There were some similarities between the association’s way of working and the congregation’s. Both offered jobs, which required a collateral from the requester, and would pay upon completion of the job. The offers here, however, were nothing like the ordered and categorized postings that the former had. There were no categories, ranks, or any semblance of process. Anyone could pick up anything.
Of course, if you ended up picking a job that was above your pay grade, and if that job eventually got you killed, absolutely no one would care. Time would put everyone into place, and if time didn't, then death would. And there was no Ovile here, no affectionate lady with an overly protective behaviour that would care for me and stop me from doing stupid things. There was a woman behind the counter, yes, but if one had to judge by the sword hanging from her side and the polearm showing from behind her head, her role was more of a guardian. A guardian of all the Ink hidden behind the counter and used to pay completed jobs. A guardian that didn't care about showing aggressiveness if you poked your head a bit too much, and that didn't mind accelerating the process of sorting you to your place.
That said, there was an oddity. None of the offerings were about assassination. A few robberies here and there, wanted—alive—requests that could be counted with the fingers of one hand, and some minor offences. Now, I didn't believe that there were absolutely no requests for assassinations, as well as I didn't believe that they wouldn't be accepted. Rather, I was inclined to think that those jobs were only offered to trusted individuals. Possibly, because such requests no doubt required adequate pay, which meant customers of a certain degree; nobles even.
I soon came to understand that normal jobs, for the association's standard that is, were also in high demand here. Often, I saw postings for people asking to have something tattooed. They requested it down here for either of two reasons. One, they wanted to pay below the market price for a drawing and evade the association’s regulation. Or two, whatever they wanted tattooed was of dubious sources or was bordering on the illegal. Really, the median case was a combination of both reasons. Didn't want to pay much for something that was not even theirs to begin with.
Morally, it was wrong. I knew as much. I didn't need Spare or Yaasir to tell me as any of that. And had I had any choice, I'd like to think I would have never resorted to taking any of those jobs. But what we wish is often not what we have, and my situation wouldn't allow me to be so picky. I tattooed men and women in places that shouldn't be mentioned, whose conditions shouldn't be explained—or felt, for that matter.
However, those jobs were barely worth the Ink you spent in the drawing itself. It covered just enough to maintain my existing tattoos in a reasonable state, but as soon as I wanted to practice something, new or otherwise, I had to tap into my existing savings. Savings that were dwindling by the day, and that I had no one who could replenish for me.
That brings me to the day I decided to get rid of my own moral compass. Well, I already had when accepting to draw certain things, but more so. It was a tough decision, capturing someone alive, stealing an object, or fighting in some sort of espectacle. Per Yaasir’s recommendation, the last one was immediately out of the question; my ability was nowhere near what I would find there, and chances were that the very least I could expect was a beating. He left to my own imagination what the worst case would be. Not death, he said.
Now, between stealing and capturing alive, it was a surprisingly straightforward decision. A rat in the sewers learns how to survive, when to run, and where to hide. I was not a thieve by choice, necessity made me steal a few things here and there. Nothing big, nothing complicated, and certainly nothing remotely close to what the job was asking for.
I was cheated out of my own bounded ring. Those ### fooled me into a fraudulent cards game, they had rigged the deck! How else could they have drawn a perfect ascending constellation?
Your task is to recover my ring from those low-lives. What follows is a description of their leader, and where to find their outpost, as well as what my ring looks like.
Turns out the group I was looking for was a settled guild of thugs that operated on the sewers. A well known group at that. How or why someone would decide to play at anything with them was beyond my comprehension. But they did, and they lost something quite precious to them—if one went for the price they willing to pay. Five whole shots. Of course, they might not have lost it, and they just wanted it for a cheaper price. Probably the later.
Either way, I set out to spy on these group. I quickly discovered they were only four members, exactly as the description suggested, and that they mostly moved together. They had a stall in one of the lateral exits of the big conduct at the entrance, and that were they sold their merchandise. Only there did they separate, with one of the thugs taking the seller hat. The ring's life was quite simple. From a bag to the stall, and from the stall to the bag. Rinse and repeat every single day.
I had a plan, one that relied on my training to invoke Ink to have beared some fruits. And a small metallic object, which I obtained from Yaasir. My intention was simply to ask for the object, but there was still something I didn't get. He was a Ga'ar, which meant he knew the old ways. How did he learn that? How was he found out? So many questions were still open.
“Yaasir, you are a Ga’ar, right?” I decided to start with that. “How did you become one?”
“That's a fairly rude question to ask,” he gave me the stinky eye, “and one I will only answer because you are now my student. The title of Ga'ar you earn by being found out. My teacher was also a Ga’ar, one aligned with the Empire. He made sure I learned the ways, that I developed some unique ability that could be useful for the Empire. And, of course, he made sure I was properly tracked.”
He signalled for me to follow him.
“You saw my demonstration the day I accepted you. That's one part of it, the ability to invoke precisely what I want where I want, but that's something that everyone could learn, you don't have to be an Inker for it. However, how many weapons do you think I have tattooed on my body?”
“A few dozens?” I tried to play it safe, not too much, not too little.
“No, not quite,” he said clearly making fun of me. “I have none. Zero.”
“You have… none?” I repeated involuntarily. “But that demonstration, I saw you invoking them! How?”
“And that's as much as you will get. As I said, rude. You shouldn't peak into other people's secrets.”
And so I got my knife, a small weapon made entirely of metal, tilt included. It would serve my purposes for the mission,but it opened more questions than it resolved. Yaasir possessed no weapons, yet he was able to invoke and gift me a knife. Shaping reality, I guess? The more I knew about Ga'ars, the more my foundations on Ink were broken and proven wrong.
What would my unique ability as Ga'ar be? I daydreamed about perfectly drawing objects without tools, something that was possible for anyone but deemed too inefficient and constrained. I though of formations, becoming a sage who knew all of them. Of creations that were never imagined before. I thought so much that I failed to see the cage that would stop my flight. I failed too see that my dreams would be cut short. That Ga'ar was not what I was meant to be.
It was surprisingly hard to achieve a state where my plan could be successfully carried out. What I thought would be a single day of practice during the afternoon, after my training sessions with Yaasir, turned into two almost sleepless nights and three whole days until. I was genuinely worried that they would sell the ring before I could even attempt to steal it, so the 4th day I promptly hurried over, skipping any training for the day.
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I set out early, which allowed me to intercept them on their route to their stall. From the distance, that is. I followed their trace until they separated, leaving the ring only guarded by the single person who had to take care of the stall. But that wasn't enough, I needed the viaduct to be filled with people to be able to execute my plan. The escape route of my plan, to be precise. So I waited until peak hour, and only then began.
“Good day sir!” I approached the stall and talked as naturally as I could.
A mean look and a grunt after, I was browsing through the goods being offered by that man. I had no interest in them, which might be why I remember none of what was exhibited. The thug, wearing his seller hat, didn't take his eye out of me. It was time for the second part of my plan.
I briefly closed my eyes. Concentration was crucial. I had been practicing for this exact moment. Slowly, I imagined the small blade materialising. The hard part, though, was making it appear far from me. Specifically, that it was materialising right behind the scarred head. The few seconds it took do not merit the effort, the sweat falling from my forefront.
But the effort was rewarded. It completed and began a free fall to the ground. The blade struck the uneven floor, startling the man and forcing a jumpscare out of him. Now! He turned and I rapidly extended my arm, took the ring, and ran into the crowd.
I couldn't care less about the ring at that moment. All that mattered was Ink, that I had succeeded in invoking it far from me. I only managed thanks to the object being tiny, yet I couldn't help it to be exuding happiness. I ran to the shady stall, were I handed the ring—no questions asked whatsoever—and obtained my payment.
While I wasn't particularly interested in working, I had to admit that Spare had been right. I needed practice, and this kinds of jobs and missions were the perfect place. Thus, I head out to find my next target, already trying to imagine what new technique I would try.
But I became paralyzed in front of the board. My mouth hung open, unhinged. My arms must have been shaking from the sheet pressure of tightening my punches. I was surrounded by noise, cheers, and alcohol, yet to me it seemed as if I was drawing underwater.
“It can't be…” The phrase escaped my mouth, a low whisper that absolutely no one but me heard.
It was a clean piece of paper. Whiter than anything down in the sewers had the right to be. That alone was suspicious. Then, you could add on top of it all the fact that, every single letter, was written with Ink. Bad quality Ink, but Ink nonetheless. Worse even was the stamp on the bottom right; the sigil of the Baril. That wasn't in Ink, which might seem suspicious unless you thought they, somehow, wanted to avoid any blame. But I knew it was them:
We are looking for Spare, former Inker of the Baril, charged with breaking the Empire Laws and escaping authority. Tall, bald, long beard, expert Ga’ar. Dead or alive.
I paled. It took real effort to keep reading those lines, and even more so to control my shivering body.
He is accompanied by a young boy, around 14 years old, probably. He is a priority target, to be captured alive by all means necessary.
Bring them to the south-east bridge any night between 23 and 01 midnight.
My lungs seized under a sudden pressure on my chest. Clearly, they wanted me, and if that meant going over Spare's body, they didn't care at all. They wanted me. No. They wanted the red blood Ink on my ankle. The only reason to keep me alive, I supposed, was to prevent the hypothetical scenario were the bounty hunters found the Inkpot.
Shock gave way to anger, and anger to worry. What if Spare had been taken already? What if he was dead? I could stop my mind from asking the darkest questions. Nor could I stop my young self from ripping that note out of the board, and rushing to the counter.
“This. How long has it been up for?” Last time I went there was 5 days ago to take a job.
“Three whole days,” the woman answered without barely looking at me.
“I want to take it.” Only then did I look at the payment, which was a whopping five Inkpots of high end Ink.
“*Hum,*” the woman took a glance at me and then at the note, “sure, whatever.” She took a notebook, opened it on some bookmark, and quickly lift her eyes back to me. “Ah, the reward has gone down to a single Inkpot.”
“What?” Maybe it was the nonchalantly in her answer, combined with her I don’t care attitude, but I didn't feel like being polite.
“Apparently the Ga’ar is already captured, so they already paid a big chunk of it.” She shrugged, and I couldn't hold it anymore.
I smashed my punch against the counter, and turned in a rush just to sprint down the conduct. Tears were falling from my eyes, leaving a trail behind me as I ran aimlessly, trying to find Yassir in this underground maze. They have him. They have him. They have him. My thoughts were stuck, playing on repeat the same one phrase. All I could think is that he was in an unknown state, and that I had failed him.
I took more than an hour to find Yaasir. More than an hour where my face only got into a worse state. During which my mind never stopped. I was a mess when I found him. And, even in the blur that was my mind, I didn't fail to notice it. I threw a punch towards his face, one that I knew would never come close to touching him, yet that somehow did.
“You knew!” The shout came from deep my soul. It was a cry of desperation and helplessness.
“Tarar, y-”
“Why! If you knew they had Spare, why didn't you tell me!?”
“What would you do? Do you want to just hand yourself over? Spare knew what he was getting into.” He remained cool, logical even.
“I'll just go there and die if I have to!” But I did not.
“Both Spare and I knew it might come to this. He knew the day would come were the Baril would put a price on his head. And they did.” He said each word deliberately slow. “And he asked me to watch over you when that happened.”
“Then if you care about Spare, if you care your promise, help me free him.”
I saw the answer on his body before he even got to say it. I felt my spirit being crushed, any hope erased.
“I can't.”
“You. can't.” I slowly repeated, almost like it was a threat. “I've seen you fight. I know of your achievements. And you say you can't?” My voice was raising, as was my already haggard pulse.
“Do you think I would be here otherwise?” That, finally, made me stop and breath for a moment. “He was also my student at some point. Perhaps not the best with weapons, but certainly the brightest. I don't want to lose him as much as you don't want to.”
“Then, why? Is that formation on your arm?”
“Yes, in part. The Empire wouldn't let me get involved, but not for the reasons you think. Me helping would mean the Empire positioning against Baril, one of the noble houses. If that happened… we’d have a internal war like we have ever seen.”
“I-but still?” I should have understood that he was right. That one life, even if was Spare's, it would not justify the blood of many other innocents. “Spare will die…”
“Yes.”
My eyes were, once more, overflowing with water. But I wasn’t alone. Yaasir had broken down, I could not see his usual half-drunken face, just the desolate look of a father who had lost a child.
“Maybe Horas?” I asked expecting to be turned down.
“Horas was also my student…” Yaasir revealed out of the blue. “And he considers me a traitor, maybe rightly so. I failed him, and even if he wasn’t a Ga’ar with ties to the Empire, he wouldn't have helped.”
I fell silent, realizing that no matter which twist I tried to make, which fix I tried to come up with, I wouldn't find any. They wouldn't help me, because they couldn't help me. If they moved even one finger, I am sure the whole Empire would be upon us way before we reached the Baril.
“But I don't have ties to the Empire.” I declared.
And it really was a declaration. What I meant was not only the obvious meaning in those words, I was also saying that I was intending to go there. That if Spare died, I would do so with him.
“Tarar,” I could see Yaasir was as serious as the day he took me under him. “What do you think will happen? Your training is far from complete. Your knowledge lacking in many places. If you let your feelings stir your way, you will only find an early grave.”
He locked his eyes on mine, and continued.
“You have a promising future ahead. Your ability to commune from so young and with so little practice is unheard of. You have genuine talent that only one in every thousand generations have. Train. Study. Prepare. And then, only then, get your revenge.”
“I can't do that. He is the only reason that this talent that you speak of even exists. I have to go.”
I turned, not wanting to let Spare suffer for even one more second than strictly necessary. Not if I could make it fast.
“If you go,” Yaasir said in a tone that, far from threatening, was filled with sadness, “I won't be able to help you. Not even to witness your death.”
“I know,” I said. Because I really did.
Alone, with no backing and no exits, I set out to my own death.