In Low Places

Martel did his work for Master Jerome and Mistress Rana in the morning and spent a bell in the afternoon sparring with Maximilian, recounting how he had extended his magical shield to protect his staff while also breaking that of his opponent in half. The mageknight seemed less impressed than Martel would have thought, but perhaps he was simply still annoyed at being left at home.

"Any decent mageknight can extend his shield to cover his weapons if need be."

"Really? I've never noticed you do that the times we've been in a tight situation."

Maximilian shrugged. "That is because you are too busy paying attention."

"Anyway, I am going up against Leatherfist on Pelday," Martel explained. "We'll soon be done with all this, and I won't need any more sparring."

"A shame. You were just starting to show the least bit of promise." The mageknight gave a grin and lashed out with his staff.

~

As sixth bell approached, Martel went towards the harbour district. He did not bring his friend, since he doubted that Lothar would attempt an ambush during daylight in a public tavern. Whatever this meeting was about, it required wit rather than muscle, which might be another reason to leave Maximilian behind.

He found the place without difficulty; wearing his eyepatch, he entered. The place was half full, serving only drinks. Nobody ate or gambled or such; it seemed a simple watering hole of the sort that littered both the harbour and the market district.

Martel quickly spotted Lothar, seated at a small table with a tanker in front of him. Dropping a few pennies to get an ale of his own, Martel walked over. "You wanted to talk?"

Lothar gestured for Martel to sit down opposite him. "Yeah. You beaten all the regular staff fighters at the tavern, so I imagine Tibert will soon give you a proposal."

"Which is?"

"If he likes you, he'll offer to make you a regular like us. You won't earn as much for winning a fight, but you'll get room and board, and you'll get paid even if you lose."

"And if he doesn't like me?"

Lothar cleared his throat. "He'll offer you a fight against Leatherfist. He's always itching for that. He'll offer you a big prize, I'm sure, because he can charge twice the admission for such a fight. Don't take it."

"Why not?"

"Last guy who went into the ring against Leatherfist? He died. And you've seen Oak with his teeth? One-handed bastard took those, kept punching Oak in the mouth even after he surrendered."

That explained why the fighter had looked fearful after he yielded in his match against Martel. "I thought all of that was against the rules."

"Who cares about the rules? The crowds don't, so neither does Tibert. The fights aren't legal in the first place, so he pays off the city guard. They're not going to investigate because someone died in the pit."

Lothar shifted in his seat, and Martel realised that the grizzled veteran was afraid of Leatherface, or at least, uncomfortable at the thought of fighting him. "But he only has one hand," Martel objected, "and I have a staff! How can I lose against this guy?"

"That's what they all think. That's why the spectators love to watch him fight, why Tibert makes so much coin from it." Lothar drank from his mark and looked out at the room. "Don't fight him, boy."

Martel wondered briefly if he should hide the fact that he had already agreed to do so, but the fight would be announced soon enough anyway. "I already told Tibert I would. We are fighting tomorrow evening."

Lothar turned his head sharply to stare at the novice. "Tell him you changed your mind, or just don't show." He took a deep breath and leaned forward, elbows against the table. "Look, I can't prove it, but I don't think Leatherfist fights fair. It's the only explanation why he can win against the odds."

"What makes you say that?" Could the one-handed fighter be a spellcaster? Clearly not outside the realm of possibilities, given Martel's own activities.

"Once, I caught him leaving an alchemist's shop with a little vial. When I asked about it, he said it was balm for his stump, take away the itching."

Probably skin salve, or some variant thereof. "That doesn't sound strange."

"Not in itself. But the only times I've ever seen him with such a little vial are the times he's had a fight." Lothar leaned back into his seat. "I don't know what's going on, but take my advice and don't risk your life for this. Better ways to make coin."

Martel could not do as the old legionary suggested, but he did know a thing or two about alchemy; he just needed more information. "Thanks for your advice, Lothar. I appreciate it."

~

Martel walked home through the copper lanes, and not only to protect himself against being followed. Before he steered towards the Lyceum, he made a turn towards a once derelict house, though a few improvements and renovations had been made in recent times. Wise from past mistakes, he avoided the front door to enter through the back. A number of children greeted him, eager to both ask questions but also relate a variety of stories to him.

"Martel, look! I learned how to do the salve you make."

"You bring us something?"

"Can you look at this rash I got?"

"I kept sneezing yesterday, like you wouldn't believe."

Martel tried to calm them down and gain some quiet; eventually, he succeeded. "Where is Weasel?"

The young chief of the group appeared, walking down the stairs. "What's this ruckus? Oh, it's you."

"You don't have to sound so disappointed," Martel told him. "I have a task along with a silver coin for you and your friends."