“Captain Gideon, with all due respect, as a citizen my whole life of Aton-Ri, might I offer my thoughts?” With an affirming nod from Gideon, Thatcher sighed with relief and continued. “The Shamrock is one of the finest inns in the city, but it has more ears than a cornfield.”
Goldain laughed out loud at the remark, and Thatcher was sure he even heard a restrained peep from behind Melizar’s hood. He hoped this was due to the humor of his analogy and not his challenge of authority.
“I believe,” the youth continued, “we have matters to discuss that require an environment with greater security.” As he said this, he shot a quick glance at Melizar who subtly nodded agreement. “If we want a place where we not only can speak in safety but where we might also conduct our own informal inquiries of caravaneers arriving from the west, might I suggest my friend Mok’s tavern, the Iron Cur, as an alternative?”
Goldain brightened visibly. “An inn is good when one is hungry, but a tavern is a better place for thirsty warriors to spend idle hours.”
“Aye, lads,” Duncan nodded in enthusiastic agreement. “Ale is just the recipe to loosen tongues and close ears. I say we trust the lad’s instincts and let him lead the way.”
Doubtless, these two had motives far afield from secrecy and respecting Thatcher’s counsel, but he was grateful for their support, and Captain Gideon agreed. They all followed Thatcher out of the council hall and southward through the winding streets of Aton-Ri.
Thatcher observed Gideon glancing ever more intently about as they proceeded. One could not help but notice the neighborhoods getting rougher and less secure-looking the further south and west they went. While Thatcher knew his humble attire looked quite natural in the rapidly deteriorating environment, the finery and aristocratic garb of the rest of the group stood out more dramatically as their surroundings continued to change. Duncan too looked increasingly wary, as if he expected a gang of thieves to set upon them at any moment.
Thatcher, glancing over his shoulder, caught the concerned looks on the faces of Gideon and the Durgak priest. He noticed Goldain, however, remained either oblivious to the changes or utterly unconcerned at what might leap from the shadows. This northerner had a calm confidence about him that spoke volumes to any thief skilled at picking his victims. Either the barbarian was a naïve, simple-minded fool or he was a skilled and shrewd warrior, sure of his ability to handle anything that came along. Thatcher believed Goldain was the latter who took great pleasure appearing as the former. Either way, the concern on the faces of Thatcher’s companions, had he not been with them, would be more than warranted.
The southwest quarter of Aton-Ri was home to several notable features of the famous city. One was the Rogues Guild of Aton-Ri, of which Thatcher was a junior member. The second was the Barrows, the nickname for the poorest and seediest neighborhood in the city. Few non-residents ever visited the Barrows, and few visitors came out with their skins and purses intact. Thatcher’s presence with the group, however, guaranteed their security from the guild.
He did not intend to take them all the way into The Barrows. Their destination was just northeast of that seedy neighborhood and was the most famous spot in the southwest quarter: the Iron Cur. The Iron Cur’s proprietor, Mok, was a Fenriri chats-enash. Like all Fenriri half-bloods, he preferred to be referred to as a Fenratu.
Mok, for reasons not generally known, had an even more vehement aversion to the term chats-enash. Fenriri chats-enash were among the most numerous half-humans on Chadash, and so preferred to think of themselves as their own race rather than as part of their Fenriri or human parent races. Perhaps that had something to do with the canine pack-nature, or had roots in something even more secret, but regardless, everyone with ongoing business at Mok’s place respected this customary address. One did not lightly use the term chats-enash in his presence even when referring to someone other than Mok.
The Fenriri were feral and dangerous lupine humanoids serving the Ayabim god Mamoun. They often raided Adami settlements and had a reputation for taking female Adami alive as prisoners. Fenriri using these captured Adami as breeding slaves gave way to the ubiquity of Fenratu offspring. This approach was common among many of the races serving the Ayabim. Sages postulated that the Ayabim servant races sought, through their half-human offspring, to gain access to the One Lord’s gift of an eternal soul.
Fenratu were similar in features to their Fenriri parents, but less wild and with digits on their hands more resembling human fingers than Fenriri paw-claws. Fenratu also preferred to stand and walk fully erect like humans, while the Fenriri generally were more comfortable ambling on all fours. Even when standing on their hind legs, full-blooded Fenriri walked hunched over, looking quite unnatural in that posture.
As the group approached the Iron Cur, they noticed it was much better maintained than the buildings surrounding it. A faded green sign with a sigil of a black wolf’s head swung from a post above the door. This weathered insignia was the only physical marking distinguishing this large building as a place of business. The sound of music and a crowd of voices pouring from the doorway added audible proclamation that this was unmistakably a place of gathering and revelry.
As they approached the entrance, Thatcher noticed Goldain’s broadly grinning visage looking not unlike a child who just stumbled upon the neighborhood sweets shop. He and Duncan sprinted past the young rogue in their eagerness to enter the tavern and avail themselves of a long overdue tankard of ale. They would not be disappointed. Mok’s tavern was known for two things—its superb ale and its notoriety as the foremost place in the entire city for gathering information.
When the rest of the team entered, they saw the place bustling with several Adami servants in green aprons, all bearing the same signature black wolf’s head as the sign outside. These workers skittered about serving food and drinks to a vastly diverse clientele.
“Pardon me, Thatcher,” remarked Gideon, “but this place appears as nothing more than a bawdy, drunk-infested tavern, same any other. I cannot imagine such a place being more secure for discussions than his room at the Shamrock.”
“Fear not, Captain. I have not led us astray, by my word.”
Thatcher realized the normally trustful paladin captain probably thought the young thief had put one over on him just to get them to a place less imposing for one from meager means.
“Wait here a moment, fellows,” Thatcher said, “and I will see about getting us a quieter place to speak.”
Thatcher approached the thin, solid black-furred Fenratu currently tending the bar. The Fenratu smiled a lupine smile and greeted the young rogue as he drew near.
“Well, young Thatcher, I see you are moving into a better class of friends.” Mok then lowered his voice and continued, “Or perhaps you have reached for the jackpot and have scored two brace of wealthy marks all at once? You best be careful, lad, even your Guildmaster Magar would be hard pressed to come out alive if that bunch caught him with his hand in their pockets.”
“For once, Master Mok,” Thatcher replied to his sly-minded friend, “you are in possession of inaccurate information.” Thatcher couldn’t resist the good-natured jab at Mok who was known as the most reliable information broker in all of Aton-Ri.
“These gentlemen are my new adventuring partners,” Thatcher said, motioning for his compatriots to approach the bar. “This dark-skinned lord is Captain Gideon from Parynland, and the gigantic fellow with the cat-who-ate-the-canary grin is Prince Goldain of the Wolf Clan Qarahni, who has promised to instruct me in fighting with the long blade.”
“I see,” Mok answered, a touch of skepticism in his voice, but he let Thatcher ramble on interested to see where all this went.
“My diminutive companion,” Thatcher continued, “is Priest Duncan Silvermane. He assures me that he is a true Silvermane despite his blood-red hair and beard, which stubbornly refuses to turn its proper shade of silver. He is the resident healing priest of our company. Finally, the overdressed and mysterious fe
llow with the apparent allergy to light is our resident wizard, Melizar.” Thatcher straightened his stance, puffing out his chest as he concluded his introductions. “We are a crack team assembled by Mayor Farnsworth himself to deal with the recent increase in border raids in the region.”
“Well, young Thatcher,” Mok quipped, “you are definitely a cracked something to be sure. Nevertheless, I am glad to make the acquaintance of you and your fellow adventurers. Now what might I get for you thirsty lads after such a mouth-drying introduction?” Thatcher ignored the jape, which had drawn smiles from his cohorts, and replied in a low voice.
“We have need of one of the guild rooms. There is serious business afoot that requires private discussion.”
With that, Mok’s grin faded. Mok kept a few rooms reserved, built at the request and cost of the guildmaster thief of Aton-Ri. They were used to ensure the peace and quiet often required for Rogues Guild business. As a member of the Rogues Guild in good standing, Thatcher had a right to request a guild room as long as no one of higher rank had need of it.
“Take room three, young Thatcher. Will you be wanting service, or should I stock the room before you enter?”
Mok’s change in demeanor at the mention of guild business showed Thatcher’s’ companions that the youth knew more of what he was doing than they had given him credit for. Thatcher indicated that they would appreciate a keg of ale placed in the room but would require no further service beyond a set of full mugs to start them off. He also told Mok that for the duration of their discussions, they wished not to be disturbed.
Mok nodded and dispatched one of the green-aproned Adami to carry a small keg of ale to room three; a task the human waiter swiftly accomplished. Thatcher then led them to a room in the back corner of the building, far away from the hustle and bustle of the main tavern. Room three was quiet, secure, clean, and comfortably outfitted. Here they could speak freely and openly about the proceedings of the day and plan for the future. As soon as the door was secured, Goldain spoke.
“Kid, looks like you are the cock of the walk in your own backyard. Lucky we have such an influential individual with us in this seedy section of town to insure our safety.”
Thatcher smirked and was about to release an answering quip directed at the northerner when Gideon, his face stern and serious, interrupted.
“More like it is respect, or dare I say fear, of the guild to which Thatcher belongs than of our young companion himself. It seems we have as much to discuss within our team as without.”
Thatcher’s half-formed retort and sarcastic grin faded from his youthful face as he respectfully yielded the floor to their captain. Gideon turned his gaze toward Melizar.
“It seems that my dream of a glorious and honorable tour of duty with Aton-Ri is not to be. On my first assignment, I have fallen in with rogues and users of kashaph powers.”
Gideon’s reference of the arcane magic taught by the Ayabim and used by their servant races, elevated the tension in the room. It was true anyone could learn and use kashaph without specific religious ties to the Ayabim, but followers of the One Lord shunned and forbid the use of kashaph as it was denounced in the Great Book of Writings. Thatcher saw Melizar shift in his chair, uncertain of what would happen next. His hand reached toward his belt pouch, and Thatcher wondered if the mage might use a kashaph spell against his companions right then and there.
Gideon smiled slightly, which eased the tangible unease permeating the room as he continued.
“If my fellow paladins could see me now, doubtless I would find myself far below the ends of their downturned noses and wagging fingers. It has always been my custom, however, to judge a person by the content of their character and the actions of their heart rather than the tools they wield or the wrappings they wear. Melizar, you have defended Goldain and me in our assault on the Hobgoblin lair. You have proven yourself faithful to our team as well as useful and prudent in your actions. I do not know what secrets you are keeping beneath your mysterious wrappings, but I will respect and defend your right to keep them as long as you continue to show yourself loyal to our team and our mission. It is my hope that someday you will trust us enough to share more of yourself with us.”
“That is my hope as well, Captain,” answered the mage, “but the proving of faithfulness is a double-edged blade.”
Gideon nodded in agreement and turned his attention to Thatcher.
“And you, our young roguish friend, I knew when you joined the team that your skills could have come from few places and even fewer of those with honorable origins. Nonetheless, you too have proven your skill and value. You have put your own safety at risk to ensure the safety of your companions and the success of our mission. If you will promise to refrain from practicing your, uh, less honorable skills among our company while serving as a member of it, then I am proud to have you with us. I offer that if there is anything I can lend to your instruction above what Prince Goldain would teach, I would be honored to render such service while we journey together.”
“Captain Gideon,” Thatcher replied, choking back the emotion welling up in his throat. “I am not ashamed of what I have done to earn my living, for failing to do so I long ago would have starved in the streets of Aton-Ri. The guild took me in and taught me to survive. In exchange, I conducted what business they required of me. I assure you, however, that it is our guild code never to steal from the guild family under penalty of death. I have always honored this commitment, and I commit to all of you that I will treat our company as part of that guild family and will afford it the same commitment of service and respect.” After his solemn and sincere promise, Thatcher yielded to an unrestrainable urge to add a jovial remark. “Your pockets are safe with me!”
Whatever tension previously occupying the room burst like a bubble, and the company erupted in a series of toasts, shoulder-claps, and smiles save for the undiscernible expression on the covered face of their companion wizard. Soon, however, the pressing business at hand resurfaced when Thatcher inquired of Melizar.
“Master Melizar, you whispered something to me during the council meeting. Was this for my ears, or is this something you would share with the group and further elaborate on?”
“Young Thatcher,” Melizar replied, “it was something I planned to discuss with all. After Xyer Garan’s persistent attempts to goad our captain into battle right in the city council room, I thought that this man’s veracity required verification. I availed myself of a bit of kashaph in the form of a veritas spell. This useful bit of thaumaturgy allows me to see the words coming from the speaker as colors. True statements look blue, while falsehoods appear red. Half-truths manifest in various shades of purple. While I only inspected the end of Garan’s report, his statement about the ambush and end of his company was deep violet, indicating more lie than truth. Whatever he is hiding, his report, or at least its conclusion, was mere verisimilitude.”
“Mel,” Goldain said, “I know wizards have to be really smart and all, but for the sake of us poor warriors, might you try using some simpler words? We ain’t all as finely instructed as you are, my brother. But if I guess right, you are saying the big guy was full of deer droppings eh?”
Smiles stretched across the faces of the rest of the group.
“Yes, my large friend. Your instincts are as sharp as your sword even if your wits are somewhat more obtuse. Garan was lying.”
The glint in the Qarahni’s eyes during this exchange went unnoticed by those not trained to detect such subtlety, but Thatcher could clearly penetrate Goldain’s feigned ignorance. The Qarahni prince had a few secrets and a not-so-obvious cloak of his own that he wore proudly. Thatcher suspected this affectation by the northerner was to ensure any prospective opponents would underestimate the barbarian and thus give him an edge in any conflict. Thatcher would never make that mistake. His respect for his large companion continued to grow.
“So,” Duncan added, “this power of yours doesn’t tell you what he was lying about, just tha
t he was lying. I didn’t need to use any oth to know something was wrong with that giant,” he said, referencing the divine power counterpart to kashaph. Oth, unlike kashaph, could not be learned and was granted solely at the discretion of the One Lord to priests serving the Malakim. “With his size, I would suspect him of being a Nephilim chats-enash, save he had none of the features of that accursed race. Nonetheless he is one to keep an eye on.” The others nodded agreement.
As the heroes raised their glasses to toast their successful mission, a knock came at the door. Most present saw nothing out of the ordinary about this, but Thatcher leapt out of his seat into the space behind the door with a single bound, drawing a long dagger in each hand in mid leap. His actions surprised his companions, who also rose and drew weapons in respect for Thatcher’s concern. Exchanging confused looks with the rest of the group, Goldain issued a whispered inquiry.
“What’s up, kid?”
“There should be no knock. These are guild rooms, and Mok would never allow someone to come here and disturb our meeting.”
After a brief moment, Goldain nodded and replied. “But, kid, if it was someone meaning trouble for us, I doubt they would have been polite enough to warn us with a knock, right?”
Thatcher considered the logic, and after a moment relaxed his pose but kept his weapons in hand and held his place behind where the door would open. Gideon sheathed his sword, but readied his shield on his left arm, approaching and unbolting the door.
As Gideon opened the door, ready for a quick backward leap to draw his sword should the visitor prove less than benign, he saw a strange, raggedly-dressed, lone figure standing outside. It looked like a V’rassi-Adami chats-enash, more commonly known as V’Adami. The elven races generally referred to half-bloods by a V and adding the name of the other parent race separated by an apostrophe.
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