TACO Run

Chapter 3

Therion tucked his chin a little deeper into his scarf, watching the crowds mill through the crossroad. There were bars of white paint on the ground, connecting the most direct routes across the broad streets, but almost no one followed them.

The crowd thinned, the last few pedestrians hurrying to make it across. Once the road was clear, the low, pervasive rumble of the waiting vehicles rose to a dull roar, and they began moving again, quickly attaining speeds that would have a horse sweating with exertion.

Internally, Therion nodded. As he'd thought, the signal for when it was safe to cross the roads was when the lower of the two signs—the green silhouette of a walking man—lit up, and the lights above the streets themselves were red.

So red lights mean 'stop, danger', yellow lights mean 'be careful', and the green or blue lights are for safety. Useful.

He peeled away from the shadows to join the crowd, blending into it by drifting in the wake of a solidly built, dark-haired man with a prominent scar tracing diagonally across the left cheek of his prizefighter face. After a street or two, he'd pick a new mark to drift behind, so he wouldn't be thought of as stalking a particular person if they noticed him.

Not that he thought he'd be noticed. For once in his life, white hair didn't stand out at all in the crowds—not when at least a quarter of the people seemed to have some kind of abnormality to them. Odd hair colors, odd features, extra limbs or animal heads… Hell, there was an elderly guy with star-shaped growths coming out of each temple not too far from him.

It's like the monstrous races integrated with human society centuries ago and decided to start breeding. Ugh. Either that, or some deranged scholars had gone for blood magic experimentation in a big way.

I'm going to kill Cyrus and Alfyn.

No, that was too easy.

I'm going to steal sticky-paste from a haberdashery, and apply it to every work surface in Cyrus' study. And then I'll blame Alfyn for it.

No, Cyrus would never believe that.

Fine. I'll steal that bean-meal that Alfyn gave him as a present. If it's from south of the Sunlands, it's gotta be worth a bundle.

Not that he'd follow through on it. Revenge was a sucker's game, and he'd never seen the point of holding grudges. Still, planning it kept his mind occupied with something more normal than his surroundings.

Whatever strange place he'd been spell-tossed to, at least it was a city. Cities he could handle, no matter how strange. If he'd ended up in the deep wilderness, well… he was no H'aanit. If it wasn't an apple tree or a Mossy Meep, he wasn't going to get food from it. Glass windows in every building, good-quality shoes on every foot, clean, well-maintained streets… oh yeah, this is a wealthy place.

Wealthy enough that he'd seen what looked like a guard station on every third corner.

Better not get caught, then.

He brushed by a curvaceous, vapid-seeming woman with red-framed spectacles and masses of wild dark hair, making sure not to make actual physical contact that might startle her into paying him any attention. Heh. I trust you won't be missing this… Two corners and three marks later, he tucked himself into a quiet corner and looked over his spoils.

Hm. So people around here carry pictures of themselves. Little rectangles of some strange, smooth material, identical in design, meaning they were probably official and the too-neat words dyed into the material were probably the local equivalent of identification papers.

Not that he'd ever had official papers in his life, but he'd stolen enough temporarily for various cons to get an idea of what they'd look like.

And this is what their money looks like. A few round coins in various denominations, some of them in metals he wasn't familiar with, and rectangles of some kind of paper-cloth mixture that, from the look of things, were probably the higher-value currency despite being worthless in and of themselves.

Hmph. On the one hand, paper currency was lighter to carry, easier to store, and made less noise when lifted off of unsuspecting marks. On the other hand, its value was a lot shakier than coin—Tressa detested the stuff, and had gone on a Cyrus-level rant once about how paper money assumed a lot of trust in the stability of the local government. Coins you could test the purity for, or even melt down and sell for base metal prices in a pinch. If the papers lost their value? Well, you had some decent tinder, and that was it.

There was a reason most of Orsterra stuck to leaf coins. Any time someone tried switching to paper notes, the merchant guilds—including the ones that ran the Coastlands—refused to accept them as legal tender.

Well, looks like this place isn't just wealthy, but stable too, if they trust their government this much. Emptying the folded-leather wallets of cash, Therion tucked bills and coins into a few different places on his person, just in case he got caught and searched. There were other weird-substance rectangles too, but he didn't know what their purpose was, so better to leave them be.

Then he considered where to dump the wallets themselves. A culvert would be simple enough, but… A block back, he'd seen what looked like a small shrine, tucked into the gap between two much bigger buildings.

Time to go make a donation.

Ten minutes later, the contents of the alms-box had joined the rest of his loot, and the wallets were safely tucked into the slatted-wood container, where the priests could find them and return them to their owners without any risk of Therion being connected to them.

Ophilia was such a bad influence on him.

Alright, I've got local currency, a feel for the area, and my knives. He never let himself be entirely unarmed. Not even when surrounded by friends in a secure location. Knives had more uses than drawing blood. Next step, figure out if the others are here too. He could sleep under a bridge if it came to that. Finding a no-questions-asked inn was a low priority.

Therion strolled casually down the street, flipping one of his new coins in tribute to the prince of thieves. Where's the nearest tavern?

Therion watched as another tired-looking man pushed his way into the tavern across the street. The sign above its door didn't have the usual tankard, but a man in profile wearing an eyeglass and an odd, cylindrical hat, so he hadn't been quite sure it was a tavern at first. But the way the light flooded out through the doorway, the strains of music and chatter, and the faint smells of salt and alcohol convinced him that it was.

So once he'd determined that, he'd settled into an unused doorway's overhang and watched for a few minutes, determining how the locals acted when entering. No use standing out any more than I have to.

The door was heavy. He'd seen that from how some of the smaller customers had to lean into it to push it open. Security measure, he decided. Taverns did business by getting people to come inside, so the heavy door must be in case of troublemakers, bandits, or hoodlums. It was probably the same reason there weren't any windows, when all of the other stores in the vicinity made a point to put their products on open display. Taverns in small towns brew their own, but in a big place like this, they probably have to ship it in from elsewhere. Still… for a tavern to be that unwelcoming on the outside…

So he'd waited some more. Just in case it was the kind of place that catered to… Darius' kind of people. Not looking for trouble today.

But no, it seemed that the people entering the tavern were ordinary enough. Some looked wealthy, others looked to be barely scraping by, some were women, more were men, some barely seemed human, some definitely didn't, a few entered excited, most seemed tired or troubled.

Therion tugged his scarf a little higher, covering the lower half of his face. Let's get this over with. Checking the street lights, he made sure the way was clear before strolling across the street, hands hidden safely under his cloak. He'd moved his knives from his legs to up behind the small of his back, where they'd be hidden by his cloak—the common people in this area didn't seem to go armed, even with a belt-knife, and he didn't want to draw the wrong kind of attention.

Pushing his way into the tavern, Therion paused when a clear, professional voice called a greeting. Damn. One small entrance, bright interior lighting… they'll always know exactly who's entering and leaving. Therion gave a small, noncommittal nod of acknowledgement to the man behind the bar.

Short dark hair slicked back, somewhere between my age and Cyrus', clean and well-dressed— In what was clearly a uniform, Therion realized, taking in the clothes of the other two men behind the counter. And why did a small place like this have three working the bar?

The eldest man behind the bar—probably a few years older than Olberic—gestured over towards a rack by the door, where various patrons' coats hung, a kindly smile on his face.

So people around here feel safe leaving their coats by the door. As heavy as the door was, that wasn't as stupid an assumption as it would have been in the taverns he was used to, but Therion had no intention of following their example. Moving forward, he slid up onto the stool at the far left of the bar, where he couldn't get boxed in as easily. Then he met the younger bartender's gaze, raised one finger, and tapped the bar in front of him twice.

Either mute customers were common, or the bartender was too professional to question his refusal to talk. Either way, he interpreted the request for 'one ale' easily enough that Therion relaxed slightly, relieved that that gesture, at least, was universal.

The ale Therion received, though…

He eyed it very, very suspiciously for a moment.

It's in a glass. Not a wooden tankard, or even the slightly higher-quality metal steins he'd seen in the tavern in Northreach. A short-stemmed crystal goblet, clear and glittering in its cleanliness. The ale inside was pale golden and clear, with a head of foam that practically sparkled underneath the bright lights.

Therion was still eyeing his ale when the door opened again, and a young woman with straight brown hair and a scarlet vest walked in, sighing. Therion glanced her way as she removed her jacket and hung it by the door, noting minimal jewelry but high-quality clothes, some cosmetics, purse with a metal catch. She slid onto the stool two to his right, giving him a sidelong glance that he definitely recognized.

Your kind doesn't belong in a nice place like this.

Well, she wasn't wrong. It was almost comforting, to finally get a familiar reaction out of someone. And at least she wasn't openly looking down her nose at him or demanding that he be kicked out.

Therion took a sip of his ale, and nearly coughed. That is not ale. Whatever it was, it didn't have the warm, nutty-fruity flavor he was used to. It was crisp, cold.

He wasn't sure if he liked it or not. Ale was supposed to be warm and relaxing, the kind of thing that loosened tongues and purse-strings. This… well, it was a novelty, he'd give it that.

Therion sat there and nursed his not-ale for most of an hour, watching as other patrons filtered in and out. Some sat at the bar, chatting with the bartenders as their drinks were made—most of them fancy, complicated mixes of whatever expensive liquors sat on the glass-backed shelves behind the bar. Others took seats at nearby tables, snacking on salted beans or nuts as they listened to the strains of music coming from an odd device sitting in the corner.

Therion tried one of the nuts himself, and decided that they went pretty well with his not-ale.

Whoever the woman to his right was, she was obviously a regular, because she chatted up the youngest bartender in a way that led into and out of playfully argumentative way too often for her to be new here. Therion watched carefully as she paid her tab and left, noting how much she'd put down for the three drinks she'd had. He'd watched the other patrons too, and by now he had a decent idea of how much his own drink cost.

Raising one finger to catch the bartender's attention again, he tapped the bar for a second drink. But when the bartender went to give him another not-ale, he shook his head and flicked a finger towards one of the other patrons, whose drink was a much darker brown color.

The bartender nodded his understanding, and soon set a new glass in front of Therion.

Still cold, Therion criticized, sniffing the pale head of foam atop the drink. But at least it doesn't look like piss. The translucent dark brown was much closer to what he was used to. The taste, too, was closer—dark and nutty. But there was an odd, refreshing bitterness to it that he didn't recognize at all.

Therion sipped again, glancing surreptitiously sideways as the door opened, and the bartenders greeted another guest. Huh. Guess I really don't stand out much. The guy slouching through the door was disheveled enough that even he took note, wearing baggy dark clothes and an overlong white scarf that put Therion's to shame. His dark hair fell loose and tangled around his shoulders, his stubble was almost offensively unruly, and his eyes had the tired, bloodshot look Therion had seen on some guards who'd been up two nights running.

The shortest bartender—not the youngest—greeted the vagrant-the-rats-rejected with a kind of enthusiasm Therion could tell was forced, and was answered in a rough, scratchy voice that Prim would've called a baritone.

Then those bloodshot eyes turned to Therion, giving him a quick once-over, and Therion knew, knew, that if he tried anything with this guy around, he'd regret it.

Tch. This one's not as stupid as he looks. Therion looked away first, deliberately casual. He'd seen sharp gazes before. Prim could sum up a man at a glance like that, and know just how to push his buttons. H'aanit could track down a snow leopard in an ice storm. Tressa could pick out one glittery rock from among a pile, and it would be the only one worth its shine.

None of them had ever made him want to change marks, just because they'd seen him.

Not that he had a mark at the moment. No, as far as the world was aware, he was a normal, law-abiding citizen just getting a drink in the early evening, and never mind the knives hidden up the back of his cloak.

So Therion sipped his ale, listening without looking as the not-a-vagrant asked the bartenders a series of quiet, pointed questions, even producing what looked like a hand-sized picture of something Therion couldn't quite get a good look at without making it obvious he was doing so. After a few minutes of questions, the eldest bartender asked the not-a-vagrant something, with an expression and gesture that Therion interpreted as a very polite version of 'are you going to drink anything or not?'

With a toothy smirk, the not-a-vagrant declined, but put down a bill and two coins on the bar. 'For the trouble', Therion interpreted from his tone, before he left the way he'd come.

As the other patrons erupted in hushed questions about who that man was and why he'd been there, Therion finished off his drink, and then slipped the appropriate cash from its various hiding-places about his person, quietly double-checking the amount against what he'd observed earlier. Without waiting for the bartender to take it or say goodbye, he slipped through the crowd and out the door. From here, he could see the not-a-vagrant slouching on down the street, blending into the crowd with only slightly less skill than Therion.

If he'd been Cyrus, he would have undoubtedly followed that scruffy guy, tried to find out what he was asking questions about, maybe even tried to talk to him and get answers directly.

Therion snorted and went the opposite direction.

Thank the gods I'm not Cyrus.

A/N: While official art only ever shows Therion using one knife, he is explicitly ambidextrous, and most of his special skills involve two dagger strikes, so my personal head-canon is that he carries two, but usually only uses one, so that he's got a free hand for thievery or acrobatics. For his special skills, though, or when facing an opponent he can't steal from, he dual-wields.

A/N: The bar Therion visited was Bar Lapin, from the manga Bartender. And yes, they do serve their beer in fancy glasses, usually highball or footed pilsner glasses.