Many things had been silently debated in Arne’s mind in the hours since the creature had vanished. Leave Arabesk for a while was the first to enter the internal discussion when he’d gone to the doctor to have her set the broken bones before he could drink the hideous little vial of magical tincture that mended the damages to his wrist, nose and ribs. The potion flowed like pus, reeked of death and cheese and tasted worse, and it reminded him forcefully of his assailant. And that had been around the time the anger flared to the surface.

He had been active in the city of Arabesk since he was just a snotnosed child, alone in the streets after the murder, and he’d be dead and fucked before leaving the city in fear. He had always been careful not to expand too much, not to become too powerful, believing it would keep him safe from attention of this sort. Everything he’d built, the security and network he’d amassed in the last twenty years… Well, not that that had helped against the creature. But lesson learned.

He’d sent underlings out to scour both of the universities for discreet, bribable sources of knowledge and sent his best burglars and thieves out to keep an eye on the Victim Tavern while he himself went through his personal contacts to find information on both the creature and the Queen.

The results of all examinations were disheartening. The tavern appeared completely normal, a small but well-kept watering hole near the central marketplace. As for the Queen, he’d heard of her, everyone had, though nobody knew exactly what or who she owned, but it was commonly understood that whoever she was, her dealings spanned the Nine Cities and further, and the smaller purely Arabesk-focussed enterprises, like Arne’s own, were not likely to draw any attention from her. Despite that, when he was done forking over far too much cash, he had learned simply that the Queen of Arabesk had been a legend in the city long before his birth and nobody had heard of a creature matching the description of his assailant.

Frustrated and angry, he had finally resolved to just show up and see what happened. He might be the underdog now, but he had been that before and still managed to leave his opponent bleeding and dying in the dust when he was done. Information was always key. Patience too, occasionally.

And so he stood alone at the closed door to the Victim Tavern, looking at the sign saying Closed for Private Meeting. He listened for a moment and then, hearing nothing from inside, he tried the handle. The door silently swung up.

There were three people occupying the clean and cosy taproom. A young woman was carrying a tray of food and drink to a table, where a somewhat grubby-looking person sat, staring brightly at the food before turning their attention to the door. Behind the bar, an elderly woman who appeared to be the tavernkeeper waved him inside.

“Arnor Grenn, I assume from the description,” she stated smilingly. “Come in.”

Like most other buildings in Arabesk, the ground floor of the building was dug several feet below street level with only narrow windows below the ceiling to let in light and keep the heat out. Arne walked down the steps into the cool interior.

Behind the bar was an exit to a narrow alley that led out to the southern marketplace, a fact his people had checked up on yesterday when gathering information on the place, and he had spent the early morning walking the shortest route from the Victim’s exit to familiar ground in Kwara, the city section where most of his safehouses were, before settling down to keep an eye on the establishment.

A few minutes prior to his arrival at noon exactly, Arne had seen the grubby, lean person who had just been served food arrive, scuttling close to the wall like nervous prey. The person carried a large leather case, like the bags for specimens that doctors used, and the bag now sat pushed under the table, its owner resting a foot lightly on it.

The tavernkeeper gestured to him. “Please, have a seat. Welcome to the Victim. Would you like a drink? Some food?”

“No, thank you. I’d like to know what I’m here for,” Arne said, slowly approaching the bar.

“Oh, now that I couldn’t say. I was told you were invited. That’s all. You and your companions.” The tavernkeeper seemed relaxed and a little puzzled at his question. But he could see no hostility in her gaze or stance and there was nowhere for attackers to hide in the small tavern.

“My companions…” He looked to the lean figure at the table who was hungrily wolfing down the food the moment the young woman put it on the table.

“Please, have a seat. Let us know if you change your mind about the drink.” The tavernkeeper gestured to the table and then apparently considered their interaction concluded and busied herself with something behind the bar.

Slowly, Arne went to the table, picking a seat with his back to a wall and a straight line to both exits. He looked at his apparent companion. A grimy blue hood was drawn up over mousy brown hair. The face was narrow, the skin fair but dirty, the brown eyes bright, and Arne still didn’t feel sure whether he was looking at a man or a woman. The baggy clothes the lean person wore hid any curves that could assist identification.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“I’m Toog,” the eater stated, licked their long fingers and held out a hand.

“You heard her,” Arne nodded at the woman behind the bar. “I’m apparently Arnor Grenn again.”

“Aren’t you usually?” Toog asked, clearly puzzled and shrugged when it became apparent no handshake was forthcoming.

“That name is twenty years in its grave. Or so I thought,” he said quietly.

“Hm, names can die? An interesting mortality question.” Toog had polished off a dish of roasted vegetables and now quickly licked the remains of the dip up. “So, what made you volunteer?”

“I wouldn’t exactly put it that way,” Arne said, fascinated by the speed with which the food near Toog vanished.

“I forgot to eat in all the …excitement of losing my rats,” Toog just explained and continued eating.

“Is that a euphemism?”

“No.”

“I see,” Arne lied just as the sound of footsteps and a shouting voice suddenly materialised outside in the street. The door was flung open and several people, weathered and shrouded as if they’d just come in from the desert, filed in, half dragging, half supporting a slender young woman in their midst.

Her skin was golden-brown like that seen on most elven people though a few shades lighter. Her clothes looked scavenged from several sources; a colourful, finely woven cape clearly made for a man was draped over her slender shoulders, she wore a short dress in dreary brown camel wool that seemed too big and he caught a glimpse of a pair of loose trousers of purple, loose fitting flax like a dancer might wear. Her short hair was a pale blond and looked like it had been cut by a drunk monkey unless the rather fiercely asymmetrical look was on purpose, which didn’t strike Arne as likely.

She was also clearly furious with her handlers and right amid letting them know her grievances. From the way she was held, he guessed her hands were bound, though in the shifting hubbub of the men dragging her, he wasn’t sure.

“…and when I get free of this, I’m coming straight for you and your people. I will murder every single one of you, man, woman and child dying in blinding agony, and then I will blast a hole into the earth where your city stood, so deep–“

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, girl! It’s been hours. Would you shut up!” one of the men in the group snapped. He pointed a finger at her, and she snarled at snapped at him. He only just saved his digit at the last second and, clearly exasperated, dragged the young woman to a bench and flung her down to sit.

“The last thing you will know is your entrails boiling while your family dies around you. You don’t really think this is my first time wiping out one of your little secret communes, do you, mage-pants?” the woman persisted.

“Know what,” the man said, straightening up and walking over to the table where Arne and Toog sat. Arne’s hand tightened on the knife he had drawn and kept concealed under the table, but the exasperated stranger just slammed a key down next to Toog’s food. “I did my duty. You let the Queen know.” He looked at Arne while pointing at the woman on the bench. “She’s your problem now. Careful, though. She bites.”

With this, he marched out, the remaining desert riders following close behind him. The door slammed and the newcomer let out an enraged scream and got to her feet. Panting she stood there, delicate frame quivering with rage. Then she turned her green eyes on Arne and then Toog and back again.

“Release me!” she demanded and held out her hands. They were covered in metal gloves locked together, and a chain reached from the gloves to her ankles, binding her to impede her movement.

Arne shrugged. “Not really my drama. And Desert Guy was right, you do look bitey.”

“Did you volunteer too?” Toog asked, only mildly interested. At no point had the spectacle around them impeded Toog’s continued eating.

“You! Free me. Now! I’m not a volunteer,” the newcomer demanded forcefully.

“I’m Toog. That’s Arnor–”

“I’m Arne,” he interrupted pointedly, sheathing the knife as he got to his feet. “Let me just be well-mannered and get you out of those chains, shall I?”

As he took the key from the table, he saw Toog give him a knowing little grin before turning their full attention back to the newcomer.

“What’s your name?” Toog asked.

“Dia!” she snapped. “Not that you need that for anything.”

Toog shrugged and went back to eating, watching them with mild interest.

“Don’t bite me,” Arne commented as he approached.

“Why the Hells not! You took your damned time about it,” the young woman snarled.

“Unlike him,” Arne nodded calmly towards the door where her captor had disappeared, “I bite back. And we only just met.” He took her metal-shrouded hands and turned them over so he could reach the keyhole. It was an unusual design and seemed ridiculously thorough for a rather slight young woman. “We are hardly ready to be that intimate yet.”

She rolled her eyes but relaxed her stance a little.

Soon, the key clicked in the lock and Arne held it out to her when she’d shrugged her hands free of their prison. She sent him a sour gaze, snatched the key from him and sat down to unlock the chain around her ankles as Arne retreated to the table. During this small interaction, he noticed, the serving woman and the tavernkeeper had left.

He quickly made it to the back door behind the bar. It was locked. He looked back and saw that Toog too had sprung into action with alarming speed and was busy behind the bar emptying a few coins out of the cash box and spitting out the stopper of a bottle of beer before downing it impressively quickly.

“I don’t suppose any of you are a queen. So, what is going on?” Dia asked, throwing the manacles and chain in a corner casually and crossing her arms.

The door to the tavern opened and an elderly man, dressed in a severe grey robe, stood there, eyebrow raised.

“Hm,” he mused under his breath, “not much to look at. Probably won’t last more than a day or two.” Then he stepped aside, holding the door open and gesturing impatiently for them to leave. “I’m here to take you to the Queen. Failure to keep up will be punished severely. The Queen must not be kept waiting.”

Dia rolled her eyes. Arne casually rested his hand on the hilt of his short sword. Toog burped loudly.