1. The Rat
There was going to be a dragon in town today.
The entire town had been abuzz for weeks. Dragons were well known, but not common. They were sacred messengers from Tiamat usually only seen at temples in the big city, or wherever there was a problem to be fixed. Brutally.
Tanenvil was too small and its problems too minor to gain the attention of a dragon and rider, and their temple too cramped to even fit one of the beasts if they saw fit to become a resident. Arxet’s best guess was that the beast was joining along with the ministry’s yearly recruitment drive for the priesthood and riders. It was usually around the start of spring, and the flowers had been obnoxiously blooming and clogging his nose like they did every year.
Either way, Arxet wanted nothing to do with the beast.
The only good it was for in his eyes was gathering a crowd. And a crowd would be stock full of suckers too busy staring at the giant sacred lizard and listening to the windbag priests on stage to notice their coin-purses being cut. He might even be able to afford that caravan ticket to… somewhere other than here.
The roads were more dangerous now than when he first wandered into the town; attacks were on the rise. Or maybe he was just lucky when he’d arrived alone two years ago without being eaten by monsters in the wilderness. Either way, he wasn’t willing to risk the road again on his lonesome, even if his cash flow was drying up. These days every guard in the city knew his face and the coldmark that sat on his fuzzy brow. Sooner or later he’d slip up again and be chased out of town. Better to quit while he’s ahead and go somewhere bigger where he can leverage the power of anonymity. Maybe even somewhere where the brothel had better options.
Today he’d woken up in his usual haunt, an abandoned farmhouse on the edge of town, and spent the morning washing his thin scrappy fur, shaping and polishing his huge pronounced rat teeth, and shaving his tail. Just because there were no fine women in town to impress didn’t mean he shouldn’t still look the part. Once he was clean and presentable he hiked back to Tanenvil and hit the bar. The town was relatively small, but every now and then he could find someone who didn’t know his reputation and try to swindle a few copper from them in a game of dragon’s hoard or with a good old fashioned home cooked scam.
Every now and then did not cover today though. The bartender didn’t even let him cross the threshold, instead grabbing him by the collar and dragging him back up the cobblestone path to the main street. “Lookin’ like Scarlesboro all over again… don’t even have the decency to chase me outta town, just starve a rat out.”
Tanenvil had lasted longer than most. The town had a sizeable ratfolk population, so he didn’t stick out like a sore thumb for his funny little ears and worm tail anymore. Unfortunately he instead stuck out for his Tiskin accent. He’d traveled far from his birthplace in the last ten years, all the way to Eskany, on the border of The Mercani Empire. Not that he’d want to go into The Empire. They’d just deport him for being foreign whether or not he did anything worth garnering the laws attention.
Luckily, seeing his access to the bar was now closed and that he was no longer required or able to keep on the bartender’s good side, he was able to lift the bartender’s dagger off the brute while he was being forcibly escorted off the property. It was time to visit his fence. At least one person in this dump had any respect for a noble thief like himself.
Tanenvil was on the small side, smaller than one would normally expect to house a fence or outpost for any kind of underground criminal organization of any repute. However, its position near the imperial border made it a good checkpoint for smuggling operations. Arxet could easily join the Roots if he wanted to, but he wasn’t a team player like that. Too many rules to follow, too many asses to kiss. Easier to remain a loner. Less hassle. Less baggage.
With a skip and a flourish Arxet flung the fishmonger shop door open. “ORGEL! Old buddy!” He greeted the scowling human behind the counter with an outstandingly fake smile. The fish smell hitting his nose transformed it into a grimace for a moment before he shoved the mask back into place. “Got anything in stock today? Anyone pull up any eel on the lake?”
Orgel was a stickler for rules. Eel on the lake was the code phrase indicating someone wanted to trade in illicit goods, on account of Fell Lake entirely lacking in eel. Arxet thought it was stupid. He’d been coming to this shop for over a year and Orgel still wouldn’t deal with him unless he opened with the phrase.
“Aye, a whole bushel. I’ll come show you.” He waved the rat into the back with an eye roll. “Better actually have something for me this time. I’m not gonna keep identifying random metals for you. You’re not gonna find any gold in this town.”
“No no, this time what I present finds value in its artifice, not its makeup!” The rat closed the door behind them both and pulls the dagger from his bag. “Behold!”
Orgel huffed at the heirloom of a weapon. “The bartender’s old beater? I don’t think that thing could even cut bread anymore. What use is it?”
“A display piece perhaps! Or with some love and care a worthy blade once again!” He twirled the dagger in his hands and spun it on a finger. “Perfectly balanced! Despite its age! And just look at the detail work on the pommel.” He held it out to the greasy stinking human to show off the engravings of a dragon wrapped around a lamb. “A former rider’s blade I’d guess! Family heirloom worth a small fortune!”
“And you think even I’m heartless enough to buy it off you, if it’s clearly so beloved by him?” The man crossed his arms and looked down his nose at the rat.
Arxet could feel Orgel’s eyes on his coldmark. The little patch of white fur in the shape of a squiggle (or mountain, or icicle, or pile of dung, depending on who you asked) across his brow was a sore spot for him. People always judged him for it and assumed he was up to no good before they had any evidence of the trouble he was actually up to. “It’s just an old sword, Orgel.” He began to grit his teeth.
“A dagger is not a sword. And I’ll give you forty copper.” The man was getting impatient with Arxet. He grabbed a cleaver off the rack on the wall behind Arxet and moved to his butchering table. “I’ll get you the money tomorrow. Just leave the sword on the counter.”
“Forty! Money tomorrow! That’s- that’s-” The thief sputtered at the insult.
“Thought you said it was just an old sword. So clearly forty is a fair deal for it.” He pulled a fish out and chopped its head off in a single rehearsed burst of energy. “And I ain’t got the cash liquid. Got other more important deals later.”
“No deal! This is worth at least ten silver! It’s an artist’s piece! A work of art! A masterpiece even!” He held it up to the torch light and gesticulated madly at it. “A rider’s weapon passed down through the generations is worth every copper!”
“Then I shouldn’t buy it, if it’s such a hot item.” Orgel continued his work without even glancing at Arxet’s display. “40, take it or leave it.”
“Leave it! You’ve dealt with hotter items before! What gives?” Arxet tried to stab the blade into Orgel’s wooden cutting board, but the nigh-ancient blunted tip bounced off the surface instead, and the dagger went spinning off into a corner somewhere. “Dammit!”
“It’s not the dagger that’s a hot item, cold one, it’s you.” Toss. Grab. Chop. Toss. Grab. Chop. “You’re getting too much attention. You’re gonna get arrested any one of these days, and I don’t wanna go down with you. Forty copper.”
Arxet bristled at the term ‘cold one’. He thought Orgel was decent, but prejudice showed its ugly face everywhere. “Go piss on your mother.” Arxet recovered the dagger from the floor near the exit and spat in Orgel’s fish bucket. “I’ll go find some honest coin elsewhere!” The rat began to step out of the room and prepared to slam the door behind him- THWACK. The cleaver appeared in the wood of the doorway, inches from his nose. He thought he might have even lost a whisker. Arxet tried again to close the door but found the cleaver’s handle blocking its path.
“Don’t come back here. In fact, get out of town. If I catch you in my shop again the Roots will have your tail.” Orgel crossed the shop far faster than Arxet assumed a man of his size could and ripped the cleaver from the wall before slamming the door in his face.
“Well! Well-” Arxet huffed and puffed at the wood. He wanted to get even with the fence-monger, but ultimately couldn’t think of anything other than a “Fuck you!” He then turned and stalked out of the shop as though he had won the exchange. After all, Orgel planted a cleaver in his door, not Arxet’s! Arxet had no property damage to account for!