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"Well, look who it is, slumming it in low places with the rest of us. Thought you was an officially recognized Duke's son, now, Saer Ravengard."
Wyll blinked in the dim light and met the icy blue eyes of a man he'd met on the way to the Gate. "And I heard you died, Rugan."
"Apologies for not inviting a fine lad like you to the wake, but they 'tend to be cancelled when the guest of honor attends in a meaningful way. Now, what brings you so low?"
They were both crouched under a table at a seedy dive near the docks. Above, knives whistled through the air as two patrons aired some grievances.
Wyll said, "The wine. Can't get blends like this in the upper city."
"Less people pissing in the barrels, likely."
"And the atmosphere." Outside, the argument was turning into a brawl. "And the company. Stay a spell."
Rugan felt over the table until he found the bottle and clinked it on Wyll's glass. "Don't mind if I do."
"How did you know it was me?"
"Been in the business a while, dukeling. Picked up a few tricks. You might have a nice little glamor over you, but you still took the long way through the room, avoiding any banners your horns might hit."
"Oh."
"Hope it's temporary. Much prefer your old face."
"Still a smooth talker." Despite himself, Wyll smiled.
"I'm not the one with a smile so lovely even a glamor can't hide it. Your guard gave you away, too," Rugan nodded to the bar. "Asked for top shelf. Don't think this place has any shelves. You want to keep coming down here, you need to get yourself someone from here."
"Are you available?"
"You don't want me."
"I do."
Rugan grinned that lopsided smile, like the two of them were in on a secret. "Fifty gold. Fifty gold and I'll give you a night you'll never forget."
"It's a deal."
"Tell me, dukeling, do you have a horse?"
Their bodies swayed together, Wyll's fingers tight on Rugan's hips as they galloped down a path. Once they'd reached district limits, Rugan had felt for passenger's hands, found them cold and tucked them against the hot skin on the inside of his waistband. Rugan's hair smelled like leather polish and pine. His back warmed Wyll's chest.
"Aren't you worried about bandits?" Wyll called.
"Not with a dashing swordsman at my back," Rugan called back.
They slowed to a trot, then Rugan dismounted and led the horse through a hidden canyon until they rounded a corner and found a camp built in the crumbling remains of a bandit stronghold.
"This is it," Rugan said. He helped Wyll dismount, his hands strong.
"Where are we?"
"A surprise." Rugan tossed a coin the stablehand—not gold, some kind of token, and not really a stablehand, either, just a kid—and led Wyll inside. The smell of weak beer and hot fat filled the air, and various people called greetings to Rugan as they climbed the stairs.
Something roared.
"A cockatrice!" Wyll said.
"Aye," Rugan said, holding open a rotten door. "Welcome to the Menagerie."
Beasts filled the main room. Wyll gaped. There, a miniature purple worm. The cockatrice. An ooze!
"Take it you like it," Rugan said. "Bunch of rich wankers hold a pop-up, buying and selling these beasties."
"As...pets?"
"Hope that's all they are."
"A cockatrice? They're not exactly lap dogs." The beast roared again. No wattle or comb. Wyll knelt down, excited to finally see a female, only to find old, thick scars down its neck and over its head, hidden by its feather ruff to all eyes but a professionals.
"Said they were rich, not smart. Down that way is where they rub elbows. We'll stay over here. Don't want to run into any—"
"Rugan!" called a voice.
"Shit." Rugan moved in front of Wyll. "Saer Fighick! Fancy meeting a fine lady like you here!"
Wyll ducked further into the shadows, grateful for his disguise, and pretend to be examining the cockatrice very closely. Fighick had been vying for a council position and would gladly use the ammunition of Wyll being at an illegal monster zoo against father. Somehow none of the feces she flung ever stuck to her.
"I fail to see how being here helps you fulfill our little agreement," Fighick chided in a far too friendly voice.
"That's why I'm the professional. You'll have your delivery tomorrow, or you can take it out of my hide."
"Your hide isn't useful. The blood, Rugan."
"Contract didn't specify blood. Said it could be any fresh material, just had to be pure."
"Aye, but the only other material is—oh!" Fighick laughed. "Well, then. Tomorrow."
"Business!" Rugan sighed, turning back to Wyll. "Never has the decency to be conducted during business hours. Lad, you're rather close to that deadly beast."
"It's fine. Look." The cockatrice hissed. He caught its head and gripped right behind the jaw hinge, so it had to keep its mouth open. "The venom sacs on the inside of its beak have been scraped out. It's helpless. Poor thing could never return to the wild."
Rugan shuddered. "Seen enough freeze up against those and you're touching it. 'Tis true, nobility does make one go mad. Now, I promised you meat pies guaranteed from a creature you probably haven't personally had a conversation with, and lowbrow booze. Shall we?"
The food was everything Wyll could want: cheap, salty pies, cut with enough cabbage he felt like he was getting his vitamins, drizzled in a tomato-based sweet and sour sauce and wrapped in a flakey crust that stuck to his chin. It paired perfectly with a light beer from kegs worked over with ice and made it taste like liquid nirvana. Then hot mulled wine for dessert, bringing him to that comfy, casual place where he didn't feel self conscious when Rugan brushed a piece of crust off his cheek or asked him to explain about the creatures for sale. The smell of people and food and beast filled the air, the swelling tide of chatter in the crowd, how real and heavy his armor felt… this was the life: straight forward and simple.
To do it with someone like Rugan, with his clingy pants and shoulders, that smile and the way he winked, how Wyll's fingertips still felt warm from his skin, made the entire evening even more pleasant.
They strolled the cages, passing tigers and—
"A devil," Wyll whispered.
The devil sat in a chair, bond by arcane magic. With wide, angry eyes it sneered at any who dared to stop, the expression its only defense as shoppers marveled at its tightly bound wings and intricately branching horns.
"Aye. A devil," Rugan said. "Looks like that bloke I was in the cave with."
To Wyll, it looked like he had, right before he made his deal with Mizora, his features reflection to look like the face he'd seen in the mirror.
"An illusion, likely," Wyll said.
"Something to tug at the heart strings."
Wyll's heart strings twanged.
Rugan said, "Speaking of tug, where is your old lady?"
"Mizora? Gone. Miserable, with any luck."
For a second, Rugan looked disappointed.
Wyll said, "What, am I not enough? I won't make you sign away your soul for the joy of my company."
"Zhent, dukeling," he said, pointing to himself. "I'd love to see the contract you think I couldn't out negotiate. Nay, was asking for a bit of eye candy, is all. Don't look so surprised, lad. You're lovely, but she's got that dress designed for people born without imaginations."
"Oh. Yes, I suppose she's…attractive."
Rugan laughed. "Sharess's shag, she must've been a piece of work to ruin those breasts for you. Not even a spite wank?"
"Not even."
"That bad." Rugan shook his head and glanced at the devil. "Tell you what. Let's rent that one and beat it so hard even Mizora feels it. Could bribe the seller so they won't even release it."
"No!"
"Just thinking, dukeling. Now's your chance to get a little tit-for-tat."
"That devil didn't do anything to me. It's not Mizora."
"Not different, though. Lives and dies by the contract."
"It's still a thinking creature. Thinking creatures don't deserve to be beaten for others' crimes. To be enslaved."
"Most living things think. Doesn't mean much."
Too late, Wyll remembered the reports that he'd read on the Zhentarim. Rumors of snuggling and slavery. Some of the talk he overheard in their hideout.
"I will not compromise myself."
Rugan's voice softened. "After all you went through, you can find pity for them?"
Yes, because he couldn't be a good person if he was only good to those who were good to him. No, because Mizora took from him and found pleasure in his misery. Always, and it got easier the further the experience faded to memory. Never, because he would never ask someone in a devil's snare to find pity.
He settled for, "There's some good in everyone, somewhere. I can't dismiss a person without trying to find it."
"Hm. This place'll go back underground in 30. A pretty thing like that…well. Bet it would reward us, should we free it. Free it, not buy it."
A chance to be a hero again. Excitement pumped through Wyll's veins, shooing away all concerns.
"You're serious?"
"Said I'd give you a night to remember. I'm in."
"M-my head," Wyll groaned, his eyes rolling back. "Oh—my—h-help, my head! Do you smell that? Like brimstone and—argh!"
Hunched over, he stumbled toward the devil's seller, drawing eyes as he collapsed and dragged himself to it, the entire time gasping and whimpering, until he pulled himself up, clung to the seller and shrieked, "What did your devil do?"
Everyone saw the spell flake, saw horns and devil eyes as Wyll "transformed". For a moment, no one moved, then from somewhere in the crowd Rugan wailed, "The devil is loose!" and someone screamed and a panic broke out.
The seller rounded on the devil, magic crackling over their fingers, but in the hub-bub Rugan slammed his cudgel over their head and sent them crumbling while Wyll dragged the demon behind a caged bone whelk, its graveyard of a shell providing some privacy.
"Guards are coming. We only have a few minutes," he warned Wyll.
Quickly, Wyll yanked the devil's gag down.
"Ravengard," it hissed. Its voice was much deeper than its form suggested. "Mizora's pet project."
"I don't believe I've had the pleasure," Wyll said.
"And that one will not." It lunged at them, and crumbled as magic crackled over it.
"Feisty," Rugan said.
"This one had to try."
Wyll knelt next to it. "We're going to free you."
It laughed, then quieted. "Oh. Mizora's pet is serious."
"Hurry, Wyll," Rugan said.
"You'll make no deals in the future," Wyll said. "Swear to it."
"Leave this one, then," said the devil. "A devil who cannot bargain? This one will be the plaything of the others."
"Then no deals for seven y—"
"Seven hundred years," Rugan said. "Don't want the bastard able to get revenge."
"The other's terms are acceptable," the devil shrugged. 700 years. No time at all, to an immortal.
"A deal, then," Wyll said.
"Not with that one. Mizora still claims a claim. The other?"
Rugan said, "Don't look at me. My friend here has forbidden me from signing devilish contracts. At least, under his watch."
"Then this one will simply swears it."
Wyll said, "Not enough. Do one with yourself, if you must."
The devil recoiled in disgust. "Filthy."
"Hurry, or we leave," Rugan warned.
"Very well. Very well! A moment!"
"I'll draw off the guards," Rugan said.
The devil's eyes rolled back and magic flickered over it, condensing into a scroll that it signed quickly. It took Wyll's arm, claws sinking in, and said, "A gift to that one. Mizora has a new pet, and that pet has a pet. The other pet. The other pet comes for that one. That one must be on guard."
Before Wyll could make a hint of sense from the warning, a deep, rumbling roar filled the room.
The devil didn't stay to help them escape. Rugan's plan to distract the guards had been to open all the cages and Wyll crouched inside the skeletons on the bone whelk, holding tight as it crawled over the ceiling to freedom. He got the horse, saddle it, then sat, unsure of what to do about Rugan.
A few minutes later the Zhent ran up, tied a squirming canvas bag to the saddle horn, pulled himself up behind Wyll and said, "Go!"
The pressure against Wyll's back made it hard to focus, but he got them to the road and going the right way. Rugan's hands were strong on Wyll's hips, breath hot on Wyll's ear as he said, "Seven years. That was how long she had you, wasn't it?"
"It was. Not sure why I said it. Suppose it felt poetic."
"Don't settle for poetry, dukeling. Settle for what you're worth. Seven centuries, at the least."
And maybe it was the adventure, or the cheap beer, or the kind words, but Wyll found himself stopping in a roadside inn. This time, when Rugan helped him down, he didn't step away, not even as Rugan brushed the back of his pointer against Wyll's cheek.
"Really did miss this face," Rugan said, then their lips brushed, Rugan holding back just enough that Wyll had to lean into it, that Wyll was technically the one to kiss and the one to pull him closer. The one to find himself gently lowered to the hay, Rugan's fingers stroking his waist and jaw.
"I don't usually…" Wyll started.
Rugan's lips found his ear. "Shhh, be a good lad. I'll take care of you."
With a clink, Wyll's buckle was opened.
"Slow down," Wyll whispered.
Rugan's hands returned to his shoulders, and he kissed again. "Let me take you upstairs, dukeling. Really make tonight one to remember."
"I said slow down. This is too fast."
"Leaving town soon. Got to build an alibi for today. Can't go much slower."
"Then we can finish when you return."
"Ah." Rugan rolled his lips, brows wrinkled, then said softly, "And there's nothing I can do to convince you otherwise?"
"If you try, then there is no next time."
"Right. T'was a bad idea, anyway. You're a good man, Wyll."
"I don't think taking it slow makes me—"
"A good man. Someone we should all strive to be. I'll be seeing you."
"Wait. Stay. You can stay. We could keep talking, read. I could send a pigeon to the city and we could bet on the outcomes of tonight's monster fights."
Rugan glanced to the exit, then to Wyll, like a dog eyeing a treat and an open door. Finally he nodded. "I could spare a few hours."
Surprisingly, he lugged the sack inside, opening it to reveal a very dazed cockatrice.
Wyll said, "It's smaller than a peacock, so I can probably get it into Baldur's Gate. I can't believe you saved it."
"You've made me soft, dukeling," Rugan murmured as it curled up next to him on the bed. Rugan soaked his feet and oiled his leathers while Wyll cleaned the creature and read to them, then switched so Wyll could reapply the illusion and work cream into his horns and hair. A soft, quiet evening, made softer and quieter by a gentle rain, murmured stories and clothed limbs snuggled together under a heavy blanket, the cockatrice curled up against the back of Wyll's knees.
Rugan woke him early.
"Really need to disappear for a bit. One more kiss for the road, there's a good lad," Rugan said, delivering a kiss so soft it was nearly chaste. He stared into Wyll's sleep clouded eyes for a moment, then turned away muttering, "Should've let that bloody devil keep making bargains."
"What?" Wyll yawned, and later he would regret that of all the questions he could've asked he said what.
"Nothing, dukeling, just my luck catching up with me. You stay away from Fighick, right?"
Fighick. Mizora. A pet with a pet, with the other—
"Wait, Rugan, are you working for her? Or was that devil trying to fool me?"
Too late. He was gone. Wyll stumbled to the door and pressed his forehead to the frame. The cockatrice whined, sniffing around the chair and tugging at something wedged under it.
A bag.
Relief flooded him. Rugan would be back. He had to come back.
He'd left his pay.