Svorbald had arrived into Vermasse under thick rain. Off in the distance he’d spotted a well-dressed man being unceremoniously pushed and prodded into the city by a group of not-very well dressed men. Svorbald had watched it all in grim fascination.

The city itself was ugly. Far uglier than Svorbald had imagined. Even from outside the gates the smell wafted upon the air, cocooned in a cloud of noise that was impossible to escape.

It was foul. Everything about the city screamed it was a place of cruelty and harshness. In the distance the well-dressed man received a well-delivered punch to the gut before disappearing from view.

Svorbald chuckled. He might just like it here!

If only he could work out how to get in. There was a gate, like there had been in Fairmount. How had Genus managed to get past the guards again? Bribery? Svorbald frowned. All he had was the torc. He’d ate and drunk all his supplies on the first night. Lost his bedroll by the second. He had his boots, though they had holes and them. And more than a little mud.

Svorbald had no ideas. So he decided he’d just walk in. It was surprisingly easy. Nobody bothered to stop him. There were crowds of people passing to and from the city and Svorbald simply followed those going to rather than from. He found himself on the other side of the gate and inside the city before he knew it.

“Huh,” he muttered to himself as he stopped to gaze around. So this was a city, was it? Hells it stank.

Behind him someone bumped into Svorbald and swore. “Move you big oaf!”

Svorbald swung, but whoever had spoken was lost to the ever-moving line of people. No time for seeking out the bastard. He had a merchant to find and ale to drink. Now, what was the merchant’s name?

Someone brushed past him and Svorbald’s hand shot out. He took a handful of rough tunic and pulled the thin man close to him. “Do you know of any merchants?”

The man was shaking. “Merchants? N… no.”

“Who will?”

“I… I don’t know.”

Svorbald swore and pushed the man away. He tried the tactic again with an elderly woman, but she was even less help. How in Tenatun’s name was he going to find one man among all this lot? What did a merchant even look like? Did they have a uniform? Svorbald had no idea. The only people who had ever passed through his village with goods to sell were tinkers. And they didn’t have uniforms. Unless you counted the ridiculous moustaches they all wore. And that was just the women.

With no other options, he pushed on through the city, stopping people as he went. For the most part those he stopped were gruff and rude and Svorbald felt his anger rising.

He came to a large building that rang with noise and the smell of poor-quality meat. Atop the building a sign creaked slowly, Svorbald had no idea what it said, but he recognised the pictures sure enough! Just one mug won’t hurt, he decided, stepping inside.

The tavern was full of burly men, many of whom looked up as he entered. The door swung shut behind him, dousing what little light had leaked through into the room. Through poorly fitted shutters a few stubborn sunbeams penetrated the tavern, picking up the dust in the air. Otherwise, the entire thing was lit only by torches and the rather exceptional number of gold teeth that it seemed every other patron possessed.

Svorbald pushed through the tables and chairs, causing more than a few bearded faces to spit curses his way. He ignored them. At the bar, he was greeted by a man so rough looking he made the customers look like nobles.

“What?” Grunted the barkeep.

“Ale.”

The barman arched one eyebrow. “You’re not from ‘ere. You got coin?”

“No. But I will. Give me an ale now and I’ll pay you double later!”

The barman chuckled. “Is that so? And how are you gonna do that?”

“With this,” Svorbald declared, lifting his wrist to show the gold torc. “I’m gonna sell it! Got a buyer! Just can’t find him.”

For a moment the barkeep’s expression changed, and then it settled back into its dormant state of a greasy scowl. “We don’t take promises. Give me coin or get out.”

Svorbald clenched a mighty fist and was about to bring it crashing down on the tavern bar when a hand drooped over his shoulder. He turned his neck and found a tall, skinny, balding man there. “Now, now,” said the balding man. “There’s no cause for any rudeness! I’ll be happy to pay for the drink of my good friend—” the man’s mouth hung open expectantly. Svorbald only stared back.

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“What’s your name, friend?” The man urged.

“Svorbald,” Svorbald muttered. “Vor. Call me Vor.”

“My good friend, Vor! If he says he will pay you back, then I believe him! You’re not a liar, are you Vor?”

Svorbald shook his head. He was of course. He’d lied plenty of times. But admitting that would likely see him leave here with a dry mouth.

“See! There you have it. Get my friend here a mug of ale, on me.” The man flicked a copper coin through the air which the barkeep caught expertly.

“A jug!” Svorbald suggested.

The man hesitated. “I… right! Of course! A jug it is.” Another copper followed the first.

With his jug of ale in hand, Svorbald followed the stranger to a nearby table. He drank deep, burped, and then offered something that might be mistaken for a thanks, if you really stretched it enough.

“No thanks necessary! I’m Tarvin,”

“Svorbald. Vor.”

“Yes, you did already tell me that. What brings you to Vermasse, friend?”

“Ale,” grunted Svorbald.

“What else!” Tarvin declared, throwing up his hands. “And is it as good a you’d hoped?”

“It is.” Did he mean the city, or the ale? Didn’t much matter. Both were fine.

For a moment Tarvin looked sceptical. Then with a shrug, declared, “well then, let us get you another.” He clicked a finger and thumb. A moment later a serving girl was bring another jug to their table. It quickly went the way of the first and Svorbald found himself relaxing. What a place! A man could get used to this. He’d have one more jug, then he’d be ready to continue his search for the merchant. He told Tarvin as much.

“Quite. I think one more jug sounds a splendid idea.”

After some time, the sound of the room died away. Svorbald felt his head begin to swim and his eyes struggled to focus. “Probably… probably that’s enough now,” he mumbled, slamming the third empty jug onto the table.

“Well then, let’s get you on your way. Come, I will help you outside.”

Svorbald stumbled to his feet, his heavy boots kicked up straw from the ground. Tarvin’s arms wrapped around his and, together they were able to push their way through the crowds. Outside the sun was still shining. It hurt Svorbald’s eyes and he tripped, falling against a rain barrel.

“I’m just… just going to rest here a moment,” he told Tarvin.

But the man had already gone.

Svrobald wasn’t happy when he sobered up. Truthfully, he was rarely happy when he was sober, but now he had extra reason to be annoyed. His torc was gone. His head hurt and his damned torc was gone! He’d found one of his boots had been removed, and then tossed not too far away from where he lay. Which meant someone had tried to steal them and then changed their mind halfway through.

Fuckers.

He retrieved his boot, and staggered to his feet. Where the tits was he? The sound of banging made him turn. A wooden shutter flapped in the wind. Svorbald recognised the symbols of the fox and the blade and knew it to be the name of the tavern he had drunk at the night before. Slowly broken images of memory came back. A tall, bald man with an easy smile. He’d taken Svorbald’s torc. And the tavern keeper was probably in on it!

Fuckers.

Svorbald banged on the locked wooden doors. “Open up and I’ll rip your damn arms off!” He roared.

But nobody answered. He tried to hammer harder and, when that didn’t work, kicked out at the door. It barely moved. “Arse it!” Squeezing his temples between thumb and forefinger in a bid to make the headache go away, he spied a low wall. It took little effort to scramble over it, though when he landed on the other side he found himself face to face with a surprised looking young boy.

“Where’s the fat bastard?” Svorbald yelled.

“I… who?” The boy stuttered, taking a step back.

“Your boss. Whoever owns this place!”

“What the nine hells is all the noise?” The tavern keeper came storming through a backdoor, took one look at Svorbald, and spat, “what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Don’t you fucking fuck me you fat fuck! Where’s my torc?”

“What?” The innkeeper sounded unsure. “Your torc?” His eyes shot to Svrobald’s bear wrist.

“I don’t have it. I swear!” He threw up his hands as if to show Svorbald. He was a big man. Fat, but not as fat as Svorbald had remembered. Much of his bulk was just that - bulk. The look of a man who’d once been well-built, but had let himself enjoy life a little too much. The look of a man who still kept reasonably strong by hefting kegs of ale around for a living. None of that mattered to Svorbald, who was about ready to tear the entire building down.

“So where is it?” Svorbald growled, taking a step towards the tavern owner.

“You were drinking with Tarvin. He’s a known pick-pocket!”

Svorbald frowned. “And where can I find this Tarvin?”

“I don’t know wh—”

“You don’t want to go after him. He’s a name in Red-eye’s gang!” The young boy shouted before the bigger man could stop him.

“Foolish boy! Keep your mouth shut!” The innkeeper snarled, raising the back of his hand menacingly.

“Who is Red-eye?”

“Nobody, is who.”

“Tell me where I can find him or I’ll…” Svorbald hesitated. He’d never been great at coming up with offhand threats. “I’ll do something to hurt you!”

Not the best threat he’d ever given, but it did the job. The innkeeper hesitated, caught Svorbald’s eyes, and then looked away. “You can find him in the old town.”

“Right. Now what in Tenatun’s name is the old town?”

“It’s a place across the river,” the boy stumbled over his words. “All the gangs live there. Red-eye’s hideout is below the broken church. You can’t miss it. But they’ll kill you.”

“Tenatun’s tits Shava, be quiet!” The innkeeper roared. “If you go there, you won’t return. Shava is an idiot but he’s right. They’ll kill you and dump your body in the river.”

“We’ll see. You got any food? Ale?”

“We’re an inn. You got any coin?”

Svorbald narrowed his eyes and the innkeeper swallowed.

“On account of last night, and your inconvenience, I can probably spare some. Free, of course.”

“Good. I need to drink away this headache. Then I need to go find this Tarvin and give him one.”

“We only have rabbit.”

“You had mutton last night!”

“You’ll have rabbit and be grateful or I’ll serve you in my next stew! Man your size you will feed the city for a week!”

“Pasht man, fine. Rabbit it is.”

The rabbit was shit. Tough, sinewy, lean. Worse even than the rabbit Genus has cooked for him. Svorbald ate it anyway. He didn’t know much, but he knew a belly full of food was usually a good idea if you were setting off to hurt some folk.

And setting off to hurt some folk was just what Svorbald was going to do.