“…The tattoo magus.”

The men sitting around the bar table all murmured in agreement. They’ve already tried all of the atypical options, so what if the answer was staring them in the face this entire time? It takes all my strength not to crack a giant grin.

“Sorry, another miss! I’m just very artistically-inclined.”

The bar patrons all turn towards the sweat magus, Tubby, who’s seated right next to me. His despondent expression already gives away an answer before he can say it.

“The connard is telling the truth.”

Groans, profanities, and screams wash over me as all the men individually throw in a silver coin to the center of the table, bringing my current profit up to 80 silvers in total.

“Tubby,” one of the vagrants ask, “are you sure he’s not just bullshittin’?”

“Ah, because I enjoy losing money too?! I haven’t stopped using my magick the whole time – if he lied, his body would sweat a tiny bit, and I would tell.”

Much to my surprise, the two men I beat at cards the other night returned with a couple of buddies, demanding that I let them try to win their money back. The game was simple – each player puts in a silver coin, and has to guess what I’m the magus of. If they guess, I match the payout three silvers to one… The only problem is that now, I have to stop myself from completely robbing them blind.

“Okay, okay, let’s just… calm down, everyone. I say we go for, say, five more rounds? If I win, the drinks will be on–”

*BOOM*

The distant sound of thunder. In an instant, every hair on my neck stands at attention – I can practically feel my veins expanding, squeezing together – just hearing the noise was enough. Everyone else here heard it too; Miel is looking around, confused at what exactly happened. I spring up from the table, and swing open the door, looking directly towards where Wulfram and Rum are staying.

*BOOM* *BOOM*

Two more shockwaves punch through me. The overhead sun makes it difficult to make out, but I’m certain I just saw two bolts of lightning shoot off exactly where the doctor’s clinic is. Business owners, as well as their patrons all start pouring outdoors, half-expecting another round of distant lightning. But no more thunder rings out. It’s gone as quickly as it arrived.

Is it possible that Fulgir survived?

I can’t stop the thought from intruding my mind, but I have to stay rational. It’s a fact that myself, and Wulfram both saw his decapitated corpse. It’s also a fact that three consecutive bolts of lightning landed somewhere without any storm clouds overhead. Was there something more to Fulgir’s magick than we figured out? Magick is broad enough to be full of exceptions – what if the lightning magus was another such case? Was there anything we took from–

My fingers tingle, reminding themselves of the tiny shock I felt after Fulgir was dead.

The diamond.

It’s a long-shot, but I do remember getting a small zap when I picked the gemstone off of Fulgir’s body. What if it was a conduit for his magick? Maybe a storage unit of sorts? Either way, that diamond is the only thing linking lightning magick from the fishing village to here, and it’s not impossible for Wulfram or Rum to have figured something out. Could they be testing it? No… the clinic is probably packed full of patients right now – too many witnesses. So, what if they were being attacked?

Wulfram did say that the doctor was being vigilant; that any magus who comes after the clinic will probably be working from long range. It makes the most sense, especially after hearing what Miel said about Esmé – the mercenaries and vagrants at her lodge would’ve protected the magus with their lives. Still, without a good visual of the clinic, the visualizing required for casting magick becomes a lot trickier. You’d also need to stay clear of all greenery, especially if you were targeting such a high-ranking noble…

A ripple of shivers descends down my body. The fear lingering from the sound of thunder starts turning into excitement.

This guy… He’s here, isn’t he? In Scélére.

I take a long look around. Endless alleyways, tunnels, fake doors, taverns, brothels… Flushing out an odd man out from what is essentially a small town would be difficult. Potentially dangerous. Very luck-dependent.

But not impossible.

“Erland, did you see anything? You were the first one out, no?”

A firm hand holds me by the shoulder. I turn around, and see the patrons of the Hydromel standing in the doorway, expectantly. Come to think of it, I could really use a couple of extra hands.

“Yeah… Yeah, I’ll tell you guys inside, but first…”

I pull out my sack of coins, weighed down by the considerable amount of silver I won from everyone here.

“Who here would like to make all of their money back?”

Within ten minutes, the eight men who had been gambling in the Hydromel were stationed across the entirety of Scélére, waiting for the signal. Only two of them – Tubby, and Louis, were placed close enough to one-another to exchange a few words.

“Normally, I don’t enjoy ganging up on someone weaker, but if we’re being paid…”

Both men were paid 10 silver coins for their help, even if the nature of the job seemed strange.

“Aren’t you curious though? Why a guy pays 8 people to beat him up? Especially after he wiped the floor with us at gambling…”

“I wouldn’t say ‘wiped the floor’, it was closer to ‘narrowly–”

“Shh, I think that’s Erland… Be ready.”

The residents of Scélere, both temporary, and permanent, were all on-edge after three cracks of thunder rang out in the middle of a sunny day. A small handful of people who were outdoors when it happened suggested it came from the doctor’s clinic, but hearsay wasn’t enough for criminals who place such a high price on composure, and respect. The circumstances needed confirmation, even if the majority of Scélére was itching to check in with Esmé.

“EVERYONE! The clinic..!”

Erland’s voice was carried by the wind-corridors of the small town, getting picked up by mercenaries, vagrants, blacksmiths, inn proprietors – everyone who was keeping an ear out for that elusive confirmation. Men and women wanted by every nation on the continent flocked to the source of the screaming, only to be met with the sight of a bruised & battered runaway.

Various disembodied voices start calling out to the tattooed man, asking him what happened to the clinic – what happened to the doctor?! Eventually, Erland draws in a large enough audience for the next step.

“The Fleurandian army… Hundreds of knights appeared at the clinic – they demanded that the medicine magus hand over some criminal, regicide, they said!”

Murmurs erupt from the crowd of lawbreakers.

“The doctor – she told them, ‘you have no authority in my clinic’, she said. The knights looked furious, and then… Then some moron threw something – a rock, maybe – at the captain.”

In between excerpts of his soliloquy, Erland pauses to groan in pain. Put the criminals on edge…

“What happened next?!”

“A fight broke out – a nasty one. I managed to get away with just a beating, but the Fleurandian knights had the lightning magus with them – they must’ve started going after the clinic itself!”

A mixture of anger, concern, and restlessness starts to brew within the Scélérian horde.

“Everyone… I think the army is coming here, next.”

This was the litmus test – the first step in Erland’s plan for flushing out the long-range magus.

Fear doesn’t even have a moment to fester within the criminal underbelly of Fleurand. As soon as the words have been uttered, they spread like wildfire, and those who hear the news almost immediately retreat indoors.

“Tubby – the stilts, quick!”

The fellow gambler from Hydromel, who had been hanging around in the background, steps forward with the walking sticks borrowed out of the nearby inn. Immediately, Erland mounts the stilts, and starts to scan the surrounding streets from a vantage point.

“Erland!” The rotund man calls up from the ground, “How much of what you said is true?”

“Nobody’s coming here, but the clinic is almost definitely in danger, and I’d bet good money that the magus responsible is hiding somewhere in Scélére.”

“Then, why did you–”

“Thiol, if you were trying to blend in with the criminals here, and you saw everyone run indoors after hearing that the Fleurandian army is coming, what would you assume?”

 “…That the people are hiding.” He pieces it together.

Erland strains his eyes, picking out mercenaries, vagrants, disgraced knights – anyone who’s standing around, doing nothing. These people are confused, perhaps unsure of whether to flee Scélére altogether, or step indoors. What Erland is waiting for, however, is the immediate next moment.

As if on-schedule, the criminals who seemingly hid burst out from the buildings, clad in armor and weaponry. Smithies start tossing out swords and knives to anyone who yells out in need for them. War cries reverberate across the den of rats – these people were going to war with the Fleurandian nation, desperate to repay some of the favor that Esmé extended Scélére.

The few people unfamiliar with the settlement’s unspoken rules have now been completely disarmed, scrambling to avoid conscription into the make-shift army, or visibly agitated, debating whether they should join. However, this was still not enough. As Erland waded his way through the crowd using stilts, there wasn’t anyone suspicious that also had a decent view of the clinic. Furthermore, there were plenty of vagrants hiding in the alleyways that have started distancing themselves from the fervor in the streets. This state of panic was not going to last much longer.

“I guess you wouldn’t have gotten such a job if this was enough to flush you out…” Erland muttered under his breath.

“Tubby! Give everyone the signal! We’re going with plan B!”

As ordered, the gambler let out a shrill whistle which coasted over the sounds of war. Soon enough, all eight patrons of the Hydromel heard their cue, and proceeded with Erland’s scheme.

“Hey! You! Yeah, the one in the alleyway! I haven’t seen you here before! You’re not a spy sent by Fleurand, are you?”

In minutes, all eight men started picking out the beggars, mercenaries, and criminals that hid to avoid getting swept up in the fight. Erland reasoned that most of them are probably just unfamiliar with Scélére as a whole, but such accusations would almost certainly not go unnoticed by the real moles stationed across the settlement – moles which could very well include a magus hired to destroy the clinic. As more residents start succumbing to group aggression, the vagrants previously staying incognito are left with two choices – hide indoors, or try to slip out of Scélére with the crowd.

“Real beggars will have no problems staying behind… but staying here any longer is the last thing you want, isn’t it?”

Just then, Erland sees it. A beggar who had previously been asleep in an alley, has just miraculously woken up, and slipped into the mob of criminals marching out of Scélére. An alley nestled between ‘Ray’s Drinking Hole’, and ‘The Purple Flamingo’. An alley, which leads out into an undeveloped plot of land, and has an unobstructed line-of-sight to Esmé’s clinic.

“Gotcha.”

With a yell of warning, Erland practically falls out of his stilts and into the crowd, caught by several of the mercenaries making their way towards the medicine magus. The vagrant he’d spotted was practically next to him – close enough for conversation.

“Hey! You there!”

The beggar turns to Erland, surprised. The only discernable facial feature is his massive, unkempt beard.

“Me?”

“Yes! The vagrants here deal in information, right?” Erland gestures towards the surrounding company, who all nods, or grunts in agreement. “So, tell me, do you have any information about the clinic we’re marching towards? I’d like to be prepared.”

“Ah, well… for the right price…”

“Five silvers! In exchange, tell me about the clinic’s layout?”

The coins clink in the beggar’s open hand.

“Hm… Not much to tell – two stories, the upstairs being reserved for those in critical condition…” He gestures for Erland to get closer, whispering. “Although, not everyone knows that the doctor has a hidden panic room behind her bookshelf. You ought to keep it in mind if the fight gets too hot.”

“That is good information! You know, I did happen to see… ugh, what’s her name again? The doctor’s?”

“Oh, it’s Esmé.”

My hand moves like an unfurling whip. In a fluid motion, it unsheathes a knife from the hip-holster of a nearby mercenary, and stabs its blade right into the vagrant’s body. By all accounts, the beggar should be dead.

Instead, the tip of the knife has snapped off.

Armor? No, a breastplate would be easy to see under those rags… Chainmail is easier to hide, but it doesn’t snap knives! And that only leaves: magick.

“Oh… I get it – her name is off-limits here, is that it?”

The vagrant takes off his hood, revealing a pink insect that must’ve been hiding there this whole time.

“Apologies Daisy. Please, abide the sunlight a while.”

His beard… is it wriggling?

                                                   While you wait, check out these other Tourney novels!