The Iron Ring by Auston Habershaw

returned, grinning, and plopped a chipped mug and a wooden plate in front of Tyvian. The “roast” was a dark, greasy hunk of unidentifiable meat ­coupled with some mushy potatoes in a black gravy. The woman took a pair of coppers for her trouble and melted back into the crowd.
    Tyvian was transfixed by the meat. “It seems I should have had the stew. She didn’t even leave any flatware.”
    Artus shrugged. “Just use your hands.”
    Tyvian curled his lips at the suggestion and pushed the plate away. “I am going to kill Hendrieux slowly for this.”
    â€œWhat? Everybody uses their hands.”
    Tyvian snorted. “Your definition of ‘everybody’ seems to leave out the intelligent, cultured, clean, and polite.”
    Artus leaned back and crossed his arms. “You’re an ass.”
    Tyvian put up three fingers, one at a time. “An ass who saved you from a burning spirit engine, who refrained from killing you when you came at him with a knife, and who is paying you ten gold marks when you get to Freegate, so shut the hell up .”
    They both fell quiet and Tyvian took the respite from Artus to examine the iron ring affixed to his finger for the hundredth time. There were no sigils or runes inscribed along its surface, no visible marks of enchantment, not even any jewels or studs around which to focus magical energy. It was a featureless iron band—­as fascinating a talismanic work as it was enraging. The material, if it were iron, would indicate an association with the Dweomer, though without a mage-­compass he couldn’t tell for certain. Dweomeric energy would make sense, though, if its purpose was to make him adhere to certain rules of behavior. How it was able to know which rules he would be constrained to obey, though, was something he couldn’t figure out. Conventionally they would have to be inscribed upon the ring itself, but Tyvian could see nothing. Even presuming the writing was along the inside of band, there was hardly enough surface area to accommodate much Dweomeric lettering. He supposed somebody could have used Astral enchantments to artificially expand the area on the inside of the ring, but that was an enchantment of such complexity Tyvian felt it hard to believe a single ring could contain such power, especially when ­coupled with the behavior-­triggered effects and the enchantment to keep it on his hand.
    â€œDoes it hurt?” Artus asked, watching Tyvian’s hand.
    â€œNot just now. Insulting you isn’t on its list of things I shouldn’t do, apparently.”
    Artus licked his lips. “If it hadn’t stopped you, you woulda killed me, right?”
    Tyvian didn’t smile when he answered. “Yes, Artus. I would have.”
    He looked Artus in the eye. The boy was trying to look nonchalant, but his face was too tight and too controlled. He was afraid. “I ought notta attacked you. Sorry.”
    Tyvian nodded. “Apology accepted.”
    â€œYou gonna apologize to me?”
    â€œI can’t imagine for what.”
    Artus’s eyes flashed and his face flushed. He opened his mouth, probably, Tyvian assumed, to call him an ass again, but he didn’t get it out.
    At that moment there was a commotion up on deck. Tyvian stood to see what was happening, and through the smoky gloom he spotted a pair of men supporting a pale woman between them. She had been half dragged, half carried in from outside, where the sun had just set, and was panting as though she had been sprinting. “Monster!” she gasped. “Monster coming!”
    It was then that Tyvian could hear the screams of injured men coming from somewhere above. Around him the locals began hasty speculations. Nurlings? Trolls? It was the wrong season, some insisted, while others called for the tavernkeeper to bring weapons.
    In moments the tavernkeeper was distributing cudgels and quarterstaffs he had taken from the back