Dratol, Southern Region — One Week Later

  Wallace slouched in a creaking wooden chair, puffing against a small handkerchief that rose and fell with his uneven breaths. Empty bottles littered the chipped table before him, the sharp tang of cheap alcohol clinging to the air. His bleary eyes drifted toward the twin crescent moons flanking a full one in the lonely sky—so calm, so unlike the chaos within the tavern.

  “Oi! Wallace!” a woman’s voice cut through the noise. “Why the long face? My drinks not good enough for ya?”

  He turned lazily toward the middle-aged tavern keeper. She hunched behind the counter, flashing a grin of brown-stained teeth.

  Wallace exhaled. “Bricteva, not even rum can drown my sorrows anymore. Leave me alone.”

  “Something’s wrong with your attitude, laddie.” Her hands landed on her hips. “If it weren’t for me, you’d still be wandering the streets beggin’ for coppers. I’m your savior, boy! Is this how you thank me?”

  He didn’t answer. The tavern’s noise filled the silence—the roar of drunken men, the shrieks of women pretending not to enjoy the attention.

  “You’re lucky I’ve got a soft spot for ya,” Bricteva muttered, hefting a basin of laundry. “If you didn’t look like my son, I’d have tossed your fat arse out ages ago.” Grumbling under her breath, she disappeared into the back room.

  Wallace sighed. “Yeah, sure. My twenty bronze coins had nothing to do with it,” he muttered, spinning a bottle by the neck.

  Around him, men and women laughed and danced, lost to the music pulsing through the tavern’s smoky haze. The rhythm was infectious, yet Wallace felt nothing.

  I’m such a damn fool. I should be basking on Vohmir’s beaches, not rotting in this pit.

  A week ago, he’d seen something strange in Dratol’s skies—a shimmering distortion that drew the city’s gaze. In that moment of distraction, pickpockets had made off with his sack of gold and vanished into the crowd.

  Is this retribution for running off with the money? He thought bitterly.

  He shook his head. “I did nothing wrong,” he muttered. Still, guilt gnawed at the edge of his thoughts.

  The table rattled with a soft thud. Wallace looked up and nearly groaned. A familiar, gap-toothed grin stared back at him through the open window.

  “Wallace! Guess what I found in the trash?” Igor held up a grime-caked bottle as if it were treasure. His tattered tunic bore more patches than fabric.

  Wallace’s reply died in his throat as the stench hit him; a foul, unholy blend of rot and sweat that cut through the haze of alcohol like acid. He gagged, clamping his nose. “Igor, are you trying to kill me?”

  “What are you talking about?” Igor tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. “You been drinking again?”

  Gods, his breath could kill a troll, Wallace thought, eyes watering.

  Igor climbed through the window and plopped down beside him. “Can you believe someone threw away an authentic McShavin?” He patted the bottle with pride. “Come on, buddy. Let’s drink to our sorrows!”

  Wallace pressed the handkerchief tighter over his face. If he moved, he’d lose consciousness. Stay away from me, you walking corpse.

  Igor uncorked the bottle. A surprisingly rich aroma spilled out—momentarily pleasant—until it was drowned beneath the miasma of Igor’s armpits.

  Wallace’s vision swam. What the hell is that smell!?

  “Not interested?” Igor asked, oblivious, then tipped the bottle back and guzzled greedily. “Good wine,” he said between gulps. “Good bloody wine!”

  A hush rippled across the tavern. Music stopped. Chairs scraped. Then came the stampede; men and women rushing for the door, hands clamped over their noses.

  “Huh? What’s gotten into everyone?” Igor asked, blinking. “Why’s everyone leaving?”

  Wallace didn’t dare open his mouth. One breath, and he’d vomit on the spot.

  “Oi! Who’s runnin’ in my tavern?” Bricteva’s voice bellowed from the back room. “Didn’t ya see the no-runnin’ sign?”

  Wallace turned, almost relieved. Never thought I’d be glad to see her ugly mug.

  “Hey, Wallace!” Igor called. “You sure you don’t want any? It’s really good!”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Then came the poke. Wallace froze.

  “Don’t touch me with your filthy hands, Igor! You smell like pig’s ass—” He gagged mid-sentence, slapping his hand back over his mouth.

  Igor blinked, confused; then his eyes widened. Without warning, he leapt for the window just as a mop handle smashed into the spot he’d been sitting.

  “Igor!” Bricteva’s shout rang out behind him.

  Wallace watched the man sprint under the moonlight, the blackened bottle clutched tight as he vanished down the street. Bricteva stood in the doorway, panting, mop in hand. She didn’t bother chasing him.

  “Laddie, why didn’t you tell me that homeless drunk came again?” Bricteva grumbled. “I thought I locked the window!”

  Wallace frowned. “I demand compensation.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I could’ve lost an eye; worse, I could’ve died if that mop hit me wrong!” he declared dramatically.

  Bricteva stood there, one eye twitching. “You’re doing this because you want reimbursement on your rent, aren’t ya?”

  “I haven’t even taken into account the psychological trauma—”

  “That’s enough, laddie.” She sighed, rubbing her temples. “You can stay another month.”

  “With free meals and drinks included?” Wallace asked hopefully, rubbing the side of his head.

  “Don’t push it. If you also want those, I really will break your head or pluck out your eye. So, what do ya say?” she said, flashing a sly grin.

  Wallace coughed dryly and scratched the back of his neck. “Thanks for your generosity.”

  He slumped back into his chair, watching Bricteva light several incense candles. One by one, the patrons who had fled earlier began to return, laughter and chatter trickling back into the tavern. Wallace ignored them. He sank lower into his seat, eyes fixed on the wooden ceiling.

  I’ve lost the money. I have no clue who Erik Gilmore is—or where to find him. And it’s only a matter of time before that kid comes after me.

  He sighed.

  Music swelled again, the tavern’s liveliness slowly returning.

  Should I go back to the Wazar region? He shook his head. No. I can’t return to that dump. Best to disappear somewhere no one will find me.

  “Psst. Hey, Wallace.”

  Wallace snapped his head around at the familiar voice and then came the smell.

  “Ig—” The word barely left his mouth before Igor clamped a filthy hand over it and dragged him outside.

  “Keep your voice down,” Igor hissed. “You want Bricteva to know I came back?”

  Wallace tore the man’s hand away, spitting profusely while glaring at him. His fists clenched; his nostrils flared.

  “Come on, Wallace, I know I smell, but it’s not that bad,” Igor chuckled nervously.

  Wallace advanced, silent and menacing. He wasn’t letting this man escape tonight.

  “I won’t tell you what I heard about Erik Gilmore if you hit me,” Igor blurted.

  Wallace froze, narrowing his eyes. “You’re not fucking with me, right?”

  Igor grinned, showing his few dark teeth. “Would I lie?”

  Wallace’s fingers twitched. He took a long breath. “Alright, then. Tell me what you know. But if this is a trick, you’ll find out why they call me Fast Hands Wallace.”

  “Fast Hands Wallace?” Igor snorted, stifling a laugh.

  Wallace’s ears burned. “You mocking me, you bastard? If you don’t tell me where Erik Gilmore is, I’ll sell you to a brothel.”

  They stared at each other in silence. Then, laughter burst out from both men.

  “I’d have sold myself to a brothel if that were possible,” Igor said between wheezes, rolling on the ground.

  Wallace blinked. Did I really just say that?

  “Seriously,” he said, regaining his composure. “Do you have any info on Erik Gilmore or not? I’m screwed if I can’t find him.” He took out a cigar, lit it, and drew two deep puffs. Smoke drifted from his nostrils as he glared at Igor.

  “Why are you looking for him? Someone after your life?” Igor asked.

  “You wouldn’t understand.” Wallace sighed. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.”

  “I see,” Igor muttered.

  “It’s fine if you don’t know,” Wallace said, eyes rising to the stars. “If only I could find those pickpocketing bastards…”

  He kicked an empty bottle across the street.

  “And you still haven’t recovered your memories?” Igor asked.

  Wallace lowered his head. “Why bring that up now?” He tossed the cigar aside. “Me and my big mouth… just how much did I tell you while drunk?”

  Igor only chuckled.

  “See you around, Igor. And for the love of the gods, take a shower, you filthy pig.” Wallace turned to leave—but Igor’s voice stopped him.

  “Where are you going? Thought you wanted to meet Erik Gilmore?”

  Wallace froze, turning slowly toward the filthy drunk. “You’re not saying… you’re Erik Gilmore?”

  “Of course not,” Igor laughed, shaking his head. “Do I look like I play those kinds of games?” He struggled to his feet, grinning. “But you have met Erik Gilmore already.”

  “Huh?” Wallace blinked. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You said you’ve been to the information brokers, right?”

  “Yeah. What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Then you’ve already met him,” Igor said, tapping the side of his knee with a grin.

  Wallace just stared at him. What kind of idiotic reasoning is that?

  “It’ll all make sense after a few bottles,” Igor said cheerfully. “Come on, let’s drink.”

  “Do you think this is a joke? I could lose my life over this!” Wallace sighed. “Forget it. My fault for expecting anything useful from a drunk like you.”

  He turned toward the tavern’s entrance. After twenty steps, he froze.

  The air had gone still. Unnaturally still.

  Why is it so quiet?

  Apart from the tax collector and Igor, no one else could silence a tavern so completely.

  He pushed open the tavern door and froze.

  The once-crowded room was empty. No drunken laughter, no clinking mugs, no music. Only a single table remained, perfectly centered beneath the faint orange glow of a lantern.

  Someone sat there, dressed head to toe in black, silver hair gleaming like moonlight.

  “Where did everybody—” Wallace began, but the words died in his throat as the seated figure turned toward him.

  “Boss?” he breathed.

  “Captain,” the man said calmly. “It’s been a while. Have a seat. We have much to discuss.”

  Wallace didn’t move. Cold sweat gathered on his brow and trickled down his spine.

  How did he find this place? Don’t tell me he knows I lost the money...

  He swallowed hard, but his mouth was dry as sand.

  Just then, the door behind the bar creaked open. Wallace turned and his heart nearly stopped.

  Bricteva stepped out, followed closely by Igor.

  Her expression was polite, almost pleasant. “Welcome. We’ve been expecting you,” she said smoothly. “I am Bricteva Moore, and this is my partner, Igor La Penne.”

  She smiled. “You may call me Gilmore,” she added, gesturing toward Igor. “And him—Erik.”