Horde Thief
Chapter 4
MacAnally's wasn't exactly what you'd expected, but in truth you had little to go on. Your only experience with an even slightly magical tavern was the Golden Hearth, and that had been rather more magical, if you were being honest. You'd scouted the place during the night, and found a small sign by the 'pub' stating that it opened at 11. One other thing to be thankful for, at least time seemed to work the same way here. To a briefly conjured magesight, it appeared quite mundane, but in a different world those signs could, and probably would, be differently. Once you stepped through the door, though, it was almost comforting in its sharp contrast to the rest of the city. All wood, for one.
That wasn't just it, though. Even if the building might not have any sort of detectable aura, the inside of it was clearly the result of someone who understood the power of numbers and form in magic. Thirteen very different tables scattered haphazardly across a room in front of a long, uneven bar with thirteen stools spread irregularly along its length. The same number of wooden columns, each carved with scene from stories no doubt familiar to the world. You knew enough about buildings to know that that was certainly deliberate, it didn't need that many supports. Long struts of shaped wood spun above you, again thirteen sets, whispering quietly above you. Electricity, no doubt. How this world had leashed it to their will without magic, you still didn't understand.
The door swung shut behind you with a faint thud, and the man behind the bar look up at the sound. He was taller than you, but that was expected. The shaven head wasn't, and you wondered if there was a reason for it. He was neatly dressed in dark trousers, a plain shirt and an immaculate white apron. His eyes widened as he looked up at you, so slightly that without your enhanced senses you'd never have noticed. The reaction certainly vanished quickly enough.
"What can I get you?" He asked amiably as you reached the bar, a well-practiced smile on his lips. You'd considered the answer already, and the best way to explain that you didn't have any of this nation's currency.
"Whatever's good for a weary traveller, far from home," you said, the odd syllables of 'English' still strange to your ears, even with a fluency born of wishcraft. The proprietor, presumably the titular MacAnally, nodded shortly and turned away towards the sheet of metal behind him. A slice of meat came out from below the counter onto the sheet and an immediate hiss filled the air. Already heated, then, but how…
"Not heard an accent like yours before," he noted, turning back from the large stovetop. That was expected. Valyrian wasn't exactly like any language of this realm that you'd discovered, and it still coloured your words. "What do you think of the city?" His eyes twitched ever so slightly, and you followed the motion to a small wooden sign hanging above the far end of the bar with three words burned into it: ACCORDED NEUTRAL TERRITORY. A corner of it was scorched. You didn't recognise it, but it must mean something important to the supernatural in this realm. Which led to the question of how, exactly, this man had identified you as one.
"Different," you said, making the choice then. Better to speak plainly then deal with this web of uncertainty. You needed answers, and the lore of this place implied it had seen enough of the supernatural to supply them. "Is that why your establishment is safe?" You asked, nodding to the sign.
"It's a good neighbourhood," the man answered, turning to lean on the bar and keep an eye on the cooking meat. "But that's not what you're asking, is it."
You shook your head. "No."
He reached below the bar and you tensed for a moment, wondering if maybe your magic had led you wrong, but all he pulled out was a glass bottle of what looked to be beer. "A name to call you and this and that," he jerked his head towards the grill, "are on the house. Seems like you need some answers." Then, before you could speak. "Just to call you, doesn't have to be real."
"Corlys Waters," you answered. An old name, but one still familiar enough to you to be easily spoken. Perhaps it was real, the expression on the man's face said nothing to doubt it. "You'd be MacAnally, then?"
"Call me Mac," he said, lips quirking as he set the bottle down and twisted the top off. "You must have come long a way to not know what that sign means." As openers went, it was a fair one.
"Not a journey I'd planned on," you said, looking back at the sign. Neutral ground was simple, but accorded meant something had made it that. "Accorded by whom?"
"A bit ahead of things there," Mac replied. "What it says is what it means. Neutral ground. Hold to the duties of a guest, offer no harm nor violence to another, take any disagreement outside."
"Or?" You had to know.
"Or Winter exacts justice." Your host said emotionlessly. "No matter how long it takes. It's patient." He reached out, picking out a strange implement and flipping the steak once. Hissing rose from the other side, and you sniffed the air appreciatively. The ring on your finger might mean you didn't need food, but that didn't make you appreciate it any less. "Want a better explanation, there's a representative you can talk to. Could set it up."
The man turned back to the hot metal, clearly leaving you to think. Some sort of supernatural law, that made this place safe. Better than nothing, but you doubted you could stay here, it didn't seem the type of place to have guest rooms. Across the bar, Mac produced a knife and cut the steak into thin strips with easy motions. Too practiced to just be a cook.
"Why are you helping me?" You asked finally, as he flipped the strips onto thick slices of bread.
"A lost traveller should know the rules of the game." He replied, as if that explained everything. He slid the sandwich onto a plate, so thin compared to the pottery you knew, and slid it onto the bar towards you. "Be happy to know how you heard to come here, though. Might have a favour to pay."
That brought a smile to your lips, as the mention of Winter finally connected to the man whose possessions had led you here. You reached into the folds of glamoured gold and withdrew a small item of tanned hide. It rattled slightly as you set it down, before you flipped it open and pulled out a small card made of a strange, brittle material. "This representative," you asked, "he wouldn't happen to go by the name of Harry Dresden?"
A painting of your short-stay captive's face, more precise than anything you'd ever seen, stared from one side of the card. Red letters above it spelled out the name Illinois. It hadn't seemed wise to try mind magic on someone so deeply tied to Winter when you'd caught him. If he was a wizard worth his salt, he'd probably be trying to track it, but until now your crown would have stymied that.
"He would." Mac confirmed, wiping his hands on a pristine cloth from below the bar and taking the card from your offering fingers. "Though if you're on these sort of terms, there's another you could talk to. You'd have to make an appointment, though."
"What he's known as?" With the Wayfinder, that should be all you needed. Even a false name would return something.
"Freeholding Lord of Chicago." Came the gruff answer. You'd realised early on that your host wasn't the type for small talk beyond what was necessary, and there'd been a lot of words since you entered. A good thing perhaps that there were no other patrons present. But he relented enough to give you a name. "John Marcone." He set the card down on the bar and pushed the plate and bottle towards you. "Let me know which you'd prefer. Or just wait after you're done, I'm sure the owner of that will be along to collect."