As far as small, intimate jails went meant for public drunkenness and petty thievery, the one Clarke found himself in for the first time in his life was not all bad. There were two long benches chained to the wall for sleeping and sitting, bars all across one side of the room with a door made of same and a single window that stared out onto the front of a clothing shop.
Clarke could hear the general grumblings from down the hall of the dozen and half again men nursing their fist inflicted wounds. Anyone with anything more serious had been taken to either a doctor or to see the White Sisters for their healing powers.
Clarke stood at the window, his eyes only coming up to the frame so everything he saw was the height of the average human head as he watched these floating craniums buy low cost clothing.
“What is your name?”
He didn't bother looking at her when he spoke. He didn't think he could bear it, having to thank her. Or not thank her, the idea kept rolling around his head from yes to no. She had been helpful but surely he could have found other ways to get by without her but her presence had made other, easier options possible.
She lay on her back on a bench.
“Gwendolyn Koffee. I go by Gwen.”
The apron made sense. If there was one thing dwarves loved to do it was name themselves after what they loved when they found it.
“Isn't your boss going to be mad you're in jail instead of selling bitter bean water?”
“Let me ask.”
Gwen sat up and folded her hands, facing her left.
“Hey boss, can I take some time off to beat up some people messing with my new friend?”
She turned the other way.
“No, friendship is important and you're my best worker! Take all the time you need.”
She leaned over to Clarke and whispered.
“Boss says it's cool, don't worry about it.”
The apron made even more sense now. Fist fighting and coffee.
“We're not friends. You're a crazy, ambitious thrill seeker and I'm your victim.”
She stood, slapping an arm around his shoulder and giving him a squeeze that brought his face further into stony anger territory.
“C'mon, this is how the best adventure stories start! Don't you read? A little misunderstanding, then they get into a fight where they watch each others backs-”
“Those are dramatizations for emotional manipulation because people like conflict. Most adventuring groups are built up of old friends or carefully interviewed professionals with specific skills and goals. You're just being pushy and annoying because you want me to write about you punching monsters. And you seem to have a serious when-all-you-have-is-a-hammer attitude that no sane adventurer should have.”
Her arm slipped, fingers loosening and falling from around his shoulder and Clarke thought he'd said too much, a slight lump of regret in his throat.
“Listen-”
“No, you listen. I came to you because my father talked about you a lot and about how great you are when he worked with you. So far, despite the benefit of the doubt, you just seem like an ungrateful, grumpy asshole. You probably don't even remember him.”
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“Of...of course I remem-”
“Clarke Script and Gwendolyn Koffee, c'mon out. You're free to go.”
The jailer worked the key in the lock and pulled the door, waving them down the corridor to the front office. She hurried out before him, stopping just to say one last thing without bothering to look at him.
“My father was never wrong so I'll give you another chance after you take some time to unpucker yourself. I gotta get back to work.”
She disappeared down the hallway and Clarke sighed.
Hod, Pen, your daughter...
He didn't like other people getting the last word and might have chased after her but his path was quickly blocked when he entered the front office.
“Hello.”
An elf blocking his way and beside him the captain of this particular guard station as well as Darius Sr. himself. Darius was all wolfish smiles and rubbing his hands together when he grabbed Clarke's hand for a vigorous shake.
“No hard feelings my boy, I realize my son was a bit on the cowardly, bumbling side anditwasnofaultofyourownhediedgoodbye.”
He spat as he talked, still shaking before turning on his heel and walking away, nearly dancing in excitement. Murderous rage to unbridled joy was an unusual progression of grief and Clarke imagined it had something to do with the elf who remained behind.
The commander handed him his book and jacket, which Clarke quickly put on. He fished into one of his pockets for his pen and gave a sigh of relief when the cap came into view before stuffed back into a pocket. That only left the elf staring at him, waiting for him to finish.
He was short for an elf, no taller than Clarke was at only 5'8”, and very old. He'd easily have to be in his late 40s or so with the deep lines on his face and the perfectly snow white beard, very neatly kept and trimmed. He was pale himself, though his hands had old scars that suggested a past in some rough line of work, small calluses fading with easy living except for a thick one on his writing hand.
“Mr. Script, I assume?”
“Yes?”
Clarke shook his offered hand.
“I'm Whilaway Weatherworn. I don't know if you've heard of me?”
He saw the name everywhere in the merchant district, always on the sides of discarded wooden boxes. There were a half dozen stacked in his house as shelves.
“The merchant king, right?”
Whilaway smiled, gesturing for them to head outside. Clarke took a deep breath.
Somehow they're right. Free air does smell better than jail air.
“Yes, some people call me that. I just like to do fair business and that brought people to me. I understand you have a nickname too.”
He didn't bother to say it but did pause to let it sink in as they started down the street.
“I saw you fighting in the street today.”
He held out his hand and a gentle blue glow illuminated his palm, geometric shapes forming and connecting into a mandala until a small image of Clarke appeared, replaying the events from earlier. Clarke's jaw almost dropped. He'd always loved magic but just didn't have the...no one was quite sure if it was physical, spiritual or mental but some people just couldn't do magic at all. Clarke had the shame of being among their ranks when as a child he'd wanted nothing but to throw fireballs and the like.
“That's incredible.”
“This? Just something I came up with. You'd be surprised how little magic is actually known in the world. One wizard makes a spell, keeps it to him or herself, dies or their research is lost. We start over. Wizards are extremely private, petty things.”
The video played through the sequence of the gate, the bull.
“On the surface, it was nothing special. You used debilitating attacks, delaying tactics, used your partner-”
The screen switched to them in the alley. The picture was fuzzy and small, as though taken from a high up angle.
“-and used my merchandise to escape. Everything to slow and escape, not to win. But taken all together with your history that I only learned of a few hours ago after this ruckus came to my attention, you have fallen into my lap at just the right time.”
Clarke nodded along, starting to piece together what was going on.
“You made some sort of trade deal with Darius.”
“Yes.”
“So I wouldn't be murdered and inconvenience you.”
“Also yes. And?”
“And you have a job for me. Something that's both dangerous, which is why you want someone who, for some reason or other, always comes back as well as someone who can write very well.”
“Yes.”
He flicked his hand and the recording disappeared.
“And if I say no, you're going to sic Darius on me.”
“No.”
He stopped and pulled a flask from his robe, taking a little drink more for taste than any real reason. He offered to Clarke who declined.
“What kind of businessman am I if I succeed through fear and intimidation? I did you a favor and maybe you'll want to do me a favor. A favor you'll be well paid for. And the way I understand it you're looking for someone, aren't you? Bog mentioned your mother disappeared a long time ago? I might be able to help if you're interested.”
Clarke translated 'if you're interested' to 'if you help me' quickly. Fourteen years and little to no leads. He'd been chasing the oh-so-specific trail of the men in black for a decade without a hint of success. Not a scar, tattoo, signifying feature, voice or anything to grasp at. Just the men in black on that dark night, a blur passing before his vision.
“I'm interested.”