[game-notes version here]

XXX.

Thawmere 12, Wyrdsday, Year 732

Maelen looked from the lad to the lass and frowned. Dammit all and young people’s urges. It was clear that the two of them had kindled some sort of romantic connection when returning from the Starless Rift, and it was equally clear that Rusk, the fellow Vessa had brought, was now a rival in his eyes. The mage’s intense stare was fixed on the blocky man, and he returned the gaze with a smirk. Vessa swallowed and looked uncomfortable. Meanwhile, as the awkward silence stretched on, patrons in the tavern were beginning to mumble and whisper all around them. This bloody mess was not something she needed. Maelen silently cursed and tried to rein in the situation.

“Nice to see you, lad,” she said. He blinked and seemed to see her for the first time. Maelen took her chair, swiveled it around, and sat. “How’s the ale here?”

“Oh! Maelen. It’s good to see you too. And Vessa,” he looked at her and nodded once, swallowing hard. “You too. Who’s this?”

Vessa sat next to Alric, leaving the chair across from her for Rusk. The thug dropped into it heavily.

“Alric, this is Rusk. Rusk, Alric,” Vessa said with a too-wide smile. Maelen spotted beads of sweat on the lass’ forehead.

“Rusk then,” Alric nodded at the man, his face carefully neutral. “How do you know these two? An old associate, perhaps?”

Rusk smirked. “Nah,” he said in a harsh whisper barely audible over the din of the tavern. “You could say Vessa and I are…” he smiled. “New friends.”

It was as if someone had slapped the mage. He went rigid, his jaw clenching. “What is that supposed–” he began to say angrily, but Vessa cut him off.

“Anyway!” she slapped the table. “Let’s get some ale, like Mae said. We’ve got business to discuss.” She fished into a pouch and produced a small handful of copper oaks. “Rusk, can you grab us four, please?”

His broad, blunt face looked like he was about to argue, but after a heartbeat the man shrugged, grunted, took the coins, and sauntered off lazily.

“What in the Herald’s name–” the lad began again, and once again Vessa cut him off, this time with a sharp wave of her hand and an exasperated sigh.

“Alric, please! Not here, not now. I thought it would be helpful to have some extra muscle for… whatever it is you’re about to drag us into. Rusk is good in a fight.”

He blinked, confused. “What I’m about to drag you into?”

“You have to admit, lad,” Maelen chuckled, trying to lighten the mood although she could feel her temper rising. She still couldn’t believe she had to deal with this nonsense. “That when we all meet in a tavern, it usually leads us into some sort of terrible danger. I’m not complaining, mind you—it also tends to lead to coin. So, spill it… What have you been doing these past two weeks that you wanted to tell us?”

Alric looked truly torn, whether to pursue his interrogation of Vessa or say whatever he’d planned to say. He studied the lass’ features, his own face suddenly drawn and haunted. Then his eyes flicked to the bar, where Rusk was waiting for their mugs. He pressed his lips together and seemed to make up his mind. With a nod, he brushed a hand through his long hair and blew out a breath.

“Okay, yes. Well. I have been busy, and yes there’s quite a lot. It took me several days and not a small sum of silver to gain access to,” he glanced around and lowered his voice. “The scrolls I’ve been wanting to read. It’s been fascinating!” A bright glint entered his eyes, and inwardly Maelen shook her head. She simply didn’t understand people who got joy out of reading in dark rooms.

“Maybe the quick version, lad,” Maelen interrupted, leaning over the table. “Vess says that Rusk is trustworthy, but only share what you’re happy to have him hear once he comes back.”

Vessa didn’t look happy at the comment, and Alric paused, thinking. His eyes flicked again over to the thug at the bar. “Yes, alright. Have you heard of the Silent Compact?” he asked, almost too quietly to hear.

She and Vessa stared at him. He nodded. “I didn’t think so. It was…” he licked his lips, as if looking for the right words, “A secret crusade, hundreds of years ago, by three separate religious orders here in the city. They are the ones that led the defeat of…” his gaze wandered over the surrounding tables to see if anyone was listening. “You-know-who. They built Thornmere Hold! They trapped the demon’s generals! They saved Oakton!” He leaned back, blowing out another long breath. “I’ve discovered what orders were involved, but not the individuals. And everything written from this mysterious group is innuendo and code, so I still don’t know where the other hidden locations are or what they contain. But I’m getting closer. I just,” he brushed a hand through his hair again. “I just need more time.”

As he quieted, Vessa frowned. “So… you’re not sending us back out into the wilds?”

Maelen burst out in an unexpected belly laugh. Tables around her quieted and began whispering. “You sound disappointed, lass! I thought you said you weren’t leaving the city for a good long while.”

Vessa crossed her arms and stuck out her bottom lip in a pout. “I’m not disappointed, just surprised. So why are we here, Alric?”

“I… need more silver. If you have it. To bribe the scribe who’s giving me access.”

Vessa’s mouth dropped open. “You’ve spent your share? Already?”

Maelen crossed her arms, temper rising again. “How much are we talking, lad? We’re here to gain coin, not give it away.”

Before he could answer, Vessa tapped her chin with a thin finger. “Hey, Mae. Maybe we go after this merchant’s brat, then? While we’ve got Rusk’s services?”

Maelen rolled her eyes. “No, dammit. I said leave it alone and it’ll pass. But I do have a lead on a job if you’re bored. And we don’t even have to leave the city.”

“Wait, whose son?” Alric said, seemingly annoyed by the change in subject. “I’m talking about saving us all, not wealth! I may eventually have information that even the Castellan should hear!” he hissed.

Maelen glowered. “I’ve said it before, lad: We’re not heroes. Find your info and warn the city officials, if that’s your goal. But pay for it yourself. Vess and I are here to–”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, dove,” a wry, harsh voice interjected. “But the scribe here and I’re overdue a conversation.”

Maelen turned to see a middle-aged man in black leather, with close-cropped dark hair going gray at the temples, heavy salt-and-pepper stubble on his sharp jaw. He was lean and muscled, with a sword at his hip, and every bit of him bore scars. The long line of an old knife wound pulled one side of his mouth, it looked like a divot had been taken out of the side of his neck, and long-ago burns pitted the skin of one forearm—and those were just the ones she took in with a glance. Everywhere there were thin white lines of old wounds. This man was a dangerous one, she saw immediately, but that realization didn’t stay her temper. Rage bloomed in her chest, making her cheeks hot.

For his part, Alric seemed to have no recognition of the man at all. He blinked in surprise. “Me? Who are–”

“Get in line, old man,” Maelen growled from her chair. “We’re talking to the lad, and you can wait your turn outside.” The urge to fight and spill blood rose, her fingers aching to pull loose her mace and throttle this intruder, city watch be damned.

“Ah,” he smiled easily, spreading his calloused hands. “Can’t, see.” His hard eyes flicked down to his left breast, then back up to meet hers. She looked where he indicated. A beaten metal symbol shone in the dim light at the back of the tavern, looking like a cat’s claw. It was the sign of the Iron Thorn, Oakton’s for-hire law enforcement. Maelen narrowed her eyes and he grinned, turning his attention back to Alric smugly. “This fellow and I’re gonna talk. Now.”

The man’s eyes flicked casually to Vessa, taking in the table. Then his head whipped back and fixed on her. His expression melted into disbelief.

“You!” he gasped.

Without a word, Vessa vaulted from her seat and ran for the door.

The Iron Thorn man wasn’t surprised for long. He snarled something and dashed after Vessa, both of them weaving through wailing clerks and scribes.

“What is happening!?” Alric yelled into the chaos.

“After her! Let’s go!” she barked, and threw her chair aside to pursue.

Unlike Vessa and the man, Maelen didn’t try to avoid anyone. She tossed pale, robed figures aside and pushed her way through abandoned chairs. As she passed Rusk, holding four mugs precariously, foam slopping over the rims, she beckoned him to follow. All the while, Maelen kept her eyes on Vessa and the door to the tavern.

Vessa stumbled and the scarred man almost caught her at the door, but with a burst of speed she launched herself outside, the yawning doorway shedding light across the room’s interior. The man slipped out as well, and then both figured disappeared from view. Maelen cursed and redoubled her efforts, hoping that Alric and Rusk were close behind.

By the time Maelen was out into open air, the rage in her chest was tinting her vision red. She breathed hard like a bellows, and her knuckles tingled as if she’d punched someone. Had she done so, to clear the way? Maelen didn’t remember. Huffing, she scanned the streets. Many passerby had stopped to gawk at whatever was happening, including a decent crowd in front of the Inkbinders Lodge.

She spied the man in black on a street to her right just as Rusk and Alric burst from the door, panting. “There!” she barked, then stomped after them. Maelen didn’t think there was any way she—or especially Alric—would catch Vessa in a footrace, but she hoped that the gray-templed man was less spry. Tackling him to the ground was just as good. She kept the man in black within her sights as she ran, ready to throttle his scarred face if she could reach it.

Vessa must have turned down a narrow alleyway and dropped one of her smoke bombs, because Maelen skidded to her right and found herself choking on bitter mist that burned her eyes. Growling, she pushed forward and through the cloud and into an empty alleyway. She paused and heard footsteps slapping the cobblestones around a bend, and dashed ahead. Behind her, at least one of her companions followed several paces behind, though she didn’t turn to see who.

All of Maelen’s instincts told her she was being rash, that she didn’t even know what relationship this man had to Vessa, much less Alric. Besides, pummeling an Iron Thorn agent was a fast way to finding oneself in shackles in a dungeon somewhere. The man was likely in pursuit of Vessa because of her warrant, and while it was fine for Vessa to dodge the authorities, actually interfering—by assaulting the legal officer, no less—wasn’t the smart move. And yet, she redoubled her effort, panting and sweating, her hands tight fists. Screw smart moves. She needed to hit that man, like a fish needed water.

Maelen burst from an alleyway into a largely empty street somewhere in the warehouse district. The man in black stood across the street with his back to her, looking up and examining one of the windows. He was also panting, but not nearly as hard as Maelen, and as she jogged towards him he turned.

“You’re an associate of hers–?” he began to ask.

But Maelen punched him straight in the face.

Next: Brannic Sootward [with game notes]