The Ruby Magician

Arabelle stirred the hot soup alone in her and her father’s pitiful home. Her father, the gambler, drunk, and general bastard, had said he was going to see his ‘friends’ that day. She had no idea how late he’d be out when he saw them, but it was never early. She often left to go to her shift at the Pig Sty before he returned home, but after a few times of receiving lashings from not having food prepared before she left, she grew into the habit of finishing the soup before leaving.

She took a deep breath and smiled. It wouldn’t matter anymore. She was only four crowns away from her goal of having enough coins to escape. In three nights, maybe two if she was lucky, she’d be done at that literal sty of a tavern and done with her awful father. Then she would run to her brother, the only person worth anything in her life.

It had been almost a month since Wyn had left for Alestead to become a Climber. He sent letters about his time there and his experience so far, and joy and hope filled her heart when she thought about his stories of finding friends along with the promise that he’d earn enough to pay off their family’s debt.

An even bigger smile crossed her face when she thought about his class being a Ruby Magician, whatever that was. He said it was a class that others looked down upon, but she didn’t believe him. He was always pragmatic but a bit pessimistic, too.

Finishing up the soup, she quickly changed and pulled out her stash of coins hidden in the floorboards of her room. One more check confirmed her amount and gave her the confidence to hold out just a little longer. Soon she’d never return. This farm, this house, and all of the piss poor memories she had of everything along with them were going to be left behind.

*****

“Arabelle, hurry up!” A voice boomed, rising over the chatter of the Pig Sty. Fred, the owner, was slinging plates and cups left and right. Both clear and dark liquids sloshed out of cups and food disgustingly slopped around plates when the bear of a man slid the dinnerware across the smooth bar’s surface. She always thought it was a miracle the wooden bar top wasn’t stickier from all manners of substances that littered it, but the man was diligent about cleaning at closing time. Not that he ever did it himself, of course, only making the girls working the room stay longer until the place was spotless. Which took hours, considering how filthy the place got over the course of a night.

Arabelle shook the thoughts from her mind. That wouldn’t matter soon. She only had three more nights and four more crowns. Then she’d be free.

Taking a sharp breath, she returned to the bar, needing to focus at the task at hand.

She picked up three plates of food and set them on her large, circular wooden tray while holding the bottom with one hand. Three more cups soon joined her platter, and she held her breath at the stench. The food was edible, of course, but after watching Fred cook it so many times she eventually became repulsed by it, even preferring the meager soup at home. A mixture of onion, undercooked beef, stale bread, and lumpy potatoes could only go so far, so the man doused every plate in cheap spices. The patrons didn’t mind once enough ale was in their body, and food was food, after all.

Carefully passing between customers and tables, she worked her way across the fairly large room before setting down her tray on an empty table. She started to unload the platter when she felt a slap on her backside. Reacting to the touch, she jolted, lightly spilling a cup of water that was nearly set on the table.

“Ayy, wench!” A man seated at the table called, his words slurring. “Careful, there! That’s my dinner!”

The seated man immediately to her right, the one who slapped her, tried and failed to hide his laughter. The four others had varied reactions, mostly laughing, though one hit the culprit on the back of the head. Arabelle felt her grip tighten on the wooden tray when she finished unloading the food and drinks, and she forced herself to calm her rising emotions in an instant. She had every intention to take the tray and smack the man across the face, but the only good it would do would make her feel justified. There would be far worse consequences than that.

She offered a painfully forced smile and curtsied. The move made the men laugh, lightening the mood. If she got a better tip out of them for playing along, then maybe there’d be some positive for the night.

“Order up!” Freed boomed, his eyes locked on her across the room.

Arabelle cursed. Did the man not see the five other girls lazily spread across the room? Sasha was heavily flirting with some customers at a table, sitting in a man’s lap and making them laugh with some crude joke she always used. Rachel just returned from the bathroom, no doubt wiping her eyes after crying from some other patron who harassed her just like Arabelle. The others weren’t even worth mentioning.

Slowly walking back to the bar for the next round, Arabelle reminded herself over and over of her goal. She repeated the mantra in her head repeatedly.

Three more nights. Four more crowns. Three more nights. Four more crowns.

“…heard he finally got his comeuppance,” a hushed voice said to Arabelle’s right. She perked up and cut her eyes to the source of the voice. A small table of four men, huddled together with only cups of water and bread, spoke in low tones.

They weren’t drunk like the rest of the tavern, and they were obviously discussing something important. They were leaning towards each other carefully. Arabelle slid around their table, looking at other customers and nodding to no one, hoping to look distracted and focused elsewhere despite trying to listen in.

“About damn time,” another man at the table said. “No one loses that much and tries to play again without paying up. Thatcher had it coming.”

Hearing her last name in their conversation made Arabelle’s heart jump into her throat. Confirming they were talking about her father, she stilled. Panic flooded her. She then saw Rachel grab the food off the bar and mentally thanked the woman, knowing she earned some more time before needing to rush elsewhere. There was no way in hell she would miss this conversation.

“He didn’t learn his lesson,” another man added. “Never does. Even a few fingers won’t stop an addict. He’s in too deep!”

“Next time it’ll be his daughter, from what I heard,” the first man said. “His fate is sealed. I bet they want her and that farm, now.”

Arabelle froze. So her father got caught and they took some of his fingers? Good. The man deserved far worse. But the fact that she was on their debtor’s list terrified her.

She took a deep breath and made a decision. To hells with three more nights and four more crowns. If her life was in danger, she needed to leave now.

She sat her tray down on the bar and slowly walked to the door.

“Hey,” Fred yelled. “Girl! Don’t you dare walk out on me!”

Arabelle opened the door, ignoring the raised voice and stares behind her. Her thoughts raced in different directions as she started jogging home. The meager copper boots she earned during her shortened final shift rattled in her pocket, but she ignored them.

Her father obviously got caught in his latest failure. Instead of trying to help make up the deficit and turn his life around, he only committed her and Wyn further into their debt. What a bastard. She had every intention of beating the man herself if he was home, her anger at him rising like a bellowing flame.

It took her even less time than usual as she ran quickly, emotions fueling her body. When she turned the corner to their farm, she stopped. The front door was open, which meant her father was home. She clenched her jaw in fury. Maybe she could release some more of her pent up anger. The man was injured, after all, and likely beaten already. What was a few more strikes?

Carefully walking to the front door, she froze to allow her thoughts to clear. Her father never left the door open. In her anger, she overlooked that minor detail. Looking closer, she saw that blood stained the handle and pooled on the floor. There was a smear that led further into the house, and the color was a rich red.

It was recent. She knew her father was injured, but this was far worse than she imagined.

“Hello?” Arabelle called. “Father?” There was no response. She immediately chastised herself after calling for him. If he was that hurt and someone was here who was dangerous, she just alerted them to her presence. Were her emotions dulling her mind? She shook her head and took a deep breath. If their debtors were serious about harming her, she needed to gain some wits and fast.

Gaining some courage to move, she stepped past the puddle of blood and took quiet steps to the kitchen. The house still seemed to be intact, nothing out of sorts or damaged. She assumed there wasn’t a struggle, but instead her father just came home wounded on his own. The soup was cold and still in the pot, too. Ignoring it, she grabbed a rolling pin in one hand and the kitchen knife in the other. She waited a few more seconds to see if there were any sounds of movement further into the house.

Nothing reached her ears. Her father was likely passed out, or even dead.

Carefully stepping through the house, she stopped outside her room and relief washed over her. Her room was exactly how she left it. All of her prized coins were likely still stashed away, which gave her new hope. Continuing her current mission, though, she stepped to her father’s room and slowly entered.

The man was lying on the bed with his left hand wrapped in a large bloody cloth that was poorly wrapped and soaking his bed with more blood. There were spots of blood leading from the front door all the way to his bedroom, but nothing was as bad as where he now lay. If he wasn’t already dead, there was a good chance he’d die just from blood loss. Arabelle wondered if he had tried to staunch the bleeding at some point but either from poor work or a drunken stupor he had allowed the cloth bundle to unravel.

With hesitant steps, she walked up beside him and neared her face to his. Sweat covered his forehead and face, and his skin was a sickly pale color. His chest slowly rose and fell with slow breaths, and he didn’t seem awake. Blood continued to seep from his hand, and she didn’t dare inspect it further.

Standing up straight, she took a deep breath. The man was at death’s door, and likely wouldn’t survive the night. But this situation presented the need to make a choice. She could rewrap his hand and help cinch the bleeding, preventing him from losing more blood and wake him up to get some food into him. It would be a long night and several days of recovery to even gain enough strength to travel to see the local doctor.

Or, she could get her coins and supplies and leave the man to die a slow death.

The first option would be arduous and painful for many reasons. Would someone return to finish the job? Not likely, after thinking about it for a few more seconds. The people responsible made their threat clear and intended for her father to deal with the consequences on his own. But it also meant more work for her, as well as dealing with his awful barrage of threats and verbal abuse while she nursed him back to any semblance of health. The only benefit was that keeping him alive would keep the debtors off of her trail while they continued to focus on him.

Letting him die would be incredibly satisfying in many ways, as well as freeing. She’d be rid of this life and burden, able to start new in Alestead under the care of her brother. Once she get some time under her belt and they paid off the debt, she could decide what to do as a completely free woman. Unfortunately this option meant that she would be their next target, and the same fate that her father was subjected to could potentially be hers.

In the end, it didn’t take much convincing. The man deserved this fate and she deserved a chance in life. So, her mind made up, she started gathering supplies.

The first thing she did was rummage through his drawers for anything of use, but only found flasks of alcohol, dirty clothes, and receipts of his gambling habits and debts. She had no desire to sift through those, but took them in case any paper trail would be needed later. She found the box where they kept their spare coins for food and basic supplies. Remembering it was there, a smiled formed on her face. The coins in the box would make up what was missing from her own stash to meet her goal. Her father didn’t need them, after all, since he’d be dead by morning. With a deep breath, she opened the box.

Her smile dropped to a deep frown. The wooden box was empty. She turned back to her father still lying on the bed, anger seething inside of her. She hated him so bad she could spit on him. “You damn bastard.” She knew he gambled and drank away what was left of their funds, and she hated him all the more for it.

Arabelle then moved on to the kitchen and put together a small sack of food that would last - some bread and dried oats were all that was available. Sighing, she ate some of the cold soup to at least fill her stomach and moved on.

Finishing in her room, she put together a makeshift sack of spare clothes, her favorite book, and the precious coins she’d been saving. Before leaving, she paused. She stared at the small desk beside her bed and the empty piece of paper resting on it. Earlier she had meant to write to Wyn and tell him she was about to leave to come see him but now her mind wandered. In her rush she’d all but forgotten about it, but quickly sat at the desk and grabbed her one, nearly spent charcoal pencil.

While she waited, she wondered how Wyn would react to her decision. Would he be mad? Doubtful. If he was in the same situation he’d likely leave, too. But would he worry and come looking for her? That was far more likely. Except she’d be traveling to Alestead to see him, and there’d be a slim chance he’d find her without exceptional coordination, luck, and time. Three things she didn’t have at the moment. Abandoning his station would mean less time climbing and gaining coins, too, and they needed money as quickly as possible.

No. She needed money as quickly as possible. With her father as good as dead, she was next to be threatened. Her brother was actually making up the difference so he’d be spared, but she was dead weight. They likely wanted him around to make money for them, but she couldn’t think of a single use for herself. It was a sobering thought.

Settling with new resolve, she finished her letter to Wyn, lying to him. It was necessary for her own survival. She wrote about the farm, her father, and her shifts at the Pig Sty, and how she wished she could see him and be rid of her life here.

Well, it wasn’t a complete lie. Just an omission.

Tears fell from her face as she folded the letter and packed away one spare sheet of paper and her meager pencil. Hopefully she’d be able to write him one more time during her travels so he’d worry less. If not, well, she’d apologize to him in person.

Standing outside the farm house, she looked at it and their land one last time. It was the only home she ever knew. Her new adventure was terrifying but important, and her goal more so. This life was pathetic and now it was dead to her. A new life, one with potential, awaited her in Alestead, home to the magical tower. Home to her brother.

“Good riddance,” Arabelle said, scowling at the entire place one last time. Determination swelling inside her, she strode away into the night. The caravan would be leaving before long, and her new journey awaited.