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The Weeping Scar

Chapter 6 - Body at the Baker's

by TheSpiralAim

Downstairs was louder than Alistair had expected. Chatter, arguments, dish clatter, and door-thumps made for a better wake-up call than a knocker-upper possibly could. Not unwelcome. Life carried up from below, and after last night, he wanted it. Dull grey light seeped in from the window. It was like the sun was reluctant to wake and face the Scar.

Outside the window, Holly Street was bustling with activities. Chiroptern, ratten, and humans dominated the population. Nothing unusual there. Elves, and much to his intrigue, the mothlike silhouette of a poseidia caught his eye. He'd have to figure out who that was; he'd never met one before. Eforia held a broader mix of people than Sibiu.

Breakfast at the Grey Fang Inn was simple. Strongly flavored seeds were mixed into the light-colored crumb. A different cheese was offered than at dinner. It spread easily, tasted fresh, and had a mild tang to it. Despite the simplicity, it was filling. It had also gone down easier than dinner had. Alistair assumed that had nothing to do with the ingredients.

"You look better this morning. So what brings a capital wizard to Eforia?" Ruida asked.

"Opportunity, mostly. Eforia has no wizard. That is, the records in Sibiu indicate that there are no wizards here," Alistair replied.

"There are certainly magic users in the area. I don't think I've seen any of the academic types. Think you'll be able to find work? It could be wizards don't come here for a reason," Ruida said, not unkindly.

"Possible. Many metal goods come from the Scar. Enchanted metal sells even better than good steel. I figured I might find work by getting closer to the Eforian steel. It'll give me a chance to be the first person to offer services."

"Well, if you set up shop. I do have a bunch of kitchen tools that might enjoy the fruits of your magics."

"I'd have to get some specifications for those kinds of imbuement. I haven't studied workplace imbuement. Did you know there are entire disciplines for productivity and work magic? There are so many little things a good tool needs," Alistair said. Ruida’s attention had begun to drift. "If I get a chance, and you'll let me, I can look over your kitchen wares in exchange for more room and board."

"Now that's more my language! Just let me know when we can work something out," Ruida replied, her interest sharpening.

"Will do. Does the sun ever come out here?" he asked.

"Occasionally. If you are good and pray well," she responded through a chuckle.

Well, a dreary spring would be a first. It wasn't like he had been told Eforia was a sunny city with a warm coastline and beautiful vistas of flower fields. No, it was precisely what he had expected. How would this city look with a bright sky?

Ruida had already turned to other patrons.

He stood. "Well, it’s time to get to know Eforia."

"Good luck, and keep your wits sharp, Wizard Radu," she replied without looking back.

She tracked three tasks at once while still talking with a customer. It impressed Alistair; he lacked that kind of social awareness and brain for multitasking.

Outside the Grey Fang, people were already getting started for the day. Food merchants were setting up, peddlers of handmade wares were laying down simple carpets under the larger overhang, and other kinds of service offerings were setting up booths.

Fine metalwork dominated the stalls, enough quality to make him wonder why Sibiu saw so little of it.

Perhaps they traded out to the southeast?

The street toward Ivy Terrace thinned compared with Holly. A couple of folks were moving bulk wares with the assistance of a mule. A little way down the street stood a ratten dressed in a dark gambeson with a breastplate. His breastplate bore an emblem: an archway, a shield, a lit candle, and a fang-like double point marked with blood.

Alistair approached slowly. Local guard, most likely. The ratten was plain-looking. Flat grey fur, brown eyes, neat whiskers, and a helmet. In his hand, being used mostly for balance, was a no-nonsense spear. Just at his feet was the twisted corpse of a harpy.

Lamb and bile flooded his senses again. He was hoping he'd have forgotten the previous night. The way the naked feminine form, missing many of the feathers it should have had, was contorted, it looked as if it had broken from a heavy impact.

"What—" Alistair paused and went through his words properly.

The guard understood anyway. He looked up and said, "One of the local harpies. Looks like it came from the Reedfall nest. They have grey and red feathers; generally, they don't stray into Eforia. This one must have been desperate. Either way, it seems like it must have hit a chimney or gotten hit with a boulder."

Alistair stored that away and forced his eyes off the corpse. "Are harpies a common problem in the city?" he asked.

"The more clever ones from Remu Redoubt can be. They have silent wings, better magic, and patience. Definitely keep under the rooflines at night if you hear the bell strike three and then two with a long pause," he said.

The taste in his mouth had faded. "Thank you for the information. I must be going," Alistair said.

"Stay safe," the guard said.

The grey sky was brighter by the time he had arrived at Ivy Terrace. According to Martha, a very famous Freeclaw had a shop here. If that was true, he was about to meet someone that most people had only read about.

Just up the street, across from the Khahavan Temple, the one he assumed was The Weeping, was the shop. The peculiar symbol of the Freeclaws hung with 'Minh's Jewels' written under it. Below that were several people. Three more of those guards with the same emblem. Two of those men were carrying off a corpse that was covered in the Karpatian colors.

The man who remained was tall, middle-aged, fit, and reserved. A waxed brown and grey mustache dominated his face, only matched by his bright blue eyes. Neat brown hair with speckling of grey sat on his head. Despite looking more important in his posture, he wore the same gambeson and breastplate as the other men. One thing was different. The emblem on his armor had a sweeping chevron under it. Back in Sibiu, that was the mark of a sergeant.

Beside him stood a grey-furred koshka dressed in an elegant, yet simple, set of black robes and a hood. Red trim and symbols adorned the outfit. The cut recalled Martha’s robe, but only loosely. Untrusting green eyes swept the street and locked with his for a moment before they went back to the sergeant's. Her ears were not pointing in the same direction.

Notably shorter and impossible to miss was Minh-Tajt. Black scales that ended in translucent green points. Curved horns framed her face and encircled her pointed ears. It shocked him how bodily his reaction was to seeing magenta eyes. It was such a strange color to see in person; his mind had to make a new category for it. She wore what he assumed was Freeclaw Elite dress: stiff shoulders, trailing arm fabrics, and several unfamiliar fastenings.

"Trr… A murder on Ivy Terrace is too close. We should have watched closer. Sorin, I will tell Father Tavren to bring those magic eyes closer in," the koshka said with that feline roll all koshka had.

"Vessel Larina. The Weeping should not take more weight onto themselves. Not all of Eforia's problems are yours. Moreover, this happened inside the bakery. I doubt your paladins are going to go inside private structures without exigent cause," the sergeant said.

"It happened so close, Sergeant Eder. We can take the responsibility of being bad neighbors," Vessel Larina said.

"Sorin. This happened right next to my shop, and I didn't hear anything. Whoever, or whatever this was, was unnaturally quiet," Minh-Tajt said.

"So you think magic was involved?" Sorin asked.

"Probably. It would be difficult to go unnoticed with my imbuements always on. I was up late too. Perhaps an hour or two after the vespers service for Khahava's followers let out," Minh-Tajt answered.

"Excuse me," Alistair interjected.

All three turned toward him. He had walked into a private conversation and worsened it. None of them had friendly eyes. Their faces made one thing clear: the next words needed to justify the interruption.

"You said you suspected magic. I am a wizard from Sibiu. I can help you look into it," he added. Their stillness did not break.

Irritation cooled into assessment. He had only spoken up because killers, whether creatures or people, rarely stopped at one. This was a shape he understood from Sibiu. While it wasn't the best place to start, it could help him be considered useful.

"Sorry, allow me to introduce myself. I am Alistair Radu," he said too casually.

"Martha mentioned a wizard," Vessel Larina said. A touch of interest in her voice.

Larina’s stare made him feel like a child caught touching temple silver. No time for it; get started. He moved his hands and said the correct incantations for arcane sight. This would allow him to—the spell failed. It built, aligned, then died.

"Ohh! I see you discovered one of the local features. Enchanting it is! Let me guess, you can catch the webs of latent magic? If you really focus, you can see mana threads bent around me, but nothing more?" Larina asked.

Alistair didn't appreciate the taunting tone. However, she wasn't wrong. "I thought it failed. It didn't?" The question came out thinner than he wanted.

"Tch. Father Tavren has said those same words. Delving divinations do not work. It has always been that way here," she explained.

That was a unique feature for a region. Stone? The iron ore? No, magic was not inherently fairy-related. He could still catch surfaces: latent mana, bent threads, shape without function. He wondered if a spell would be visible, something to test later. However, the task at hand required better tools.

"If I had a dedicated divination focus, I could probably punch through whatever is making my vision fail," he said.

Sorin waited through the exchange. Finally he spoke up, "Well Wizard Radu, if you come up with anything, you can find me in the Scar Guard offices on Cloud Terrace. If you go inside the shop, don't break anything. She had children and the shop will pass down." Then he left for the terrace switchbacks, posture disciplined.

"A bespoke focus?" a small, raspy voice said.

Alistair faced Minh-Tajt. Up close she was short. Of course she was short; she was a kobold. Well, half-kobold. The cylindrical gems beneath her horn tips snared his attention. No—the whole suite did. How much time and effort had gone into all of it?

"You'll need imbuement blanks for a bespoke focus, Wizard," she said.

"Right. Three, probably. Finer than most too," he said.

Her magenta eyes held his. Sharp and confident, she was starting to fill that void between myth and reality. The predatory edge to her expression made him wonder if he had offended her.

"I can do the work. Which imbuement patterns do you think you'll need?" she asked.

"Class three distortion, a class three air loop, and a minor force couplink," he answered.

The Scar remained uncertain ground; imbuement patterns did not. The image of what was needed fully formed in his head; he could even rotate them.

"Got all that memorized, huh? Humans are impressively quick to learn. The class three air loop will require an aerogland. A good one. I don't keep perishable reagents around. The rest we can work out through pricing," Minh-Tajt said.

Minh-Tajt did not fidget, hedge, or glance toward the shop. How many years of experience did Minh-Tajt have as a jeweler? Everyone knew her combat reputation: a slain king and all his retainers, then a fully adult dragon. All for hurting Freeclaws in her presence.

Back on task.

"Where would I get an aerogland?" he asked.

"Scar wyvern. Worry about that later. If you are doing the magic part and supplying the gland, it would run five hundred figs."

"Five hundred? That seems… normal for well—" Alistair paused. "I assume you are a grandmaster."

"I am, but I have excess supplies and no customers. Consider the fair rate a show of goodwill," Minh-Tajt said.

Goodwill indeed. Journeymen back in Sibiu would charge that much. Given the quality of imbuements visible on Minh, this was a great deal.

"We'll need to go to a treasury to transfer the funds," he said.

"There is a treasury on the east side of Ivy Terrace. I'll show you," she said and turned to walk.

Her stride stayed casual, but tiredness rode in it; guard work must have dragged her from too little sleep.

In the daylight, Ivy Terrace was much easier to look at. The grey sky softened the glare and made the stonework easier to read. The buildings were stone-cut and set cleanly into the facades. The road had mostly dried, and the drainage ran either into grates at the center of the streets or at the edges where the footpaths were.

"Noticing the roads? Ivy Terrace is one of the first terraces built by the Freeclaws. Holly was the first; this followed. Originally it was where the ruling lord lived. In that structure back there." She pointed to the taller building partially obscured by the wall around the Weeping's temple compound.

Reinforced stone and hardened wooden beams made up the bulk of the treasury building. A crown with a laurel beneath it marked the building, the same symbol he would expect back in Sibiu. Inside, the clerk had barely looked up. Alistair noticed Minh-Tajt taking laurels instead of a transfer into a holding rune.

"I'll get to work in a couple of hours. As for getting a scar wyvern gland, there are a few hunters in the area. Post a bounty down on Holly Terrace. Velker has a good reputation with just about everyone in Eforia. Balan is trusted by the Scar Guard and the Weeping. Those are the two locals I know about. Shinq is a Freeclaw and could help but is already out on a personal hunt," Minh-Tajt said. She counted the coins as if they might vanish.

Alistair paused. Three hunters. He had seen Velker. Balan was a Karpatian name, and Shinq was most definitely a kobold name.

"Shinq? I thought the kobolds here were stone cutters, masons, and similar craftspeople," Alistair asked.

"The Tiamat Stone Setters, yes. The Freeclaws do send along members of other guilds for training. Shinq is from the Forward Scales guild. Here to train, mostly. The Scar is dangerous, but not in a way that requires a whole detachment of Forward Scales. It's mostly animals and the environment. So I'm usually enough protection for that," Minh-Tajt explained.

That settled the guild question. The Scar had already dropped an inn on him, left harpies in the streets, and produced a murder before breakfast. As he snapped out of his thoughts, Minh-Tajt was already walking away.

"Stay safe, wizard," she said.

Minh-Tajt had too little time for any of this. Perhaps not a brooding woman as Martha had implied the previous day, but a bit pushy. Still, he was happy to know he could get imbuement blanks in Eforia. No need to make his own.

If magic failed him for now, mundane details might still answer. Simple details often revealed what arcane sight missed. He turned back to Slate Street and headed back to the bakery.

The spectators had gone; dark-robed acolytes and merchants moved through the street again.

He put his hand on the door to the bakery and pushed it open. The bottom floor was orderly; day-old confections and loaves sat with no hope of being bought now. Alistair sighed and started with the counters.

The death had happened upstairs. That much was clear. Blood spattered out from a central point. Above the body’s former position, small bone shards had buried themselves in the support beam. More had lodged lower, near the roofline.

The body exploded.

His mind yanked him back to the Inn for a moment. Not enough to make him puke, but he had to focus hard on not breathing in the memory of it.

"No scorch marks. No gouges. No acid etching. If a blast struck from outside, it should have marked the room," he said.

None. He checked again. He paced the room and tried to focus his arcane eyes; the spell had not faded yet. Only a trace of mana rose under the spell, warped enough to mock him but not enough to read.

He really needed that focus.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

Minh-Tajt and that capital wizard had left for the treasury.

Perfect.

For weeks, Minh-Tajt's behavior had bothered Larina. Thinner by degrees. Sharper by the day.

Her covenant had cost her criminal thrill-seeking. This was not that. This was triage because Minh-Tajt would never speak whatever was happening aloud, and time was thinning.

The front door was locked, as it should be. Precious stones gleamed from the window display. Larina knew tricks and how to use tools she shouldn't. Tucked into the breast of her robes was a roll of picks, skeleton keys, and all manner of levering devices for whatever lock faced her. Not Freeclaw-built. Not warded.

A few probes and quick hand motions opened it. No one noticed; she had chosen the gap in traffic. Besides, no one would assume she had picked the lock; Vessels didn't do that. She was obviously looking through the window to see if Minh-Tajt was in.

The storefront remained as neat as ever. Gems far beyond the average Eforian purse sat on display with offers set to turn them into jewelry or whatever.

The metalwork on display was always impressive. A long time ago she had asked Minh-Tajt if a contract could be arranged to make Khahava's Halo of Thorns. Minh-Tajt had refused: building a mold for bronze would cost more than the commission could return. A fair position. Larina had not pressed.

Crossing the shop took little work. Only a fool would think Larina hadn't retained her limber nature just because she was a priestess now. The gems were only pretty; she had no interest in pretty. Around the counter and up the stairs, she noted a simple sleeping arrangement. Minh-Tajt slept on a pallet of pillows and blankets.

A half-dragon of class, Larina thought.

The desk near the stairs was her real goal. She opened the drawers. Sales records. Private commissions. Wedding-band contracts. Larina had to stop herself from checking who; that was a snoop too far here. Her tail flicked and curled behind her in anticipation.

Freeclaw funds.

There. She read the pages and frowned. The numbers were desperate. Their last payment had come forty-seven days ago; food money had run out thirty days ago. Small commissions and private odd jobs had slowed the collapse, not stopped it.

Larina fetched paper from her satchel.

"Khahava, copy this as mercy given shape to aid another," she said softly.

The mana answered, and the text quickly filled the pages. Bad did not cover it. These little claws of Tiamat had built most of the city. They were starving. Fury later, preferably public and vicious. For now, she needed to get out of here before Minh-Tajt found her.

Her ears caught sound from Sugar and Root Bakery. Bootsteps and someone talking to themselves. It wasn't hard to hear movement in there at all, now was it? Poor Jinna. Hopefully that wizard wasn't all talk. Sharp man, maybe. Sharp did not mean he had gumption.