Tallah made a spectacle out of the shopping trip into the Agora. May as well, if the Guard were set on watching them.

Dressed in a richly-embroidered winter dress, with a deep-black fur overcoat ripped off some poor Nen-bred corallin, she left the hotel hanging onto Vergil’s arm as if they were out on a grand date. Sil followed just two steps back, dressed modestly as befit the live-in personal healer to the gaudy sorceress.

She needed to drag Vergil. There was something wrong with his legs, considering how he kept staggering and freezing in place.

“Walk straight, boy,” she ordered. “Sil, why’s he stumbling all the time?”

A soft wind blowing in from the mountains brought with it the smell of charcoal and burnt stone, of alchemical setters and freshly mixed paints. The sounds of construction echoed in the chill evening. Snow and cold would not deter the Enginarium from pushing forward with the work that had been commissioned to them by both the Empire and Valen’s Council. So much of the city burnt husk was being torn down and built anew that Tallah wondered how much of it she’d even recognise once the work was done.

I can only mourn what we have done here, Christina sighed in her ear. That unmistakable smell of smoke always brought to both of them the echoes of screams.

Tallah grit her teeth and pushed the ghost’s guilt back. She sunk into Tianna’s persona and allowed herself to be what her father once had wished she were.

It wasn’t even third bell of the evening by the time they approached the Agora’s large plaza and the crowds were already thick and still swelling. Lanterns had been lit on high poles. They illuminated rich snow-laden stalls, all selling nick-knacks and supplies for the upcoming Festival. Music slithered above the din, sweet and soft, festive. Some string-band played drunkenly under a tent, ignorant of the cold.

After the third jab to the ribs, Vergil did as instructed and straightened up. Tallah barely had to twist his arm to get him to walk properly as she took to the role of gaudy imbecile excited by a new toy.

She laughed and cuddled up to him, talking much too loudly about small things. The weather was so beautiful this time of year here in Valen. So many people. She wished they’d be done already with the ungodly noise. Oh, that armour smith looked glorious. Let’s check that place out.

Tallah could almost hear Sil, behind them, trying to melt into the flagstones out of embarrassment.

“Oh, Vergil, dear, look at all this… tosh,” she said, loudly, as they walked into the first armour shop. “Pity, the outside façade promised so much more.”

“Uh, ma’am, what might we interest you in?” The vendor, an aelir, hurried over to their side just as Tallah turned to leave. “I can assure you we can satisfy even the most eccentric needs.”

Tallah turned and feigned an interested smile.

“Oh, do tell. My father always spoke highly of Valen’s artisans.” She pursed her lips as she took another critical look around. “Then again, he is very old.”

“A-are you looking for yourself, ma’am, or—“

“Goodness, no,” she interrupted and beamed a smile at Vergil. He blushed furiously. “My dear Vergil needs the best armour for when we decide on going on another dangerous Guild mission. We can’t accept just any ol’ piece of rust-eaten farmer’s iron.”

To her credit, the aelir took everything in stride, though her smile started fraying at the edges.

“Of course, ma’am. Uh, sir, please step on the podium and we’ll have you fitted in just a moment.” An aide had come from a back-room, measuring tape in hand.

Tallah latched on to Vergil’s arm and drew close to him, making sure that the coin pouch at her hip jingled expensively.

“I just don’t believe it’s worth wasting our time here. Do you have anything actually good aside from this tosh upfront?”

“If— uh, if it’s your pleasure ma’am, please have a closer look—”

Tallah turned around and dragged Vergil out past a red-faced Sil that had become extremely interested in the carpet’s patterns. She left the seller talking, her voice petering out along with the jingle of the door bell.

“I think I’ll drop dead if I feel any more sympathetic embarrassment for whoever’s caught in your path,” Sil said after she made her apologies to the flabbergasted vendor. “Is all of this necessary?”

Tallah cackled.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“There’s four more to go,” she said, infinitely pleased with herself. “Which one do I humiliate next?”

“I’m going to go find me some alchemical compounds. You can do this whole thing on your own. Meet me after.”

People gathered around them, pushing them closer together. The evening had grown dense. The press of bodies was nearly overwhelming as they tried to go their separate ways.

“Our friends are back and watching us,” Sil whispered by her ear. “On your right, edge of the plaza, between the bakeries.”

“Watched, not followed. I know. Saw him.”

“We are watching him back,” Christina said. Her voice manifested as an undertone to Tallah’s.

The crowd carried Sil away and Tallah was left alone with Vergil.

She was almost certain he whimpered when the healer disappeared from sight. One of her best glares got him straightening up better than a hot poker up his arse.

They perused the wares of no less than four other smiths in the Grand Agora, with her doing all the talking. She had demeaned every single armour piece that the store clerks had dutifully presented to them and had them storming out of each establishment. Let whoever watched try and make some semblance of coherence from that.

The Grand Agora radiated out from a central plaza in an almost organised set of small streets and alleys, with shops packet tightly together and bright sprite-lit signs vying for the shoppers’ attention. In fairer weather, the central plaza contained stalls selling fresh produce, meats on ice or condiments but, in Winter, the city’s council converted it into an open-air skating rink. It, just like the alleys around, was packed with people.

“This looks like a place that may sell some high-quality armour, dear,” Tallah chirped as she and Vergil stopped in front of Merg’s. She’d been carefully manoeuvring through the crowd that they should have disappeared from their watcher’s sight at least two stores back. Still, it was worth keeping up appearances. Just in case.

Despite her loud announcement, the shop wasn’t much to behold. It occupied a small, misshapen building just beyond the mouth of one side alley, away from the centre of the Agora, and had a small anvil and hammer statue outside. In white paint and deformed handwriting the name Merg’s was plastered above the door almost as an afterthought.

“Seriously?” Vergil asked in a small voice.

Tallah dragged him inside.

Merg’s storefront was a workshop rather than a store, with blacksmith tools strewn about and only a small selection of armour and weapons on display. There were no prices shown on any piece of armour, the light inside was poor, and the chilled room smelled of armour oil and various other chemicals that left a tang on the air. There wasn’t even a little bell above the door to announce a patron walking in.

“Mertle.” Tallah called out as there was no one to greet them up front.

No one replied.

“Mertle!”

Still no answer.

She motioned Vergil to get up on the raised platform by the sole grime-encrusted window when a rustle stirred in the back room. A crash followed, and then the sound of many metal pieces tumbling loudly to the floor.

“By my pledge to the Frozen Hands,” a gruff voice swore in the back. “I’ll be right out. Mertle, one of these days all of these are going to come down on your own head. Clean them up. Please.”

Thuds, crashing, more metal tumbling. The whole building shook for a moment.

After a few moments of silence the door to the backroom swung open and a giant walked out. He had to bend to get through the doorway and the top of his head brushed against the ceiling when he straightened.

Vergil openly gaped at the sight. Tummy had that effect on people meeting him for the first time. His raven black beard and hair were both unkempt and slightly smoking. He wore a charcoal stained brown apron and black tanned trousers, with nothing else. A thick jaw and a small crooked nose that had been smashed once too often completed his savage look.

“What can I help you with?” His voice boomed in the small room as he offered them a poorly practised crooked grin. Vergil still gaped like a cretin.

“Your best armour. And your best leather worker, please,” Tallah replied.

He looked down at her and squinted, seeming to just now notice his clients weren’t as big as himself. A massive brick-like hand dug into one of the many pockets of his apron and he produced a pair of almost comically small round spectacles with a leather strap. He fastened them over his head and took a better look at them. A bellowing laugh erupted from his chest.

“Mertle!” He turned around and knocked loudly on the door, prompting more clanking metal beyond. “Get out here. Our kooky friend is back.”

“I’m busy. Which kooky friend?” a shrill female voice shouted back.

“The one with the leather fetish.”

“Which one?”

“Come out and see.” The big man turned back to them and spoke in a lower, pleasant voice. “She’ll be with you in a bit.”

“Actually, I have business with you too, Tummy,” Tallah said, beckoning him forward.

“Oh?” Tummy’s brow creased and he walked across the room, his great big steps dislodging dust from the ceiling. “Are you finally getting some proper protection on that skinny arse of yours?”

Tallah laughed.

“No. I’m still very much a leather fetishist. But you can help me by dressing up the boy here.” She pointed with her thumb at Vergil. “Sit up straight, boy.” The command was like a whip, both in tone and effect.

“Twitchy little thing,” Tummy commented, rounding on the boy. He offered him his outstretched meaty hand. “Name’s Tummy Toh’Uhm. And who might you be?”