Chapter Text
The echo of boots on wet cobblestone rang about the street. The sound of rain bounced between walls, between the wooden staves holding sheets above sleeping civilians, between the wares of business people and the coins that were exchanged for them. Shouts, incoherent for the most part, flowed through the air, filling the space between the shabby stalls with a heavy, constant bellow, soaking the people who filled the street in its pulsing melody. This pattern was repeated throughout the entirety of the slums of King’s Court. For many, these were the only sounds they ever knew. However, on this particular day, when I stepped out of my small, ground floor apartment and out into the street, I had no notion that this would be my last day spent within the walls of this city.
Every day, before I went to work, I always stopped by the same pub for a glass of morning ale. I never went anywhere else, because that bar was the only place where I could stop pretending to be a normal person, with normal colored skin and normal sized eyes that contained all the normal eye components that normal people need for them to see. At that bar, I could admit that I had some pretty messed up skin (of the mottled green variety) and some equally messed up eyes (of the hollow, ghostly, yellow sort of nature) because I was by far not the most messed up person there. I never talked to anyone though, because in my line of business, it helps to have as little connections as possible. After all, anyone might be your customer one day.
The door opened five minutes after the great clock tower in the city center tolled eight o'clock in the morning, and I got there seven minutes after that. All the normal smattering of gangsters and ghouls and criminals and con men and bankers and revolutionaries were all spread around the room, which was exceptionally wide considering the price of land in this part of town. Kind of hard to build upwards when the majority of buildings have roofs of worn out cloth. The bartender was a young guy with strong arms and black curly hair named Pieter, and that's all I knew about him. But he was friendly, and I was tolerant, so I think it would be safe to call us best friends. However, I was in a hurry that day, so I scanned the room, and, not finding what I was looking for, quickly sat down at the bar for a pint. Pieter slid over as soon as he saw me.
“Ayyyyyy, Dimitri! Hows you doing?”
I chuckled. I never told anyone my actual name, and Dimitri sounded really funny in Pieter’s accent. Pieter did not seem to comprehend that he was amusing me, and immediately filled up a glass with the best ale in the entire slum.
“Enjoys your drink, okay now?”
I tossed a small coin on the table in front of him as way of saying thank you, then proceeded to gulp. Nothing tastes better than freshly brewed ale at nine in the morning, especially if it's brewed by Pieter. I was so busy chugging that glorious, glorious ale that I failed to notice the stool adjacent to mine become occupied. Sure enough, the second I looked away from the empty glass, there she was, brown eyes, dark skin, short hair, staring directly into my soul. I jumped a little when I saw the intensity of her gaze, but after seeing who it was, I relaxed.
“God damn, kid, don't do that. I almost shot you.” She grinned, then spun to face the bar. I sighed. I hated working with kids.
“Got anyone for this week?”
“Guy down on 84th. Just opened up an art stall a week ago.” Already a good start. Nobody in the slums wants to buy art.
“Go on.”
“His name is Japhende, I think. He’s not from around here. I think he came from that desert kingdom out east. Mirage?”
“Yes, yes,” I said hastily. “That's what it’s called. Anything else I should know?”
“He seemed shaken up. On edge. Desperate, kind of.” I whistled audibly. This guy sounded like a gold mine. I was so eager to get started that I neglected a second pint, dropping a few coins into the kid’s hand as I headed out the door towards the address she gave me.
“Hey, wait a minute!” I sighed, and turned around. The kid had gotten off of the stool and was walking towards me. “I wanna come!”
“No way. I am about to conduct a very precise financial exchange, and I can’t have you fucking it up.”
“How do you know I would fuck it up? You've never taken me along before!”
“And there is a reason for that. Don’t you have a family who’s wondering where you are?”
“Pfft. No.”
“Yeah, I figured. Fine. But don't touch anything.” The little girl’s grin returned to her face, and she ran up behind me.
“Lead the way.” I sighed again, then walked out of the pub.
There wasn't much to see on 84th street. At least, nothing that wasn't identical to 83rd street, or 82nd, or 7th for that matter. The address that the kid had given me was a small shack stand. On one side was a pawnshop, and on the other was some flavor of drug den. Or maybe a brothel, I couldn't tell. The shack was worn out, but decently tidy, and the newly painted yellow sign stood in stark contrast to the glum street that surrounded it. It read “Japhende’s Exotic: Paintings and Pottery”. Quaint. However, I taught myself early on not to get too attached to struggling businesses. After all, I was about to go to work.
A small bell mounted onto the doorframe sounded as I entered the shop. The building was larger than I expected, and the walls were covered in paintings, mostly landscapes, but also a few portraits. After a few seconds of silence, the door at the back opened, and an old man emerged from the darkness. He had olive skin, with a gray beard and a brown cap. His clothes were decently well kept for a resident of the slums. His eyes had deep bags under them, and he looked as though he may have been crying.
“Hello there, young man. How may I help you?” His thin, creaky voice made my ears hurt. Better to get this over with fast.
“Hello there” I said, putting on a thick city accent, “are you the owner of this fine establishment?”
“Yes, yes I am.” I could tell the accent had thrown him off. After all, my bright red overcoat, worn out boots, and patched up tricorn hat didn't exactly scream rich, but he was curious to know more.
“My name is Count Daelern Rithmore, of the house of Rithmore.” I flashed a fake family crest at him. “I am here with an offer that I think you might be interested in.” I could tell he was starting to become intrigued, although he was skeptical.
“And what is that?” At this point, I circled the desk so that I was at arms length of him.
“Well, you see, my uncle, the archduke, has recently passed away, and as he had no children and I was his favorite nephew, he left me a good portion of his very substantial wealth.” The old man was clearly interested in what I was offering him now.
“Go on.”
“Well, I have always been an admirer of the less fortunate artists of this city, and forgive me for saying this, but your shop isn't quite- shall we say- blingy. But believe me, all you need is a little tune up and the customers will come flying in.” The man was now engaged.
“Yes, yes, that would be helpful.”
“Indeed it would.” And then came the golden moment. I pulled out the contract. “And all you need to do to get your hands on a loan of eight thousand big ones is sign right here.” My hand pushed the paper and pen towards the man. “It's simple. The money is in my personal checking account. If you sign, you will receive a receipt book that can be used for any transactions to help you out. The money will get to the people you owe as long as you mail the receipts to this address.” I handed him the address and pulled out the receipt book. “The loan must be paid back in full within two months, although I’m sure you can reach the profit you need in no time. If you have any further questions, mail them to this address.” At this point, everything was on the table. The man took one quick look up and down the contract, grinned, and signed.
“Oh, thank you so much sir. This will help very much to pay for the war.” This made me stop.
“Th- The war?”
“Oh yes.” The man handed the contract back to me. “The war in my home country of Mirage. That blasted prince is trying to overthrow his father, and install a new regime loyal to him. Troubles have been brewing there for a while now. Shoulda left a long time ago. Ah, well, ya can't change the past, can you? Can you? Oi, are you alright?”
I didn't answer. The prince of Mirage was trying to overthrow the king. The king who had beaten the empire out of the country. The king who had single handedly brought peace to his country. The king…
“I say, have you gone deaf?” I snapped out of my thoughts and back down to the art shop. Focus. Scam.
“Right then. Thank you so much. Pleasure doing business with you.” And with that and a wave, I whisked myself out the door. Another happy customer.
Of course, they could never tell. They never knew that I wasn't a duke. They never knew that I didn't have millions locked away. They never knew that the address I gave them was to a post box half a block down the street from my apartment. They never knew that nobody would ever accept those receipts, and that when I came back in two months they would be thousands of dollars in debt with no way out but to sell their shops. They never saw the enormously high interest rate in fine print at the bottom. They never saw past the bling, the crest, the accent. I was always hidden. From everyone. After all, anyone might be a future customer.
I exited the shop. The kid, who had heard everything, was waiting outside.
“Woah.” I ignored her and started back to my apartment. She followed, a little ways behind, contemplating the performance she had just seen. As I got closer to my residence, the faces of people who I had conned in the past became more and more frequent, more and more heavy. But no one ever did anything to me. There were enough dumbasses who still thought I was who I said I was after I had cleaned them out to fill an army. My army. I saw them too. They waved and smiled. I did not return the favor. Once I had gotten home, I pulled out my calendar. There wasn't anything else scheduled for the day, so I decided to spend the day in. After all, a guy needs rest after committing extremely deep financial fraud. I peeked out the window to make sure the kid was gone, then collapsed on my bed and fell fast asleep.
I awoke to the sound of the clocktower ringing ten. I looked outside. The sky was pitch black, and lamps had been turned on around the street. Vendors were closed, and people were crowding to get into the hottest nightclubs in the slums. Hah. Not for me. I put my red coat on, stepped out into the open air, and immediately went to Pieter’s.
DONG! DONG!
The clocktower in the distance struck two as I stumbled out the door to Pieter’s. I was soaked in beer and piss and I don’t know what else, but I was too drunk to care. Because of this I didn't hear the first shout that was directed at me. The second one was just a faint wave in the sea of my high, but I could tell it sounded familiar. I tried to shrug it off, but something was wrong. Then the third one came, and it was definitely loud enough for me to hear.
“METZOFSCH!!” Shit. I knew who it was before I had time to turn around. I wouldn't have been able to anyways of course, because a massive hand was laid on my shoulder, weighing me down to the point that my knees started buckling. “Long time no see, Metzofsch. If that's even your real name.” A deep, booming voice emanated from behind me. Raoul. The butcher. I had cleaned him out years ago, but he had never forgiven me, and unlike the others, who wallowed in self pity, he channeled his energy into rage. That, combined with his seven foot tall, four hundred pound body made for a formidable opponent, and a combination that had made me avoid him at all costs. In the streetlight I could see the shadow of another guy next to him, smaller. I knew that if he kept a grip on me I wouldn't be able to escape, but at that point the adrenaline was starting to boost my awareness to the point that I almost felt sober. Suddenly, the butcher started dragging me away towards the square, down the street from Pieter’s. I tried to get loose, but my hands were
pretty much immobilized, and they had taken the crossbow off of my back. As they dragged me, they also dragged the attention of passing street residents, some of which I had scammed in the past. Clearly seeing what was about to happen, they eagerly followed the butcher down the street.
Once we had reached the square there was a crowd of around two hundred people surrounding me. Wow. Apparently I was that unpopular. I knew the drill however. This wasn't my first go with something like this. All I had to do was get beaten up in front of everyone and then thrown into a dumpster or something. Real simple. However, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was different about this, but I didn't know what it was until I saw the noose in the other guy’s hand.
I decided not to panic. All I had to do was get to my crossbow and get out before I became dead. I started trying to wriggle my way out of the butcher’s iron grasp, but it failed to succeed. Dammit. Alright. All I have to do is wait until they tie me up, then I can escape the noose. Unfortunately, I had practice. I expected there would be some kind of revenge speech, but Raoul was surprisingly concise. We waited as the other guy dragged out the stepladder, then threw the noose over a streetlamp. Real professional. As he was doing this, I could tell Raoul was giddy with anticipation, so much so that he made the mistake of slightly loosening his grip on my arm.
Immediately, I elbowed him in the nose and swung my heel into his balls. As he fell backwards in pain, I dove towards the guy with my crossbow and punched him in the gut. As he stumbled backwards, I grabbed my crossbow, holstered my quiver, and edged my way towards the crowd, who was cheering now. I was almost there when I noticed Raoul had stood back up and was charging for me. He would be over me in a matter of seconds. Almost subconsciously, I put an arrow into my crossbow, and with one smooth motion, pointed the crossbow at the oncoming butcher and pulled the trigger. The string let out an audible twang as it snapped. The arrow traveled straight, straight from the bow, straight forward, straight through Raoul’s chest, straight through his heart, and straight out the other side. Raoul froze in mid air, then slowly fell to his knees. The echo of his skull hitting the pavement rang throughout a square that was all of a sudden devoid of all cheering.
It took me a few seconds to comprehend what I had just done. Here I was, a crowd of two hundred people standing around me, all staring at a dead body I had put on the ground. As I slowly regained conscious thought it occurred to me that I was sprinting, sprinting away back down the street, the orange flashes of imperial guard uniforms I had never noticed until now surrounding me. Back, back, back, past Pieters, all the way to my flat, where I burst through the door. I had no idea what to do. I couldn't stay in the city, I would be the most wanted person in the slums even if I hadn't already had a reputation as one of the worst crooks out there. But the feds hadn't been able to pin anything on me. Until now. I threw some food and supplies into a bag, knowing I would have to leave, but I had no idea where to go. Frantically I pulled out a map. King’s Court was the only big city for miles, in fact, it was the only big city at all, except for- My finger rested on the east coast of Mirage. That was it. A war. A rebellion. I needed to go there. Not only was it outside of the empire, it was in turmoil. A perfect place to hide. That is, if I could bring myself to show my face there again.
But thoughts of that nature would have to wait. I burst back out the door and started running towards Pieter’s. Once I arrived there, I grabbed one of the horses in the back and set out as fast as I could towards the eastern wall. Faster and faster I rode, past the shops, past the square where Raoul still lay, past the guards who noticed me and began to give chase. I rode, only thinking of escape, disregarding the arrows flying past my head, the screams of the pedestrians that dove out of my way, thinking only of the fact that I was never going to return to this city again.
Out of the gloom, the eastern wall suddenly loomed into view. Forty feet high and ten feet thick. The orange guards were all around me now, calling for the portcullis to be closed. Futile. My horse bounded through the gates and onto the open road as the barred mechanism fell, locking the guards inside of the city. I continued to ride blindly east, not stopping twice to look back at my home, having only the dim shadows of my horse in the fading city lamplight to remind me of what was and how fast it was gone. And as I rode off, towards the great kingdom of sand, the clocktower in the city struck three haunting notes, deafening within the city limits but just barely audible from the eastern road.