Eel Crackers

 Mochrie fanned through his regular mail, found nothing of interest, and then fanned through his thief mail, which was always much more intriguing. He'd gone into Faline under guise just a few days before and picked up letters, packages, medicines, before returning to his apartment with Ioeth just at the edge of the city.

 One letter in particular stood out to him. Among the rest, it was similar in shape, color, material—but there was something about the handwriting that plucked at a memory in Mochrie's head, a familiar, muffled twang.

 He slit the envelope open with the sharp nails he hadn't entirely gotten rid of since the infection; previously more like claws, they were largely human, just a bit longer and sharper than he'd have liked. Still, they had their uses.

 The letter was legible, and arguably intelligent, but seemed to use a limited and simple vocabulary, as if its writer was hesitant to write something he might misspell. The letters were quick and angular, as if the quill was cutting into the paper rather than sweeping across it. Mochrie chewed the inside of his cheek as he read.

 "Ioeth," he said.

 Ioeth didn't pause from their current endeavor, which was breaking up crackers to feed to the ungodly and viscous floating eels they occasionally liked to summon now. "Hmm?"

 "Remember when I told you about that guy who beat me up outside a pig farm?"

 "Mmm. Yes," they said, and their hood moved as they nodded. They were much less prone to revealing any part of themself than they used to be, even in their own home.

 "Well, he wants a book."

 That made Ioeth turn. Even in their black eyes Mochrie could see the shift of surprise.

 He flapped the letter down onto the tabletop and huffed. "I know. I just—should I even give it to him? He's a Witchfinder. And a dick."

 Ioeth mused for a moment, and an eel snapped its teeth in the empty air. "Well, isn't that what you said? 'Next time you come find me it had better be for a book?'"

 Mochrie ran his tongue over his molars. "Yeah, something like that."

 "Not everyone is worth saving," Ioeth said, in a tone that signified admittance, "but he's asking for help. And he never revealed you to the Order. He might have changed."

 Mochrie let out a halfhearted grunt and folded his arms. "He might be worth saving, now?"

 Ioeth echoed, "He might be worth saving."

-------------

 Sylen sat uncomfortably in his seat at the pub. Under normal circumstances, he might've somewhat liked a place like this—but this one in particular, this Black Jug, was a bit too seedy for his liking, and much more mage-friendly than he was comfortable with. As people meandered in and out of the Jug, Sylen tracked them all, taking note of every individual, searching for the wry little redhead who'd given him such a hard time before.

 The place had an uneasy ambience, that sort of mix between the soft glow and stinking oil of the lanterns; murmuring and sideways glances, buried beneath raucous laughter and drunken hollering. The whole pub smelled of bitter beer and dry cheese, and that occasional stray pulse of static electricity flickered through Sylen's nerves whenever some odd mage cast a burst of magic.

 The letter from the Tomcat had highly recommended Sylen not bring his Witchfinder's cloak, and, desperate as he was, he'd hatefully obeyed. He felt naked without it, sitting before the prying eyes of others without the glittering silver clasp to ward them away. It left a cold, wary sludge to churn in the pit of his chest as his gaze flitted through the tavern, gorging on every detail.

 The thief suddenly slipped out from around the corner, auburn hair longer and much more obvious than before; Sylen blinked and reconsidered the exits he'd noted. He thought he’d caught them all. Maybe he was losing his touch—or maybe this thief really was good enough to slip into Namarast unseen. Sylen didn’t particularly like either answer.

 The thief gave Sylen a tight-lipped shadow of a smile and slumped into the opposite booth, tossing a bag stuffed to the brim with fabric onto the seat. He clasped his hands atop the table and met Sylen's eye, something smug in his brow as he spoke in a cool tone.

 "You found me. Again. For a book."

 Sylen remained silent. Instead he observed the thief, trying to rack up as much information as he could, now that they were meeting face-to-face, and this time, in the light.

 Yet again, another sweater; some autumn color with a cream collared shirt beneath it. Tailored. Hair much longer than before, as seen earlier—slightly unkempt around the ears, but otherwise an effort to groom had been made. Bags under the eyes. Poor shave. That fabric in the bag seemed familiar; Sylen knew he'd seen it earlier, but couldn't quite place where. The thief was looking back at Sylen, too, observing him; their wordless gauging of the enemy was interrupted by a burly ginger man tossing food and drink onto the table.

 The thief clicked his tongue and gave a slight nod before placing a hand over the rim of a drink. "Thanks, Gaba."

 Gaba grunted and left.

 Silence followed, oil-slick and heavy, and Sylen ground his teeth. The thief, seemingly wanting to prove his impatience, let out a nasal sigh and drummed his fingers against the rim of his drink.

 Sylen debated, decided the irritated silence was potentially worse than talking, and dared to tread into small-talk territory. "Is that why they call you Tomcat?"

 "What?"

 Sylen gestured with his chin toward the thief's catlike nails. "You keep your nails like that? Tried to scratch me?"

 The thief snorted and arched his knuckles. He shook his head, took a glug of mead, and answered with a hissed, "No, it's not a fashion statement." He cleared his throat. "I'm more than sure you were too busy hiding from society to catch the infection."

 Maybe the silence was better. Sylen bit back commentary in hopes the conversation might die.

 Apparently, it was the thief's turn to make commentary. "You look rough." He took a bite of bread that was stale enough to audibly crunch. "Worse than before."

 "So do you."

 An auburn eyebrow shot up, but the thief's tone eased into something like light amusement. "Touché."

 Sylen took a deep breath, held it. He had a miserable feeling pooling in his stomach, not of dread or panic, but of shame and exasperation. He could tell the thief was waiting for Sylen to admit defeat, to ask for help aloud, verbal, audible proof that the thief had been right all that time ago, had predicted exactly what the Witchfinder would do. Sylen hated it.

 "Fine." Sylen released the breath, slowly, jaw clamped tight all the while. "What do you need from me?"

 "Need from you?" The thief seemed to tuck the bite of bread into his cheek to speak around it. He hurriedly shook his head. "No, no, nothing from you. Except coin. And information. And a promise." He lifted up a sharpened little finger, held it out as if to shake.

 Sylen hesitated. "What promise?"

 The thief wiggled his finger and swallowed the bread. "Come on. A promise you won't rat me and everyone else in this place out."

 "What? I'm already here, I—if I'd wanted to, I'd have already done it—"

 "I know." The thief's eyes met Sylen's again, and darkly. "But I want to hear you say it. To me. I want your word, from your teeth. Here."

 That sludge in Sylen's chest crawled upward, settling in his throat, and he swallowed to force it back down. "Fine." He caught the thief's finger with his own, and shook it. "I won't rat you or anyone out. I promise."

 The thief's warm brown eyes seemed startlingly cold as they shook; a trick of the light, maybe, but each iris had looked almost black, with a glare serious as anything. The thief seemed satisfied with this promise and leaned back.

 "Alright. I'll take it." The thief wiped his nose with the hand he’d just shaken with, took a moment to ponder, run his tongue over his molars. “Two hundred in advance, non-refundable. Think of it as a deposit. Another two if I get the book.” He began to halfheartedly dig through the roasted potatoes with a loosely-held fork, moreso to occupy himself, it seemed, than to actually eat one. “I imagine a book like yours will be in Namarast, or somewhere else equally as awful.” He squished a potato against the side of the bowl, its off-yellow insides curling out like stepping in snow. He looked at Sylen again without turning his head. “You need to tell me what’s wrong with you.”

 Sylen bit back a blaze of acid under his tongue, and realized he’d compulsively curled his lip as he did so. His nerves were springing, not just from the magic in the pub, but from the irritation nipping at them with needle teeth, making his heart race and his chest hurt. What’s wrong with you. “I—it’s a fog. A memory fog. Inhaling it is dangerous.”

 The thief pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows in a way that showed more surprise than disdain. “Alright. How so?”

 “It—well, you—it’s relived. The memory. From the eye of whoever it belonged to.” There was a sour taste on Sylen’s tongue, one that made it difficult to continue. He had to wet his lip before he continued, suddenly feeling a bit short of breath. “Everyone who breathes it sees it. But you can also forget.”

 The thief tilted his head like a wary dog.

 Sylen heaved out a sigh. “You can—it—it’s just chaotic, in general, but there are rules. It happens when—when I’m under duress.”

 “Is that… often?”

 Sylen bit back a growl. “Unfortunately.”

 The thief slapped the table with an open palm. “Okay. Memory fog, literally. Forgetting, remembering, reliving, duress. Got it.” The thief then gave Sylen a strange look. “Anything else?”

 There was, but Sylen preferred to keep that locked behind a heavy door of denial. “No.”

 The thief twitched a cheek, as if to frown, and lifted one heavy brow to a near extreme. “Are you sure?“

 Sylen wet his lip. The mead before him sat untouched; he didn’t drink, but Grace, this man was pushing him to. “I’m sure.”

 The thief curled his hand closed, pulled it off the table top. “Okay then.”

 Sylen waited. It took him a moment to realize the thief was also waiting—staring at Sylen’s leather coinpurse, drumming the edge of the table with his cat’s claws.

 Sylen pulled open the pouch. Four hundred was nearly all he had left, but if this was his answer, so be it. He pulled the first two hundred’s worth out and pressed them hard into the wood, trying to burn the thief with a glare. Instead the thief seemed rather pleased and snuck the coin away.

 “Pleasure doing business with you,” the thief said, and stood. He dusted off the front of his sweater and lifted that heavy satchel of his off the seat. “I’ll find you something.” He paused, his expression softening for a moment, before he said in a stern tone, “I’m hoping you’ll change.”

 The thief left. Back around the corner, where he’d come from—nowhere near an exit. Sylen just sat in silence with a bowl of crushed potatoes and half-eaten roll of bread before him, the toxic shame sinking into his skin like poison, the surface of his untouched drink rippling under the lantern-light. Something far off caught his eye; the shimmer of thread he’d seen in the thief’s pack, that same fabric, now draped over a massive frame beneath a shock of dark curls.

 Sylen straightened up, mind racing, staring at the cloak. Its owner toyed with a satchel a bit too small for him, then glanced over his shoulder, back at Sylen. He smirked.