Drawing my sword, I walk up to them. “Hi, guys, fancy seeing you here. I see you drew the short straws, standing watch at little old me's room. You shouldn’t have.”

The half-dwarf from yesterday, well, I must have cracked his cheekbone. Have to admit, his face was not pretty before, but now it is a mess of bruises. He says, “Here you are, dung-head!”

Wow, amazing that they can still remember that funny nickname of mine.

“We’re gonna kill you!”

“Just remember boys, what happened before. I do not want to hurt you two, but I will if you force me.”

Hang on, if I let them go, they will tell Malik. How to keep them here … Oh, don’t worry, they are coming at me.

The other one yells, “Payback is sweet, dung-head!”

These Dock Boys seem dangerous now. From their body language, they are here to kill me. Maybe I should run. Such a coward sometimes. Running would not end up being so terrific! Let us be sober—and murderous. Them or me, and I like me. Two versus one, not bad odds. They cannot spread out. Angles will be determined by skill. Having the advantage of length—and I have a big sword too. Score two for the dead man!

The two thugs have thrusting swords in their hands; recruits’ swords. Guessing their skill levels, they both just come at me, thrusting with abandon.

Just need to deflect, and now step. Lopping the hand off one of the thugs. Stupid goons. The other just steps in and blindly stabs into his mate. Sidestep and quick throat thrust, and it is over. Trying to overpower people with little skill is not how you win a sword fight. Oh well.

What do they have? Two short swords, a couple of knives, a few more slips, and a lovely semi-precious gem. For unskilled thugs, they keep their weapons well oiled. Should find someone to buy this stuff. No time to stand here thinking about it—got to get my own stuff!

Wash off the blood, change my clothes. What to take: backpack, a few odds and ends. Clothes, whetstone, oil. Flog the blanket for the weapons. Cocking my ear, can't hear the song that much anymore. Must have died down. That is enough, haven't taken everything—Malik needs to still think I am here. But the bodies? I stash them in another room. One of these quarters must be unlocked. It has to be the one furthest away. Now, the blood? Blankets and water. Does not need to be perfectly clean—there have always been bloodstains in this place anyway.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Not going down the front stairs. Taking the discreet back entrance would be the best bet now. Should head over to Blacksmith Street off Tradesmen Court to sell these weapons. Cannot be walking around Lake Merrin strapped with blades. Route Street first. There must be a better way. If I take Warehouse Place to Tanner Lane, then Wall Boulevard, that would get me past Craftsmen Avenue and Blacksmith Street. With the Boys down in the Musket, Malik should not have a presence in the warehouse district. No main roads—better for me in the long run. Malik has pickpocket spies around.

As I enter Tanner Lane, the smells of stale piss and dung are not very pleasant. But most ordinary people do not hang out here, except for one of Malik's rival gangs—the Wilted Flower Gang. Not sure why they call themselves that when they smell like sweaty tanners. Must be easier for people to want them gone after they pickpocket their wallets. Also, a good way to always find out where they are.

Wall Boulevard is an easy road—no patrols, not many people either. Just a clear walk to where you need to go. Peacetime is excellent; there has not been a war in ages.

Finally at Blacksmith Street. Hang on, before I choose a smithy, is there a maker’s mark on these swords? Of course not—that will drive the price down. Was thinking two hundred slips, now I will be lucky to receive a hundred.

This one looks good—The Tinker’s Place. Seems to be a little dodgier than most of these shops. Walking in, a bell sounds off. A Gnome with thick goggles pokes his head out from the back. “Yes, you need help?”

“Ah, yes. I have come into possession of a few well-made weapons. I am wondering if you are willing to buy?”

Pulling off his goggles, eyes ringed with soot, hair greasy. “You an Adventurer?”

Do I have my licence on me? Should do, in my wallet.

“Sure, sure. One second.” Damn, of course, I do not have a licence yet, but here is the receipt from Royce. “Just signed up yesterday, here’s the receipt.”

He checks it over. “Looks like Royce's writing, hmm.” Glances up at me with his dark purple eyes. “Okay, what you got?”

Unwrapping the weapons, placing each in front of the Gnome. “Excuse me, may I ask your name?”

“Sure! It's Winkle Tinker.” Picks up each one and looks at them. “Where is the maker’s mark?”

Damn, he noticed straight away! “Okay, Winkle—” great name “—I defeated a few foes on a job, and these are the spoils.”

“You know owning a sword without a mark could land you in jail?”

“Yes, but I do not own these, just want to sell them. Besides, I am a registered Adventurer, so those rules do not apply.”

“Well-made, no grinder marks or other signatures. I’ll give you thirty slips for both.”

Say what—thirty? Calm down. Bloody Gnomes and their smarts.

“Make it one hundred and fifty, and I will throw in this gem.”

Handing it over, Winkle's eyes light up. “Sixty.”

Haggling with this one will not be fun. “Make it one hundred, and we will call it a day.”

“Fine, you have a deal.” I know I attained the worse end of this deal. “Here you go. If you want a better weapon, don't forget Winkle Tinker's Place.”

Yanking my money out of his hand. Yeah, I’ll be back. After this, I need an ale.