Robin smiled as the music thrummed through him. He could feel it in the soles of his feet, in the air around him, in the echoes of voice that danced in his breath and in his body. Around him, the tavern was shrouded in illusion, in glitter and gold and cascades of coins that vanished after falling from his mouth like golden rain, each note given denomination and weight.

It was part and parcel of his theme this evening. It was a bit inspired by his recent experiences in one of the dungeons beneath Noviel and a bit inspired by classic stories of dragons hoarding treasure. Small piles of gold and gems appeared and disappeared as glittering smoke wound its way around the edges of the room. Small dragonets, mostly coloured copies of Rerebos, flitted between the shadows that draped the ceiling. Robin’s familiar flitted among them, enjoying stealing a bit of the spotlight by trying to snatch up the various shinies that appeared and disappeared.

Robin’s repertoire from Earth didn’t include many draconian songs, but fortunately his [Bardic Lore] and a recent trip to the library managed to fill in enough options that he had a respectable set. Though there were a couple of Ren Faire staples that involved dragons he was saving for later in the evening. He was particularly looking forward to ‘The Dragon’s Retort’ and the song that inevitably preceded it.

His clientele for the evening were mostly younger adventurers he’d met hanging out around the guildhall. They still appreciated the wonder of simple tricks like ‘Bertha’s Bottle’. They might not have a lot of gold to spend, but they accumulated plenty of copper and silver running the various jobs the guild posted for them, and most of them liked to blow off steam with a good time.

So when he spotted first one, then two, then three-then-four-then-five faces he didn’t recognise, it stood out. The strangers were scattered throughout the crowd, lounging about and drinking, but clearly not a part of the experience or the energy of the night.

Something was up.

Robin studied the strangers as he circulated with his ‘enchanted’ bottle. There was a ridiculously skinny teenager, a young woman that looked sharp and brittle as glass, your run-of-the-mill-street-thug-looking guy, a woman that looked like she might be distantly related to Wulfram or perhaps a small mountain, and the man Robin suspected was their leader: slightly older, rough knuckles that had clearly been broken more than once, and a sleazy aura of entitlement.

The something that was up looked to be trouble of some kind.

Robin’s glance flicked about the tavern. While there were several people here he knew, there were none he knew well or would count as allies. And if trouble started, the crowd here was likely to dive into battle, wholeheartedly, with absolutely no care of any kind for the immense property damage a fracas like that might—would—cause.

Finesse and delicacy were not watchwords for many in the adventuring game.

Too bad he didn’t still have Wulfram at his back. Even the silent presence of that man would go a long way to heading off whatever was coming. Since he didn’t, however, he’d have to do something himself.

Robin sent a warning pulse of emotions along his empathic bond to Rerebos. The little dragon was unreliable backup, but he was loyal and fervent backup. He felt Rerebos’s attention on him, the sense of query.

Keep an eye on that one.

Robin spoke quietly in Rerebos’s native tongue, shadowed hisses and the clack of scales and claws (well, fingernails in his case), pointing out the man he suspected to be the leader. Then he made a show of grabbing a couple of empty jugs and going back to the kitchen to get some fresh ones.

His pulse spiked as he saw the leader shift, eyes following. Well, if they wanted to ambush him in the kitchen he could certainly handle that. Probably also a better option than starting something out here on the main tavern floor.

Yeah, they were going to come after him in the kitchen. Robin saw the leader nod and the rest of the toughs shift positions. Not sure how many it would be, but there was definitely something up.

The need to know who and why clamoured for Robin’s attention but he ruthlessly forced the questions away. There weren’t any answers he could easily think of, so it was just a distraction. The thing he needed to focus on now was countering whatever it was they had planned. Kidnapping, murder, robbery, who knew.

Best thing for it was not to be the target they thought you were.

Robin slipped through the kitchen and quickly settled the jugs he had been carrying on a nearby table. They’d be close enough to use as improvised weapons if need be. Then he wrapped himself with the illusion of a cabinet, using [Lesser Phantasm], and called up a [Visual Phantasm] of himself perusing the racks of cheap booze in the corner. The special effects in the main room would vanish, but he kept it dark enough and the booze cheap enough that it shouldn’t have been too ruinous—or tip off the gang stalking him that something was amiss.

He didn’t have long to wait. The woman like brittle glass—call her Clara—and the thuggish man—call him Riff—entered on quiet feet, their bossman right behind them. The other two were probably keeping an eye on things on the main tavern floor, close enough that they could be silently signalled to help, but on the lookout for unexpected complications.

So these guys weren’t total amateurs. They didn’t look big time either, though. So, ambitious, maybe? Though why anyone would pick him as a target was beyond Robin. Sure, the place had been caught in the crossfire of gang warfare before he spruced it up a bit, but that was something big-time. These guys were much more medium potatoes.

Robin had his illusory double turn to face them before they could get close enough to put a knife to his neck or some other ridiculous posturing thing that would reveal the illusion. If they were here to talk, that would hold them off. If they were here for something more serious, that would keep their attention more firmly on the illusions and give him a chance to make a play for escape.

‘Well, hello,’ Robin made the illusion say with [Lesser Phantasm]. ‘I must say, I often have people watching me admiringly, but they don’t often follow me into the kitchen in the hopes of a fourgy.’

‘What?’ Bossman blinked at the illusion.

Clara and Riff froze. Clara looked outraged. Riff looked perversely interested.

Robin made a mental note. That might be an exploitable weakness there in the future. If he had to.

‘Honestly, flattering at that might be, I’m afraid I have to decline. Too many other guests to see to. You understand.’ The illusion’s voice was bright and light and its face was entirely unconcerned. ‘But by all means, go back out to the tavern! I’ll be around with Bertha’s Bottle and you can have a sip, special, from me.’ The illusion winked. ‘On the house.’

‘We’re not here to get fucked, you idiot,’ Clara snarled. ‘We’re here to fuck you up!’

‘Kinky,’ Robin had the illusion reply.

‘Enough,’ Bossman said with a sharp gesture. ‘We’re not here to get violent, Mister Marq, not if everyone can stay calm and we can reasonably come to an accord about a bit of business.’

So not a kidnapping or a murder. Extortion maybe, or a veiled threat. Possibly a forced recruitment.

Robin mentally adjusted his plan. They weren’t likely to go right to the physical harm, so he’d play the conversation out, get as much information as he could before deciding which move to make.

After all, this was Noviel. Bodies tended to draw attention and he didn’t know what kind of powerful friends this group might have. He focused on making the illusion move to match the words he cast into the air.

‘I do like a mutually beneficial arrangement. So you’ve a proposal for me? Do tell.’ The illusion crossed its arms and appeared to lean casually against a nearby table.

‘You’re a growing business, clearly on the rise. We can respect and appreciate that,’ Bossman started. ‘What you don’t have, I see, is any kind of insurance against things that might go wrong.’

Right. Shakedown, then.

Clara took a bottle of booze from a nearby crate. She held it up, trying to lock eyes with the illusion, and dropped it to the ground where it shattered, spilling red wine like vinegar across the floor.

Good thing Robin didn’t keep any of the good stuff in here.

‘Accidents happen,’ Bossman said lightly. ‘We can make sure they don’t. For a reasonable fee, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Robin had the illusion say after a moment.

Sweat began to prickle down Robin’s back. It was easier to switch between renewing his camouflage and conjuring sounds than it had been before—he’d certainly had enough practice—but it was still a bit of a strain when he had to do it while responding quickly to a shifting conversation.

The fact that he was outnumbered by possibly murderous thugs didn’t help.

When did it ever?

‘And what sort of fee were you thinking for this entirely reasonable service?’ The illusory Robin looked a little resigned, but still mostly unconcerned.

Clara narrowed her eyes at it. She clearly wasn’t happy with that reaction. Bossman didn’t seem to mind, though.

‘Half your take,’ he said, not missing a beat.

‘I thought you said reasonable!’ The illusory Robin started.

‘Better than nothing, which is what you’ll have if this place burns to the ground,’ Clara said.

‘Or gets busted up in a fight,’ Riff added. ‘Happens a lot, to the best of taverns even.’

‘Seems eminently reasonable to me,’ Bossman said, ‘especially as it included a limited guarantee of continued good health for yourself as well.’

Clara was suddenly fingering a poniard and Riff had a nasty-looking dagger in hand. Bossman’s hands were still empty, but he made a point of cracking his knuckles.

‘I see. And what sort of payment schedule were you thinking? Monthly? Fortnightly?’

‘Daily,’ Bossman said firmly. ‘And Clara or Riff here will be on hand to make sure nothing goes amiss. With the tavern, of course.’

‘Of course,’ the illusion said wryly. ‘And your two friends outside won’t be taking shifts?’

That got a reaction. Bossman’s eyes narrowed and the sense of menace in the room spiked. Clara grinned. Riff looked nervous.

‘If you’d like,’ Bossman said. ‘Surprised you noticed them.’

‘I pay attention to all of my patrons,’ Illusion-Robin replied coolly.

‘So long as you realise that accepting this arrangement is in everyone’s best interest,’ Bossman said, taking a step forward. ‘I’m sure there will be further demonstrations as to why it’s necessary, if you need further convincing.’

‘Oh no!’ The fake Robin held up a hand. ‘I’m quite convinced that the best course of action is taking you up on your offer right now.’

He didn’t want a fight, and he needed to know more before he made a move. So yeah, a little loss in the short term would have to be an acceptable business expense.

‘Good.’ Bossman relaxed and the atmosphere in the room went back to moderately-tense instead of knife-edged danger screaming at Robin’s instincts. ‘Clara and Riff here will both keep you company tonight. They’ll bring your first payment along at the end of business.’

‘Got it.’

‘I’m glad we understand one another, Mister Marq.’ Bossman nodded and backed out of the kitchen. ‘We’ll be seeing you.’

Robin watched at Clara and Riff followed. No doubt they’d melt back into the crowd. The other two would probably accompany Bossman back to their lair or wherever it was they were holed up.

He sent a pulse of emotion to Rerebos. The little dragon sent back assent. He would follow and spy on these gang members, find out what he could, and report back.

Robin had recently gone into a situation without enough information. He preferred not to make that mistake again.