A motley crowd of rich and poor alike filled the dimly lit tavern. Galladrin studied the woman sitting across from him. She had a strong, beautiful face and striking blue eyes. Her blond hair wrapped about her shoulders in a brilliant golden mane and she had an air of ease about her, like a noblewoman in her palace. Despite all that, he found the woman ... strange.
He had never before made so much effort to get a woman at his table. She had resisted nearly his every move. Not even the greeting of the waiter had brought her inside. It had cost him three more silvers and the services of porter, cook, and stablehand to entice the woman within. She had finally acquiesced to the Song of the Welcome Hero, embarrassed by all the fuss. Now, she sat at his table and barely spoke. He had ordered her a mug of ale but she did not seem inclined to drink. He studied her. She studied him. And there was only silence.
She brushed both hands through her silken mane and made another survey of the room. That’s the fourth time she’s done that, Galladrin thought. I wonder why. “Are you looking for something?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m just taking in the sights,” she said, flitting her glance back to the rogue. She seemed to stare at him for a moment, her blue eyes swirling with intense focus. Then, she shook her head causing ripples throughout her hair. “It was very kind of you to offer me your cloak. I am greatly in your debt.”
“Oh, it was nothing. Keep it if you like.” Although fond of his cloak, it seemed the gallant thing to do.
“That won’t be necessary,” she said, handing the cloak back to him across the table. “I’m fine now.”
Galladrin felt relieved, but still persisted, “You might need it later on.”
“I can find other ways to stay warm,” she said, smiling.
Galladrin mused over that remark, wondering exactly what she had in mind. He returned the smile, then started as anger surged into her eyes. He followed her gaze and turned to look behind him, wondering what was the source of her ire.
He saw nothing except a portly man in merchant’s garb sitting at the table across the way. Despite his weight, the man seemed well-kempt and some might even say handsome. His long red hair, tied in braids, hung back below his shoulders. His gaudy yellow hat sported a feather on one side. He wore a moustache, neatly trimmed with delicate curls that swirled up at the ends; this he stroked in obvious vanity while smiling at the small grooming mirror in his hand.
Galladrin returned his attention to his companion. She had settled down. Whatever it was, must have passed, though she still seemed a bit on edge.
“I would like to move to another table, please,” she said with a sudden smile.
“If you wish,” Galladrin said, standing.
“Yes,” she said, and stood.
They made their way through the crowd toward a table in the corner. They were about halfway there when the woman stopped, and pulled gently on his arm.
Galladrin followed her eyes then wrinkled his nose in disgust. Four men sat at a table, entrenched in a game of cards. Dirty, loud, and drunk, the men seemed the lowest patrons of the inn. They sat at their table guzzling mug after mug of ale and howling in raucous laughter. One reached out to slap a barmaid’s buttocks and laughed at her curse of dismay. They were true street vermin; Galladrin knew the type. No doubt the muscle for the local Guild of Thieves.
“Come now,” Galladrin said, taking the young woman’s arm again, “there is nothing for us over there.”
She shook him off abruptly, then took a hesitant step forward. One of the men looked up at her approach and a smile crawled across an unkempt face.
“Well now, lads, what have we got here?” he said, motioning to his companions. The laughter died as they took in the woman’s stark beauty. The woman simply smiled.
“Looks like a tavern wench in need of our attention,” one man said, licking his lips.
Galladrin stepped forward and grabbed the woman’s arm as he spoke, “Excuse us, gentlemen. We’re just passing through. We have no wish to disturb you and will be on our way—”
“We’ll let you know when you can leave,” one of the larger men said, standing. He pushed aside a chair and strutted over to Galladrin; the rogue’s hand eased toward his weapon.
Lady, what are you getting me into, Galladrin thought, then he spoke, his voice edged like iron, “Return to your seat, sir. The Lady and I have plans ... You are not invited.”
Galladrin felt a gentle restraining hand upon his breast, and the woman breathed consolation. “It’s all right, sir. I’ll be fine. Go along your way.” She nudged him gently to the side and stepped delicately to the table, sitting quickly in a proffered chair.
You have got to be kidding me! Galladrin thought in slack-jawed disbelief. He took two steps forward but found his way blocked by a behemoth of a man with hand on hilt.
Irritated and confused, Galladrin reacted with cat-like ferocity. His rapier flashed in a flurry of motion, drawing a crimson line across the man’s hand and wrist. He circled his rapier once, then pointed it directly at the man’s throat. “Sit down,” Galladrin said in a voice of steel. Silence spread throughout the bar like a fire in dry plains.
The large man stared in surprise at the lithe man before him. Obviously more accustomed to a weaponless man’s quick acquiescence, he seemed utterly dumbfounded by the armed and obviously skilled rogue. Slowly, he retreated cuddling his injured hand. To the shock of all present he obliged the rogue’s request, and sat heavily in his chair. Galladrin moved forward.
“Lady, I don’t know what your game is, but it isn’t funny.”
She looked up at him and said, “Your gesture was very noble ...” She motioned to the injured man in his chair, “But neither needed nor desired.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Galladrin asked, staring at her in disbelief.
The filthy man beside her drew in, wrapping his arm about the woman and pawing her opposing breast. “You heard the lady,” he said. “You are not welcome here.” Then with deliberate incivility the beast of a man slid his tongue across her cheek. A flash of anger seemed to cross the woman’s eyes, but she betrayed it with her words.
“I told you I’d find warmth tonight, sir. Now, please leave.”
“Lady, I’m begging you—”
“Sir,” she said, staring up at him with blue eyes like liquid pools. “Leave.”
Galladrin felt a tingle staring in those sultry depths. Shaking his head, he turned and headed for the door. Unbelievable, he thought, completely unbelievable. He took a final look back as he reached the tavern door. The room was still near quiet, so he could hear their words quite well.
“Does a delicious wench like you have a name?” the man said with a lick and a squeeze.
“Clarissa,” she said, and smiled, a cold, icy smile.
Galladrin turned and headed into the night.
Drasmyr (Prequel: From the Ashes of Ruin) Page 19