"Fuck, fuck, fuck!"
Fabian hissed through his teeth as the thorns of the rose bushes left their parting gifts across his garments in a series of thin, indignant scratches. Still — if he was being honest — this was not too bad a landing. He had done considerably worse. At least he'd had enough momentum to swing and adjust his knees on the way down.
He sighed, brushing a rose petal from his shoulder-length hair with the dignity of a man who had not, moments ago, fallen off a balcony.
"Well," he said to himself "That could have been worse."
He reached for his belt.
"Fuck."
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. The coin purse — the one that had been a gift from his lovely patron, the very lady in question — was gone. Left behind, in all probability, on the bedside table before they had been so very rudely interrupted.
It wasn't as though the work itself was beneath him, exactly. A nameless lancer for hire didn't command much respect to begin with. His surname was not worth a great deal in these times.
It only signified only the hereditary practices of the La Lanza family, who had once specialised in the art of the lance. A rather peculiar weapon of choice in a world that had long since made up its mind in favour of swords and arrows. A mid-range combat weapon, neither magical in nature nor carrying the romance of royalty.
Once, perhaps, it had commanded respect. But no longer. Not since the disgrace visited upon their grandfather's name during the civil war , the precise details of which Fabian could not have told you, as the records of that particular conflict were either burnt or locked safely away in the royal archives, beyond the reach of people like him.
His father had been an honest man. A poor one, after the fall of their family name, but honest. He had taught Fabian everything there was to know about the secret fighting forms of the La Lanza — the footwork, the reach, the particular methods of violence that a lance demanded in close quarters. And yet he had refused, time and time again, every mercenary job that came their way on the grounds that they were shady, and that a La Lanza did not stoop to taking blood for other people's greed.
That there had to be honour in the hands who carried the lance.
Fabian gritted his teeth at the memory.
He found his way by instinct to the familiar streets of the red district, and to his favourite inn — inn being, admittedly, a generous term for the establishment in question.
The Red Rose was owned by one of the madams, a woman who was something of a rarity in the management of such houses, sharp-minded and fair-handed, with a code of conduct that was strictly enforced and frequently surprising. The place was half tavern and half pleasure house, and it occupied the particular niche in Fabian's life that a family home might have occupied for someone with better circumstances.
After he had lost his mother to the cold, the madam had been generous enough to offer them meals — so long as Fabian and his father provided a certain quiet assurance of protection for the girls. That had been before she moved her operation to a larger establishment in the main city.
To Leon. The capital and beating heart of the great nation of Panthera.
Now the Red Rose served as his temporary lodging, on the evenings he was not warming someone else's bed for the more pleasant kind of entertainment.
"My, my — it's been a week since I've seen you. Where have you been, handsome?"
One of the serving girls leaned against the bar with the teasing familiarity of long acquaintance. This portion of the establishment operated under the strict rules of the tavern-side, which meant no touching the workers — a boundary Fabian had always respected with a sincerity that occasionally surprised people. He smiled at her. She was one of the older women he knew here. Made the best hungover cures in Leon.
"Here and there," he said, pulling out his regular chair in the corner. "Have you a good ale for me, Lilly?"
Another girl materialised from beside Lilly — Petal, younger and sharper-tongued, her expression arranged in its habitual pout.
"Where else would he be," she said flatly, "running away from his problems again, probably." She set a drink in front of him nonetheless, her mouth prickly perhaps but she had a big heart regardless "On the house," she added, almost under her breath.
Fabian groaned quietly and raked a hand back through his dark hair before taking a long sip of the warm ale.
"Ah — don't tell me you've missed me, girls."
He grinned.
Lilly only sighed.
"Drop the act, Fabian. We worry, you know." She was frowning at. He kept his gaze fixed on his drink, watching the small rings spreading outward across the surface of the ale.
"I'll be fine."
"You should seriously consider the guild." Petal crossed her arms. "Those debt collectors were asking after you again. At least with the guild you'd have protection — and proper money, more than what those lonely ladies toss you as their charity."
Fabian leaned back in the old, rust-jointed wooden chair, closed his eyes, and tilted his head up toward the low ceiling.
They were right. He knew that.
He curled his hand slowly into a fist beneath the table.
The cold stroke of a lance still lived in his palm as vividly as it had that night. The dripping warmth of blood along its head, contrasting with the chill of the metal.
He swallowed. Unclenched his jaw with some effort.
He hadn't touched the lance since that night.
He had left the house after the argument with his father , had blamed the old man, the fight was ugly and he had said many hurtful things to a man who already had lost his wife for letting his pride sit higher than his mother's health. If he had accepted that mercenary job. If he had set his principles aside just once. She wouldn't have died from poverty. She wouldn't have—
And now…
Fabian understood why his father had always refuse them. A little too long.
God. He had no face to show. No way to walk back through that door.
Not only had he lost the honour to carry the lance, but also damaged their relationship beyond repair.
So Fabian did what he had always done since. He ran from the problem. He hid , and charmed the wealthy and the lonely until they parted with their coin willingly, calling it affection.
It worked out fine.
Until—
His ale, and what passed for good company in his present miserable state of mind, were interrupted rather abruptly by the front door of the Red Rose being thrown open hard enough to rattle the bottles behind the bar.
Two armed men stepped inside.
"We're looking for Fabian," said the first, scanning the room. "Fabian the Rake."
Lilly, to her credit, did not so much as glance toward the corner.
Petal, equally to her credit, suddenly became very interested in wiping down a perfectly clean section of the bar directly in the opposite direction.
Fabian, for his part, took a long, slow sip of his ale, set the cup down without a sound, and concluded that he was, in the most thorough and comprehensive sense of the word, screwed.