Chapter 22 - Magrath

Magrath, Vanstead Dukedom of Augustein Year 995

“We’re here quicker than I expected,” Isolde remarked as she put away her pocket watch, sounding pleased. “We should have time to make a few purchases before finding a place to stay.”

Amara nodded, though most of her attention was focused on the town. Unlike in Winrow or Penrith, the street here was smooth and fully paved with individual bricks that formed long rows. The buildings were much more closely packed, and quite a few included stone and bricks as part of their construction instead of simply wood. It was rare in Winrow for any building to be over a story tall, but here, that seemed to be the norm. Buildings tended to be a little taller than they were wide, and the sloping triangular rooftops gave everything a sharp, polished feel.

After the largely empty road in the morning, Magrath was comparatively much busier. Passersby walked along the sidewalks, and multiple carriages pulled by trotting horses clacked along the street.

Along with the increase in people came an increase in stares. Amara felt more than a few pairs of eyes dart in her direction, landing on her scarred arms. Hushed whispers sounded around her as she and Isolde made their way down the streets. Isolde walked a little faster at that, and Amara decided to match her pace lest she get left behind. She waved and grinned at a few passersby as she walked, which always succeeded in making them look away.

“Here.” Isolde finally came to a stop in front of a rectangular building made entirely of worn brick. A weathered sign hung overhead, and Amara noted the array of weapons set out in the display window. On the same window, a small paper sign read, PLEASE HAVE YOUR LICENSE OUT WHEN PURCHASING ORE.

Amara turned away from the sign when she heard the door open and followed Isolde inside, allowing the door to click shut behind her as she stepped into the store proper.

The interior of the shop was a fair bit larger than it looked from the outside, and Amara took a moment to marvel at how high the ceilings were. A staircase led to the second floor, which circled the first but left a gap in the center that allowed a visitor to look straight up to the very top of the store, where a light hung from a long chain, swaying slightly with every new motion on the floorboards.

The walls were covered in various weapons, armor, and other general supplies that Amara kept an eye on. One shelf located near the counter had a few glass display cases surrounded by various tags. A sign above the shelf read, MAGIC ORE PURCHASES, TALK TO COUNTER.

Isolde, however, immediately headed to a shelf resting near the back of the room, where different pairs of gloves hung. Amara raised an eyebrow. She hadn’t realized there was such a large variety of gloves in existence.

“This stuff’s expensive,” Amara noted as her eyes fell on the price tags. She raised an eyebrow. One pair of gloves cost almost as much as the heating sphere she’d gotten Colm.

“It takes special material to fully hide the markings,” Isolde explained, scrutinizing a few pairs. “These seem to be fairly high quality, and they will last you a long time if you’re careful.” She glanced over at Amara, considering. “I don’t mind paying for them. I assume you’re not swimming with money.”

Amara chuckled as she leaned a little closer to the shelf. “Well, if you’re offering, I’m not gonna say no.”

Most of the gloves were varying shades of brown, grey, and black, though there were also a few lighter beige ones. She briefly glanced over at Isolde’s own black gloves and hummed, considering. Maybe a dark brown shade would be nice. Those were the color of Joan’s, whenever the woman actually wore them.

“What about these?”

Amara glanced over to see Isolde holding a pair of simple black gloves. Unlike most of the other pairs, these ones were quite long and stretched just above the elbow. Amara inspected them, noting that the fabric seemed fairly flexible and comfortable, though they also were more expensive, likely on account of their length.

Amara raised an eyebrow. “I don’t actually mind people seeing the scars, you know,” she said.

“Perhaps not, but they draw unnecessary attention. You stand out quite a bit.”

Amara didn’t miss the unspoken implication. It’s going to be harder to steal ore if you’re this recognizable. She sighed. “Well, I don’t really care either way, especially if you’re paying for it.” She walked over to where Isolde was and pulled out a similar pair, only these were dark brown instead of black. She held them out to Isolde, grinning.

“Thanks,” she said. Isolde raised an eyebrow, smiling slightly as she took them.

Amara glanced away, eyes sweeping the rest of the store. There were a few other customers loitering around, one family seemed to be in a particularly heated argument by the shoes. Her gaze, however, focused on the weapon rack situated in the center of the store. She strode over, eyeing the different options.

Amara was no blacksmith, but they seemed decently high quality. There were quite a few swords, but some other weapons as well: a few bow options, some spears and halberds, throwing knives, and axes.

Amara hummed to herself as she scanned the weapons and their price tags. Thankfully these were closer to Winrow’s prices, and she had enough money to get a decent weapon besides her very-likely-to-break knife.

“Looking at weapons?” Isolde remarked, striding closer. She briefly scanned the rack without much interest, but then, Amara supposed she already had a ridiculously fancy spear. Amara turned away, resuming her inspection.

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“What made you decide to pick up a spear anyway?” Amara asked casually. She reached for one of the axes, testing the grip of its handle. She noted the store owner’s eyes following her from the counter, but she ignored it. She wasn’t doing anything illegal, after all.

“It simply felt like the best match for my own tendencies and my affinities,” Isolde said. She tilted her head. “I assumed you used knives.”

Amara laughed and patted the sheathed knife hanging from her belt. “Because of this? Nah, this is just what we had.” She shrugged and moved on to the next weapon. “I kind of just use whatever’s there. I used to train with some of my village’s watchmen when I could, and usually the only extra training weapons they had were axes.” Axes also had the benefit of serving as tools as well, meaning they were often lying around and available for Amara to grab if she was, say, chasing an Aberration down on someone’s farm.

“I see.”

Isolde didn’t say anything else, and Amara continued making her way down the row, the barely hushed arguments of the family providing a backdrop to her methodical searching. Finally, she straightened again, gripping one of the shorter axes.

It had a single blade at the end of a solid wooden handle that fit well in her palm. It didn’t slide when she did a few practice swings, and there was some sort of coating over the wood to prevent splinters. The thought brought a slight smile to Amara’s face.

“You’re not going to choose one of the doubled sided ones?” Isolde asked.

Amara shook her head. “Nah, those cost more. This is good enough for now.” She’d prefer to see if the axe could actually withstand one of her magic bursts before getting anything more expensive.

“Hm, if you’re sure.” Isolde turned and made her way over to the counter, the gloves in hand. The store owner, a middle aged man with sharp features and a thick mustache, immediately straightened when he saw her approach, his previous frown morphing into a brilliant smile. Amara laughed to herself at the obvious change.

“Welcome, welcome!” the man said, his voice booming around the store. “How may I help you, miss?”

Isolde smiled that serene, calm smile she’d had on when Amara had first seen her in the tavern. She stepped up to the counter in smooth, graceful steps and placed the gloves down. “Just this, and I believe my friend will be purchasing an axe after me.”

“Aw, nice to hear I’m a friend now.”

Isolde ignored her in favor of pulling out a small coin pouch and carefully counting out the money and setting it down on the counter. The store owner double counted the coins himself, beaming once he was done. Isolde stashed her coin pouch away again and turned to Amara with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

Amara just grinned as she strolled up to the store owner. The man blinked, eyes bugging out a bit when they landed on her scarred arms, which just made her smile widen. She set the axe down on the counter.

“Just this,” she said.

The man’s eyes darted between the weapon and her, and he nodded. He opened his mouth, but before any words could come out, the door creaked open. Amara turned to see the new arrival.

A young man around her and Isolde’s age stepped into the store. He was dressed rather plainly in simple, neat clothes without any gloves, Amara noted. His skin had a bit of a sickly hue to it, as though there was a layer of grey beneath, and his hair was so light that it nearly looked white.

The most notable thing about him, however, was the tattoo resting just below his left eye. Swirling ink flowed in abstract, unfamiliar shapes that wove together in bold strokes, ending in the center of his cheek. The dark ink stood out starkly against his pale skin, and so close to his eyes, it almost looked like a continuation of the dark circles resting there.

The man held a slip of paper in his hand, and he didn’t hesitate to walk up to the counter without giving the rest of the store a second glance. Amara noted the way he moved, with a subtle, constant caution that brought back memories of the kids slipping in and out of the cell. The room had gone quiet. She glanced back at the family, but they seemed to have halted their argument and were now eyeing the man with wariness.

The man walked straight past Amara and set the paper down on the counter. The store owner didn’t comment on the breach in line order, his beady eyes watching his movements closely. Finally, he sighed and shook his head, picking up the paper and squinting down at it. He sputtered.

“Three days!?” He shook his head, and Amara could see the man visibly stop himself from crumpling the paper and throwing it aside. The tattooed man, on the other hand, simply watched impassively.

“Lord Alardice claimed it was urgent,” he said, voice perfectly monotone. Amara raised an eyebrow as she watched the conversation.

“It’s not possible. I’d need to get it shipped from Arcvale.”

“I believe he said, ‘Tell him that’s his problem and not mine,’” the man quoted bluntly.

The storeowner groaned, yanking at his hair so hard that Amara was surprised no strands had come loose. The man glared at the paper, then at the tattooed man, whose expression remained deadpan. Finally, the storeowner visibly inhaled and exhaled, lowering his hands back down to the counter with great effort.

“Tell him,” he said through gritted teeth, “That I will do what I can.”

For a moment neither one spoke, the entire store seeming to hold its breath in anticipation. Finally, the man nodded.

“I’ll do that.” He took a step back, then paused and added, “Have a good evening.” He turned to leave, the store owner’s eyes still fixed on the paper as he muttered under his breath.

Just as the man reached the door and swung it open, Amara called out, “Cool tattoo.”

The man’s hand froze, and she saw the store owner’s head snap in her direction from her peripheral vision, but she didn’t pay him any attention. Instead, she kept her eyes focused on the man by the door, who looked taken aback. Amara just grinned and tapped her own cheek, where his tattoo was located.

Slowly, the man’s expression changed. Formerly deadpan, dulled features morphed into a boiling, biting anger. His eyes flared with barely contained fury, and she could see the way his jaw tightened and his knuckles became white around the door handle. He looked nothing like the impassive man who’d stepped inside.

Without another word, the man snapped around, striding through the doorway and slamming the door shut without another word. The entire store seemed to shake somewhat from the impact, eventually settling into a loud silence.

Amara kept staring at the door where the man had disappeared. Finally, she noted the family turning away and resuming their shopping, much quieter this time. She tore her eyes away and walked back to the counter, where the store owner was giving her a strange look, somewhere between disbelief, suspicion, confusion, anger, and fear. Amara was aware of Isolde’s eyes following her, but she ignored it, simply grinning at the store owner and pointing down at the axe still resting atop the counter.

“So, how much was this again?”