Benjamin Ashwood Box Set 2

by A. C. Cobble

  Ben whistled softly as he eyed the stores.

  The barman glanced back at Ben. Noticing his awed expression, he explained, “They bought all this for a big gala King Argren threw about a year back, but them highborn drank the fancy bubbly wine. They don’t like ale, you know, so we got enough left down here to float a ship.”

  “Huh,” said Ben, stooping to look at a keg on the bottom of a rack. It was coated in a thin layer of dust, which he wiped away to reveal a red stamp at the end of the barrel. “This ale looks to be from the South Continent, maybe nine years old if I’m reading this right?”

  The barman grunted. “Aye, there was some a bit older than the gala.”

  “You’re a collector, aren’t you?” asked Ben, standing to look at the old man.

  The barman smirked. “Why not? Most people will drink anything, but a good ale is just as fine as a good wine, if you ask me.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Ben. “I like a good ale, too. What’s the best barrel you’ve got?”

  The old man frowned at him.

  “Maybe not the best,” allowed Ben. “What’s a good one that you recommend and are willing to part with?”

  “Not that South Continent stuff,” rasped the man, turning to go deeper into the storage room. “It’ll probably sit there another nine years ‘less those diplomats fancy another barrel.”

  “Diplomats?” asked Ben. “The emissary is here?”

  The barman blinked at him. “Emissary?”

  “The emissary from the South Continent,” explained Ben. “She was supposed to arrive any day now, but I haven’t had word she is here.”

  The old man shook his head. “Naw, these folk been here for at least a month. Arrived shortly before the king started commandeering all the big sailing ships. Not sure what they were up to, but they’re stuck now, just like everyone else. The only boats big enough to make it across the South Sea are headed to Fabrizo, full’a soldiers and supplies.”

  “Interesting,” responded Ben, turning and pretending to study more of the stamps on the barrels. Diplomats in the Citadel a month. The timing fit.

  The old man tapped a bony finger against a barrel by his shoulder. “I recommend you take a sip of this one.”

  “What is it?” asked Ben, coming close to peer at the end of the barrel. There was no stamp on it.

  “Fella down below in the city makes it. Some of the best ale I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Sounds up my alley then,” remarked Ben, a grin on his face. He reached for the barrel and then paused. Leaning to the side, he looked over the old man’s shoulder at a barrel behind him.

  “That one there is from the City, if you get the distinction. Good stuff and rare, too,” said the man. “The brewery shut down about a year ago. It’s hard to tuck into one like that when you don’t know when you’ll get another sip. Know what I mean?”

  “I do know,” said Ben, his eyes fixed on the barrel.

  “You want to try it?” asked the old man, moving out of Ben’s way. “Maybe we could share a draught. Normally, I wouldn’t mention a barrel like that, but for a fellow connoisseur…”

  Ben shook his head. “I think I’ve had it before. I’ll try this other instead.”

  The old man shrugged, and Ben gripped the sides of the barrel the man had first recommended. He wiggled it to make sure it was loose and then hefted it off the rack. It was heavy, and he took a step back when it was free of the support. He smiled when he heard the familiar slosh of the liquid inside. For a moment, he was transported to behind the timber mill in Farview, to when he would lift a freshly brewed barrel for the Buckhorn Tavern.

  “Let me know what you think, will you?” asked the old man.

  “Of course,” agreed Ben, making his way out of the dim storage room. He glanced back. “These diplomats you mentioned, can you tell me anything else about them? Maybe they come to the mess hall at a certain time each evening?”

  The old man scratched at the bristly stubble that poked out of his chin. “Well, it’s a bit strange, but they don’t come to the mess hall. Don’t see ‘em around often at all, really. I know they’re still there cause my daughter is one of the chamber maids. They got the whole north wing of the second floor, and she cleans their rooms when they let her. She was complaining to me about it cause the mistress was after her to get busy, but what’s she supposed to do if they don’t let her in? She says they got a pretty little blond thing that must do their cleaning. I saw the blond once, and that kind’a girl ain’t made for cleaning. It’s a shame if those diplomats are letting her work a broom instead of the bedroom.”

  “Odd,” said Ben. “Maybe they’ve got some strange customs down south and don’t want anyone to know about it? Rumors are getting started over all kinds of silly things these days.”

  “That’s true,” grunted the barman, taking his place back on the stool.

  Ben hefted the keg onto his shoulder and made his way back to the room.

  “The north wing of the second floor?” asked Rhys, fingers drumming on the table.

  “That’s what the barman said,” replied Ben.

  Rhys raised his ale mug and took a long sip. “The same barman who recommended this?”

  Ben nodded.

  Rhys closed his eyes. “I think we should trust his judgement.”

  Amelie snorted.

  The rogue’s eyes flicked back open. “In all seriousness, it is a good tip, and we should look into it. Diplomats from the South Continent acting strange, hiding in their rooms… It certainly sounds suspicious, and the timing is right.”

  “Would assassins check in with the seneschal and get rooms?” questioned Prem.

  Rhys shrugged. “Assassins wouldn’t, but if they were working with someone on the inside, that person could have arranged it.”

  “Then why are they still here?” pressed Prem. “Assassins would either strike and fail or succeed and then leave, right? They’re not going to stay around for a month after the initial attack.”

  “The barman said they were stuck here,” explained Ben, “unable to get passage back to the South Continent because Saala seized all of the large sea-going vessels. It’s the same reason we’re stuck here, so it makes a little bit of sense, though, I’m not sure why they wouldn’t flee landward.”

  Shaking her head, Amelie commented, “Real diplomats would have their own vessel. The emperor would send them on one of the man-o-wars in his fleet. Highborn from a minor house or merchants would make more sense. You’re sure they’re diplomats?”

  Ben shrugged. “That’s what the man said. I’ll track down Seth and ask him to find out what he can.”

  “In the meantime, we’ll do some snooping around their rooms,” said Rhys.

  “What if they catch you?” asked Prem.

  “I wasn’t planning to get caught,” replied the rogue, “but if I am, we have the protection of General Brinn. We can do whatever we want.”

  “I’m not sure he’d agree with that,” advised Ben.

  Rhys waved a hand dismissively.

  “Have you found anything interesting?” Ben asked, turning to Towaal and Amelie.

  The mage shook her head. “The bloodlines of the highborn in Whitehall are a confusing mess. They intertwine, branch off, and then come back together. Amongst the six most powerful families, each one of them is connected to others by marriage and children. It’s hard to imagine any of them could act against the others without disrupting those ties. When it comes to highborn, family ties are more important than anything.”

  “I understand now why no one was in position to take the throne, and they ended up elevating their general,” added Amelie. “Whitehall’s families are an incestuous spiderweb. It’s been a hundred years since any of them brought in fresh blood.”

  “So, you think they’re all working together?” asked Ben.

  Towaal pursed her lips. “That doesn’t really make sense either because if they were to overthrow Saala, then only one of them would gain the throne. I se
e no reason the others would permanently raise a family above their own, and I see no levers that could be pulled to convince them.”

  “There’s no evidence any of the families are doing serious plotting,” finished Amelie, “at least, not against Saala or Brinn. It’s in their best interests that the war is prosecuted successfully. It’d be foolish to distract Saala while he’s facing the Coalition. The highborn families have more at risk by losing the war than anything else.”

  “We don’t really know anything, do we?” asked Ben, fighting to keep the frustration from his voice.

  “General Brinn has been here for years, and he’s no amateur when it comes to political machinations,” responded Amelie. “He hasn’t figured out who is behind the attacks. We’re not going to do any better just by looking at these family trees and jotting down the gossip Seth feeds us. If it’s an outside party, which is how it seems to me, then none of these documents will tell us anything.”

  “The Coalition, you think?” asked Ben.

  “Brinn told us that Lord Jason killed King Argren,” responded Rhys. “If he’s still involved in these latest attempts, why are they unsuccessful?”

  “Finding out who is behind the attacks would be helpful, but it isn’t our goal,” said Prem. “We know Saala isn’t here, and I understand why you want to uncover these assassins, but when you find a steep ravine in the forest, sometimes it’s best to go around instead of searching for the bottom. We can turn our efforts to finding a ship, and let the highborn in Whitehall fend for themselves.”

  Ben rubbed his arm and glanced around his friends

  “We do have one option,” advised Rhys. “I wish we had more time to survey the location, but there’s a tavern where, ah, some creative business endeavors are commissioned. If we want to find assassins, it’s the place to go.”

  “Prem has a point,” acknowledged Ben, “but we’re not going anywhere until we find a ship, and that’s not happening tonight. I think our best bet is trying to hitch a ride with the South Continent’s emissary, and she’s not here yet. We could sit around and go over these lineage documents again, or…”

  “Let’s go find some assassins,” said Prem.

  Rhys coughed, and the former guardian raised an eyebrow at him.

  “It’s going to be dangerous,” he mentioned.

  “I suppose you’d better look after me then, shouldn’t you?”

  Frowning, Rhys glanced to Ben for assistance. Ben could only shrug. He certainly wasn’t going to tell the long-lived guardian that she needed to stay in the bedroom because the tavern was too dangerous.

  “There’s, ah…” mumbled Rhys. He rubbed a hand across his face. “It’s a bit unusual for girls looking like you to be in this place. Maybe you can, ah, try to look a bit less pretty?”

  Ben groaned.

  “We’ll do our best, Rhys,” said Amelie, scowling at the rogue.

  “Is this where I think it is?” queried Towaal.

  “It is,” confirmed the rogue.

  “I think I’ll go over these boring genealogy documents one more time,” declared Towaal.

  “The Flatulent Frog,” read Amelie flatly. She glanced at Rhys. “Really?”

  “I didn’t name it, you know,” responded the rogue. “They probably named it something they thought would discourage interest from the city watch.”

  “I think the smell is accomplishing that,” retorted Prem, her voice nasal from where she was pinching the bridge of her nose.

  “You two always complain that the names of taverns make no sense,” chirped Ben. “Well…”

  Prem eyed him askance, her fingers still sealing her nostrils.

  “You can’t do that the entire time we’re in there,” advised Rhys. “We need to blend in.”

  “I need more to drink before we go in that place,” griped Amelie.

  Rhys threw up his hands. “It’s not like you’re being forced to come along, you know! Ben and I can handle this ourselves.”

  Amelie glanced at Prem. “Do you think…”

  Suddenly, the curtain to the tavern was shoved open, and a drunken man stumbled out, barely supported by a slender girl under his arm. The man’s face was red, his eyes glassy, and his chest bare underneath a shoddily embroidered wool coat.

  It appeared the girl was wearing the man’s tunic, and from what Ben could see, nothing else. And he could see plenty. The man tugged at the tunic, pulling the loose fabric aside to expose one of her bare breasts. The girl playfully slapped the man’s hand away and they staggered down the street, disappearing into a narrow doorway two buildings down.

  Ben let out a low whistle, and Prem quickly answered Amelie, “I think we should stay with them a little longer. I’m told this place is dangerous.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” grumbled Rhys. He strode forward, pushing the curtain aside and ducking from the lantern lit streets of Whitehall into a dim, swirling menagerie of smoke, scented perfumes, bubbling drunken conversation, frantic music, and naked flesh.

  Ben stepped in after Rhys and slowed, trying to keep his jaw from dropping to his chest.

  The Flatulent Frog was a bigger space than it appeared outside, and it was lit only by a handful of mirrored lanterns hanging on the walls. The low lights illuminated dozens of girls standing atop tables, wrapped in thin, brightly colored scarves and nothing else. They danced in time to a quick beat played by a trio of drummers in one corner. Drunken men stumbled about the room, calling to each other loudly or bursting into spontaneous song. Smoke from a giant hearth and a dozen pipe-wielding patrons hung in the air, stirred by strange contraptions on either ends of the room. Two boys spun spits which sprouted large, canvas paddles. Ben watched, confused, until he realized the devices were meant to circulate air through the tight confines of the tavern. It kind of worked.

  “Let’s get drinks then watch the crowd,” suggested Rhys.

  Nodding, the girls fell in behind him, Ben behind them. He stayed close, nervous that handsy patrons would accost Amelie and Prem, but to his surprise, none did. The men’s eyes were fixated on the undulating bodies of the girls on the tables. Unmolested, Ben and his friends made their way to a sticky-looking bar in the corner where Rhys ordered a pitcher of ale.

  “No wine?” Amelie whispered to the rogue. “Do you think that will make us stand out in this place, or is it no good?”

  Rhys frowned at her when the barman returned with the pitcher. “You can order whatever you like. I got this pitcher of ale for me.”

  Amelie blinked at him, uncertain if he was joking or not.

  Ben caught the barman’s notice and ordered two wines and an ale. He knew Rhys never joked when it came to ale.

  Finally, properly outfitted with drinks, they sat around one of the tables near the middle of the room that wasn’t occupied by a naked, dancing girl. The front of the room held the door to the place, and the back had the bar. One side wall was dotted with two hearths, the other with dark booths. A staircase near the bar led upstairs, and Ben could only imagine what happened there.

  Rhys leaned across the table and in a low tone explained, “The booths are where all of the business takes place.”

  “So, we just sit back and observe?” asked Prem.

  “We do,” confirmed Rhys. “We observe and let ourselves be seen. Watchers are paying attention, and they’ll want to see if we belong before they’re willing to discuss business with us. Assassins will not show themselves just because someone asks.”

  Ben looked around the chaotic tavern and wondered how anyone could pay attention to anything in the place. At the table next to them, he heard the familiar clink of coins and looked to see a pile of copper, silver, and even a few gold discs sprinkled across the rough wooden surface. Standing above them was a naked girl. She was gyrating her hips in time with the blistering pace of the drummers’ music. Surrounding her at the table were a group of men who stared up at her, entranced by her movements. Occasionally, she would bend down in one of the men’s fa
ces and give an extra wiggle or a seductive touch. The men howled and whooped every time she did, and another rainfall of coin would splash down on the table.

  “Ben!” snapped Amelie.

  He turned and blinked at her. “What? I was just watching the room.”

  “Ben, Prem has been asking you a question.”

  “Ah…”

  “I was asking if you’d ever been to a place like this before,” said the former guardian. “Rhys claims these kinds of taverns are common in all cities.”

  Ben flushed. “They’re not common in Farview.”

  Satisfied, Prem sat back and crossed her arms under her breasts, giving Rhys a stony-look.

  “This is where the business is conducted,” complained Rhys. “I can’t help that.”

  Amelie scooted her chair closer to Ben and leaned over, whispering in his ear, “Keep your eyes off these girls, and I’ll give you something to look at later.”

  Ben swallowed and nodded. Easier said than done. To distract himself, he sipped at his ale and studied what he could see of the patrons in the booths along the walls. Unlike the tables in the center of the room, there were no girls dancing there, and while everyone had drinks, none of them seemed drunk like the rest of the crowd.

  “Be surreptitious,” warned Rhys when he noticed Ben’s gaze. “These aren’t the type of folks you want to be caught staring at.”

  Ben nodded and then smirked when he saw Amelie was now watching the gyrating girls. Their provocative movements, the swirling colors of their scarves, and he had to admit – mostly the nakedness – was hard to tear your eye away from. He did it, though, forcing himself to concentrate on the business at hand.

  “Rhys,” he hissed, “look at that.”

  The rogue followed his gaze and nodded. “A fence. Close, but not what we’re looking for.”

  A small man had appeared at one of the booths and, back turned to the room, had removed a golden bowl from underneath his cloak. The bowl was polished to a brilliant shine, and even from a distance, Ben could tell it was etched with intricate designs and studded with gemstones. Without a doubt, it was worth a fortune. A year of wages for a craftsman, at least. Not the kind of wealth you typically flashed in such a rough tavern.