“Tunsha,” called the constable from the front door. “A girl in a blue cloak is running about. Have you seen her?”
The barman looked towards the front door again. Then, as if deep in thought, he rapped a silver ring on his finger twice against the bar. It rang out loud in the silence that had fallen since the constable came in.
“Not in here,” said the barman. His gaze did not waver.
The constable hesitated a moment, and Sun feared she was lost. But then: “Send for me if you do.”
The tavern’s front door swung shut. Sun released a sigh. The tavern filled with voices again, the patrons resuming conversations as if the constable had never appeared.
“He knocked to tell the others,” said the old man in a quiet voice. “When he hit his ring on the bar, I mean. He let the others know not to contradict him, even though most of them noted you when you came in.”
“And they listened?” said Sun. “Why?”
“Because this is that sort of place.”
Sun took that to mean a place where people hide from the law. And yet, she felt just as safe as when she had first entered. But it did not seem wise to remain.
“I thank you for your help, but I should leave you to your night,” she said.
“It might not be wise to leave so soon,” said the old man. “The constable will remain nearby for some time, I wager. Wait at least a little while.”
“I … suppose,” said Sun, settling back in her chair. She studied the old man again. He was eyeing her fine leathers, and Sun knew he could tell they were not Dorsean. He himself wore a brown tunic under a dark leather vest, and baggy pantaloons that were out of style here. Neither did his face have a Dorsean look. His skin was almost as pale as a Heddan’s, but with a tone and features that suggested Calentin ancestry. Weather and travel had stained every bit of him, particularly his cloak. Sun felt that this was a man who could be very, very dangerous when he wished to be. Yet there was nothing about him that seemed unfriendly, and despite his unusual urging that she remain in the tavern, she did not fear any ill intent from him.
“You look like someone who is looking for something,” said the man.
“And what do I look like I am looking for?” said Sun.
“That is less clear,” he said. “Though I would not say it is something material. Sometimes we strive hardest for the things that we can only feel on the inside—an adventure, a tale, the thrill of love.”
An adventure. “You … are not wrong.”
He smirked. “I notice that you do not say if I am right.”
Lifting his hand, he beckoned to the barman, who nodded and reached for a mug. But Sun had noticed something else. When the old man had waved, his cloak had fallen back slightly. She had thought his right arm concealed beneath his cloak, but now she saw that it ended in a stump just above the elbow. Something about that twinged in Sun’s mind. But it was like a thought remembered from a dream, and before she could chase it down, a heavy girl in a faded yellow dress came with a mug of beer. She placed it before Sun and smiled.
“Eight slivers, dear.”
“I have it,” said the old man, reaching into a pocket.
“No, please,” said Sun, grasping for her coin purse. “I can pay for—”
“Of course you can, with clothes like that,” said the old man. “But you are a guest here, and I insist. It is my pleasure to share what I have.” He produced the copper pieces and placed them in the barmaid’s hand.
“Thank you.” Sun turned to the barmaid. “And thank you as well.”
“Of course, love.” The barmaid winked and left. Sun felt blood rushing into her cheeks.
“Have a sip,” said the old man. “It is a decent enough brew.”
Sun sipped at the beer and found it good. Better than she had expected from a tavern in such a small town, though she still preferred the mead of home.
“That is pleasant,” she said. “Thank you.”
“And even better after a long day on the road,” said the old man. Sun must have looked surprised, for he smiled. “Your boots are muddy, and as I said, it is clear you are not from this place.”
He did not ask where she was from, for which she was grateful, though the question seemed to hang unspoken in the air between them. Slowly she drank another swig of beer.
“The second sip is better,” she said. “I imagine the third will be more so.”
The old man snorted and leaned forwards. “I love Tunsha dearly, and so I ask you not to repeat my words, but his brew is hardly the best I have ever had. In my youth I knew a woman who could brew the best ale in all of Underrealm.”
Sun nodded politely. But again she was struck by a strange feeling—a sense that she was missing something obvious. It was disconcerting. She had never been in this place—why should she expect anything here to be familiar?
As the old man kicked his chair back to lean against the wall again, she studied him more closely. He kept saying how she was a stranger in this town, and yet she realized suddenly that he, too, had recently traveled here. His chin bore several days of beard, and his long-worn clothes spoke plainly of travel—not to mention the second, stained cloak which she herself wore over her blue one. And mayhap most telling of all was his money. He had paid for her drink as if it was nothing, and Sun had heard many coins in his purse. Only someone traveling, and traveling a long way, would bear that much coin while looking so shabby.
Then Sun noticed something curious: despite his single arm, there was an unstrung bow leaning on the wall behind him. Sun knew bows, and this was one of the finest she had ever seen. It had certainly been crafted in Calentin, and she had already noticed signs of that kingdom in his features.
Her thoughts came crashing together with the force of an ocean gale. Sun’s mouth fell open and went dry all at once, and her fingers clenched upon the mug of beer.
The old man noticed her reaction, and his eyes glinted.
“Yes?” he said amicably.
“You … you are Albern. Of the family Telfer.”
The old man took a long pull from his mug, returned it to the table, and wiped some foam from his upper lip. “Now, what would make you say such a thing?”
“Your bow. Your face. Your … your arm. Forgive me if I am mistaken, but …”
He cocked his head. “But do the tales not say that Albern of the family Telfer lived a very long time ago?”
“Not that long ago,” said Sun. “And none of the tales say that he has died yet.”
The old man’s smile widened. “Then I suppose there is some worth in them. You have guessed aright.”
“But … but you …” Sun gestured vaguely, having no idea what to do with her hands. “You … you fought in the War of the Necromancer, and—and in everything that happened afterwards. You—” Sun’s voice fell almost to a whisper. “You walked alongside the Wanderer.”
She thought his eyes went a little sad at that. But he answered only, “Take another drink.”
Sun did so, downing quite a bit more than she had intended. It struck her gut, and a heady feeling crept into her skull. “I … what are you doing here?” she said finally.
Albern only gave her the same sad look. “I did walk beside the Wanderer, as you said. And it is her beer I praised so highly. Is that how you guessed?”
“That was part of it.”
“To think that legends of her ale survive to this day.” Albern shook his head. “I would give much to taste it now. Those were the days when Mag was happiest—when she lived in Northwood, and ran her inn, and loved her husband well.”
Sun gave a start. “Her husband?”
Albern raised his brows. “You know of her ale, but not of Sten?”
“I had never … they say she was not a lover.”
“They would be more correct to say she was not a bedder,” said Albern. “But love? Oh, yes. She loved Sten. And I suppose it is not altogether surprising that he should have faded away from her story. She would hate that h
e did. Yet talespinners often focus only on the choicest gems in their own treasure. They have not the jeweler’s touch, and so they discard the mountings that make the gems shine brighter still.”
Sun did not know quite what to make of these words. She tried for a moment to think of an answer, but when she could not, she took another sip of beer instead.
“But now we are unequal,” said Albern. “You know who I am, but I know nothing about you.”
“What do you want to know?” asked Sun, her pulse skipping.
“Your name, for one thing.”
“It is Sun.” It felt strange not to give her family name. Her tongue wanted to say it by reflex, and she had to restrain it from doing so.
If the look in Albern’s eyes was any indication, he had noticed her omission. But his tone remained kindly. “Do not worry. In this place, you are only yourself. You are not whatever person you left in the street outside.”
It was a pleasant thought, that she had left her past at the door like a coat. But she did not entirely believe it. She felt a need to steer the conversation away from her identity, and she had a perfect excuse.
“Is it true what they said about the Wanderer? About the way she fought? All those things she did?” Again her voice dropped almost to a whisper. “Is it true what they say about how you lost your arm?”
Albern smiled. “That is a pile of questions all at once. You know, I imagine, that if I were to tell you all the stories you ask about, we would be here for months?”
“I know that,” said Sun quickly. “But … but could you tell me the important parts, at least?”
He studied her more closely still, and Sun felt that he was seeing more than her face, more than her fine clothing. She felt understood in a way that she rarely had before, truly seen in a way that no one in Dulmun had ever made her feel.
“The important parts,” murmured Albern, and it was as though he was talking to himself. “Yes, I suppose you might need to hear the important parts.” Then he spoke in a normal tone of voice again. “But I think the important parts are quite different from what you believe them to be. I will tell you a story if you wish, but not the story of my arm. Not tonight.”
Sun could not help the crestfallen look upon her face. “Why not?”
“Stories may belong to whoever knows them, but these are more mine than most,” said Albern, smirking a little. “I do not mind sharing some of my adventures with you—but only if you will listen to the ones I choose. Do we have a deal?”
It was not such a bad thing, Sun supposed. Knowing what she did about Albern and the Wanderer, even a simpler tale was bound to be exciting. And the beer was good. Glumly, she nodded.
Albern motioned to the barman again—Sun had not even realized her mug was empty—and waited for two more beers to be brought out. When the drinks had been set down on the table, Albern leaned his chair forwards, drank deep, and waited for Sun to do the same.
“Very well, Sun of No Name. These are the tales of the Wanderer.”
I was not young when this story began, but I was younger, at least. This was decades ago, and though my temples were just starting to grey, I was still hale.
In those days I lived in the town of Strapa, but I had been hired to guide a party of travelers through the Greatrocks. Leading the party—at the end of our journey, not the beginning—was Loren of the family Nelda. Have you ever heard of the Nightblade? That was her. Then there was the girl Annis, of the family Yerrin, and Gem of the family Noctis—no blood kin of Loren’s, yet closer to her than siblings. There was also the wizard, Xain but … well, he was less than cheery company.
And there was one other who set out with us from Strapa. But I would rather not speak of him now, for no story should begin on a note of tragedy.
I guided them all through the Greatrocks, across long leagues and through great dangers. We had some dark times in those mountains, and some good ones—both victory and defeat, though not in equal measure.
What you care about is that at the end of the journey—the end of that journey, at least—we rode down from the Greatrocks and into the town of Northwood. Our hearts were heavy, but our steps were light. To me, riding into Northwood was like visiting an old friend. I had dwelled there for some time. And Mag lived there. Mag, who would one day be called the Wanderer, and to whom legend had already given other names—first among them, the Uncut Lady. Mag, the mercenary, the barmaid, the wife. Mag, my dearest and oldest companion.
How long had it been since I visited her last? I do not remember now. Too long, I am certain. It is often that way when two people part after their youth. We made plans, we promised we would not lose touch, we thought we would always remain close. Such promises are always made in earnest, but the world usually works to break them, and so it was with us. It had been years since we had seen each other, and though we sometimes sent letters, even those had become more infrequent.
Mag and Sten had built their inn with some help from the townsfolk. It had a second floor, which was unusual in Northwood, but very necessary; Mag’s skill with brewing was well known, and she had many visitors from both near and far. But despite its size, the building did not seem to loom over you when you approached. Rather, it stood with welcoming arms spread wide, like an old woman greeting her grandchildren as they come to visit. Sten had fashioned a large sign to hang over the front door; upon it, a great rock thrust out of the land, waves and wind crashing against it.
“The Lee Shore,” I said. “And does it not feel like one after those mountains?”
We were eager for rest, so after tending to our horses, I pushed open the door and led our little party inside. Once through the door, I stopped to soak in the feel of the place. It was a sunny day outside, but I felt like I had found a warm hearth in the middle of a blizzard. I imagine you appreciate the atmosphere of this tavern where we are now. The Lee Shore was superior in every way you can imagine.
There behind the counter stood Mag. A figure of legend, though she did not look it at the moment. Her hair was held back by a string, and her arms were streaked with grease and dirt and sweat. But she had washed her face and hands, and as we entered she was scrubbing a glass clean.
She looked up suddenly, and our eyes met from across the room. Her expression broke into a smile that warmed me to the depths of my heart.
“Now there is a face this place has missed for far too long,” she called out. “Come here, you great lummox!”
I suppose I should tell you how I met Mag. It was not long after I reached adulthood. I had left my home looking for freedom and an adventure. Great skill at archery had been drilled into me by my family’s masters at arms, and my sword work was passable. So when I found a mercenary company that was recruiting, I submitted myself to their trials.
They were called the Upangan Blades, and they were a good lot—for mercenaries, you understand. There were no evil soldiers among their ranks, at least, and they had a code of honor. They treated each other well, and did as little as they could to make others’ lives worse than they had to be. It had earned them a good reputation, which I knew even in my homeland, and that reputation meant they were never hired by cruel or vicious kings. That suited me just fine. As it happened, they were in their homeland of Feldemar at the time, and I happened to be passing by.
The master at arms was a hard-bitten woman—I imagine I shall tell you more of her later—and she did not look upon me very favorably. I fear I made rather a fool of myself when they asked to see me ride in plate. But they let me show them my bowcraft, and the head of the company happened to pass by while I was shooting. My acceptance was assured after that.
Still, they had a long period of training for all new recruits, and the master at arms tried her best to break us. We worked hard from sunup to beyond sundown. Many did not withstand the trials, but fled home in disgrace. It was not a pleasant time, but it hardened me for a future that was often even less pleasant.
And then, shortly after I joined the Blades, Ma
g arrived. My sergeant was a man named Victon, and he called me to him one day while I was in the middle of sparring practice. Mag stood beside him.
“Albern,” he said, “we have fresh blood today, and you will see to her arrangements.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
I stepped forwards, and Mag and I clasped wrists.
“Well met,” said Mag.
“And you. Let me show you the first and most important thing you must know in the Blades, or so they have told me. Latrine duty.”
Victon smiled and shook his head. “I will take my leave.”
Mag watched him go. “He seems to have heard a private joke in your words. I imagine you make the newest recruits dig the latrines?”
“Nothing so unfair.” I fished into my pocket and drew forth a copper sliver. “A thousand decisions must be made every day, and a soldier has no time for arguing. When we must choose between two things, and both choices are equal, we let fate decide. Now—head or moons?”
I flicked the sliver into the air. “Head,” said Mag.
The coin came up. The face of Andriana stared up at me.
“Congratulations,” I said. “You get to dig the latrines.”
Mag scowled. “I said heads.”
“And your sign came up. We did not specify if you got to choose who dug the latrines, or if you had to do it yourself.” I clapped her on the shoulder. “Here is your second lesson as a sellsword: when you gamble, make sure the other person is not stacking the odds in their favor.”
“Now that is a lesson I will take to heart.”
“Fear not,” I said. “It is your first day, and so I will be generous and help you dig.”
The Tales of the Wanderer Volume One: A Book of Underrealm (The Underrealm Volumes 4) Page 2