Chapter Text
Why did I agree to come to this miserable backwater?
Wheedle’s heavy sigh fogged up the glass of his carriage. He’d ridden through the night to make it in time for Mistria’s “Saturday Market”, his wares jangling in the seats beside him. It hardly seemed worth the effort to bring his finest stock - these peasants wouldn't be able to afford it.
The carriage hit a patch of stones in the road, and all but threw him out of his seat. Wheedle clenched his jaw. Smoothed the front of his silk shirt, buttons open at the collar. He wasn’t here for their money, paltry as it was.
He was here for her.
At first, he hadn’t believed the rumors. Sure, joining the adventurer’s guild was one thing - she was probably just working a new angle. He admired the hustle, even as he blanched at the effort it must’ve taken. There were easier ways to bilk people than at the end of a blade. Anyway, it was a waste of all that charm school her father “paid” for.
But this? Farming some plot of dirt for a place he’d barely heard of? Wheedle couldn’t figure it.
Well, Artie wasn’t known for her great decision making, and he was living proof of that. Who better to bring her home, to the loving embrace of commerce and debauchery?
She’s been gone for over a year now. He wasn’t surprised by her absence, in the beginning - he was used to going weeks without a late-night knock at the door, especially since she’d joined that damn guild.
Then the stories started. She wasn’t on a job. She was out. Settled down on some acreage, mining ore and gems for a handsome blue-haired prick who happened to owe Wheedle money. He assumed Balor had already slithered his way into Artie’s bed, and that was just fine. After all, Wheedle hadn’t exactly been faithful either.
He made a little heart in the fogged up mirror, then wiped it all away with the sleeve of his white and lilac suit. Almost showtime. He could see the little town coming into view, haloed by the first blush of sunrise.
How charmingly provincial. Maybe we’ll come back in the fall.
He expected Balor to avoid him all the morning, but the merchant sought him out as soon as he unloaded his luggage.
He did not look happy to see Wheedle. That was fine, too - and the feeling was mutual.
Wheedle smiled acidly. “Good morning, sunshine! Sleep well?”
“Save it. What are you doing here? I told you, I’m not taking your deal.”
Wheedle felt his lips stretch over his teeth, a rictus of a grin. Uncanny, and unpleasant. “You’re not the only game in town, Balor. Maybe I have business elsewhere.”
“Not here. Not in Mistria.”
“That cute little Adeline says otherwise. Do you mind? I’ve got some curios to set up.”
Balor was unmoved. “I can’t imagine there’s much profit for you here without that damned contract. What are you up to, Wheedle?”
Before Wheedle could coo none of your fucking business, Balor’s eyes glinted with recognition. “Ah. A social visit, perhaps?”
Wheedle ran his hand through a sweep of dark hair, pushing it off his forehead. “Perhaps. I think an old friend of mine moved here some months back.”
He’d hoped for a reaction - any reaction, really, though he wouldn’t have minded a little shock or disgust. Balor just smirked at him. “You’ve known each other since you were kids, right? I guess that explains it.”
Wheedle didn’t rise to the taunt, but his jaw was tight. “Hard to put a price on that kind of history.”
“You’ll manage, I’m sure.” Balor folded his arms. “What took you so long, anyway?”
In truth, Wheedle wondered that himself. He could chalk it up to pride or dignity, but he didn’t have much of either. Stubbornness, maybe. He had that in spades.
So did Artie. That was probably why she was stuck in this wretched place - a wager with herself, or a fight against sunk costs. He knew the feeling well enough.
Balor was waiting for an answer. Strange, that he still couldn’t come up with one. Wheedle bowed with a flourish. “I’m flattered by your curiosity, but I really must finish the display. Your kindly neighbors will be here any minute, tesserae in hand.”
The prick finally left him alone then. Wheedle searched the growing crowds for auburn curls, but he knew better than to worry. She was always late.
That was fine, just fine. As long as he saw her first. He needed that, almost more than anything else - to get the drop on her.
As the sun crept higher, Wheedle got his wish. She was wearing that damn cowboy hat, which was an odd sort of comfort. Mistria hadn’t dimmed her beauty, which was better news still. Even across the town square, he felt the warmth of her gap-toothed grin. No matter that it wasn’t meant for him. It would be soon.
But her dark, lively eyes hadn’t found him yet. He held his breath, waiting for the quiet thrill of discovery. Waiting for her attention to stray from the hulking, strong-jawed farmer she arrived with. He had more than a few gray hairs, and arms like tree trunks.
Wheedle ran out of air. He exhaled and held his breath again, oblivious to the curious patrons milling nearby. He had another sale to make.
She saw him. Her smile disappeared, as quick as a card trick.
He pondered various opening lines as she made her way over. He’d practiced a bit in the carriage, but those ideas were lost to him now. They’d left his head when he saw Artie kiss the back of the farmer’s hand before releasing her grip on it.
Not Balor, then.
She surprised him again by inspecting the merchandise before she spoke. When she noticed the price tags, she laughed. The sound tugged at something knotted in his stomach.
Wheedle glanced down to make sure his shirt buttons were still undone. “If you see something you like, I can offer a friendly discount.”
“I’m not in the market for gold plated anything, thanks.”
It was the same burnt honey drawl he remembered. Wheedle smoothed his hair again. “And why should you be? Gold on you is just gilding the lily. But gold and emerald, now that’s a different story. Sometimes too much of a good thing is a very good thing. You were born to wear this bracelet, Artie.”
She shook her head slowly. Then, she smiled. “Boss always told you not to negotiate against yourself.”
“So he did, so he did. How is the old man?”
“You’d know better than me.” She kept most of the bitterness from her voice. Wheedle hadn’t heard much of her father lately, but what he had heard wasn’t encouraging. He composed a pretty lie for her, like he always did.
“He’s on a hot streak, and staying out of trouble.”
She was almost wistful. “Thanks, slick.”
No one else called him that. Wheedle swallowed the flutter in his throat, and felt it pass to his chest. “It’s good to see you, gorgeous.”
Artie studied him. Appraised him, more like. “You need money?”
A punch to the gut would’ve hurt less. He tried to smile through it. “Not at all. On the contrary, I’m here to pull you out of your rustic poverty. Why else would you be stuck here?”
Her eyes softened. “Who said I was?”
He didn’t have an answer for this question, either. Wheedle scrambled for an out. Fumbled, miserably. “I heard talk around the guild halls you were working with Balor. Who’s that barrel chested hayseed?”
“He’s my husband.”
She liked saying it. Liked telling him, too. Wheedle understood - he knew it was fun to show all your cards when you had a good hand.
“Well, well, well. That explains the looks he’s been shooting over here. How much does he know about you?”
She didn’t miss a beat. “More than you ever did. Take care of yourself, Wheedle.”
The rest of the day passed in a strange, sweat-soaked haze. He made a fair amount of tesserae, but it didn’t sparkle half as brightly as Artie’s smile. The smile she gave to someone else, now.
Even the gold is dull here.
If he hurried, he could be back in civilization by morning.