I was rudely woken by the persistent knocking on my door. Stumbling out of bed, I could hear my landlord's nasal whine.

"Wake up, Eleran. I want my rent and I want it today".

I didn't bother opening the door, and eventually, he got tired and went away. I was only a week late on my rent. He would have been shocked if I had paid; it was against the code of struggling artists. Not that my studio was worth paying for. The house's second floor was a fragile wooden structure that swayed in a strong breeze. The floor was rough stone, and the ceiling was considerate enough to avoid touching my head. However, wearing a top hat wouldn't be possible. The one large room had a bed, which I used, and many easels, brushes, and other tools of an artist's trade, which I didn't bother touching. Pretending to be a struggling artist didn't mean I had to struggle or, for that matter, actually be an artist. In addition, the far end of the room had a partition with a small washroom. I had a boy bring up water once every few days in winter and every alternate day in summer. The wastewater would drain out to the open sewer that bordered the house. Talk about a room with a view, but at least the rents were lower than other similar studios in the arts district. Proximity to the sewer meant that there was no need to empty my chamber pot in the street as many others had a habit of doing.

Anyway, now that I was awake, there wasn't much of a point hanging around in my room. I washed, then pulled on thick trousers of coarse black cotton. A black coat over a cream shirt, and I was nearly ready. The socks smelt fresh enough, so I dusted them off before putting them on. My shoes were leather, almost knee-high, and a dark brown verging on black. For some strange reason, artists had adopted black as their color, and I always found it ironic that I, who wore more common colors by night, wore black by day. My clothes were tighter than I preferred, but that was the current fashion trend. Since I wasn't really an artist, it was even more critical for me to look like one. But it was a perfect cover for my rather more remunerative nightly activities. I was expected to maintain odd hours; sleep late, wake up at noon, stagger back to my room whenever I wanted, etcetera. I could keep strange company or be a loner if I preferred. To top it all off, I could be as rude to people as I wanted to be, and no one would think anything amiss.

However, there were some downsides to pretending to be a struggling artist. I had to live in the arts district, which was at one end of the city, the southeast. I would have preferred living somewhere a little more centrally located. Another issue was that I already had acquired more wealth than any struggling artist had any right to. Splurging would have raised eyebrows, and I wasn't comfortable hiding all my hard-earned money in my studio. There are thieves out there, you know. I'd have to figure out something.

I stepped out into the street, and the sun was nearly overhead. As usually happened after a nightly excursion, I was feeling peckish. A street food vendor with a pushcart attracted my attention. He stopped, and I gazed suspiciously at his selection. The meat on skewers looked fresh, but it could have come from any animal and possibly many animals. I gave it a pass and stuck to a bread roll; not great, but it took the edge off my hunger. I strode with no real destination in mind. The night's events now seemed more like a dream than anything tangible. Indeed I had been unnecessarily on edge, and the encounter with the thieves' guild, whichever one it had been, had compounded the problem. I wasn't too worried about any repercussions for causing a guild member's death as there was nothing to point toward me. I would have to keep a low profile until the guilds returned to their usual uneasy truce.

I was deep in my thoughts when I heard someone call out my name. "Eleran, wait up," gasped a stocky figure dressed in black. It was Deryk, an aspiring artist who thought we were friends. Like me, Deryk pretended to be poor, but once while drinking, he'd told me that he was from a noble family with a minor title but extensive business interests. But for some reason, he thought he could discover his inner artist here, among other artists. Deryk was of average height, with a round face on a round body and an earnest expression. The goatee he was cultivating didn't suit him. Shameful, the lengths someone would go to look more like an artist. But he was a nice enough guy, and I could tolerate his presence.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

"Let's grab some grub. I'm starved," said Deryk steering me in the general direction of Ishaan's Tavern. This was a regular hangout for struggling artists. The food was filling (and cheap) though the ale was watered down. Ishaan, the owner, was a failed artist who still wore black and was rather moody. He'd once refused to serve a customer, claiming that the man didn't have an artistic soul. His tavern did well and would open around noon and stay open till late. When we entered, only one other table was occupied. Two girls, rather pretty, were engaged in a rather technical discussion regarding oils and solvents. Heaven forbid they could well be genuine artists. I picked a table that coincidentally allowed me to keep an eye on the girls while Deryk went across to chat with Ishaan. No doubt discussing what could be had for breakfast. Breakfast, when it eventually came, was good. Sausages, scrambled eggs, and brown bread with salty butter. A mug of ale washed it all down. We didn't have to pay since we had a tab running with Ishaan, who knew we were a better credit risk than most of his other clients.

"Don't recognize those two," I told Deryk, nodding in the general direction of the two girls sitting at a nearby table.

"Yeah, the crowd is changing. Many new kids are coming in. I can hardly recognize a face these days," said Deryk. Both Deryk and I had spent quite a few years in the district and were almost old-timers compared to most other artists here. Every month, we'd find some new faces at Ishaan's, and some of the familiar faces wouldn't be around. A rare few actually tasted some success, but most would go back to their families (if wealthy) or look for alternate careers.

Deryk and I were engaged in some idle chit-chat when Ishaan came to our table.

"Have you guys seen Shara? It's been a few weeks since she's come in here," asked Ishaan.

Deryk and I both shook our heads. Shara was a cheerful, twenty-something brunette who'd made a reputation as a gifted furniture designer. She was one of the few artists in the district who was doing well financially. I'd met her a month back, and she seemed to have her hands full with fresh orders.

"Perhaps she's left the district for greener pastures," said Deryk. I nodded. One of the first things a successful artist would do was move into the inner city.

"It's possible, I guess. But Shara's got a tab running here that she hasn't cleared," said Ishaan, frowning.

Deryk and I remained silent while Ishaan went back to his work. Shara wasn't the type not to settle her bills, so it wasn't likely that she'd left the district. I thought she'd fallen ill or something, dismissing the matter. Deryk, who is a bit more conscientious, suggested that we could go across and check on her. I shrugged; it wasn't as if I had a lot of stuff to do.

We waved to Ishaan, and I looked over at the girls, but they weren't paying us any attention. Such is life. Deryk continued chatting about something random as we walked across to Shara's house. It was on the outer edge of the district, near the city walls. Rentals were much higher here as city building rules didn't permit any construction within thirty yards of the walls on the inner side. Houses here were a bit larger and had a more solid feel. Shara stayed on the second floor of a sturdy-looking house. I'd dropped Shara at her place but hadn't been inside.

We went up the stairs, Deryk leading the way. The door was locked, and I had a feeling that it'd been locked a while.

"Door's locked," said Deryk rather unnecessarily.

"Perhaps we can ask the landlord if he has a key or knows where she is," I stated.

"She owns the place. Bought it last month," said Deryk, shaking his head. I looked quizzically at him. Deryk obviously had spent some time with her.

We checked with the neighbors, but no one had seen her recently or had any idea where she could be. I could have easily opened the lock but didn't want to do that in front of Deryk. Eventually, we headed back to Ishaan's tavern and spent the rest of the afternoon there, nursing a few ales. I then returned to my studio and slept for a few hours, as was often my habit. Unfortunately, my sleep was disturbed, and I kept tossing and turning. The temple job, followed by the encounter with one of the guilds, was enough to worry anyone. Still, I had a feeling that more had changed than was readily apparent.