“You know we’re not coming back from the desert alive, don’t you?” Renwick said to no one in particular.
The trio sat quietly in the Devil’s Tango tavern. Fig’s attention was fixed on the fight pit, where a humanoid lion and a giant crab were locked in a brutal, bare-knuckle match, if you could call it that since it was more claw than knuckle. Vorn sat back, silent, weighing his options. After only a few hours in Ashgate, they had been released and told to begin their march into the desert at dawn.
The Devil’s Tango was a tavern for the lowborn; a place to spend what little coin you had on forgetting that fact. It offered strong ale, sour wine, and the company of creatures better left unnamed. The pit fights drew the desperate and the damned alike.
Vorn had never set foot in the Tango before, though his family owned the land it stood on and held a controlling interest in the wine that fueled its patrons. He decided it was best that his new companions never learned that. If his father discovered he had been arrested, the old man would’ve used every ounce of power and influence he possessed to make sure Vorn was convicted and locked away forever.
His father had never forgiven him for being Marked.
Still, there was one reason everyone felt safe in the Tango it was guarded by three giant crab demons who never left the tavern. No one was foolish enough to ask what the owner had sacrificed for such protection.
“So we’re running, right?” Fig asked suddenly, breaking Vorn’s thoughts. “The red one can deal with this ‘asset forfeiture’ nonsense.”
“Vorn,” he corrected. “That’s my name, little one. And running won’t make this problem go away.”
“He’s right,” Renwick said, leaning back in his chair. “We wouldn’t get far. Something tells me Margrave will have a dispatch trailing us”
He smirked. “So, Mister Vorn, why’d you take the blame for a murder you didn’t commit? Who are you running from that makes Ashgate sound like the better option? Please tell me you don’t owe Alder. I just got clear of that woman.”
“What makes you so certain I didn’t kill the man?” Vorn asked, trying and failing to hide his surprise.
Renwick laughed. “Please. Your clothes are custom-tailored. Even for a Malbrin, you scream noble.”
“And nobles don’t do their own killing,” Fig added, eyes never leaving the pit.
Vorn hesitated, then told them what he had seen in the crowd and how the whole affair had unfolded. Since their odds of surviving the Mirage Desert, let alone clearing out a Necromancer’s home, were near zero.
He let them think he was a lowborn noble with little coin to his name. The last thing he needed was the reminder that, even if he were ransomed, his family would never pay it.
Renwick suggested they stay the night at the Tango; it would likely be their last chance to sleep in a proper bed. Fig agreed, though she thought it was only proper for Vorn to cover her losses from the fight pit.
Vorn didn’t argue. He wasn’t the cause of their troubles, but he suspected that once the others learned about their “saltwater and honey” beverage venture, trouble would have found them regardless.