Ever since he had regained his legs, Art had walked himself straight from one disaster to another. He was beginning to think his new legs were cursed and that it might have been better if he had never regrown them. Considering the mysterious nature of the Gifts the Son had used to regenerate his legs, Art began to suspect something foul was in the air. The fact that he had inexplicably been incapacitated around the time Alaric’s mother died convinced him that he shouldn’t have looked that gift horse in the mouth.

Art was thankful for the begrudging hospitality provided by Valoricus. He could hardly blame Valoricus for his reluctance to host him. The man was in mourning, after all. For all they knew, Valoricus had not only lost his wife but likely his only son in the same week. Art knew it was best to stay low and keep to himself, or he could easily find himself on the receiving end of the wrath of a man who had lost his entire family. It was unfortunate, then, that the path to the main latrine of the house was crawling with very important-looking men wearing togas. Art really needed to find a place to relieve himself – a greasy, odorous one that he knew would be the envy of livestock everywhere.

If only he knew of another latrine that wasn’t so close to the group of loud old men.

Art peeped his head out of the guest room where he had been sequestered since arriving at the manor. He had managed to keep to himself fairly well, all things considered, and kept his head down. Knowing the alternative was being cast back into the streets where the guards of a psychotic magistrate might spot him and bring him back in for round two of whatever evil plans the man had for him, Art had no issue with staying quiet – even though it was well outside his character.

Since his arrival, the lord of the place had occupied himself with other things, so Art figured that as long as he made himself scarce, his chances of staying out of danger were much greater than if he made his presence known. Valoricus would hopefully be too busy with funeral arrangements and secret meetings to bother himself with throwing Art out. It was a nice place. The open-air courtyard in the middle made it more likely that the impending smells would be carried off with the wind.

Art overheard one man raise his voice in apparent frustration, but he couldn’t catch what he was so worked up about, and honestly, Art didn’t care. Whatever they were discussing was clearly not as pressing as the matters to which Art needed to attend.

Think, Art, think.

There was no way he could reach the latrine without walking right by the group of men, so Art tried to think of his options. He spotted a large urn and, for one brief second, considered dragging it into the room and unloading into it.

No, they will surely sniff it out.

He thought about sneaking out a window and finding a spot by the horses to mask the smell, but a stable boy would certainly not be happy to see him do it. Besides, Art had determined never to lower himself to squatting in public again, now that he had been touched by godly hands and made whole again. He needed a proper latrine to maintain this new standard of life. He was above squatting in the streets now.

That’s it.

Art thought about how Valoricus must feel about himself, being of high pedigree and fancying himself an important player in the City’s leadership. There was no way that man would share a latrine with guests – he would surely have one all for himself somewhere private where no one could disturb him during his very important business. Since the master of the house was preoccupied, now might be the only opportunity Art would have to seek it out.

It will be a fast one, I know it. I’ll be in and out, like a cat at a fishmonger’s stall. He’ll never be any the wiser.

Making sure that everybody’s eyes were upon each other, Art slipped away, down the corridor toward the master’s quarters. He passed a slave girl along the way, but she was too busy tending to the flowers in the garden. Under normal circumstances, he would have tried to get her attention, as she was pretty good-looking with the exception of eyebrows that were a bit too bushy. But these were no normal circumstances, and he needed to avoid detection if he was to pull off this great act of deception.

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Just as he thought he had managed to sneak by, his sandal hit the stone floor a little too hard, and the lass turned toward the noise. Art played it off the best he could, knowing that if she detected any hint of what he was truly about, she would likely rat him out. Worse yet, if she knew what he was about to do, or, Namer forbid, happened to smell it, she would never look at him the same way again. Of course, they had never spoken, but Art didn’t want to lose that opportunity.

He locked eyes with her, smiling and waving sheepishly with one hand. She looked at Art with suspicion, then turned toward the group surrounding Valoricus and then back at Art.

“Why are you sneaking around all suspicious-like?” she whispered. Art exaggerated his surprise and responded low. “What? Me? I’m not acting suspicious. I just needed to stretch my legs a bit and didn’t want to bother the guests. Sorry to bother you.”

She brought her garden knife back to the plant in front of her and continued to prune it, still watching him with distrust. Art almost whistled to seem more inconspicuous, but stopped himself as that would surely bring the wrong kind of attention. Instead, he pretended to adjust and stretch his jaw, making himself yawn in the process. On the outside, he felt cool as a cucumber. Inside, however, his guts were launching a crusade against demonic forces of their own. There wasn’t much time before the flood of demons arrived.

He clenched his cheeks together and tried to play it cool as he walked away, not going directly for the master’s quarters, but rounding a corner instead. Once he struck a balance between waiting to ensure she was no longer watching and running as fast as his new feet could carry him into the chamber, he tiptoed back where he had just been and slipped, he hoped, silently and undetected into the lord’s bedroom.

Sure enough, there was a private latrine connected to the master’s chamber, built right into the room. Art spearheaded himself into the fanciest crapping place he had ever laid eyes on, ripping off his pants and reaching his deliverance at long last. The seat was made of marble – marble! An artisan had actually taken the time to chisel expensive marble into the shape of a latrine seat, and someone had actually purchased such a ridiculously decadent thing. Art almost felt bad about what he had to do in it.

It came almost instantly, so fast that Art was amazed he didn’t soil his breeches on the way. “Thank the Namer for that,” he thought, and then his gut gave him another go, this time producing a comically fun sound to go along with it. Along with the sweat and the smell, Art was granted a great boon of relief as the battlefield of his bowels was at last put to the history books.

He was quite proud of himself, if he had to admit it. So much so that when the door opened suddenly, he had a big cheeky smile on his face. It was undone immediately, as he feared that the nice little slave girl would never be able to look at him the same way again. But it wasn’t the slave girl who opened the door.

Valoricus stared at Art in shock. Art understood what that look meant. He had given it himself to other vagrants on the street when he awoke to find them rummaging through his personal belongings. It must have felt like an incredible intrusion of the master’s privacy, and Art knew it without Valoricus saying a word.

“Sorry, sorry,” Art said hastily, terrified. “I didn’t want to interrupt your meeting, so I-“

“You went into my chamber without permission!”

“I’d have asked for permission if I-“

“The whole room will have to be thoroughly scrubbed to get this menacing stench out of it.”

“I- yes, sir, I am truly sorry, it’s just that-” His bowels gave another, involuntary push to clear the remaining sewage.

“I don’t care! Get out! Get out at once, I don’t even want to look at you!”

Art didn’t know whether he meant out of the room or out of the whole house. He decided not to have him clarify, as he didn’t want to give the master any ideas. Art barely had any time to apply the wiping thing to his bum before he had to yank on his pants and rush out of the room.

He heard Valoricus growl loudly in anger and disgust as he left. On the way out, he spotted the slave girl, whose hand covered her mouth and nose as he passed her. She looked like she wanted to throw up, and Art knew it would take a lot of sweet words to balance out that first impression – if he ever got the opportunity to do so. For now, he was destined back to his containment in the guest room for summary judgment and, perhaps, execution.

You’ve really done it now, Art. You dumb bastard.

Art waited for an eternity in the room, knowing full well that nothing good awaited him. When at last the time came for his punishment, it came in a form that Art was not expecting. Valoricus stood at the door and stared at him.

“Again, I’m sorry about that, truly I am, it’s just that-“

“Enough,” said Valoricus, stoically. If he was still angry with Art, Valoricus had either let it go or had let it fester past recognition. It turned out to be the latter.

“It’s time that you are put to use.”

“Yes, anything at all. I’ll scrub the whole room, just as you said. Top to bottom, not a problem.”

“No,” Valoricus said sternly. “What you will be doing concerns the safety and security of this City. You may even be the savior of us all.”

Art didn’t like the sound of that. He could smell conspiracy from an even greater distance than the slave girl could smell his shame.

“I suppose you’re going to say that I don’t have a choice.”

Valoricus simply stared at him, eyes speaking volumes.