Rylan swayed on this stool for a moment, grabbing onto the edge of the bar for support. Art hadn't frequented the Knackered Hag since around the time Rylan had received his letter. That seemed like a very poor omen... Had something happened?

Uncomfortable heat spread across Rylan's body as his heartbeat accelerated, but he didn't dare pull down his dark grey cowl any further.

"Is there someone else here who might know where he lives?" he asked, making an effort to keep his voice steady.

The ruddy-faced bartender scratched the dark stubble on his neck. "Phew... I suppose one of the other regulars might know? I wouldn't know which one, but you could always ask around. You can start over there with Purple-Toed Pete—don't ask; you don't want to know. There will be more of them later tonight, when we're busiest. And let me know if you change your mind about that drink!"

Another customer caught the man's eye, and he bustled off, all smiles, leaving Rylan behind with his inner turmoil.

Was he really going to question a bunch of strangers in a pub on the off chance they might know the man he was looking for? He'd dreamt of going to a city like this his whole life, and under different circumstances he would've been more than happy to spend some time in a pub, drinking in the atmosphere. However, there was a massive bounty out for his capture right now, and he'd just killed a man who had tried!

That still didn't feel entirely real.

But then, what else was he supposed to do? Where else was he supposed to go? What was he going to do if he couldn't find Art? Go hide out in caves beneath the city? Live out in the cloudsea?

Soren and Captain Hammermore would be gone by now. Ezra had offered Rylan a job, but that was for when the red-headed chef had actually opened his little eatery. Yuel and Nazyr were probably still unloading the ship or swabbing the deck or living it up spirits-know-where; there was no telling when they'd actually be at the address they'd given him.

For a few long seconds, Rylan just sat there, breathing deeply as he clenched and unclenched his fist. Finally, he gritted his teeth and got up off his stool.

Purple-Toed Pete did not know where Art lived. He did have a rather lengthy anecdote about how the Knackered Hag had once held a shuffleboard competition which Art might've won—if he hadn't decided to play the last round with his feet.

Rylan probably would've enjoyed the story more if he hadn't been able to smell the man's breath even through his cowl.

The next few regulars the bartender pointed out didn't know either, though a few of them had more funny stories to tell. Like that time someone had brought a pig into the bar, and Art had apparently ended up riding it on a dare, which resulted in several tables being knocked over and Sloan threatening to quit.

Animals were banned now.

As the night progressed, different regulars and stories kept coming, but one thing remained constant: no one seemed to know where Art lived, or even his last name.

Rylan wasn't keen to walk into any kind of city services centre in the first place, but he was definitely not going there to ask for an address with nothing but the name 'Red-Nosed Art'.

As the night started drawing to a close, Rylan still hadn't found a single solid lead, and his steadily growing anxiety was becoming too much to handle.

Leaning on one of the tables, he grabbed at the cowl, simultaneously wanting to pull it up to hide his entire face and to rip it off as he suddenly couldn't breathe. He did neither, paralysed by indecision.

A face approached him. Bushy eyebrows drew together. It sounded like the man they were growing on was asking him something, but the pounding in Rylan's ears was so loud and overwhelming, that the meaning was lost on him. The pub spun, as the walls seemed to close in.

[Boss!] Arphin called out inside his mind. [What's happening, why are you breathing so hard, and why is your bloodpump going crazy like that?]

Rylan wanted to reply, but he wasn't entirely sure either. Before he could send anything back, the world tilted.

A pair of rough, calloused hands caught him with surprising gentleness.

He was moving. He passed through a door, and the noise grew muffled as it closed behind him.

"Just put him down over here, Sloan," a worried baritone said.

Rylan blinked, finding himself in a soft wicker armchair, padded with cushions, in front of a coffee table. The ruddy-faced, bushy-browed bartender put down a cup of tea in front of him.

"Hey, are you all right, kid? Here, drink this. It's on the house, I promise."

"I... Sorry," Rylan muttered, shaking his head, still kind of out of breath. Looking to the side, he found his backpack had been placed next to the chair. "I don't know what happened..."

"You gave us a fright, is what happened!" the man replied, using the same tea towel he polished glasses with to dab at his sweaty forehead as he took a seat opposite Rylan. "Good thing Sloan was there to catch you when you keeled over, hey Sloan?"

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

Rylan glanced over his shoulder at the man, who was staring at him impassively, his muscled arms and thick neck looking rather intimidating from up close. "Thank you, sir."

Truth be told, the fall wouldn't have hurt Rylan, but the light coming off his Mana Shell would've given away his secret, and worse, drawn attention to him.

Sloan grunted.

"All right, you can go back to cleaning now, Sloan," the ruddy-faced man enunciated slowly after a moment of awkward silence.

Sloan nodded. "Yes," he said in a thick, unfamiliar accent. "I go clean."

And with that, he turned and left.

"Dumb as a rock, but strong as a donkey; best employee I ever had," the man confided with a wink once the door swung shut. "Anyway, are you feeling a little better, lad?"

"I think so. Thank you, Mister... ehm..."

"Burtrand Sunkenship," the ruddy-faced man answered, holding out a hand for Rylan. "But you can call me Burt, like everyone else."

Rylan shook his hand, which was big, warm, and surprisingly dry. "I'm Ry—Ryles," he found himself saying, almost biting his tongue as he hastily pivoted to the nickname. Fog, I need to pay attention to that!

He was clearly still a little out of sorts, but he also blamed the man's kind face for making him feel safe.

To hide his consternation at the slip-up, he picked up the cup of tea and took a sip. It was hot—though not painfully so—and very bitter. Despite his best efforts, he felt his face contort as his tongue tried to escape the tart liquid.

"Powerful stuff, eh?" Burt said proudly. "My own blend! Figured you could use a real pick-me-up. Speaking of which... when did you last eat, Ryles? If you don't mind my asking."

Rylan blinked. "Oh... that's not what—I had dinner before I got here. Really."

"You sure?" Burt pressed. "Because I can see if there are some leftovers from tonight's dinner in the fogroom if you're short on cash..."

Rylan felt himself grow a little red under the man's earnest, worried attention. "I'm not hungry, I swear."

Burtrand's eyes shifted to Rylan's backpack, with the bedroll attached on top. "Are you... travelling?"

"I was," Rylan allowed. "Like I said, I'm looking for Art. He, ehm, wrote me a letter, told me I could come here to find him if I needed to. He just wasn't very... detailed on the how."

Burtrand leaned back. "Well, I hate to be negative, but if you haven't turned up any leads yet, I don't think you'll find him tonight. Do you have a place to stay yet?"

Rylan shook his head.

The man tutted. "I see... Since you're not from around here, I feel I better warn you: the guards don't take kindly to people lying on the streets. I'm afraid we don't rent out rooms here either, but there's an inn at the corner of the street that's pretty affordable. You can get a bunk bed in a common room there for about four bits a night. You gotta be a bit careful about your stuff in such places, but it'll be clean and warm."

Rylan's heart sank. Between Arphin, the Pearl of Inspiration, and the bounty on his head, sleeping in a common room seemed far too risky. He'd have to basically sleep while clutching his backpack to his chest, and somehow keep his face covered the whole time. "How much for a private room?"

Burtrand's brows rose. "At an inn? Well, those are usually at least two bronze quarters a night, I think."

Rylan winced. That was more than a quarter of his current funds. Definitely not a long-term solution.

"Look, kid, I don't mean to pry, but—"

Burtrand was interrupted by the door opening and the orange-haired serving girl walking in with one hand on her hip and her woven bamboo serving tray dangling loosely from the other.

Her brown skirt cut off just above her knees, and the v of her white blouse was rather deeper than Rylan was used to seeing, so he quickly averted his gaze back up to her eyes.

"Burt," she spoke in a somewhat annoyed tone. "Purple-Toed Pete is starting up another argument about which of the city's Rubies is stronger. He's been hitting the ales hard today; I think it might escalate. Can't we just ban him already?"

Burt sighed. "I can't just ban our best customers, Fylsa; this is still a business."

"I'm just saying. Is his money really worth listening to him yap on about Askir's grand walls of light when everyone knows Hilda could take him with her hands behind her back?"

"He's—wait, without hands?"

Fylsa shrugged. "She'd think of something. Maybe squeeze him between her thighs until he tapped out."

Burt shook his head. "Look, I'll deal with Pete," He glanced back at Rylan. "Take your time to enjoy your tea, I'll be back in a moment, all right?"

Fylsa stepped aside to let Burtrand pass, shooting Rylan a curious glance before she sashayed out after him and let the door swing shut behind her.

Rylan sank back into his chair with a sigh, not all that much in the mood for tea.

[What do we do now, Boss?] Arphin asked.

'I'm not sure, Arphin. This is a real mess... Where am I supposed to go with a price of one hundred gold crowns on my head?! How am I supposed to get a job and pay off my fogging debt? How am I supposed to travel and see the world if I can't normally pass through the fogging gates?'

[Maybe we can sell the Pearl of Inspiration then?]

Rylan rubbed his temple, smiling wanly. 'It's tempting, but it would also really suck to have to sell it. Plus, it seems rather risky. I'll have to identify myself in some way in order for them to know who to pay afterwards, right? Can't just enter without any papers and with my cowl on.'

[Right, that makes sense...]

With a frustrated huff, Rylan got up and started to pace the room. A price on his head... Why did these things keep happening to him?

Well, he refused to let himself be taken in so easily. If they really wanted to get him, they'd have to drag him in kicking and screaming. But he didn't want to hole up in a cave like some kind of hermit either. He was going to live, damnit, and he was going to train so hard and become so strong that by the time they found him, it would be too fogging late.

If only he could find a place to do all that...

Rylan's eyes widened as he was hit by an idea that stopped him in his tracks.

The door opened, and Burt came bumbling back in. "Ah, you're up on your feet, that's good. Feeling a bit better, then?"

Rylan turned to him, righting his spine and raising his chin. "I am," he said calmly. "And Mister Sunkenship—"

"Call me Burt, please, I insist."

"Burt," Rylan amended. "I was wondering if I might be able to stay here after all... as an employee, working for room and board."

When it came down to it, Rylan's supply of money wasn't going to last, which meant he needed employment. And a job at The Knackered Hag would be catching two gulls with one net, as he then could also keep a lookout for Art, or anyone who might know him.

More importantly, Burtrand seemed like a genuinely good guy, and while Rylan had learned his lesson about trusting strangers very recently, he was willing to take a gamble on the man, if it came to it.

Burtrand blinked. "Look, Ryles, you seem like a nice kid," he started. "If you're looking for work, I would love to help you out, but I'm afraid I really don't have any positions to fill at the moment..."

"This place serves meals all day, right?" Rylan asked, mostly to confirm. As much as he didn't want to work in a kitchen again, it was what he knew and had gotten reasonably good at. Moreover, the Knackered Hag appeared to have a closed kitchen in the back, which would help him keep a low profile.

"Ehm, we do, yes, but the kitchen roster is full at the moment," Burt replied apologetically. "However, if it's kitchen work you're looking for, I could ask around tomorrow to see if—"

Rylan gritted his teeth. He would've preferred not to reveal anything, but he'd already decided that he wasn't taking no for an answer. "Before you reject me, you should know that I do actually have... the Cooking Skill."

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