Chapter Twelve
Galladrin shivered, stepped out into the night, and wrapped his blue cloak about himself, hunkering down against the biting wind. Nodding farewell to the guard, the rogue made his way to the streets of Drisdak.
He walked alone in the darkness, his thoughts disturbed by his foul mood. He had finally said his piece to Coragan and of that he was rather proud. For much of his life, he had always kept his anger in. He was not comfortable expressing fury so openly. And when he did, he often felt embarrassed. This time, however, he felt certain he was in the right. Unfortunately, that did not ease his worry that perhaps he had said too much. In his anger, he may have been more insulting than he had wanted. Then again, Coragan had dished out his fair share of snide remarks. No, Coragan had needed the scolding. It would do him good. Galladrin just hoped the bounty hunter would not aggravate the matter further; the rogue was willing to put up with only so much.
And if he does? Galladrin considered the thought a moment, tossing it about in his mind. Would he leave? Forget the fire and the money? No, that would be walking out, turning one’s back on one’s troubles to find the easy path, no matter what the sacrifice. He had done enough of that in his youth, he did not wish to continue now. Despite how Coragan laughed at him for calling himself a former thief, the title described exactly how he felt. He had reformed his ways ... for the most part. There was the occasional odd trifle here and there, but never anything important, just enough to get by in times of need. After all, what good was a conscience if it didn’t fill your belly?
No, he would not leave. He thought Coragan a little too headstrong and authoritative at times, but he did, in fact, like the man. And Borak ... Galladrin smiled. Borak was a treasure: not a bundle of laughs to talk to, no, but he definitely had that manner of ... Borakness about him. He was the type of man who would see the Scythe-Bearer himself rise up before him and simply shrug his shoulders. ‘Oh, it’s time to die,’ he’d say. ‘All right. I’m ready.’ Well, he wouldn’t say it, but Galladrin felt certain that those would be the words in his mind. One had to be impressed by a man who could be so unfazed by the most tumultuous of events ... a man who could face the rending of the world as placidly as one would a soft summer’s rain.
A hissing wind arose and Galladrin shivered and hunched further inside his cloak. The temperature was definitely dropping, and he did not wish to remain long in the night air’s icy grip. He spied an alley to his left, a shortcut to the Street of Songs and a warm fire with a mug of ale. He scurried toward it, his wary eyes scanning all around as he headed into shadows.
The narrow alley measured perhaps half his body length in breadth. Although a safe haven from the biting wind, it could shield its own troubles within. Galladrin felt for the hilt of his rapier as he headed down the path. The weapon’s metal pommel, smooth to the touch, gave him great comfort with its familiar contours. In hands as skilled as his, the weapon provided ample ward against nearly any horror the city might divulge.
He moved with caution and the stealth of a thief, studying every shadow that blocked his way. It was slow going, but his reduced speed was better than a knife in the gut and still faster than the route around.
He had ample warning as a shadow moved from the wall ahead. The sound of metal being drawn echoed in the alley, but Galladrin remained at ease. He could see his opponent and his senses descried no others. The battle was all but won.
“What are you doing on my turf, buddy? Did Marco send you?” The figure advanced with blade drawn in full.
“I know no one named Marco,” Galladrin replied. Despite the gravity of the situation, he found himself in a playful mood. “And I have yet to see a sign on this street marked with your name. Although, I did see a pile of rat droppings ... might that be—?”
“An outsider, eh?” the figure said, sneering. “Since you’re new in town, I’ll forget your sarcasm and let you live. However, I’ll take your gold for the use of my alley.”
“I’ve been in Drisdak for several weeks now, my hooded friend, and I have yet to heed the warning of a street thug like yourself. It’s on account of your smell, you know—perhaps if you bathed more than once a year.”
“That’ll be enough from you,” the figure said. “Eat steel.”
The hooded man leaped forward, his short sword drawn back to strike. Galladrin stepped to the side, drawing his rapier as the man stabbed at empty air. With a quick and deliberate thrust Galladrin stepped in, spearing the man’s sword hand like a buttered roasting meat. The man screamed in pain as his sword clattered to the ground, then swallowed loudly as the rapier slithered round to nestle lightly on his throat.
Galladrin smiled as he circled past the man, keeping him pinned to the wall with the point of his blade. He kept a wary eye on his surroundings as he backed away. Two paces from the Street of Songs he finally spoke. “An interesting display, my hooded friend. Make sure you wrap that up, it’ll heal better if it’s not exposed to air ... oh, yeah, give Marco a warm clap on the back for me ...with the other hand of course. See you ‘round.” With a last parting smile, Galladrin turned and ducked into the well-used street.
There were no guards about, but enough people to discourage chase. He wiped his rapier clean with a spare rag as he walked down the street. He answered several overly curious stares with an all-too innocuous grin, then sheathed his blade. Strolling along and whistling, he did his best to look like a merry gentleman. Soon the people forgot the bloodied weapon, and went on their respective ways.
Galladrin relaxed in the flow of the crowd. The street, lined on either side by taverns teeming with patrons and possible mischief, smelled of smoke and stale ale. Where to go? What to do?
A nearby sign caught his eye. The Maiden’s Blush it read. No, I don’t think I’ll be going there tonight, he thought. Bad memories from that knife game. He looked around for other inns to visit and his eyes were snared by a figure in white.
A woman stood before an inn, her face distorted in a peculiar frown. The finger of her right hand was drawn to lip and she seemed to chew on it in indecision. Several stares were passed her way by many of the men who walked by, but she scarcely seemed to notice. She stood alone and seemed oblivious to the surrounding crowd. Well, now, Galladrin thought, here’s a damsel in need of a gentlemen. He looked down at his shirt. The brilliant gold dragon embroidered on a field of blue and the sleeves decked up in sleek white frills gave him a truly noble air. Thank you, Regecon. He moved toward her through the loose packed throng.
As he drew near her, he frowned. Perhaps not a noble lady after all, though I swear she has the face for one. Her dress, as Galladrin had thought it was, proved to be little more than a light gown, almost a simple nightgown, but somewhat more concealing. Tattered in places and dirtied from use, it seemed scant protection from the cold night wind. No matter, perhaps I shall be an inn girl’s royal dream. Prince Galladrin, or perhaps Galladrin, Earl of Valmore ... He walked forward. The woman looked up as he approached.
“Greetings, my lady,” Galladrin said. “It seems a might bit cold out to be dressed like that.”
The woman looked down at her thin dress, her eyes widening. She shivered once ... twice, and then looked up at the noble rogue. “Yes it is, my ... lord?” Galladrin nodded at the title.
“Here you go, my lady,” Galladrin said, unclasping his blue cloak. “Take this to keep you warm, and come, let us find further warmth inside.” She accepted the proffered cloak with a thankful smile, but pulled away as the rogue moved to take her arm.
“You are very kind, noble sir, but I can not,” she said.
“Why not?” Galladrin asked.
She motioned to her gown. “I fear I would not be very welcome, dressed as I am,” she said.
It was a strange dress to be out in, Galladrin agreed, but the rogue had seen much worse, some even on nobles. He glanced toward the sign and mouthed the words in silence—The Roaring Lion. A picture hung beneath the sign portraying a lion sitting in a chair with paw on mug
and maw opened wide in laughter. How quaint, Galladrin thought. Neither teeming with wealth, nor crumbling in ruin, the tavern made a reasonable compromise between two extremes. He looked over it once more, then turned his attention back to the woman.
“Come, come,” he said, “no one will notice and if they do ... they will have to deal with me.” The rogue grinned as he brandished the sheathed rapier at his side.
She giggled flirtatiously. “No, really sir, I would not feel comfortable ... very out of place and unwelcome.” The corner of her mouth twisted up in a smile. She apparently found her game amusing.
“Out of place? Unwelcome? But it will be by my word that you shall enter. Who is there to question that?”
“By your word, sir? Do you own the inn? Do you even work there? I think not. By what right would you invite me in?” she asked, raising both brows in question. She paused a moment, then shook her golden mane as she straightened in mock demand.
“By what right?” Galladrin asked, then frowned. “Wait just a moment.” The rogue moved to the small tavern’s door and motioned to a waiter serving drinks inside. The man nodded once in acknowledgment. He placed the last mug on his tray at a table of four men, then headed toward the rogue.
“Yes?” he said, as he reached the door.
“Well, good man, do you think you can act a noble’s part?”
“Excuse me?”
“I wanted you to do me a favor,” Galladrin said, patting the man’s back. “Do you see that young woman over there? Yes, the one with the blue cloak wrapped about her. She’s feeling kind of shy tonight and not very cooperative. I was wondering if you could help me put her at ease. I would like to bring her in, but she feels a little out of place. Can you help?”
The waiter looked at Galladrin, rolled his eyes to the ceiling, then raised his flattened palm as he smiled. Galladrin scowled, then fished out a silver griffon from his pouch and placed it in the man’s hand.
“I’d be delighted, sir,” the waiter said.
Drasmyr (Prequel: From the Ashes of Ruin) Page 18