Eleven
Myst City, Slum Districts
Since Umbra's trial had ended and he had been taken to the jail block, Marin had been scouring all of the law books in her mentor's library.
She had only managed an hour of sleep at the reading desk. The laws of Myst City had grown quite complicated over the centuries but she was almost certain there would be a loophole that would exonerate Umbra.
Gladius' motion to try Umbra before the Tabernacle's inquisitors had bought Umbra some time. Despite how Gladius detested Maleficae, it showed a lot of humility to support Marin and help Umbra.
Marin walked through the narrow, dirty streets of the slum district on her way to see her friend, Fletcher.
She bumped past an inebriated old man as she turned a corner.
"Howsh about a kishe, schweetheart?" the drunk gurgled, staggering on the spot.
"I'll pass," Marin rolled her eyes, disgusted.
The old man tumbled off into an alley, the smell of cheap ale lingered in the air.
Marin hated the seedier districts. At this hour, it could get pretty dangerous, last time she was here she had driven away a group of thugs that encroached on her. She had splashed one of them with a bolt of water, which boiled on his skin; they had fled screaming soon after.
She finally reached the roughest tavern in the entire district: The Spoiled Sow.
Fletcher was almost always there, he seemed to enjoy the cheap beer and constant threat of bar brawls.
Marin stood out immediately as she swung open the hinged doors and stepped into the tavern. She wore a dark blue suede cloak tied with a silver clutch, under which she wore two-piece blue regalia. In her hand she clutched a tall rune-covered staff, a powerful amplifier for her magic.
The majority of the patrons wore tattered leather or burlap.
Their angry drunk eyes watched her carefully as she strolled past the worn oak tables.
"Ale, Miss?" the two-toothed barkeep inquired.
Marin had intentionally left her money at Astralode's tower to keep it safe. She shook her head. "Where is Fletcher?" she asked, her soft voice almost drowned out by the rowdy chatter around her.
"Same place he always is," the man next to her hiccupped.
She looked over to the fireplace in the back corner to the tall chair pointed at it.
Fletcher was slumped over the arm snoring loudly, a half dozen empty pint glasses on the side-table next to him.
Marin hated seeing her friend like this; Fletcher was visiting the tavern almost every night lately. He was always drunk or hung-over every time she saw him.
"Hey!" she kicked Fletcher's chair.
He rolled over, facing away. "What do you want, Blondie?" Fletcher had a nickname for everyone, but he was in poor spirits that night.
"Umbra is facing interrogation in two days," she reminded him.
"Perhaps you should find a new boyfriend," he groaned, half awake. His breath stunk of cheap beer.
Marin opened her mouth to scold him but stopped herself. Fletcher was a good man and certainly didn't mean such a rude comment; he wasn't handling himself well lately.
"You want me to break him out?" he inquired with a hiccup, half serious.
"That would just aggravate things," she replied with a frustrated sigh.
Fletcher rolled over and looked at her with concerned and blood-shot eyes. "We'll think of something," he assured her, followed by a stifled burp.
"Do you think Gladius has a plan to help Umbra?" she inquired.
"Choir boy? I dread that he spared him the noose only to put him to the rack," Fletcher lamented.
"The inquisitors are part of The Tabernacle. He's a monk, he could talk to them..." Marin sat down in the next chair and fixed her eyes on the flickering fire.
"The Inquisitors are a bunch of sadistic torture-hounds. I doubt they'll see reason," he reminded her, regretting his words immediately. He signaled over the barmaid. "Gwen, sweetheart, the usual."
The mousey young waitress grabbed a few of his empty steins and scurried off to the taps.
"I'd go with you to The Tabernacle, but I'm getting tired of being thrown out on my ass." Fletcher moaned.
The Tabernacle was always open to the public, except for the back chambers.
Most nights the place was almost empty. Gladius would often be praying or tending to an old, sick minister.
Marin would try her chances in The Tabernacle.