Seeds of Entanglement

His rune of subtlety was active, suppressing any sound, making him melt into the shadows. Stalking between tents, staying away from the rings of light cast by torches. Using his sense of magic to feel the vibrations through the earth of any movement, hiding each time a soldier came out of a tent or a sentinel moved in his direction.

Searching, looking, trying to guess where they would keep any prisoners. The camp was small; a dozen tents to search, though hindered by the need to stay hidden.

A sudden burst of power. The realisation that he was not the only one wielding magic on this night, in this place. An ambush.

*

Not even bad dreams could spoil Arn's mood. While only being able to move pebbles around was a far cry from when he could rend the earth asunder, Arn could now sense the ground beneath his feet; a natural ability for all Tyrian wielders of magic, among the first they developed, and his once again. Though as suspected, the land this far south, in a place this overburdened by people, felt dead. No sense of vitality, no rejuvenation bursting to happen in spring. Just dried out stone, like a desiccated husk.

Having achieved a victory yesterday, it seemed reasonable to ask for leave into the city; if questioned, he could always claim that he needed to pay homage to his gods for his victory in the arena.

He was not questioned. Mahan simply grunted acknowledgement and waved him back to sparring. Once the day’s training had come to an end, and Arn had washed and eaten, he left the ludus.

To reach the docks in the western end, he had to cross through the middle with the great arena and the forums that hosted markets, debates, and other facets of public life. Despite not being Aquilan, Arn had experience with those; the Tyrian tribes relied on their own assemblies, great or small, to solve issues whether between ordinary people or the tribes.

At times, they might even discuss matters that pertained to all of Tyria, usually done so at the great solstice thing. Only last year, Arn had spoken at the moot, arguing against closer relations with the Aquilan Empire; that he now walked the streets of their capital seemed a jest on the part of fate.

*

Reaching the loremaster's hut, Arn knocked and entered. The old man looked up with a crooked smile, seated on the ground with a handful of bones thrown onto the floor. "They told me to expect you back, though I didn't imagine so soon."

Arn frowned; he had never used runes or bones himself to tell the future, and he preferred magic with a tangible purpose, where the result and consequences could be felt and seen immediately.

"You're here for your next rune, I take it."

The skáld nodded, feeling impatient.

"I'm to send you onwards to Lucius. He's further up the district, closer to the docks. A big tavern with a sign of a ship that has a broken mast."

That seemed rather uncreative for a public house by the harbour, including making part of the name a broken item, but taverns were run by barkeeps, not skálds, after all.

"What's the rune you want done? I'll prepare it, in case you handle your next task."

Another choice before him. While having his supernatural swiftness back would further sharpen his edge over other fighters, Arn did not require it to win. It was time to consider another concern, ensuring his exploits in the city went unnoticed. Digging out his tablet, Arn grabbed the stylus and made a single mark.

Helgi nodded. "Subtlety it is."

*

Arn located the place without trouble; it was by far the largest structure on the street. Stepping inside, he found what he would describe as a seedy tavern, full of unsavoury characters. Every patron looked armed with at least a dagger, and plenty had scars that told they had been in scraps. Dice and cards on the tables in between small piles of coin showed games of chance in progress. As for the staff, some appeared too lightly dressed for the spring weather, offering other services than fetching drinks.

Given Arn's own appearance and dealings, he probably fit in with the clientele. Keeping the hood of his cloak up, he approached the barkeep and held up his tablet. Lucius?

"I can't read, fellow. What you want? Ale, wine, brandy?" came the reply from the youth, cleaning a dirty mug with a rag that looked like it could only add more dirt.

Arn shook his head, sighing, and tapped the word on his tablet again.

"Look, just hold up a finger. Ale, wine, or brandy? One, two, three?"

"He's not here for drink, you dolt," snapped one of the serving girls, stepping behind the bar to fill up two tankards. "He wants Lucius." She nodded to her right. "He's in the back room, through there. Though he'll get mad if you disturb him without good cause."

Arn nodded in gratitude and began walking away.

"How does a simple girl like you know her letters?"

"Didn't they have a temple in your neighbourhood?"

"Yeah, but I only went to stare at the priestess of Luna, didn't I?" the barkeep laughed.

Any reply from the serving girl was lost in the noise of loud conversation and raucous laughter. Glancing to his right and left as he made his way through the room, Arn nearly flinched recognising a familiar face. In a sailor's lap, plying him with spirits, sat Iris. The girl giggled at something her current patron had said, inaudible to Arn through the cacophony of the room. He hurried to pull his hood forward, shielding his face with his hand as well, as he hastened past their table.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Double doors barred the way forward, though they were unlocked. Pushing them open, Arn swiftly stepped past the threshold to find a room with three tables, all occupied by men doing the same as in the common room, gambling and drinking. A few smoked pipes as well, leaving the air thick.

Seeing a scarred stranger with his hood up enter their space, several of the thugs got on their feet, hand on the dagger already. "You got two breaths to explain what you're doing here," one of them growled.

Laughter cut through the smoky haze and tension both. "That's too stingy of you, Thumbs." Standing up, Lucius wore a smirk. "This good fellow doesn't talk much, and I doubt he can write that fast. Calm yourselves," he added, gesturing for his men to sit back. "This Tyrian lad is a friend of the establishment." While they complied, Lucius motioned for Arn to follow him as he walked towards a staircase in the far end of the room. "Come along. You're meeting the chief tonight."

*

Lucius led Arn up winding stairs and through narrow corridors and low doors. Rather than an attempt to save on construction costs, Arn figured it served to put any attacker at a disadvantage, hemming them in and making them stoop.

Their path took them up several stories; Arn had noticed that the building was taller than any other on the street, but he had not given any thought as to why. It would seem that the proprietor, and apparently also Arn's taskmaster, enjoyed being elevated from the common folk – or he just liked the view of the harbour.

They reached a hallway, following it to the end, where Lucius knocked on an elaborate door with carvings.

"What?" came a shout from inside.

"Chief, it's me. I've got the Tyrian with me."

"Tell that old bastard to wait."

"Not Helgi, chief. The mute."

The muffled sound of shuffling reached them. "Alright. Get in."

As the door opened, it revealed a room of more luxury than Arn would have expected anywhere on the docks, but especially in a tavern like this. A thick rug lay on the floor, and the windows had glass in them. The furniture was, like the door, carved with extra effort spent on appearance and treated to give it a dark colour. The room held what one would expect from the study of a merchant or such; a desk and drawers, chairs stitched with cloth, and shelves holding ledgers or the like.

As for the occupant, he wore a velvet doublet over a silk shirt. Years of easy life had left a mark on his body, giving him a bloated look, reinforced by his chair being too small for him. The tip of his nose was missing, making it look flat like a pig's snout.

He was not alone; one of the girls that clearly worked the common room as well stood to the side, pulling up her dress. "Be off, darling," he spoke in a deep voice. "I've got business to discuss."

She hurried past the newcomers; Lucius did not give her a second glance, but sat down in one of the chairs.

"Go ahead, Tyrian. Sit down. You're making me nervous, standing there with such a glare," the chief laughed. "I'm Magnus, the humble owner of this fine establishment. You've heard of me?"

Arn finally sat down, shaking his head.

"Well, old Helgi works for me. As does dear Lucius. So that little task you handled in the blood fields, up in the slums dealing with those wretches, you did so for me." He gave an affable smile as if discussing the price of wool rather than how he had ordered the deaths of three people. Though, as the one who had killed them, Arn could hardly claim indignation. "I'm to take it from your presence that you're up for another task? Same payment as before."

Arn gave a slow nod.

"Good. Honestly, your little outing to the slums was more of a test to see if Helgi exaggerated." Magnus drummed his fingertips against his desk. "Rewards like the one you demand, involving both an expertly crafted stone by an earthmage and one of your northern rune masters, they’re expensive. So this next task will be equally demanding, though for one of your kind –" He frowned and looked at Lucius. "What did you call him?"

"A spellblade, chief."

"Right. For someone with magic and swordsmanship like Helgi claimed, it shouldn't be a problem."

Arn took out his tablet and wrote, What's the task?

Magnus smiled. "Northeast of here, beyond the blood fields, you'll find a tavern much like this, called The Half Pig, run by a ruthless bitch called Vera. You can't mistake her – she's missing one ear. I want her dead. I don't care much about when or how, as long as you get it done."

Sword?

Magnus looked at his underling, confused. "What does he mean?"

"Oh, our guy here doesn't use his own blade. Maybe it's a Tyrian thing." Lucius looked at Arn. "Anyway, not a problem. We'll leave a sword for you down in the bar. Not the strangest thing people have picked up from here," he grinned.

"Good. All such details, Lucius will handle," the chief declared. "We have an agreement?"

Arn gave a nod.

Magnus smiled at his henchmen. "I like this fellow. He doesn't interrupt, and no unnecessary questions. Alright, off with you. Lucius, let our new friend here have whatever he wants on the house."

"You got it, chief."

*

The only thing Arn wanted was to leave, which he swiftly did after refusing various offers to satisfy his appetites. The tavern provided nothing Arn desired, and time was always an issue on his evening jaunts. Leaving straightaway offered Arn an opportunity to do some swift scouting before he had to be back at the ludus.

Walking through the streets, he heard the last bell of the day ring, heralding the two hours known as the time of the wolf; Arn had until then before the gates to his ungracious home were shut. Picking up the pace, he crossed half of Aquila, going northeast until he saw the sign with half a pig – the front half – on it.

Still with his hood up, he entered. The place reminded him of the establishment he had just left, offering roughly the same services to approximately the same clientele. Coin and drink flowed freely, and Arn looked to be the only patron unarmed.

The barkeep gave him a bored look and spoke in a voice echoing the same emotion, "Ale, wine, brandy?"

Same kind of tavern down to the nails, it appeared. Arn held up one finger and fished out a silver coin from his belt, receiving a few copper pieces and a tankard in return. He dragged a stool to a corner – all tables and proper chairs were in use – and sat down, drinking his barley water while observing the common room.

He took note of who among the armed people seemed to be customers, and who had the familiarity to enter backrooms or go upstairs like they worked at the place. He saw his target as well; as promised, a one-eared woman with the self-assured confidence that came from owning the place.

When time began to feel pressing, Arn left and with swift steps began his return to the ludus. On the way, he considered what he had learned. This would be a far more difficult task than the previous; the place was crowded, well lit, and full of people capable in a fight, should Arn be discovered in his purpose.

In addition, the skáld had also gotten a handle of who exactly he had undertaken this task for. This bloated fellow, Magnus, ran some sort of criminal enterprise; considering the location by the docks, it most likely involved smuggling as the main source of income. Since he had sent an outsider rather than one of his own trusted minions to deal with three serfs in the slums, it suggested that his reach was limited to the harbour district, and maybe the neighbouring parts of the city south of there.

Given that this Vera's headquarters lay just east of the slums, and Magnus had chosen her as the next target, Arn felt that he could deduce the deeper layer of the situation. She had to be a rival, running her own crime ring, and probably she was the reason that Magnus could not send his own people into the blood fields, as they called that dilapidated district.

It did not make a difference to Arn as such; he saw no other recourse for getting his runes back, and he had no qualms about killing one criminal on behalf of another. But he felt a little more comfortable with a better grasp of whom he was getting entangled with, whether friend or foe; especially given his volatile circumstances, which made it seem likely that some might move from one category to the other.