The door to the tavern opened with a creak. Razam took another sip of tea as heavy boots echoed behind him. The newcomer’s swords clanked against their belts and their crude laughter seemed to quiet the other patrons. Razam turned, casting a glance. Those were no soldiers passing through the commercial routes; they wore no uniform, only ragged clothes beneath their chainmail and plate armor. They resembled bounty hunters, a breed few were brave or foolish enough to cross.

One of them staggered as though drunk on too much raki. Stout with a full belly, he had a curved knife wedged into his belt. He spun around, bellowing at a table. “What are you looking at?” Saliva sprayed from his mouth. The man he was screaming at looked like his perfect opposite: slim, wearing imported silk, as skinny as a noodle. He had the look of a mercuant and was minding his own business.

The man in silk diverted his gaze.

“Huh?” the bounty hunter grunted, lumbering to the other man’s table and slamming his hands down.

Razam raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t like the way you look at me, dog” the bounty hunter snapped, while his two companions snickered behind his back.

“You, Kanasian dog, I’m talkin’ to you.”

The man in silk didn’t so much as lift his head. Razam noticed a slight tremor in his fingers.

“I want no trouble," the slim man muttered under his breath.

“No trouble?” the bounty hunter slurred. “Don’t you ignore me, dog.”

“I want no…”

A thud echoed through the tavern. All voices faded around them. The bounty hunter had slapped the man off the table and knocked him to the ground.

Razam lowered his cup of tea, the bracelets around his arm jingling softly.

No one uttered a word. Guards from different provinces and kingdoms lowered their voices and averted their eyes. It wasn’t their problem. The commercial routes were nobody’s problem, as long as the markets thrived.

“Anyone else?” the bounty hunter shouted. “Good. A big bottle of rakia for me and my boys.” He said.

Meanwhile, the other two rifled through the merchant’s clothes, snatching a linen money pouch. The other one was removing the rings off his fingers and his gold earrings.

Razam looked around. Two Murlian guards chatted idly, one of them glanced over at the scene and remained still.

Razam sighed, standing.

“Hey, that’s enough, lads. You’ve had your fun.”

The man was still unconscious, blood staining his nose. And the ruffians were stripping his linen shirt in the middle of the room.

“At least let the poor man keep his clothes,” Razam interjected.

The two scoffed.

“Now what’s your problem” they said, standing to their feet. They were taller than Razam, obviously. As usual. Not that it was a problem.

The two ruffians laughed.

“And what’s your problem? You want us to strip you too? Why are you, as a man, wearing purple, anyway?”

“He thinks he’s a flower. Merciful Creator, what is that smell. You poured the entire bottle of perfume on yourself.”

Razam breathed in.

“Leave the man alone, boys, you want to steal, don’t throw dirt on the lawkeepers, you’re embarrassing them,” Razam said, nodding toward the guards. One lowered his face, the other gave Razam an angry glare.

Now Razam had the drunken man’s attention.

Razam sighed inwardly. He had expected them to recognize him. That meant they were not well versed in bounty hunter business. They had not been around enough to recognize the man in the good robes and the perfume. He didn’t just wear it for the barmaid’s attention, but also as a statement.

And them, the drunk swung a massive fist toward him. Razam slipped like a butterfly in flight and turned like a whirlwind, clenching his fists, then threw a single uppercut, straight and precise. It struck the thug in the nose and it burst like a bloody tomato.

It was not enough. The man groaned, blood pouring from his nose into his hand. But the game was just beginning. Three knives flashed out of their scabbards. The thugs circled him.

He stared at the lawkeepers for an instant. It was going to be in self defense.

Razam ducked, swinging his forearm. A hidden knife emerged into his palm. He turned and threw it at his attacker’s neck.

Spit on a grave, I missed.

He was not that good at knife-throwing, anyway.

The man leapt forward, knife in hand.

It would be gory. Razam dodged. Knives were quicker and harder to dodge than fists. He shook his wrist and another knife emerged toward his palm, he twisted and slid it right under the man’s jaw. The man gasped, a final gasp of death, his arms stretched as if in a last effort to remain alive. Razam extracted the knife, pulling it along with a thread of blood.

The ruffian collapsed to the floor, blood pooling around his face.

Razam turned, slightly disgusted at the mess. He looked at the other two defiantly. At that moment, the knives dropped to the ground, slipping from the hands of the two ruffians and the two men ran out of the tavern like deer fleeing from a lion in the desert.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Razam sighed, as the entire tavern had set their eyes on him. The lawkeepers were as pale as ghosts.

Razam cleared his throat.

“It’s him,” whispered a voice.

“Alright, boys,” Razam said. “There’s nothing to see, go back to drinking and feasting, I will go back to minding my own business too. Remember, no more disruptions.”

He stepped back toward his chair. Minted tea with floating pine seeds awaited him. Now, in his experience, sometimes women liked when he stood up for someone in a tavern. But today, it had been a little too much.

Then, he heard footsteps behind his back. He rolled his eyes, that was not the gait of a clumsy drunk, nor a curious traveler, much less those of a lady. But they seemed confident and dangerous.

He turned, his slick wavy hair shaking gracefully as he did. He made sure he turned completely so they could see the defined pectorals in the middle of his open shirt, along with a well oiled and perfumed rug of chest hair. He remained relaxed, eyes opened attentively, but ready to pull a dagger from his sleeve at any moment.

The man who had approached him was large enough to be a nobleman’s bodyguard, with the scars to attest it and the weapons to prove it. Razam noticed the sides of a lion’s head tattooed on his forearm. A janissaire. The man might have been taken as a boy. Technically, he was probably a slave, but one with power. And probably almost as much skill with a blade as Razam.

And yet, Razam could not tell who that man was working for. His eyes were glassy blue, so he would have been from the West, but with so many slaves coming and going, taken from any of the Seven empires, and in the middle of a trading route, it was impossible to know.

“Me? I don’t know you, stranger, why would anyone ask for me? I’m a simple traveler” said Razam.

“We know who you are. You’re the Crimson Thorn.”

Razam’s smile morphed into a disgusted pout. Why couldn’t he just get rid of that nickname.

“Your stench announces your presence,” said the man. “And the trail of blood you leave on peaceful lands.”

“Stench?” Razam asked, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t mean to offend, but I’m sure that a single bottle of what I wore today is worth more than your freedom. And, I was just being an upright citizen.”

The part about the price was hyperbole, definitely, but the man had it coming.

The man’s eyes were fierce. Razam sighed.

“I don’t have time for games,” the man grunted.

“Neither do I,” Razam said with a shrug. “So, tell me. I don’t know about this Thorn you talk about, but if you mean business, I might hear it.”

The man leaned in, an ugly frown on his forehead.

“Don’t play smart with me. I know you need money. I know you won’t spend a night here. I don’t know what you’ll want tonight, cheap wenches or gold.”

“If it’s good, I’ll do it, but I only do the good kind of work. I’ve got a moral code.”

The janissaire chuckled, eyes on him like a leopard.

“Well, you’d be interested to know that I am in command of fifty janissaires passing by this land, ready to arrest you. You’ve been arrested before, you’re no ghost. They pay a good reward in Murlia for you. But if you want to work for us, you’d be good.”

Razam narrowed his eyes. He didn’t like people threatening him like he was some kind of coward.

“Well I don’t care if you’ve got a thousand janissaires here.” He said.

“Now I like that, you’d be good for the job.”

“What’s the pay?” Razam asked. “I mean, what’s the job?”

The man turned slowly, making sure nobody was listening.

“There is a Murlian caravan passing tonight, heavily guarded. The best of the best.”

“Demon knights?” Razam asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Aye. The Sultan’s own guard. Fifty of his best men.”

Razam looked from side to side. He’d run into them before, and he'd rather avoid that particular point.

“Who’s among them? I don’t do hit jobs.”

“No hit job required. We just need you to steal back something that was stolen from us. They guard it very well, either in the main tent or in a cage, no less. It will be obvious. It’s an ivory box containing something of, let’s say, sentimental value.”

“It’s not that easy,” Razam shrugged. “Demon Knights are good, and believe me, they’re smart too. If they are carrying something valuable, they know how to keep it. What's your price, anyway?”

“Two hundred talents of gold.

Razam’s eyes widened.

“Yes,” the janissaire said. “Good enough to pay your debts to the Lords of Kana, and to build a mansion in the heights of Shushah. You could buy yourself an empire.”

Razam nodded.

"You really want this, thing. Huh?”

“It must return to us.”

“Sure.”

Razam sighed. He could not refuse. Spit on a grave, that money could make him rich. He could make a trip home and show his father that he was a honorable man. Not a thief. He'd probably welcome him home. If only he could get past those checkpoints in Alluria.

“Who is this Lord of yours who has… Two hundred talents of gold to give.” Razam asked, curious.

“That, you do not need to know.”

“Then, an advance? And by the Creator I will do this within the next couple of days. Keep your spies on me if you must, I know you guys are good at that.”

“We need it tonight."

“Well, this needs serious planning,” Razam said, shrugging.

“Tonight, or you forget about the gold. When they enter Murlia it will be too late. But if you agree, we knew you’d ask,” the man extracted a linen pouch from his robes and let it drop on the table. It weighed and tinkled.

“Fine," Razam mumbled. "You’ll get your package before sunrise.”

The man passed Razam the pouch and he slid the rope that kept it closed.

“I see you mean business,” Razam said with a nod.

“We do. I’ll expect our package by morning.”

“So be it,” Razam said, as the man stood up and turned his back on him.

Razam sighed and leaned back on his chair. Then, he extracted a handful of coins from the pouch. They were solid gold, and from Murlia, of all places, with the face of that fat sultan that everyone hated.

“Master innkeeper,” Razam shouted, getting to his feet. “Give everyone here an extra jug of wine from me.”

There were a few nervous cheers. He looked around, but all the women had disappeared. He shrugged and walked back to his entrance, ready to get back his sword and imagining what he’d do with all that gold.