I spend my remaining day working on the new spell I purchased. Learning new magic is no small feat and there is some chance of injury or death.
I do not attempt to cast the spell—to do so would consume it. This scroll is prepared to be used by anyone, not only magic users. The spell is no different than one a wizard can cast, so it is just as useful for casting as learning. Across the bottom, the incantation that will unleash the power of the spell is written phonetically in Elysian as well as a couple other languages found in this region. One doesn’t need to be able to read the entire scroll, merely this short phrase, in order to cast the spell. Yet a non-mage would have no ability to manipulate the arcanum it calls upon, and therefore the power of a scroll-casted spell will always be much weaker than in the hands of a magic user.
After spending hours reading the spell at least two dozen times, and breaking down exactly what it is doing and how it is meant to be applied in excruciating detail, I prepare the enchanted ink for use. I want to keep this spell for long-term use, so the best place for it is in my spellbook, whose enchanted pages can hold my entire thought process and understanding of the spell as I scribe it, rather than just the words that comprise it. Once so scribed, I can recall all the details as an extension of my mind. What I can memorize in hours from a spell scroll, I will glean in just minutes from my spellbook.
It takes many more hours to complete the process of recording the spell in my spellbook and I anticipate success. I have been diligent and careful with each stroke. The ink sears into the page as I complete the scribing process, confirming that I made no errors. The spell is now mine.
It’s quite late, but I head downstairs to see if any supper is still available. There isn’t, but the innkeeper kindly scrounges me up a half loaf of bread, some cheese, a boiled turnip, and a mug of warmed mead.
The urchin is supposed to meet me at the district fountain at mid-morning tomorrow, so I turn in after eating, doing my nightly routine, meditating, and casting a warding spell on the room. I also remember to secure my dagger at my waist and concentrate on keeping my hand on the hilt as I drift off to sleep.
Morning comes.
There is no presence, no sensation of being watched, as I wake. I prepare for the day and go to pay the grubby gamin for whatever he learned, if the kid even shows up. I gave him two copper coins in advance, to interest him enough to truly consider doing what I asked. I promised more for useful information, to be determined by the value of what he brought back. Now, it is possible that two copper is enough for him. After all, he would be up a pair of coins for doing nothing at all. If this were anywhere along the Shattered Coast, I wouldn’t see the boy again. But even the criminals in Elysium are dutiful and most will attend to a promise, once made.
So, I am not surprised to see the urchin waiting by the fountain. He perks up when I approach, putting me on edge. I look around to see who he might be signaling, and soon realize that he’s merely eager for his coin.
I sit on a wooden bench near the fountain and reach into my coin pouch. The boy scampers over and I place ten copper coins onto the bench near me.
He reaches for the coins almost automatically, but I keep him at bay with a hand on his petite chest. He’s no match for my long arm, so stares wantonly at the coins as though he is starving and they are the only food for miles.
“You must earn these,” I say to him. He stops struggling and nods.
I put a fingertip on one of the coins and look expectantly at him.
“Yer man didna do a thing all day. Just sat in his shop and left for home at sundown,” he reaches his hand out.
I move the coin toward him an inch, causing him to strain against my hand still firmly against his chest. Still holding the coin, I say “I paid you to follow him for the night.”
“He went home for supper. After a bit, his little lady threw a few plates at him, and he left again.”
I push the coin into the boy’s reach and he snatches it up like an eagle scoops up a hare. The pattern of this exchange now established, I put my finger on another coin and wait.
“He went to the Tawny Stoat but the barkeep wouldna let me in. Waited outside three hours and he comes out stinking of ale, barely standing with the help of two other fellas.”
Interesting. Was he meeting his suppliers or did he merely get drunk among friends who regular the same alehouse? I push three coins into the boy’s reach, who pecks them from the bench like chicken feed. They disappear into his pocket.
He sits down at the other end of the bench, still fixated on the remaining coins, but more calm.
I tentatively pull my hand away from his chest and he doesn’t immediately dart for the coins, so I set my hand down between us—relaxed, but ready to grab him again if necessary.
You’d think these street urchins have it bad, from their desperate ways, but even a simpleton can find food, water, and shelter in this part of Elysium. The generally mild weather is even kind enough to give plenty of warning when it intends to rain so one can find shelter. Only arcane weather could be of any consternation, but it is relatively rare this far north of the Wildlands.
Still, I suppose they haven’t experienced any worse so, in their world, this is as bad as they can know life can be.
“Continue,” I command.
The boy yawns, but whether it is for show or in earnest is unclear. “They wandered about the streets a bit, got chastised by the watch for making too much noise at the late hour, and parted ways a little later. Our man stumbled home and fell asleep on his stoop.”
I pass a coin but don’t lift my finger. The boy pries at the coin. I ask, “Did you pinch his pockets?” I don’t care if he robbed the pawn broker or not, but I’m curious how honest the boy is willing to be for coin.
“That wasn’t part of the deal,” he says defensively, pushing the coin sideways beneath my finger.
Oh, did he think I had wanted him to rob the man? I release the coin.
He reaches across the bench for the five remaining coins. I cover them with my palm before he can span the gap. He groans in frustration and grabs his head dramatically.
“Tell me about the two men he was with.”
“One was heavyset with a bushy, buff beard who they called Edrik and wore a miner’s mantle. The other was called Tom and had straight, dark hair that shagged in his eyes, a limp in his right leg, and three fingers missing on his right hand,” the kid holds his hand up to indicate the missing digits.
I am impressed with the detailed descriptions of the men. “Do you know them?”
He shakes his head. “Want me to find ‘em for you?”
I sweep the coins off the bench into my hand and stand. There’s really no time to learn more about the men if the boy doesn’t already know it, or whether they are even the undermarket associates I’ll be meeting.
“Did the watch know the men?” I thumb one of the coins into view. The boy looks hungrily up at it.
“Nossir, not especially,” his hands form a cup below mine.
I wait until he offers more.
“After the patrol went ‘round the bend the three laughed and called ‘em feckin’ sap lappers. That’s a quote.”
The urchin stands and pushes his cupped hands into my hand clenching the remaining coins, as though he’ll coax them from me like milk from a cow.
I push the coin from under my thumb and let it drop into his hand, then I turn and leave. Overall, eight copper to learn nothing actionable, but at least gain some indication that the pawn broker is not too friendly with the watch and that he didn’t spend his night planning something.
Amusingly I realize that if Vong continues to insist on using so many of his own supplies to feed the group, I’ll be able to easily foot the bill for this kind of reconnaissance on the rest of the party next time we return from patrol.