There’s something powerfully amusing about looking someone straight in the eye and making them uncomfortably aware that they’re staring when they shouldn't be.

Try as they might, people can't quite help but stare at the scar bridging my nose, a drape of pale white arcing over my cheek like skeletal fingers reaching out to grab my left ear. There's nothing romantic or dashing about it - not like a sword cut stretching over one eye, or some other testimony to epic heroics. I’ve seen scars like that, and they’re infinitely more interesting.

Mine's just, you know ... there. Big, ugly, not the slightest bit romantic. People notice it, and then they try not to.

And I notice people trying not to notice it.

Sometimes while they’re staring at it, I'll grin or cough, politely waiting for them to realize that either I've stopped talking or they have. Eventually they snap out of their daze with a shake of their head, apologetic and begging forgiveness while looking anywhere but my face. They're so concerned about not causing offense, they actually drive themselves to distraction just to avoid ... well, being distracted. Ironic, really.

Clearly, this was one of those special cases.

I cleared my throat gently, blinking a questioning look at the shopkeeper, who was staring at my face in rapt fascination.

He had the typical reaction, stammering his apologies instantly, eyes suddenly trying to find something interesting about a nearby wall.

“S-sorry Milord, I was just – I don't know where my head is this morning. It's been a rough week and all, what with the...” he tossed his head sharply to the back of the shop, where several boxes of merchandise lay spilled on the floor. A large portion of his storage area was conspicuously empty.

I didn't recognize the fellow, and he probably had never had an opportunity to meet me, his Lord, either. His hair was shorn to the point where he almost had none, and those frayed bits that remained were half dark grey and half white, in a fascinatingly splotchy manner.

“Think nothing of it,” I dismissed with a wave. “You've quite obviously had your hands full, dealing with this problem. Which, of course, brings us to the whole purpose of this visit.”

“Yes, Milord. I ... to be honest, I hadn't thought this would go any further than a couple of your knights. 'Twas the furthest thought from my head to be bothering ye with the likes of this, and I'll confess to being truly surprised seeing you comin’ in through the door, like you was taking a personal interest in my business and all, and-”

“Oh, but I do! You are, in fact, one of my favorite shopkeepers, no word of a lie!” I smiled in what I hoped was a winning manner, for I could sense the unease coming off of him like the fumes from the aromatic candles he'd kept lit throughout the store. His shop window claimed they were lovingly crafted by hand, a fact that also explained a great deal about his awkward demeanor, his furtive glances at shadows, the clenching of his fingers.

Candlemakers were a twitchy bunch, and for good reason. When I thought about the stimulation and energy the herbs in my morning candle provided me, and then stopped to consider that candlemakers routinely inhaled a hundred times that amount over the course of a single day, I couldn't help but feel a little sorry for them. It was a dangerous, if fairly profitable, way to make a living.

“F-favorite, Milord?”

“Of course! I mean, let's have a look at the facts. It's been five years since you opened up shop in my territory, is that correct?”

“Five years, two months. Milord.”

“Well done, then. So, in those five years and two months, I have yet to hear of a single case where my knights failed to secure from you the monthly tribute. Not once in all that time has a single robbery occurred that I didn't consider to be prompt and timely. We come in, first of the month, and beside the register are a ledger and a purse of coins, just waiting for my men. In truth, I wish I had a hundred more like you.”

“Why, t-thank you, Milord!” he beamed, looking slightly relieved.

“’Tis the truth, and I'm more than happy to share it. Likewise, in all of that time, not once have I heard a complaint regarding stolen merchandise, or request for an extension, or any of the other numerous problems that I am regaled with on a daily basis.”

“I do try my best not to bother you, Milord, and the tithes I must pay ye seem very reasonable indeed. I've no cause for complaint, not at all.”

“And that's exactly what I like to hear. Then, this morning I received word that you had encountered a ... problem of sorts? Some merchandise going missing, some circumstances that were particularly unusual? I think to myself, ‘Now, here's a good chap. He works hard, behaves himself, runs a good business and has gained a well-deserved reputation as the best candlemaker on Finnay Street. He's run into a spot of trouble, and that's unusual. I should see what I can do to help him out!' And so,” I shrugged lightly and smiled casually at the shopkeeper, trying to remember his name, “I thought I might investigate these circumstances personally. You being one of my favorites, as I mentioned.”

He was tense, probably expecting some sort of set-up, I realized. I sighed inwardly, continuing to project peace and understanding outwardly at the slight figure who was a veritable cauldron of mixed emotions. Perhaps his reaction was due to some cruel arrangement with his previous Lord that had firmly prejudiced him against all Lords. Unfortunate, really - I hated dealing with tenants who behaved with the wariness of spooked horses.

“So, what you told my knights, who reported to me, is that the merchandise that was stolen was your monthly delivery of herbs, berries, and plant essences that you use to make your candles and such. And furthermore, these materials were-”

“Unmarked, Milord. Aye, I feel so foolish admitting it, as it's not something that I'm prone to do. Usually the instant new product comes in I'm up until the wee hours of the morning, marking every piece that comes through the door, I swear. I just, it's that the-” he sighed, downcast and distraught, hand disappearing into his tunic and producing his Tucat merchant seal. “I've not been feeling all that well lately, and could hardly manage to remain upright even as they were hauling the stuff inside my shop. I don't think I could have managed branding the entire stock in one evening. Milord.”

It is not exactly complicated, marking merchandise with a merchant's seal. Generally speaking, if you've never seen it done or had to do it yourself, you hold the seal belonging to your Lord up to the merchandise in question and you concentrate for about five seconds, picturing currents of energy within your body and willing them towards the seal. The result - an energy imprint of the seal you were holding was now marked indelibly upon the area that you held it up to, the different metals of the seal determining what colors would appear when the blue flame of a greyberry candle illuminated it.

While not hard, it does require concentration and tends to eat up time, a combination of factors that had caused this shopkeeper to put the whole exercise off until the following morning, much to his detriment.

The candlemaker confessing that he wasn't feeling well was troubling as well, considering the means at a candle-maker's disposal for ... well, feeling better. As part of their trade, they had to reliably reproduce effects that ranged from one end of the spectrum of human condition to the other.

For example, the candles I and most other city dwellers enjoyed each morning contained a powerful stimulant that filled those in its presence with energy and alertness. There were also candles that could counteract this effect, cause people to fall into a deep slumber or the like. Other candles did things like change a mood, making one more flirtatious than they would otherwise be. Or less so, as could sometimes be required.

A candlemaker had to maintain a certain balance when working around their ingredients. If they felt a certain way, they simply spent some time making candles that might make them feel the opposite until everything balanced out.

I cringed when I thought about how unhealthy that must be.

“So, if I'm understanding things correctly, you didn’t mark the merchandise before it was stolen, meaning that its theft falls outside of my responsibilities as Lord of this property?” I asked.

“Yes, Milord,” he said morosely. Disappointment caused his shoulders to droop, as if the words I uttered were extinguishing the last spark of hope left within him.

“This shipment of raw materials ... how much did it cost, precisely?”

“Ninety-four gold and four grey marks, Milord,” he answered, voice glum and ashamed. “It would have been less, but my stock of greyberries had become low.”

“So, almost ninety-five gold marks then. And you'd like to be reimbursed for the money you lost on unmarked product, compensated for the cost of materials that I can scarcely hope to recover now that they are 'in the wild' so to speak?”

He barely nodded, not meeting my eye. Ninety-five gold marks was a lot of money for a shopkeeper, even one in a lucrative line of work such as candle making.

“Done,” I said simply, with a carefree shrug. Then I took a few seconds to just stand there and enjoy the moment.

Gods, I love those moments.

On a regular day, ninety-five gold marks couldn't buy me the kind of comically surprised, stunned look I had produced on his face. Sometimes, such a look is worth more than all the gold marks in the Prince's back pocket.

It soon became clear that I was going to have to be the one to resume our dialogue.

“Now then, you can't possibly have thought that I was going to come all this way down here just to disappoint you, can you? Why, as I believe I've stated, you're one of my best tenants - my favorite tenants - and I can hardly let something like this cause you to entertain the notion of going elsewhere, now can I?”

“M-Milord, I would never dream of going ... that is, I-” he stammered.

“Quite right, quite right. And, between you and me, I couldn't bear the thought of a skilled candlemaker such as yourself no longer being available to me, either. Why, hardly a morning goes by that I don't rouse myself to wakefulness in the presence of one of your candles, no word of a lie ... may I be struck down where I'm standing if I do not speak truly!”

That last bit was always a little bit dangerous, because you never knew what god might be lurking within audible range.

“I ... I'm flattered, Milord. Truly, I had no idea that ... I don't know what to say! I had been hoping for a temporary loan of some sort, or perhaps a discount from one of your tenants who dealt in the herb trade, but...” He stood there, at a loss for something to say.

“Well, I shall be asking for a favor. It is a small one, which need not concern you unduly,” I said, and leaned close as if to impart a secret. I waited until he leaned in solemnly and turned his ear towards me before continuing. “Promise that we'll keep this a secret, this particular oversight. Why,” I stepped backwards slightly, no longer speaking in a conspiratorial whisper, “I could hardly run my territory if others suspected that I didn't treat every tenant equally. Reimbursing a merchant for property he did not mark? I would be undone! I can't let it be known that I have favorites! What would the others think?”

I winked slyly at him as he nodded in agreement, still looking bewildered and amazed, likely thinking that things were going far too well.

He was right, of course. According to the law I had no obligation to him whatsoever. There were other factors influencing my decisions at that moment.

“Of course, Milord! I shall not tell another living soul!” he sputtered in grateful disbelief.

“Splendid! Now, if you would care to show me where the vandals broke in to your shop here, I shall make a few notes and see what I can make of it. I might even be able to track the scoundrels down, hey?”

“Indeed! Right this way, Milord!”

And so it went for ten minutes or so. I hadn't really been interested, since I was near certain the merchandise was already marked with another Lord's seal and delivered to some other candlemaker or herbalist elsewhere in the city. My job here was merely to look interested and nod thoughtfully.

In the end, I handed over a small purse of coins containing enough to cover his loss and repair the damage done to his door. I spoke of the value of taking on an apprentice, and even offered to send a few potential candidates to him.

I stood and listened to his stammering thanks for a suitable amount of time, then gently reminded him of our bargain, to keep secret this great exception to the rules that I was granting him.

He'd pressed a box of his very best foxmallow tapers into my hands, insisting that I take them with me as a token of his appreciation. I inspected them. They actually weren't bad at all, mixed with greyberry to give the flame a green cast when lit. A nice touch, if green was your thing.

I put them in the sling pack I carried on my shoulder, next to the three packets of blended pumice-kelp soap I had idly stolen off the shelves when he'd had his back to me, which I could have simply asked for, and which I needed not at all. Really though, a thief's got to stay in practice.

As I left the small, battered shop and began walking back towards my keep, I reasoned that there were two possible outcomes from the encounter. One was that the candlemaker was as twitchy and absent-minded as he seemed, and would start covertly whispering the story about Vincent Tucat coming down to his shop in person. A story first-hand from a merchant about his Lord, ending with the words “But ye cannot tell a soul! Promise me you won't!” would be almost irresistible to gossips and other merchants. Other merchants who might be looking for a new location for their shop, for example.

If he kept his word, on the other hand, he might seek out opportunities to speak favorably on my behalf, or angrily challenge someone's poor opinion of me at a local tavern. In truth, there is no harm in having someone defending your reputation in your absence.

In the end, the entire thing had cost me less than what I might pay for a new pair of soft bottomed gazelle-hide boots and matching gloves, such as the ones I was wearing as I walked down my side of Finnay Street. The businesses on my side of the cobbled road seemed to be doing well, which meant in turn that I was doing well.

I'd been working hard on my reputation in the months preceding this, and saw this sort of thing more and more as an opportunity, rather than a trivial annoyance to be dismissed out of hand. The plan was to bolster my tenants’ opinion of me directly at the street level in the hopes of attracting more businesses to my territory, tighten things up. There had been a few gentle shoves sent my way from the Lords of some neighboring territories lately, which was a mixed sign, both good and bad.

It was good in the sense that someone felt my territory was rich enough to risk poaching from, which was a compliment of sorts. It was bad because it meant someone might be preparing to start a war – a long, expensive, and very public bit of pain that I could live without.

It was almost lunchtime. I'd taken to walking around my territory lately in order to build up an appetite for whatever extraordinary meal Mosond had prepared for me that day. I dared not miss a single one of his creations, or arrive at the table without sufficient hunger. His sulks were legendary, and could last for weeks.

Walking also allowed me to tour my property - soak up the general mood and consider how it might affect my interests. If I walked along a street along my border, I could also form impressions of how my neighboring Lords’ tenants were faring, maybe catch wind of an opportunity to snag an extra tenant or two.

“Tucat!” I heard a boisterous, familiar, and unfriendly voice boom across the street at me.

Speaking of neighbors...

“Haundsing...” I remarked dryly, watching the large and imposing figure cross the street towards me, his huge strides making short work of the journey. The two house knights on either side of him, scarlet cloaks adorned with the glyph of a howling wolf over the left shoulder, found themselves running awkwardly just to keep up. I quickly stifled a grin at his exasperated expression, and waited until the assorted fellows were close enough to see me rolling my eyes before doing so.

He stopped and stood in silence not two feet away. Lord Theodore Haundsing had a well-trimmed beard and a very prominent chin, a combination that made me think of horse brushes for whatever reason just then. He bristled.

Both knights, earnest looking young men, took their cues from their Lord and tried to bristle as well. They were pretty good, too. I swear, one of them actually seethed at me.

When enough time had passed that everyone involved had begun to feel awkward, I broke the silent stalemate.

“Uhm ... Yes?” I have this way of making the word “yes” about five times longer than it ought to be. I find that it annoys people.

Theodore certainly appeared to be annoyed.

“You know perfectly well why I'm vexed with you, Lord Tucat,” he spat, becoming ... bristlier? “And yet, here I find you, walking down the street just as ... as-” he stopped mid-sentence, trying to think of the appropriate thing to say.

“Natural as you please? Bold as a courtier in the kitchen? Cursed words, they can be so difficult sometimes, neh? Hang on, I might be able to help,” I said, innocently pretending to consider the matter.

He growled at me, gleaming white teeth hard to ignore. I smiled back at him.

“Wait, I think I may have it!” I said, snapping my fingers as though hit with sudden realization. “You meant 'walking down the street' just as your mother does, right? Or ... no, wait!” I affected a look of surprised dismay. “This street is nowhere near a brothel.”

One of the young knights made a motion as if he was about to draw his sword, managing to stop himself just in time. His eyes looked to his Lord, then to me, then narrowed with anger.

It appeared that Haundsing's knights were particularly sensitive today. I smiled cheerfully at the young fellow, wondering if he would actually draw on me. It would serve him right if he did. Of the two of us, I probably had the more accurate picture of what would happen.

“I would take steps to hold my tongue in the presence of your betters, if I were you,” Theodore said menacingly, “lest a sword blade split it down the middle. I've made it abundantly clear that I do not wish to see you cavorting around my subjects. And yet here I find you, in full view of their businesses, walking down the street just as carefree as ... as-”

“Two things, if I may,” I gently interrupted, saving him the presumably difficult task of thinking up an appropriate simile. “First of all, if we could take note of whose side of the street we're presently on? I could hardly be considered 'cavorting' with your businesses if I were unable to make out the sign at their door, could I? And secondly...” I pursed my lips and looked thoughtful, as if attempting to broach a difficult subject.

“Yes?” the larger man growled impatiently.

“Well, I've noticed in passing that whenever we meet, you use expressions like 'if I were you' time and time again. Now, I don’t want to make a big deal of it, and I'd hate to cause you embarrassment, but...” I pointed at my chest elegantly, “I'm beginning to sense that perhaps you wish you could actually be me. No shame in that, I suppose, but to be perfectly frank you'll need to work at it quite a lot. I’ve got to tell you that I'd never in a thousand years wear those pants you have on. Tragic, really. I know this tailor ... excellent fellow named Roderick. As a matter of fact, he's right down-”

He interrupted my monologue with bared teeth, as if unable to contain his rage, stepping towards me menacingly.

“You go too far, Tucat!”

“Really?” I smiled innocently at him, “You're wearing those pants, and I'm the one going too far? Seriously, are those things even pants? Or perhaps did two peacocks simultaneously find your legs irresistibly attractive and throw themselves-”

“A word of caution, you malodorous imbecile,” he interrupted. “Stop roaming about my estate! It's bad enough that fate has located your territory next to mine in the first place, but proper Lords, such as myself, should not have to tolerate your scar-ridden, plague-eaten face poking around their places of business. It will stop, one way or another ... am I understood? I'll not be repeating these words to you in the future!”

“As to the last, your news comes as something of a relief, for I readily admit I was becoming rather tired of hearing those same words from you, again and again. No doubt you can use this opportunity to learn some exciting new words. Here's a new and interesting phrase,” I said, idly reaching for my sword pommel that rested at belt level, tilting my head slightly and half-squinting up at him. “It goes something like this: Get ... the hell ... off of my side of the street, before I locate a second, head to the nearest dueling circle and provide you with an opportunity to learn what the words 'cleft in two' mean.”

There was a perfect moment of stillness between all of us as he and I stared at each other. Both of his knights were close, a half-pace behind their Lord, hands on their swords, practically snarling.

Just then a small boy clutching an old gray wooden sword, presumably running from imaginary foes, spoiled the dramatic scene completely by appearing out of nowhere and barreling headfirst into the legs of Lord Haundsing.

“Oops!” the young urchin began, looking up. “Sorry mister, I ... holy geeze!”

Awed by the unexpected presence of his towering Lord, the boy quickly turned and fled the way he had come.

My experience is that you cannot maintain dramatic tension after something like that. You can try, but you just end up wanting to giggle.

“Boys,” Theodore said, voice clinging to whatever shreds of menace were still possible. “Back to the Keep. I've said my peace, and I trust Lord Tucat understands me. Let's go.”

I watched the three men cross the street and disappear down a side-road a few moments later, the two young knights turning back to level angry glances at me periodically as they walked. I waved, smiling cheerfully.

Interesting.

I tossed the rather fancy dagger I'd lifted from one of the knights into my bag, then walked quickly back to my keep, taking a shorter route than I’d planned and arriving almost half an hour earlier than expected. I remembered to nod briefly to both guards at the gate, and stepped across the threshold, into my home.

Talia heard me arrive, head turning towards me in a motion that seemed unconsciously designed to maximize the impact of her thick golden curls upon the eyes of a casual observer. My keep-mistress was one of those girls who seemed to do everything in a manner capable of catching an appreciative eye and holding it. “Lovely” didn't even begin to describe her.

She smiled upon seeing me. It was the kind of smile that could make you forget what you were about to say or what day it was, stun you mid-sentence and leave you looking like a buffoon. Gods know that if I could properly capture that smile with paint and canvas, I’d be lauded a genius among artists.

“Talia?” I said, taking my cloak off and rolling the sling sack off my shoulder to the lovingly tiled marble floor, pausing only to retrieve the dagger I'd stolen from Haundsing's knight, “I know I said I'd take lunch in the dining room, but could you please send my apologies and tell Mosond that I'll be taking lunch in the exercise hall again?”

“Aye, Milord,” she said grudgingly, making a face that suggested she'd rather have been given the task of pounding one of her fingers wafer thin with a steak mallet.

Hey, if it were easy, I would have done it.

Idly flipping the dagger, I hopped lightly through the well lit foyer and dropped my gloves and cloak on a nearby chair, confident they would be looked after in short order. From there I walked past the painted mural of the family crest, past the hallways I usually used to get to the main hall, past the doors leading to the kitchen, all the way to the rear of the keep, near the garden entrance.

Once there, it was down the stairs to the wine cellar (I paused for a moment to grab a certain bottle I had eyed earlier that morning), and then down an inconspicuous hallway. After a few hops over the pressure plates and other cleverly hidden booby-traps guarding the passageway, I arrived at a large wooden door that had been crafted especially for me.

I'd told the woodworker at the time that I wanted the door to my exercise hall to say “Keep Out” without actually having the words themselves anywhere on it. He did a good job. Some days I didn't even want to go in there myself.

Unlocking the bolts required both the twist of a special key and the presence of my family seal pressed up against an engraved spot near the center of the door. Once that was done, I pressed my thumb against a light grey square near one of the hinges and waited. I felt the tiniest of buzzing vibrations across my skin, followed by a second clicking noise, which came from the truly impressive-looking lock on the front of the door. This was followed by a click-clack sound, which was in turn followed by the door swinging itself slowly open.

Lots of security, I know, but this is where I do some of my best thinking. I plan and practice break-ins here, simulate the walls that I might have to scale as part of a given plan, or set up a tricky window ledge to practice pulling myself onto. This stuff requires unbroken concentration.

That, and I don't like to share my toys.

I walked in, noting that the lamps and torches were still glowing softly, the familiar heady scent of vimroot and the slightly musty smell of rock welcoming me. It is the largest room in my keep, having originally been intended as a banquet hall.

Lacking the finery that once adorned them, the walls were simply a vast expanse of grey rock and wooden partitions - large climbing frames and scaffolds that held up planks and formed small ledges. The wall to the right contained all of my fencing gear and sword apparel, fencing gloves, practice coat and the like. A long, narrow fencing run occupied the center of the room, a larger dueling circle set into the stone floor, encompassing it. To my left was a plain wall, which was bare and uninteresting most of the time.

At the present moment, however, it harbored countless dark shadows, and a particularly large inky void off in the corner, away from the torches. It was from this dark corner that I first spied movement.

A tall, familiar figure strode into the light of the torches. Extremely familiar, this figure; it's hard to forget someone you've only just been accosted by in the streets.

Lord Theodore Haundsing now stood before me, alone, torchlight catching the bejeweled pommels of the twin swords that hung from his belt, an easy and confident look upon his face.

The door clicked closed behind me, and I heard the numerous bolts lock themselves into place, the heavy clacks bouncing off the walls with a musty sort of echoing quality.

“Well now. I'll bet you thought I was joking,” he chuckled, his short beard unable to hide his amused contempt, “didn't you, Vincent?”