to say.

“Who are you?”

The magus turned her head, irked.

“I guess this is the first time we’ve formally met… Esmé, Duchess of the Medeor House.”

While searching for the right words, the doctor began unwrapping Rum’s bandages.

“Even among the nobility, I’m a big shot. Tea parties with the Czarnian Royal family, letters with King Lithos of Ferroth…”

The final strand of gauze peels off of Rum’s face.

“…and house calls for the Helvian Royals.”

To Rum, the last two words felt like burning coal.

“It must’ve been 20-something years ago? The Queen was quite ill, and while I don’t normally respond to summons–”

She cuts the tangent short.

“Regardless, the trip was quite humdrum, except for one thing. In her fever-induced delirium, the Queen let it slip that she had another child – a red-haired girl, cute as a button, she said.”

Rum’s throat was too dry to form words, even if she tried.

“I had my doubts as to whether you were that girl, but I’ve also had decades of medical experience.”

Just then, Esmé began softly pushing her fingers against the stump where Rum’s hand used to be.

“You can’t see it yet, but you can certainly feel the bones pushing up against your residuum – trying to punch through – and that only happens when children lose their limbs. Unlike adults, their bones are always growing.”

Finally, Rum was able to get out words of protest.

“Why… Why are you telling me this? What do you want from me?”

The doctor took a moment longer to respond. Rum could not have known how different her expression appeared, compared to her usual scowl.

“First, I wanted to confirm that you were who I thought you were. I won’t press you more than this.”

A bedside drawer swung open, from which Esmé retrieved a handheld mirror.

“And second, I was going to suggest you ditch your two mercenary buddies.”

Rum’s surprise at the magus’ comment was sidestepped almost immediately by her reflection in the mirror. The mercenary could still vaguely recall the feeling of being dragged across gravel, dirt, and yet, there was almost no evidence of it ever happening left. The only thing ringing alarm bells was, understandably, the matter of a missing right eye.

“I know you, and the guy downstairs were the ones who scammed me recently. Admittedly, I doubted myself for a minute, but you ought to tell the big lug that he’s not doing a good job of hiding that last tattoo. I guess it had sentimental value, or something…”

Rum was still processing the torrential downpour of information being laid out in front of her, but she finally got a good enough grasp to start asking questions.

“Wait, you know who we are?”

“Girlie, how many people have you seen, sporting red hair?”

“Then… why am I still here?”

A wry smile cracked across the magus’ face.

“Well, I was quite upset with you lot, but to give you the benefit of the doubt, I figured you had bigger fish to fry. Especially if something like this was involved.”

From the same nightstand where she kept the mirror, Esmé pulled out the gigantic diamond Wulfram passed along.

“Besides, having the lightning magus as my personal guard is worth a few days of anger-induced migraines.”

In seconds, Rum pieced together what the doctor had assumed – she knows who their trio is comprised of, but not their magicks. She must’ve assumed Erland – the only one who’s missing – is the tattoo magus, and that Wulfram was the lightning magus. The mercenary considered correcting Esmé, but the fact that her treatment hung in the balance ultimately dissuaded her.

“Okay, just… backpedal, for a moment. Why should I ditch Wulfram and Erland?”

“Is that what that weasel is named? Erland… Men like him see corpses as opportunities first, and tragedies second. He’d fit right in with my family, and that’s reason enough to ditch him.”

“…I take it you’re not on good terms with your family?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe. When I was young–”

Suddenly, the downstairs clinic exploded into clamor, and riding above everyone’s panicked murmurs, Wulfram’s voice was the only discernable sound.

“Esmé!!! Get down here, we have a situation!”