A Dead God's Tear(53)

But magic was also dangerous, and he had to think this through. He was also writing an autobiography, and wouldn't it be more interesting if he had something exciting to put in it? But how would he convince them to let him tag along? It seemed obvious that they weren't interested.

Opportunities don't fall in your lap like this every day. He always felt as if he was destined for something great. Something more than getting by day to day as he was doing now. He was a chosen of the Broken One! That had to count for something, right?

He growled, lost in thought as the myriad of questions that seemed to only lead to more questions constantly eluded his grasp. It made his head spin! The entire time he had been walking, counting on his subconscious to lead him through streets by memory. Normally one wouldn't dare walk the Lowtown without some situational awareness. It was tantamount to a death wish, or at least meant that one wasn't overly concerned with his money.

But Simon wasn't excessively worried. He had a knack for working his way out of trouble, to the point that he sometimes wondered if it was divine intervention. At the thought, his mind flickered back to the Broken One, but the notion unsettled him and he drove forward, both literally and figuratively, away from it. But more importantly, everyone knew him and knew that it really wasn't worth robbing him because he never had anything of value besides his music.

The sounds of street assailed him from all sides, blended together in a comforting blanket of familiarity. Vendors haggled with buyers, the clip-clop of horses plodding slowly, pulling heavy wagons, and the low murmur of dozens of individual conversations was exactly what Simon, who had lived and dealt with such his entire life, needed to tune out all the distractions as he pondered alarming information he had gathered the night before.

It also made him relax his guard, so that when two pairs of grubby hands reached out and grabbed him into a nearby alley, he was caught completely unawares.

Much like a mirror being held up to Harcourt itself, the Lowtown district was split into two distinct worlds, both deadly, but in sharp distinction to each other. The face of Lowtown was what any unknowing visitor, oblivious merchant or ignorant waif might recognize. It was a place of dirt, filth, and poverty for those who, either through luck or fate, had no other place to retreat to. But, like a mask, one merely had to look beyond the obvious.

There was power in Lowtown. Organizations that had fingers in machinations that went far beyond even the expansiveness of Harcourt. And the sanctuary of this underworld resided in the recesses, the blackened alleyways. It was here that deals were made, among the very dregs of society.

The fingers of power were like roots of a tree. Spreading out, splitting off into smaller and smaller veins, all of which fed the main body. Currently one of the very small fingers had slammed Simon against alley wall, knocking the breath from his lungs and causing an explosion of stars to dance before his eyes.

"Well, well, lookit what we found, Tomgin, eh? Just a'wanderin' about the streets, eh?" A pair of grubby mitted hands, the fingers cut out either by design or wear and tear, held the wayward bard by his collar, punctuating each word with a rough shake. Simon's nostrils flared as the acrid breath washed over him, and it was a struggle just to focus his eyes on his assailants. Two blackened orbs, glistening from what little light that managed to filter in through the high tight walls of the alley, stared at him with ill-intent. A dirty brown cap stood at a rakish angle, almost covering one eye, and Simon could see several missing teeth in the yellow feral grin the man gave him.

That would explain the breath.

The point of something sharp, presumably a knife, was now jabbing Simon through his brown leather jacket, in the soft flesh of his stomach. Tomgin, sans hat and only slightly better garbed than his friend, pushed a greasy strand of black hair out of his face as he too leaned close, "You see," he began with a snarl, "the boss wants his money that you owe him. Told ‘ol Gerald here to gut you like a fish if you didn't have it."

The sharp object accentuated the demand by digging even deeper, to the point where Simon was afraid it might draw blood. And given the state of his attackers, no doubt if the cut didn't kill him, the following infection would. He gulped. His mind raced. Time to stall. "Please guys, I'll have your boss's gold in a bit. Work has been rather lax you see, and well, you know how it is." He couldn't stop himself from giving a nervous chuckle.

The two men didn't share in his mirth. "Look, do you have the boss's money or not, eh? I'd rather just cut ya here and leave ya to the guards to find in the mornin'."

Heavy weight, like cold hard iron, welled up in the depths of Simon. He was a lover, a singer, a teller of tales; he was a lot of things, but certainly not a fighter! He couldn't die here like this! It wasn't his fault that Lady Luck just wasn't with him that day!

He secretly suspected the gambling pit cheated somehow, but he couldn't prove it. He certainly didn't deserve to die like an animal in the back of some alleyway! For a second his normally clever mind failed him, and it took every ounce of his willpower to rein it in.

Calm down. Think!

It came to him. An idea so simple and easy, he was almost impressed with how obvious it was. It was a dirty, but he didn't have much of a choice. "I have information for your boss that would easily pay off my debt."

"That so?" Gerald licked his lips, the doubt obvious in his voice. "An' what would that be, eh?"

And Simon told them of the great and powerful wizards seeking shelter at the inn. Of how they were practically overflowing with gold and riches, just begging to be pilfered. Even now, with his life in danger, Simon couldn't help but take pleasure in the art of storytelling and found himself embellishing. Their eyes grew wide with each sentence, until Simon was sure that they would fall right out and roll about like dice.

It was too easy.

"Do ya hear that, Gerald?"

"Yeah, Tomgin, I did. . . wizards!" Gerald said, "But how do we know he ain't lyin'?"

Simon held both hands up as if to defend himself. "Do you think I'd lie to you, knowing that it'd just anger your boss with such a ridiculous story? Check for yourself, you all know where I am staying. They're staying at the same inn as I am."

"He has a point," Gerald agreed, loosening his grip on Simon enough so that Simon's heel touched the ground. "But so help me, if we report this to the boss and it turns out to be nothin' but a lie, they'll need half o' the guard to find all the pieces of you. Don' you be skippin' out of town ‘fore we check ou' yer story."

With that final warning and one last shove for good measure, the two men melted into the winding corridors of Lowtown, no doubt eager to deliver this precious information to their boss and receive a hefty reward.

He waited a few respectful seconds, just in case they were still nearby, before allowing the grin to hit his face. It had worked like a charm, and he was already formulating how to turn these events into a profit for himself. He was fitting all the pieces to the puzzle together. Of course it was a bit of luck on his part that they didn't insist upon taking him to their hideout until they checked out his information. Simon found that intelligence was a lacking trait the further from the trunk one got in Lowcourt.

Whistling, he set off back to the inn, notably happier and with a sense of purpose.



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Marc, wake up. There are people here to see you.

The first thing that Marcius noticed when he opened his eyes was the intense throbbing pain of a hefty hangover. It pounded in his temples and made him squint at the rather annoyed face of Alicia. The second thing that came to his notice, as his mind slowly caught up to everything, was that he was wet and that Alicia was holding a bucket.

It occurred to Marcius that perhaps he should connect the two facts. "What's the matter with you, Alicia!" He shifted angrily to a sitting position on his bed, rubbing his head.

"Matter with me? A bucket of water is the least of your concerns. And it's your entire fault!"

This caught Marcius's attention. "What do you mean?"

"Calm down, Alicia," the level voice of Jared intoned. Marcius finally took notice of his friend and the bard from last night.

"What's going on?" he asked again, and the silent glances that the mage and swordsman exchanged did little to make him feel any better.

"Marcius, in case you didn't notice the raging hangover, you were drunk last night. Now, let's say, while you were drunk, that you might have blurted what we are and why we are here to an entire damn bar full of ruffians that'd like nothing more than to loot our sorry carcasses. How do you think your two companions would feel about this?" Alicia asked, sarcasm lacing every word.

"Well, I would assume they would be very disgruntled," Simon interrupted, coming to Marcius's rescue. "If you want to cut into your friend for being stupid, do so later. We're kind of on a schedule here. The Blackguard will be here to recruit you all very soon."

"What. Is. Going. On." Marcius growled. The headache and this whole situation were nerve wracking.

"Okay, allow me sum it up for you," Simon turned, offering a hand to Marcius, pulling him off the bed and to his feet. "You got drunk. Started blabbing about the special things you and your friends can do. Someone overheard, and went and turned in the information to the Blackguards. Wizards are rare nowadays. A wizard in a criminal organization would ensure complete dominance for that group. So now they gather to give you all an offer you can't refuse. Understand?"