The Practicalities of Magic

“It weren’t me, love! Couldn’t-a been ol’ Stanwick, eh? Just a run of luck, just a few cards turnin’ my way. Innocent as a turtle dove I am, eh? Always been a lucky bastard, me.” The lucky bastard, in question, was standing with his arms raised above his head, palms upturned, in the universal pose for all put-upon-but-ultimately innocent ne’er do wells.

Gwen knew this particular gentleman quite well. He was called Stanwick the Farce, and while he wasn’t quite a “known criminal” he was certainly a “known cheat”, and an accomplished card shark to boot. No one who had the misfortune to deal with Stan understood where the “the Farce” part of his name came from, and Stanwick himself gave a different answer each time you asked.

“Stan”, Gwen intoned, “we can sit here bullshitting all night and freezing our balls off, or you can give a statement, give the lass her money back, and we can all go home have a cup of tea. How does that sound?”

They were standing outside of a tavern lasciviously dubbed the Salty Maiden in an area of Tira called the Middens. The official line was that it was given the name because it was a mid-way point between the docks district to the south and the industrial working area to the north, but everyone knew it was called the Middens because it stank like shit and was covered with filth. A light snow was falling, and a small group of late night carousers had gathered outside the tavern to take in the proceedings.

“Ask her, I weren’t the one who pulled the knife, ol’ Stanny-boy doesn’t own a knife, does he? Good lad, Stan is, keeps ’is hands to himself.” Stan pointed across the street in front of the Maiden at his assailant: a young woman who was leaning, perhaps too casually, against the front door, scarred arms crossed in front of her chest. Gwen walked over, hands stuffed into her long, standard-issue overcoat to protect against the bitter cold that had set in overnight. She blew into her palms, rubbed them together, and met the young woman’s gaze.

A little over six feet tall, long-limbed, with a nasty gash across the bridge of her nose. Likely, if Gwen had to guess, a dock worker out to spend a night’s wages, and ending up on the wrong side of one of Stan’s games of chance. Didn’t mean she had the right to stab him, but the Goddess knew that Gwen had wanted to do the same thing to the reprobate on a few occasions. Gwen reached into her coat, pulling out a small flask and taking a sip. She offered it across.

“Brandy. Care for a sip? Cold as all hells tonight.”

No response. Just a cold stare back, that scar on the bridge of the nose flexing as this knife-happy dock-worker ground her teeth and spat into the muddy ground. So it was going to be like that, huh? Ah, well.

Gwen straightened up, putting the flask away, and turned to address the now not-insubstantial crowd gathered around the entrance to the Maiden.

“The way it was reported was that a little after midnight one human male, that’s you Stan”, and Stan gave a little wave to the crowd “and one human female got into an altercation over the result of a card game. Then the human female, again for those following along” and with this she pointed a gloved finger at the glaring dock-worker, “that’s you, drew a knife and had to be restrained by the barkeep until the Order, that’s us for the drunk or slow of mind among you, was called in to mediate. According to onlookers, that’s you all…” Gwen gestured to encompass the gathered street-dwellers “... the assailant in question threatened to ‘Stab the greedy little shit until gold started falling out’, and had to be detained by the tavern owner and several patrons. Did I get all that right, Constable ’Dell?”

A few yards back, near the edge of the crowd, Gwen’s partner Constable Candle “Dell” Forsythe was busily scrawling into a sheet of vellum, occasionally glancing up to take in the action. It would have been comical, the size differential between Dell’s tiny frame and this massive sheet of scroll paper, but the eagerness and intense focus the small constable displayed in his work made any attempts at levity feel a bit unfair. Dell paused a moment in his work, looking up over the edge of the vellum: “That is correct, Constable. The Order Arcanus was called in by an anonymous source via imp to mediate the affair”. Candle took a moment to use his quill to scratch behind his furry, pointed ears, before returning to his notes.

Almost every house or place of business in the bustling city of Tira had a trained imp for exactly this reason. They were inexpensive, reliable, and did a number on the pest population of the city. Looking up, Gwen could see the Maiden’s imp crouched on the transom of the door into the tavern. It had taken the form of what looked like an emaciated badger with bat wings, and was currently chewing on the carcass of a rat. It winked at her.

Gwen looked around at the assembled group. Stanwick with his hands still raised in the air, a picture of affability and innocence. The dock-worker, still insouciantly leaning against the exterior of the tavern, glaring at her. The gathering group of Midden-folk, hoping for the bloodshed they had been denied when the Mages had been called in, pressed closer. Not a lot of love for the Order Arcanus in these parts, or the “Mages” as they were called by the general populace of the city. Whoever had ended up calling her and Dell in would likely get a beating, or worse.

“Look, we just need a statement to take back to the Order, a few paltry words, a tug of the forelock, ‘We’re sorry, won’t happen again, etc etc’ and then off we pop. No harm done, no one gets stabbed, we all go home, eh?”

The dock-worker shifted, muttering under breath. “What was that? Speak up, lass.” Gwen asked.

“I said,” the dock-worker growled, standing up straight, “that we don’t have to tell you shit. We aren’t afraid of you, we don’t have to tell you shit.”

Gwen smiled beatifically over at the young woman. “It speaks! What’s your name, then?” Certainly a good deal over six feet this one, and muscular. Likely a gang member for one of the crews near the deck, off loading goods from trade ships by day and doing a little light knife work by night.

The dock-worker spat again. “I don’t have to tell you shit.” Pushing herself off from the wall, she started to meander towards Gwen, fists clenched at her side, tendons flexing along the sides of her arms. She took her steps slowly, measured, and Gwen had seen a lot of fights start with just this kind of too-casual tread.

“So you’ve stated. I simply want to know--”

Stanwick piped up from his position near Constable Dell. “It’s Maribel. Her name is Maribel, see, remembered cuz’ I had a third-cousin named Maribel and she was a right prick--”

The dock-worker threw a glare at Stan, continuing to saunter. “You Mages think you own these streets because you wear a fancy coat, with those stupid pointed hats, in your pretty little tower”, and with this she pointed toward the north, where the white tips of the Resplendent Spire could be seen over the roofs of the surrounding houses, “but you don’t own shit.”

Constable Dell self-consciously straightened his cap. He’d always appreciated the standard issue wizard gear, and especially the hat. It made him feel taller. Glancing between Gwen and the dock-worker sauntering towards his partner, Dell gestured toward the assembled thong, “Constable Gwen, perhaps we should --”

Gwen spread her hands wide, unconsciously mimicking Stanwick who was standing off to the side. “We don’t want to own you, believe me, even if we could. My partner and I simply want a statement from one of the parties involved in this, let’s call it, a fracas, and you can go back to the vice of your choice the moment we walk away.”

The dock-worker was now just a few steps in front of the constable, who was still standing arms out wide. If Gwen thinks she’s going to get stabbed, she is doing a good job of not showing it, Dell thought to himself, as his hands crept down to his multi-pouched reagent belt. If this does come to violence, this mob is going to turn on us quicker than I can spit.

The silence stretched, thin like a sheet of ice, as pure white snow continued to flurry down into the street and immediately turn to grey slush from the refuse in the street.

Gwen smiled again. “I know you aren’t going to believe this, but I truly do know where you are coming from. I grew up around here. Ten or so blocks from here. I know the Order isn’t loved here, for good reason, but we are trying to do better. So please, Maribel, let me--”

At the mention of her name, the dock-worker clenched, kicked some of the grey snow up into Gwen’s face, then suddenly had a knife out. Well, that was the wrong move, using her name. Great job, Gwen.

Surging forward, Maribel had the knife tucked up underneath Gwen’s chin before she could say another word.

“I know the Rules.” The dock-workers breath was rank with cheap beer, a few of her teeth missing, likely from a lifetime of fights in streets much like this one. “You can’t do nothing. I read the By-Laws, see? ‘No power to be spent against the flesh of man or kin.’ You can’t use your little magicks on me, Mageling. Not unless you want the Order to strip you of that pretty little coat and that stupid little hat and leave you here. On the streets. With me and my kind.”

The crowd sensed blood, and in the Middens, blood spilled meant opportunity. Constable Dell, even green as he was to the role of Constable, had already seen several isolated vendettas spiral out into violence as the pent up fury from a life of disenfranchisement spilled out into the streets. He had his fingers in one of the dozens of pouches circling his belt, clenched around a clump of fever-powder. If he was quick enough, he might be able to incapacitate enough of the surrounding Midden-dwellers that Gwen and he could make an escape.

Gwen caught his eye, shaking her head slightly, the tip of the wickedly serrated knife under chin making a light scratch along her trachea. She looked Maribel straight in the eye, which was easy because her face filled most of Gwen’s vision.

“You sure this is how you want this to go, lass? You hurt a Mage, or Goddess forbid kill one, that’s it. Our Order won’t stop until you’re dead, and maybe not even then. You sure this is what you want?”

Maribel’s grin was wicked, the moonlight glinting off the edge of the knife. “You can’t cast spells on me. And my people will hide me from your hounds. I bet I could sell that coat of yours, and maybe your little Goblin friend, when I’m through.”

Gwen shrugged and sighed, best as she could considering the circumstances. Then she brought her knee up as hard as she could into Maribel’s crouch. All Order Watchmen and women had standard issue iron-plated knee guards to help protect against mundane repeated-stress injuries from having to do a lot of kneeling-to-look-at-piles-of-blood that was part of a constables regular beat in the city-state of Tira. They also made handy-self defense tools when applied properly.

Maribel groaned, dropping back, and then attempted to straighten again, flipping her knife as she did so in an overhand, downward sweeping stab. Not bad, this one, thought Gwen, who caught Marbiel’s sweeping arm with the edge of her left forearm, trapping the arm mid-motion -- and then Gwen threw a jab into the dock-workers undefended visage. Once, twice, three rapid strikes to the teeth and lips. When Maribel lurched backwards, off-balance, Gwen used the free space to step up and deliver a left-handed haymaker that swept through the snow-ladden air and landed solidly on the bridge of Maribel’s scarred nose, making a satisfying cracking noise that split the air.

The assembled Midden-folk let out a gasp of breath as Maribel fell backwards, collapsing to the grey soaked streets, clutching at her face. A few groans, and a few laughs issued from the crowd, as well as a few coins changing hands from hastily made bets. The charged atmosphere had abated, however, as Gwen stepped lightly up to the curled form of the moaning, prone dock-worker.

“Constable Candle, please take the official Order statement. It appears to be the following: ’ungggghh, ungh, owww, my nose, my fucking nose, she broke my fucking nose.” Dell dutifully and ferociously penned his report, keeping a wary eye out as the crowd started to disperse, a distinct disappointment present in most of the drab features around him. They wanted Gwen to get stabbed, thought Candle, with disgust. This place doesn’t deserve us.

Gwen made a motion towards the imp, now preening it’s soggy feathers on the roof of the Maiden. It flew down, landing on her arm. “What’s your name, little one?”

“Wings-In-The-Dark, Mistress.”

Gwen took out a notepad with her free hand, making a quick note. “Just Constable, please. Wings-In-The-Dark, can you take this to the Order safehouse near the edge of the Middens? They need to send a medical detail here, as well as a detainment team. Maribel, here, needs to spend a night or two thinking about her choices in an Order cell.”

The imp nodded, and looked at her, cocking it’s matted fur head expectantly. “Payment, Mistress.” Gwen sighed, reached into the back pocket of her belt, and withdrew a lancet. She pricked her finger, and held it out to the imp. The creature drew back for a moment, it’s lambent eyes narrowing on the blood welling from her finger, then surged forward and slurped up the blood. Satisfied, it unfurled soggy wings, croaking: “Wings-In-The-Dark will serve,” beat its wings, and flew off into the snow, towards the north edge of the district. Gwen walked over to the prone form of Maribel, still clutching at her broken nose, blood pooling in the snow beneath her.

She knelt down, thankful for the hundredth time for the mundane blessing of having some unknown Order supplier’s foresight in issuing knee-guards to it’s personnel. With a hand on Maribel’s shoulder, she rolled her over.

“It’ll heal. Gonna have a nasty crook on the nose to go along with that scar, but it’ll heal. Next time, don’t leave yourself so exposed. Nine times out of ten, a knee to the particulars is going to win out over a knife to the throat.”

“Fuck you, Mage.” Maribel choked out. “My friends’ll know about this, you’ll see.”

“Sure they will, lass, Sure they will.” Gwen stood up, removing her pointed hat for a moment to scratch at a spot on her shaved head, enjoying the cool sensation of the night air on her scalp. She crossed over to Constable Dell, who was rolling his ludicrously long scroll sheet back into an equally long case slung over his shoulder like a bandolier.

“They always forget, Dell.”

Dell looked up at his partner, popping the cap back on to the scroll case to protect it from the snow, and buttoning up the collar of his long coat. “They always forget, what, Constable Gwen?”

“The strongest spell in the book: punch em’ in the goddamn face until they fall down.” Gwen unclasped the flask at her hip, took a long pull, and then nodded to her companion as they headed off together into the swirling snow to complete their night’s patrol.