“I asked first,” Jason said. “Is it a local custom to write what we think of people with paint? I’m not sure I can fit ‘self-important turd nugget’ on your robes. Do you have a smaller brush?”

Still sitting on his wagon, Jory groaned, running a hand across his face. The two men turned red with fury, lunging at Jason. He threw the contents of the pot over the first one and threw a fist at the other. The paint landed but the punch did not. A short time later Jason was curled up on the ground. He could have tried using abilities, but he knew both men were iron rank. He was afraid that pulling out powers would be like pulling a knife in a bar fight, escalating things to the point of genuine danger. The clean one was satisfied with having laid Jason out with a punch, but the one splattered with paint was still getting kicks in.

“Come on,” the other one said. “We came to send a message, and the message is sent.”

The painted man gave Jason a final kick, picked up the other pot of paint and tipped it over Jason.

“Now it's sent,” he said, and the two started walking off. The crowd of onlookers hurriedly parted to let them through, but the pair stopped when a voice called out to them.

“Hey!” Jason yelled. The pair turned to see Jason, barely back on his feet, doubled over, but flashing them a bloody-toothed smile.

“You guys kicked the crap out of me pretty good,” Jason groaned. “I don’t suppose you can point me to a church of the Healer?”

The man covered in paint lit up with fury, his face almost matching the red paint splashed on him. Sprinting back with thundering steps, he brought a fist down on Jason’s head. Barely able to stand, Jason’s only defence was a bloody-toothed grin. The fist came down and he crumbled, out cold before he hit the ground.

36. The Island

36

The Island

Jason regained consciousness on a cushioned table, like an examination table in a doctor’s office. He’d been stripped down to his boxer shorts and his skin was covered in healing unguent.

“I think I’m weirdly getting used to this.”

“To getting knocked out?” Jory asked. He was at a sink, washing out empty potion vials and placing them on a drying rack.

“It’s been a rough couple of weeks,” Jason said.

“Two acolytes of the god of healing, beating someone unconscious, though,” Jory said. “That’s unusual.”

“Not for me,” Jason said. “It’s mostly been cultists, but generally religious figures of one stripe or another.”