"A feast," Thomas murmured. "It's happening tonight."
"Yes," Jamie replied, his voice steady but laced with tension. "It's time we prepared." He gestured for Thomas to follow as they navigated the winding streets back toward the Golden Fiddle.
Over the past few days, the tavern had undergone a remarkable transformation. The old sign bearing the image of a fat pig had been replaced by a new one crafted from polished dark wood. It gleamed under the fading sunlight, the intricate design of a fiddle catching the eye of every passerby. The details were exquisite—strings etched with precision, the body adorned with delicate engravings. It was a beacon of change, signaling a new era for the establishment.
Once inside, they headed straight to their rooms. Rest was essential; they needed to be at their best to execute the night's plan. Jamie settled at a small desk cluttered with parchments and vials of ink. He unraveled a scroll and began to read, then reread his collection of spells. His mind raced as he contemplated every possible application, every contingency they might face.
Since rescuing Knall, he hadn't gained any additional experience points, despite performing nightly for the tavern's patrons. The audiences were impressed, but the routine wasn't enough to propel his growth. 'Perhaps I need to do something extraordinary to earn more points,' Jamie mused, his brow furrowed. "It's a shame—I could really use a level-up right now." He glanced at the interface displaying his current status.
| James Frostwatch (Soul: James Murtagh)
| Experience: [620 / 2000]
| Attributes
| Strength - 11
| Dexterity - 15
| Constitution - 11
| Intelligence - 16
| Wisdom - 14
| Charisma - 18
'It'll have to be enough,' Jamie thought, resigning himself to the challenge ahead. He secured the dagger Thomas had acquired for him at his waist, feeling the reassuring weight against his hip.
As the last hues of sunset surrendered to the encroaching night, the duo departed the tavern. They moved with purpose toward a shadowed alley adjacent to the Cutpurses' lair.
"You won't be performing tonight?" Thomas asked, breaking the silence as they slipped through the labyrinth of alleyways.
"No," Jamie replied quietly. "I've been taking a few nights off here and there. That way, no one can predict exactly when I'll be at the tavern. It's better to keep them guessing."
Thomas nodded, understanding the need for unpredictability.
They settled into their previous vantage point, a recessed doorway that offered a clear view of the Cutpurses' grand manor without exposing themselves. The building was abuzz with activity. Windows glowed warmly, and the sounds of revelry spilled into the street—boisterous laughter, clinking glasses, and the strains of a fiddler playing a jaunty tune.
Jamie surveyed the scene intently. There were eight men outside, some leaning casually against the railings, others animatedly sharing stories. Most were already inebriated, their movements loose and unguarded. Plates piled high with roasted meats and flagons sloshing with wine were being passed around freely.
"Eight outside," Jamie counted under his breath. "Plus the two guards and the leader inside."
"There aren't any children among them," Thomas observed, his tone a mix of relief and curiosity.
"No," Jamie confirmed, his expression hardening. "They don't mingle with the children. To them, kids are just tools—means to an end for filling their coffers." His voice was cold with indifference.
"And now?" Thomas asked, his voice barely audible over the distant party sounds.
"Now?" Jamie echoed, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He knew precisely what needed to be done, though the prospect was less than appealing. "Now it's time for me to make a spectacle of myself."
Thomas raised an eyebrow, concern evident in his eyes. "Are you sure about this?"
Jamie chuckled softly, glancing down at his attire. He was dressed in the most ostentatious garb a bard could muster—a tunic of mismatched patches in vivid hues of crimson, emerald, and gold, adorned with tiny bells that jingled with every movement. A flamboyant feathered cap perched atop his head, completing the outlandish ensemble.
"No one pays too much attention to a drunken fool," Jamie assured him, unstoppering a bottle of cheap wine. The pungent aroma filled the air as he splashed the contents generously over his clothes, the liquid seeping into the fabric and dripping onto the ground. He took a swig and swished it around his mouth before letting it dribble messily down his chin. The effect was immediate—the sharp scent of alcohol clinging to him like a second skin.
Thomas grimaced. "You certainly smell the part."
"Excellent," Jamie replied with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Stay here and keep watch. If anything goes wrong…" He let the sentence trail off, the unspoken possibilities hanging heavily between them.
"I'll be ready," Thomas promised, his hand resting on the hilt of his short sword.
Taking a deep breath, Jamie staggered out of the alley, his gait uneven as he exaggerated the sway of someone deep in his cups. He weaved across the open square, legs bending awkwardly as if they could barely support him. A few passersby cast disapproving glances his way, but most ignored him—a drunkard bumbling through the night was hardly a rare sight in these parts.
'Nothing is more invisible than someone making a fool of themselves,' Jamie mused silently, the thought steeling his resolve as he approached the heart of the Cutpurses' territory.
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The gang's makeshift festival sprawled across the front courtyard of a decrepit manor that served as their headquarters. The scent of roasted meat mingled with the sharp smell of hot wine, and raucous laughter punctuated the murmur of conversations.
Jamie stumbled forward, nearly colliding with a burly man at the edge of the gathering. "Well, look at this!" he exclaimed loudly, his words slurred. "A grand party, and no one thought to invite me!" He threw an arm around the man's shoulders, his grip loose but insistent.
The Cutpurse stiffened, turning to glare at Jamie. His eyes swept over the bard's garish attire and wine-soaked appearance. "Get off me, you drunken bard," he growled, shrugging Jamie's arm away.
Jamie swayed, feigning obliviousness. "Come now, friend! No need to be rude!" His tongue tripped over the words as he struggled to keep his balance.
Nearby, a few gang members paused to watch the spectacle, smirks spreading across their faces. One of them chuckled. "Looks like we've got ourselves some entertainment."
"I'd say he's had enough entertainment for one night," another remarked.
The first man, clearly unimpressed, delivered a swift punch to Jamie's stomach. The blow was solid, knocking the air from his lungs and sending a jolt of pain radiating through his torso.
"Get lost," the Cutpurse spat as Jamie doubled over, clutching his abdomen.
The surrounding thieves burst into laughter, amused by the display. Jamie coughed, resisting the urge to retaliate. Instead, he allowed himself to waver unsteadily before shuffling away.
"S-sorry," he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.
He staggered toward the old stone well at the center of the courtyard, leaning heavily against its weathered edge. His fingers gripped the cold, rough surface as he pretended to steady himself, his head hanging low. The voices behind him faded into the background as he focused on the task at hand.
"Don't let that fool vomit in the well!" someone shouted, the alarm clear in his tone.
"That's our drinking water, you idiot!" another barked. "Get him away from there!"
Jamie could hear footsteps approaching, but he couldn't afford to rush. With a subtle movement, he reached into a hidden pocket and retrieved a handful of crushed nightshade berries. Keeping his actions concealed, he squeezed the berries tightly, feeling the pulp and juices seep between his fingers.
"Hey! You!"
A heavy hand grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around. The same thug who had punched him earlier now glowered mere inches from his face. "I thought I told you to leave."
"I-I'm not going to… to vomit," Jamie stammered, his eyes wide and unfocused. He swayed on his feet, the picture of drunken helplessness.
"Get rid of him," another Cutpurse demanded, looking wary.
Before the thug could react, Jamie flicked his wrist, letting the mashed nightshade fall into the well's bucket still filled with water. 'Job done,' he thought, relief mingling with the adrenaline coursing through him.
"That's it!" the thug snarled. He drove his knee into Jamie's stomach with force. Pain exploded through Jamie's midsection, and this time, he nearly did vomit.
He doubled over, gasping for air as his assailant glared down at him. "We don't need the likes of you hanging around. Get lost before we make an example out of you."
"Wait," a voice called from the back. "Let him be. He's not worth the trouble."
The thug hesitated before shoving Jamie aside. "Consider yourself lucky," he muttered.
Jamie stumbled away, clutching his aching stomach. Behind him, the Cutpurses were already losing interest, their attention returning to the feast.
"Finally rid of that nuisance," someone said with a dismissive wave.
"Good riddance," another agreed. "Now, someone get me some water—I need to wash down all this wine."
Jamie's heart pounded as he made his way back toward the safety of the alley. Each step sent a jolt of pain through his battered midsection, but a grim satisfaction settled over him. The nightshade was in their water; soon enough, the Cutpurses would be out cold.
Thomas emerged from the shadows as Jamie approached, concern etched across his features. "Are you alright?"
Jamie managed a dry chuckle. "I've been better." He leaned against the alley wall, wiping a trace of blood from the corner of his mouth.
"Keep watch," Jamie whispered, his gaze fixed on the distant manor shrouded in darkness. "When they start to fall ill, that's our cue."
"Understood," Thomas replied, his voice steady despite the tension tightening the air between them.
Jamie settled onto the cool cobblestones of the alley, beginning to shed his flamboyant attire. The gaudy, multicolored garments typical of a bard were ill-suited for the covert operation ahead. He replaced them with a set of dark, unobtrusive clothing—soft leather and muted fabrics that blended seamlessly with the shadows. 'I've made enough of a spectacle for one night,' he mused, fastening the cloak around his shoulders.
Once dressed, he returned to Thomas's side. Together, they observed the Cutpurses' hideout from afar
Time seemed to stretch as they waited, each passing minute weighed down with anticipation. Nearly half an hour passed before the atmosphere began to shift. The boisterous laughter and clinking of mugs gave way to uneasy murmurs and sharp cries. Confusion rippled through the gathering, escalating into panic.
"It's starting," Thomas noted, his eyes narrowing.
Jamie nodded. From their vantage point, they could see figures stumbling about, some clutching their heads, others collapsing to the ground. The nightshade was taking effect, and each Cutpurse exhibited different poisoning symptoms. A few convulsed on the grass, eyes wide with hallucinated terrors. Others lashed out in a frenzy, turning on their comrades with wild swings and frenzied shrieks.
"This is our chance," Thomas said, urgency edging his tone.
"Yes, let's move," Jamie agreed, rising swiftly.
They slipped from the alley, keeping low as they darted across the open spaces. Rather than heading for the front entrance, now a scene of utter chaos, they veered toward the side of the manor. What might once have been an elegant garden was now an overgrown tangle of weeds and briars, providing ample cover.
The guards who should have been patrolling the perimeter were either incapacitated or too consumed by their own afflictions to notice the intruders. Two men wrestled on the ground nearby, oblivious to anything but their imagined foes.
Reaching the manor's side, Jamie and Thomas spotted a partially open window on the first floor. Thomas carefully tested it, the old hinges creaking softly as he pushed it open wider. He hoisted himself up and slipped inside, extending a hand to help Jamie through.
Inside, they found themselves in a grand hall that spoke of faded opulence. High ceilings loomed above, adorned with intricate molding now dulled by dust. A sweeping double staircase dominated the space, its polished banisters reflecting the dim glow of wall-mounted torches. Portraits of stern-faced ancestors lined the walls, their eyes seeming to follow the newcomers with silent judgment.
"Stay close," Jamie whispered, his footsteps muffled against the threadbare rug. "There are three of them—Ezek and his two guards. If we get separated, they'll pick us off one by one. We need to confront them together."
Thomas nodded. "Upstairs first?"
"Yes," Jamie replied. "They might be holed up in their quarters. If we can catch them unaware, we stand a better chance."
They moved toward the staircase, the weight of the manor's silence pressing around them. But just as they set foot on the first step, a cold voice sliced through the air.
"I was wondering what all the commotion outside was about," it said, dripping with disdain. "Who would have thought I'd find two rats scurrying around?"
[author]
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