Chapter 4

Clovis paced the Venician market place 'til he could recognize anywhere he stood on those few blocks. We watched shop keepers haggle with customers, hold out trinkets which shone with splendor, intricately carved hair pieces, jewelry and chests for wives or girlfriends. But no matter the amount of activity that flowed through the shops, Clovis had a disturbed feeling about the city. It was the people, he observed, that were setting him off. A majority of clothes were worn with holes, and most no one smiled, let alone laughed. Men and women wore hard faces, often accompanied by a dagger or sword hanging at the waist. The wealthier wore pistols draped on their belts. What everyone shared in common was the tension. Not one person walked with a relaxed stride. Venicia was a town on edge.

What most always triggered stiffened shoulders of every citizen here were the Mages that passed through. Mages said a word to no one. Conceit followed them like a shadow. Clovis often spotted them taking whatever items they desired without sacrificing a single coin to the dismayed shop keepers.

As troubled as Clovis was to his new environment, his mind was continuously distracted by the girl he'd met earlier that morning. Dusk was quickly casting itself over the city. As the sun left, suddenly so did the people. Nearly all the shoppers dispersed, and shop keepers wasted no time closing up. Nervously, he eyed the streets as they quickly descended into desertion.

“What are you doing?” an urgent, unfamiliar voice barked at him. Clovis turned, startled from being singled out. He faced an elderly gentleman with a stern face worn down by life's grievances. He wore a messy head of feathery white hair and a salt goatee around his mouth. He wore an apron over a stained white shirt. The frown on his face darkened the deep lines chiseled into his features. “Well?” insisted the man.

Clovis's eyebrows raised confusedly. He stood alone, slightly dumbfounded, then jolted himself into action to force a response. After uncomfortably shifting his weight, he awkwardly admitted, “I'm not sure I get your mean, sir.”

“Don't get smart!” barked the elder menacingly. Clovis jumped slightly. No one in this town had the manners that required eloquence, politeness and absolute respect that he had grown accustomed to in his home town.

“Sir, I assure you, my intention is not to trifle with you. I must press my insistence that I don't understanding your inquiry,” he replied as calmly as he could manage. He relaxed his countenance to try to illustrate his sincerity.

The man eyed him suspiciously and finally retracted his tense and guarded demeanor. His face changed from irritated to exasperated and sympathetic. “Come inside,” he sigh with a role of his eyes.

Clovis hesitated a moment before following the man into the shop behind him. Inside was a dimly lit tavern with several tables scattered around the room, each with a set of upturned chairs. A long counter stretched along the back of the room with several types of bottles, glasses and mugs shining dully in the low light. The old man lit a handful of candles, pulled down the shades to block the street and quickly fading sun light and then turned over a chair, beckoning Clovis to take a seat. The old man poured himself a glass of a dark liquid from an eccentric bottle, and leaned against the counter. “What's your name, son?” he asked politely.

Clovis, both exhaustively and nervously, took a seat, silently savoring the relief on his legs, and then replied simply, “Clovis Dussouier, sir.”

“Benjamin Thomas, though people here just call me Ben. Let me tell you, Mr. Doussouier, I've met a lot of folk in my time: old, young, dull, lively. Because of this, I can just tell about some people, know what I mean? And you have a story to tell.”

Clovis furrowed his eyebrows and asked, “Sir?”

“Knock that 'sir' shit off. You draw attention to yourself. It's Ben,” the old man snapped impatiently.

“Alright, Ben, what story are you referring to?” Clovis asked, a hint of exasperation flaring up in his voice.

“You're foreign! Look at you. You're wearing gentleman's clothes, or you were before they were torn and blood stained. There are fresh wounded that have gone untreated on you. You looked dazed and confused on the street like a lost dog! Not to mention you talk strange. How many people here do you think are formally educated? Worst of all, you stood around oblivious at dusk! Do you even know about the night guards?” Ben was watching Clovis with a critical eye. “What happened to you, kid? Where did you come from and why are you such a clueless mess?”

Clovis was taken aback by the blunt language Ben used so freely. Through his aching body and exhausted will, he was unable to retain his confident, cool exterior. He opened his mouth to reply, but upon not knowing where to start, shut it again. He cleared his throat when he noticed Ben raise an eyebrow in irritation, then tried again, “I come from a city shrouded in fog. It's located north beyond the mountains of Zel'therr, about a league west of Lake Drogmaer. Our town's name should be unfamiliar to most. I've never known anyone to come or leave, 'til that of late.”

Ben listened intently. He could see sincerity in Clovis's batted frame. He gently pushed for Clovis to continue by responding, “I'm much older than you, son. I've seen and heard many things in my years. Just try me.”

Clovis sighed, shrugged and said, “I'm from the town of Dre'nir.”

Ben nearly choked on his drink. His eyes widened and the creases in his forehead deepened in concerned disbelief. He quickly stalked to the window and peered out of the shades before turning back to Clovis. “Do you know why I beckoned you inside, Mr. Dussouier?” Ben asked earnestly. Clovis simply shook his head. “It's because the night guards patrol these streets searching for 'suspicious activity.' In other words, they clean our streets of lesser valued people while going unnoticed. Maintaining social control. Preventing groups of rebels from forming against the Mages. Night guards are Mages with armor and the silent mask of night on their side. Anyone caught out after dusk disappears, with no scrap of evidence as to what happened. They're looking for certain people in particular. A certain race of people they want dead. Son, do not make it common knowledge here that you're from Dre'nir. Its been long believed that the town you speak of was destroyed from the Great War 15 years ago.”