Vong continues, unaware of the storm in my thoughts, “I’m sure he’ll give it out in the morning, so no big deal, right? Anyway, I told him we wanted to hit that tower and he was fine with that, so I want us to make a plan of attack for it, okay?”
Rakatha nods, but I’m not sure he’s sober enough to be paying attention. Ralith is just staring at his new cup of ale as though he’s having an existential crisis.
Twitch, at least, has the decency to ask, “He didn’t want us to look into the poisoned well more?”
Vong shrugs, “He didn’t mention it.”
Or did Vong forget to tell him, now transfixed on this new mystery.
“Anyway, I told him about the fireball thing that was down there and he gave me two wands from the Corps’ provisions.”
Wands, huh? I made several while studying under Val Maxis, since it’s considered good practice for novice casters. The materials used to make them range from laughably common wooden rods to prohibitively expensive magical foci. The more difficult the spell, the more expensive the wand, and the more skilled the maker must be. I’m guessing we didn’t receive high tier wands.
Vong reaches into his backpack and pulls out two fairly nondescript sticks. One is painted blue and the other is painted yellow.
“This one,” he indicates the yellow one, “is a wand of healing. If we get blasted again, we won’t use up all of Ralith’s blessings and can keep pressing on.”
He sounds really pleased with himself for making that connection.
He picks up the blue one, “This is for elemental protection. It can keep fire or ice and stuff from hurting us as much. Pretty cool, right?”
Even better than getting less hurt by a fire trap would be checking for traps and disarming them. Especially since those wands have only a handful of charges before they are inert sticks again. Sure, they don’t require any magical acumen at all to use, but it is folly to rely on magic. Better to use one’s mind and avoid the need for magic at all.
Rakatha holds a hand out, clearly wanting to hold one. I really wish he won’t, but Vong hands it to the drunken warrior anyway.
He turns it in his hand like it’s a sword, swishing it left and right in wide arcs. I sigh inwardly.
“Alrighty,” says Twitch, “seems we got ourselves a plan.”
Two wands is not a plan. I feel the pull of desire to roll my eyes, but fight it and win.
Vong smiles at Twitch, “Yeah, we’ll be more careful and use these and it should be no problem!”
Handing the wand back with, thankfully, no unintended discharge of the wand, Rakatha announces to the party, “I’m gonna give a guy some notes about all of you. What you do in a day and stuff like that.”
What!?
“He says he’ll pay well and, if I tell you guys about it, then you know what I’d be writing about you. I’ll even let you read it before I give it to him.”
I can’t believe what I am hearing. How drunk is he? I glance at the others, who look perplexed but not alarmed, which they should be.
I can’t keep quiet, “Who is this man?”
Rakatha looks at me and shrugs, “He came to me earlier today and said he’ll pay me to keep tabs on you for the next week.”
“All of us, or just some of us?” I ask him to clarify. I need to know if this is targeted at me.
He points at me and then swings his hand across the entire group, “All of you…I think. He didn’t really say and I didn’t ask.”
Could this request be from the same person who sent the assassin after me? I’m not about to submit myself to voluntary scrutiny, especially from someone like Rakatha who hasn’t demonstrated acceptable levels of critical thinking skills.
I lean forward, “What exactly did he say?”
Rakatha takes a drink and thinks for a moment. I glance around the table and see passive stares on the rest of the group’s faces.
After a minute, Rakatha says, “He says, ‘You’re in the Adventurer’s Corps, yeah? I need a favor done and I’ll make it worth your while. Keep a log on your squad mates for the next few days. What they do, where they go, any habits, that kind of stuff.’ He says he’ll find me again when I’m back in town and he’ll reward me handsomely.”
“What did he look like?” chimes in Vong, appearing more curious about the mystery than suspicious.
Rakatha pauses and thinks some more, taking another swig. “Not too tall, not too short. Kind of darker hair and no beard. Pretty normal looking guy.”
This description could be applied to half the men in the city. I press, “Any scars? Markings? What kind of shoes did he have on?”
Rakatha shakes his head and shrugs, “I don’t remember. I’ll tell you after I see him next.”
“Did you already agree to spy on the party?” I ask, practically dumbfounded.
He nods, “Yeah, but I’m telling you guys now so you don’t have to worry.”
“That’s pretty nice of you,” compliments Vong.
Really? What would have been nice is to take such a suspicious man out behind the tavern and dump his body in an alley. Or, at best, tell him you’ll do it and then give him falsified reports. Or turn him in to the Watch. It’s not nice to actually provide a stranger with detailed reports of other people’s activities and behaviors without knowing who, or why, or for what purpose.
“I’ll split the money with you all, too,” he offers. “So I’ll get half and you all get half. It’s only fair, right?”
No, what’s fair is not to give up your team to strangers. I’ve already been spied on at one inn, and practically murdered at another. The last thing I need is someone or something getting more details about me that put me into greater danger. If this man is clever like me, the most innocuous thing about a person can be the most revealing. I hate to think what sorts of secrets this person might be able to glean, given such access.
“I’ll take no part of it,” I say firmly.
Vong and Rakatha look surprised, “You don’t want any money?”
Idiots.
“I will not let you sell secrets about me, no matter how small,” I rise from my chair. “If you insist on seeing this task through, I will deny you the ability.”
The entire party looks up at me as I tower over them. What pests they are.
Rakatha says to me, “It’s no big deal. Just don’t do anything around me you don’t want him to know and you’ll be fine.”
“Yeah,” says Vong, “and Rakatha had to pay off that lady so he could use the money. Pretty small price, if you ask me.”
“No,” I say flatly. “As long as you intend to do so, I refuse to be around you.” I grab my staff and head for the exit.
I walk out into the darkening street, leaving the din of the tavern in my wake. Anger roils inside me like the breath of a dragon before it ignites. Of all the imbecilic things…
Someone is looking at me.
I shoot my gaze back to the tavern and spear an alarmed-looking Apul.
“M-Mr. Khaldun?” he says hesitantly, “Is everything all right?”
He probably doesn’t know the asinine actions of his valiant knight. I feel no obligation to shield him from reality.
“You’re wasting your time. Leave, before you’re killed,” I say, walking away.
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
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