Verecleeve's Arc

Chapter 1 of 8

Verecleeve had tracked the Magus who killed his family across a distance that wore through two pairs of boots. Tonight the trail ended at a wooden door with a hanging sign that read Jorum's Pub. He pushed inside. The talk died the moment his hood cleared the frame. A dozen fighters sat over their cups. He crossed to the nearest table and set a coin down. "The man in black robes. Lion's mane of hair. He passed through here. Where did he go?" The fighter looked at the coin. He did not touch it. His eyes went to the door, then back to his drink. "I don't know any such man." Verecleeve moved from table to table. Every man gave him the same answer, or no answer at all. One woman pushed her chair back and left rather than speak. Fear kept their mouths shut. The Magus had passed through, and his name had bought their silence. Verecleeve leaned his rifle against the bar. It looked homemade because he built it himself, and it shot truer than any shop could sell. He rested his hand on the barrel where they could all see it. Behind the bar stood a fat, bald man pouring a drink. A red triangle marked his forehead. He watched Verecleeve's hands, not his face. When Verecleeve set another coin on the wood, the bartender slid it back. "I'm Jorum. This is my pub. Keep your coin." He filled a cup and set it down. "You want the man with the wild hair. So does half this room, though they'd sooner die than say it." "You'll tell me where he went." "I might." Jorum set his rag down. "Someone waters my barrels before I tap them. Six years back a stranger bought me a drink from my own stock and walked out my supplier. I got too drunk to remember what he poured. I've been cheated in my own house ever since." He looked at the rifle, then at Verecleeve's eyes. "You look like a man who finishes things. Find who thins my barrels. Then I talk." Verecleeve studied him. The bartender did not soften the offer or repeat it. He meant every word. "The Swordmaker sells him steel," Jorum said. "Skinny man, long black hair, bald on top. His forge is close. He forged blades for your Magus more than once. Start there. But the Swordmaker won't hand a stranger anything for asking. He tests hands before he trusts them." Verecleeve lifted his rifle. The silence in the room told him Jorum spoke true. No one had denied the black robes. They had only refused to name them. "If I find your thief," Verecleeve said, "you point me to his door." "My word." Jorum picked his rag back up. "I keep it. Rare thing in this town." Verecleeve stepped out into the dark and turned toward the forge.