Impressions

Arn spent another long night, siphoning power from the rune token he had gained from his latest task. It took until daybreak before he was done, and he would pay the price during sparring for the lack of sleep, but it worked. Throwing the now drained pebble into the air, his other hand caught it with speed that would provoke envy from a diving falcon. The restored rune on his arm sent tremors of pain through his body, but nothing worse than he could handle.

It would not be much longer now. He had one rune left to restore. Given the number of fights he would have during the solstice games, he could steal enough life force to regain most of his missing powers. With Helgi providing a solution to get rid of the accursed armband that kept him trapped in Aquila, Arn was nearly ready.

Only revenge awaited him, for which he still lacked a plan and the knowledge to formulate one. But he had stared his enemy in the face, which had proven useful. Arn knew that Salvius did not recognise him, that they were both in Aquila, and that the powers of a mageknight could not contend with those of a skáld, not even one so diminished as Arn.

*

After breakfast, the Tyrian went to the workshop of the medicus. Domitian still rested on the slab, covered by a blanket with a straw pillow underneath his head. His eyes were closed, but a sheen of sweat lay upon his face.

Getting the physician's attention, Arn held up his tablet. How is he?

The old man shrugged. "Ask me again tomorrow."

Arn grabbed a piece of cloth instead and used it to wipe Domitian’s face. The sensation woke him up, and he stared at Arn with wild eyes. "Northman! You're back already. You didn't forget to go, did you?"

Arn looked over at the medicus and wrote on his tablet, Leave us.

Although he grumbled, the old man complied. "Patients sending a medicus out of his own workshop, Stars spare me these gladiators…"

Once alone, Arn wrote, I went. Paid two crowns to M.

Domitian stared at the tablet, his eyes shining with fever. "Who? Oh, Marius! Good, Northman. I only owe him three more."

Why?

"You’ve seen her?" Domitian smiled. "My girl. Isn't she lovely?"

Arn was too old to be beguiled by a pair of dark eyes, but this was not the time to argue. He needed to know if his friend was being taken for a fool. Yes. Who is she?

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"An islander girl. Her parents are dead. She was offered work all the way across over here," Domitian explained. His breathing came with ragged intervals, and Arn regretted making him explain anything. "She learned our language on the ship. Realised the fate that awaited her. The latest exotic addition to some illustrious brothel or another, sold and bartered like an animal in a cage!"

Not much different than the fate that others suffered, such as every prisoner of war, but Arn kept this argument to himself, hoping his friend would finish talking and resume resting.

"Once they made port, that clever girl ran for dear life. Those ruffians pursued her, and that's where I come in." Domitian smiled, staring into the air. "I showed them what's what, harassing innocent girlies."

A plausible tale for the most part, except it did not explain all. Arn wavered between letting the matter go and his desire to understand. Finally, he wrote, And the boy? The money?

It took Domitian several moments to read the questions; it seemed he had momentarily forgotten he was not alone, and he stared with confusion at the tablet that suddenly appeared before his eyes. "The boy. The money. Money for the boy. We hired a man to bring him over. Join sister and brother. I don't remember the fellow's name suddenly. Nasty sort, but only one willing." The meeting suddenly flung his eyes wide open. "I forgot to pay! I was going to go tonight!"

Arn tried his best to calm him – difficult when unable to speak any words that might sooth his spirit – and used the cloth again to cool him down. This explained where all of Domitian's winnings went; whether that meant the islander girl was taking advantage of the gladiator or not, Arn figured that was open to interpretation. Regardless, Arn's curiosity was satisfied. The only thing that mattered now was Domitian returning to good health.

*

"Chief, there's a woman here to see you." A large fellow with a broken nose stuck his head past the doorframe, looking at Marius sitting in the inner room. They were inside one of the small insulae that lay scattered around the docks, occupying one of the larger tenancies rather than those consisting of a single chamber.

"She looks like she got money?"

"Her clothes aren't bad."

"Send her in."

A moment later, Vasilia entered, though nothing about her appearance suggested she was a master of the Arcane Tower. She was dressed like a patrician's wife might be, with a heavy cloak and hood.

Marius looked her up and down. "How can I serve, good mistress? We offer a variety of services. Problems solved, goods brought in and out, or people. And we accept all kinds of payments." He leered at her.

A burst of subtle magic left her. "Not wearing gold. Makes it a little easier."

"Eh?"

She moved around the desk. Dumbfounded, he looked up at her as she touched his temple, her hand glowing with magic. "You had an encounter with a Tyrian the other day. Isn't that right?"

"Yes," Marius replied, his eyes looking vacant.

"He paid you money?"

"Yes. Two crowns."

"And roughed up your men?"

"Yes. He did."

"Do you remember how he looked?"

"Yes. I do."

"Listen carefully," Vasilia told him, and the glow around her fingers touching his head intensified. "This is how he looked. Young with long, brown hair. And if someone asks if he had scars, you tell them he did not."

"Yes."

"Describe the Tyrian whom you met."

"Young, with long, brown hair." The words came in a monotonous voice.

"Did he have scars?"

Marius slowly shook his head. "No, he didn't."

Vasilia smiled and pulled back while Marius blinked repeatedly. The glow surrounding her hand dissipated. "Very good. Now I suggest you send your men in here, one by one, so I may have the same conversation with them." Her words came with emphasis.

Marius nodded to himself, as if the thought was his own. "Aye, good mistress, I'll fetch the others that you may talk with them."