“I’ll kill you, you gossip mongering whore!” Johan Verbek screamed. He was a soft, gray haired man, not fat exactly but with doughlike excess of flesh that one expected of a successful cheesemonger. Judging by the throbbing vein in his right temple Johan stood a good chance of killing himself in a fit of apoplexy if he didn’t calm down soon. The plump burgers death would inconvenience few, save perhaps the drop in profits for the prostitutes he frequented during his monthly trips to Altdorf. Marguerite couldn’t have been more different from Verbek. Slender and blonde with piercing blue eyes and dimples when she smiled she might have been a mosaic for Reikish womanhood if not for the slightly hollow cheeks that months of living hand to mouth had imparted. 

“Your wife has a right to know that you have the soldiers pox, no one forced you into whatever brothel you picked it up in,” Marguerite declared, maneuvering to keep one of the foot thick wooden posts between her and the enraged Verbek. The fat man made a grab for her but she danced back out of range.  They were in the stable attached to the Ogre’s maw, they hayloft of which had served as Marguerite’s home place of business for the last tenday. It was rarely used, and though the straw on the floors was beginning to mold she was at least spared the full reek of horse odor which would normally haunt such a place. A single lantern hung from one of the posts above a water barrel, its filthy glass shutters keeping the flame alight in the drafty stable. Johan made another grab for her and Marguerite ducked to the side, avoiding his pudgy sausage like fingers with ease.

“The salve I gave you will clear it up, so you got value for your silver,” she said reasonably, glancing over her shoulder at the wooden ladder that lead up into the hayloft. If she could get enough of a lead to scramble up into the loft…

“You think I care about silver?! Bertha kicked me out of the house in front of Sigmar and everyone!” Verbek roared, staggering around the support post with speed given to him by fury. Marguerite seized the moment and darted past the raving cheesemonger. He made an uncoordinated grab for her, but slipped on the straw in his haste. The young woman raced back through the stable. The stall closest to the east wall had been laid with fresh straw and a variety of herbs and glassware was arrayed next to a small wood stove with a metal pipe that carried the smoke from the burning peat fuel outside. Bracken Bramble flowers were draped over the chimney drying slowly before Marguerite could grind them up. She ran up the ladder into the hayloft in three quick steps. The loft itself was empty save for a scattering of straw, her bedroll and a backpack of aged leather. A small sword in a leather sheath lay propped against one wall along with a walking staff and a pail of water. Marguerite bounded across to the pack and pulled a battered flintlock pistol from one of its pouches, spinning in time to see Verbek reaching the top of the ladder. He froze in place as she pulled back the pistols dog with an ominous click. Verbek froze in place.

“You won’t shoot me. You are a Sister of Shyalla,” the burger panted, though his tone was far from certain. Marguerite had to work hard not to tremble, keeping the pistol pointed at Verbek.

“I’d only be trying to wound you, but you never know, I might get lucky,” she returned evenly. Verbek seemed to consider this, frozen like a statue of effort at the top of the ladder.

“This isn’t over,” he snarled in frustrated anger.

“I think you should go home I’m sure you and Bertha have a lot to discuss Herr Verbek,” she said, managing to sound amused now the initial panic had passed.  

“If she needs any salve my prices are very reasonable,” she added with increased confidence. That was almost a mistake, Verbek’s eyes bulged in their sockets and his grip tightened on the ladder. Killing him would certainly mean she would have to leave town even if they accepted her word that it had been in self defense. The door to the stables creaked open and the sound of the rain outside intensified, bringing with it the clean scent of fresh water.

“Frauline Sister?” a voice called from below, filled with puzzlement to find Verbek’s ample hindquarters halfway up the ladder to the hay loft.

“Sister you are needed in the inn,” the voice added. Verbek ground his teeth and Marguerite lowered the pistol, gently easing the hammer forward so as not to spark the frisson. With some effort she composed her face into the placid serene mask expected of a Sister of Shyalla. Tucking the pistol into her belt she adjusted the slightly stained white dress, brushing away stray pieces of straw.

“Duty calls,” she told Verbek with a pious bow if her head.