by Aldrea Alien
The bartender eyed the hound before shifting his piggish gaze to the rest of them. He was big, but slender. Not overly old either, or at least his hair clung to his scalp well. The man sniffed long and loud, then spat into a bowl sitting at his elbow. “What do you want?” The words sounded as if they had to fight their way through the man’s throat.
“Charming,” Marin muttered barely loud enough for Dylan to hear.
The hound’s generally easily-mustered smile faltered. “You have a cook out back, yes? They prepare the food, not you?”
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.” Again, the man spat into the little bowl. “What’s it to you, elfy?”
Taking a deep breath, Tracker slammed a silver coin on the counter. “I will give you this, plus another after every meal, providing I have your word that you will not personally handle my food. Now, does someone else cook?”
The bartender’s expression turned that little less sour at the show of money. Dylan didn’t know what sort of coin the man usually saw, but if he was to judge by the current tavern occupants, it couldn’t be much. The bartender shrugged. “My sister and her wife are out back.” He tipped his head to where a little half-door divided the entrance to the kitchen. “They handle all the cooking.”
Tracker moved the silver coin around the counter in small circles with his forefinger. “And the serving?”
The bartender spat into the bowl again. He scratched his chin, flakes of skin drifting on the air at each scrape, and nodded at the coin. “Master Elf, You give me that at every meal and you can have my little girl as your personal waitress.”
Wordlessly, Tracker slid the silver coin across the counter.
The man’s massive paw of a hand snatched up the money. “Bronwyn!”
A small, rosy-cheeked girl of perhaps seven years trotted out from the kitchen. She scooted behind the bar, all but the top of her dark-haired head disappearing from sight. “Yes, Papa?”
The bartender’s face seemed to soften in the girl’s presence. “I want you to serve this elf here and his friends. I’ll make sure your aunties know to give them exactly what they want.” With that, the man strode off into the kitchen.
The top of Bronwyn’s head bobbed out of sight. “Yes, Papa.” She appeared around the end of the counter and halted at Tracker’s feet. Big, dark eyes lifted to survey them before settling on the hound. Fisting her apron, she cleared her throat. “Good morning, sir.” Her voice changed from the sweet tone she’d used with her father, now it was deeper, more adult. “How may I be of service?”
“I must admit,” Tracker said. “I was expecting a child.”
At the man’s words, Dylan revaluated the girl—or rather the woman. Although her height and face was that of a far younger person, the rest was not.
“I get that a lot,” Bronwyn replied, a tight smile flattening her mouth. “Now, what can I get you?”
The rest of them left the hound to speak with Bronwyn to find a table not currently harbouring a drunken patron.
Marin shook her head and muttered, “She is his daughter?”
Dylan held his breath and glanced over his shoulder, but the bartender seemed to still be in the kitchen. Nevertheless, Dylan casually stepped closer to Marin and elbowed the hunter in the ribs. “Shut up,” he hissed.
They settled at a table near the stairs leading up to what Dylan assumed would be their rooms for the night.
“I’m just saying,” Marin said as she took up a stool opposite Dylan. “A cute thing like her—”
“Are we sure she’s not actually a dwarf?” Authril interrupted. The woman had dragged a stool from a nearby table and now sat the end opposite the bar. “I mean, she has the stature.”
Katarina sniffed, her mouth clearly fighting a frown. “It is true that our oldest reports state we were shorter folk in the beginning, that the addition of human bloodlines over the years have increased our height.”
Authril stretched across the table to poke Dylan’s shoulder. “Told you.”
“But,” Katarina continued, shooting a glare at the warrior. “As a people, we have never been that short. Even though my ancestors were perhaps no taller than elves are now, this human myth on our shortness seems perpetual. The height difference would be, for the most part, barely noticeable that I can’t begin to understand why it started.”
Tracker joined them at the table, on the stool directly opposite Dylan. “What are we talking about?” the man asked as Bronwyn trotted up with a tray of leather tankards. The woman dispensed them with obvious practised ease and, offering a curtsy, hastened off through the kitchen door.
Dylan took a swig of beer, ready for anything with a little flavour. A sweet malty tang washed over his tongue. He shuddered and took another swallow.
Marin jerked a thumb at the hedgewitch. “Just Kat chatting about her ancestors. Did you know they were as short as you in the beginning?”
The hound hummed around his tankard. “That would not be difficult to imagine.”
Authril snorted. “He doesn’t count. He’s on the taller side.”
“I know of a woman who only stood this high,” Dylan said, indicating part way up his chest. “Knew,” he amended. A bitter twinge hit his gut at the thought. Launtil. How cruel the gods were to have her survive the gruelling trek over the mountains between Demarn and the Udynea Empire only to be slaughtered.
“Really?” Tracker replied. There was a cheeky note to the word. “The Gilded Lily has a man who can orally service a vast majority of his clients whilst still on his feet. I hear he is quite popular with the local lords. Charges a fortune, too.”
“I take it you couldn’t afford him, then?” Marin teased, giving the hound a nudge with her shoulder.
The hound laughed. “Such cynicism, my dear hunter. What makes you think I needed money to sleep with him?”
Before Marin could reply, Bronwyn arrived bearing a tray with simple bowls of what Dylan’s nose told him involved a lot of fish. He should’ve expected that from a fishing village. Still, his stomach rolled at the scent. Maybe venturing back into the circle of tents would reveal more palatable options.
Their serving woman smiled at Tracker as the last of the bowls were laid out. Then, with her tray tucked under an arm, she turned to Dylan. “Yours will take a little longer to make, sir. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” Waiting for anything that wasn’t fish wouldn’t exactly be troublesome.
Dylan stretched his legs out underneath the table as the others started to eat in silence. No sooner than he did, his boot brushed up against the toe of another. Dylan went to pull back, an apology ready to leap from his tongue, only to find his leg had been neatly hooked by the other’s foot. He glanced up from his tankard.
Tracker and Marin sat on the other side. Only one would’ve dared. Dylan gently bumped his foot against the other’s ankle and was rewarded with a slight twitch of the hound’s smile. The foot bumped back.
Katarina finished first. She bounced in her chair as the rest ate, her gaze darting from them to the inn’s entrance. She dug into her pouches and leapt to her feet as the others pushed their bowls away. “I’ll be outside documenting if anyone needs me.”
“I’ll come with,” Marin said, casting a side-long glance at Tracker. “See if I can’t talk a few of your so-called vultures down to some reasonable prices.”
“You are welcome to try, my dear,” the hound said. “I have had very little luck in the past, but perhaps the lack of boats to carry off their wares might temper their greed.”
Grinning, the hunter cocked her head. “That might be because you look like you have coin. Whereas I don’t.” Marin twirled on the spot, opening her cloak to reveal the patched leather and linen of her attire. She turned to Authril. “You coming? Maybe having a bit of obviously mercenary muscle at my back might intimidate them.”
“Or our dear warrior could also perhaps hold back you when someone insults her, yes?” Tracker quipped.
Marin stuck
out her tongue and blew a low flatulence-like sound. “Still think that guy deserved it.” She clapped her hand onto Authril’s shoulder. “Come on.”
The trio left, Katarina spearheading their departure. There was a flash of colour from the market square as they slipped outside. People and banners, for the most part. Before he could get a proper look, the door swung shut.
“Here we are, sir,” Bronwyn suddenly announced, startling Dylan. She plonked down a plate before him. “Sorry about the wait. Will that be everything?” she asked of Tracker, who wordlessly inclined his head.
Dylan could barely tear his eyes from the plate, his mouth already watering. Flat cakes? Three of them, their surfaces a rich golden brown and steaming. Gods, there was even a small jug of syrup and a cup of cream. How had they—?
“Just eat them already,” Tracker urged, laughter colouring the words. “Before you start drooling all over them.”
His gaze lifted to the man. “You’re responsible for this, aren’t you?”
The hound rested his cheek on an upraised fist. “Well, I did promise them in Whitemeadow. And I will admit to feeling a little guilty that I could not deliver on that.”
A groan rumbled in Dylan’s throat as he took a tentative bite. The flat cakes weren’t quite like the ones Tricia would bring him, but they came close. He poured the syrup out in small doses, tasting every so often—it was tarter, and more reminiscent of pears, than the tower’s honey-based version—before upending the cup of whisked cream over everything.
Tracker stuck out his tongue and made a soft gagging sound. “I cannot believe you are capable of eating all that. So much sweetness would make me sick.”
Dylan swallowed another mouthful and smiled. “Did you manage to get us a place to sleep?”
“I have, although it may not be to everyone’s liking. They had but one room left.”
The idle hope of spending time alone with the hound dwindled. “As long as there’s a bed,” he said around a mouthful of flat cake and cream.
The way Tracker’s brow creased diminished Dylan’s hopes even further. The best he could probably expect was a solid roof over his head.
Music started up as he finished the last few mouthfuls. Dylan glanced around the room. There was no sign of anyone playing. “Is that coming from outside?” He rose from his seat.
“We can linger a moment more,” Tracker said, placing his hand atop Dylan’s. “Believe me, the music will be playing for some time, but right now, we need to talk.”
The starkly serious look on the man’s face had Dylan lowering himself back to his seat and draining the final drops of beer from his tankard. He couldn’t remember the last time those words had ever led to something good. “All right,” he managed around the thorny ball of sick dread tumbling about his stomach. “About what?”
“That night we spent in Whitemeadow…” The words trailed off as a small smile lit up the hound’s eyes. “A night I doubt I will forget for the rest of my days.”
Dylan’s hand tightened on the tankard. The leather beneath his fingertips was far warmer than it should’ve been.
“When I left your side to seek out my fellow hounds, I discovered something that you must know before we go much farther. I…” The hound fidgeted on his stool. “It would seem that—”
Authril slammed her hands down on the table, jolting both of them. “What are you two doing still tucked away in here? You’ve eaten haven’t you?” She barely waited for Dylan to nod before continuing, “You’ve got to come outside.”
Tracker shot a death glare at the woman. “My dear warrior,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Kindly leave us.”
She pulled a face at him, then swung her attention back to Dylan. “Just about everyone in the village is dancing. You have to see it.”
“Really?” He risked a glance at the hound. Tracker’s face had gone carefully neutral, that honey-coloured gaze focused on the warrior. “You don’t mind if we postpone talking, do you?”
“But…” Those eyes turned on him and, all at once, the neutrality melted into gentle sorrow. The inner corner of his brows lifted. He sighed. “As you like.” He pushed the chair back and stood in one smooth movement, a strained smile curving his lips. “But why restrict ourselves to being mere spectators? I recall you being quite the dancer. We could—”
“Dance with them?” Authril interrupted with a gasp. “That’s a great idea!” The warrior grabbed Dylan’s hand and hauled him to his feet. “Let’s go.”
Dylan grimaced an apology over his shoulder as the woman towed him towards the door, only to find the hound openly glaring at their passage, his lip lifting in contempt. Dylan frowned. Clearly, this talk wasn’t one to be put off for too long. Tonight. Even if the conversation proved to be as unpleasant as he expected.
He came to a halt barely a few steps beyond The Broken Rod’s entrance. Colour and music assaulted his senses. People twirled and pranced in the centre of the square. To one side, a small band of minstrels played their various instruments.
Children ran past, squealing and laughing. Some were entranced by a puppet show set up near the bakery. There was a half barrel nearby, filled with semi-submerged fruit. Children dipped their heads in it, sometimes coming up with an apple or pear. Others danced off to the side of the adults or stuffed their faces with food.
“It’s very hectic, isn’t it?” Katarina asked. The hedgewitch sat atop a barrel, her little book open on her lap. “Almost like home.”
“No,” he whispered. This was nothing like home. The tower held no festivals. Not like this. There’d been several dances throughout the year, generally held in the arena where their guardians would keep a good eye on them. But no games, no puppet shows just for fun.
His gaze was drawn to those dancing in the middle of the square, his foot tapping to the beat. He knew the dance. Clearing his throat, Dylan held out his hand to the hedgewitch. “Care to join them?”
Katarina’s cheeks darkened. She slid off the barrel and tucked her book and quill back into their pouches. “I’d love to,” she said, taking his hand.
“What?” Authril whined. “What about me? I dragged you out here, I should get the first dance.”
Dylan glanced over his shoulder at the woman. “I’ll get back to you for the second one,” he promised.
It took a few tries before they were able to join the cavorting. When they did, the world became little but flashes of dyed linen as women kicked up their skirts and men twirled about. Laughter and scraps of singing filled his ears. His heart leapt to the rhythm of people’s feet and their clapping. He followed along, dragging Katarina with him.
Then the music stopped and reality came crashing back into his limbs. They made their way back to The Broken Rod’s doorway, where Authril leant against the barrel. A new song started up and, even puffing as he was, Dylan held out his hand to the warrior.
The second dance was nowhere near as hectic. They were quickly pulled into a winding line that took them beyond the market square, towards the docks and back again before breaking into several twirling circles. He switched partners several times during the dance, always returning to Authril. She stared up at him during those times, her face flushed to the tips of her ears and beaming.
By the time the second song had finished, Marin had returned. She stood beside the other pair of their little group, scowling. Tracker spoke to her, but whatever the man said only seemed to deepen her frown.
With his heart still pounding, Dylan held out his hand to Marin in a silent offer.
She raised a brow at him, the corners of her mouth flattening out. Clearly, her attempts in talking the merchants’ prices down hadn’t gone well.
Before she’d a chance to refuse, Dylan grabbed her hand and lead the way into what seemed to be an endlessly growing throng. The dance was a less familiar one, but as they moved with the rest of the crowd, the steps came to him.
It wasn’t until they’d completed a circuit of the square that he spied the hou
nd dancing with Katarina. The man moved effortlessly, twirling the hedgewitch as if she weighed nothing. The pair talked as they danced, their chatter lasting for quite some time.
“Hey,” Marin said. “I’d prefer if you kept your eyes off loverboy whilst you’re dancing with me. I don’t want your clumsy feet treading on mine.”
“I happen to be a very good dancer, thank you. Wait—” He ran the woman’s words through his mind as she ducked under his arm. “Loverboy? You’ve said that before.”
The hunter surfaced again, amusement plastered across her face. “Well, isn’t that what he is?”
“We’re not—” Dylan frowned. “It’s not like that. He’s…” What were they? Certainly not lovers. “…just a friend,” he eventually settled.
“Right.” She rolled her eyes. “A friend that you just happen to stare at as if you’re a forlorn little puppy being ignored by his owner.”
He scoffed. “I do not.”
Marin gave a wicked little chuckle that managed to raise little bumps across his arms. “It’s all right. He does it, too.”
“I find that hard to believe.” Tracker was a great number of things, but Dylan rather doubted the man was the type to fawn over anyone.
“Of course you do. You’re always looking the other way when he does it.”
Had he? Dylan’s thoughts drifted to that strangely intimate expression the hound had given him several days back. It had vanished so swiftly and completely that he hadn’t sought out why it’d been there in the first place. But now…
It’s just fun. A little bit of playing between friends. He’d be a fool to dig deeper.
The music stopped and he allowed Marin to escort him back to where the rest of their companions already stood. He wasn’t sure how long Tracker and the hedgewitch had been here, but Authril definitely had the air of someone who’d sat out the last dance.
He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. Maybe if the next dance was a slow one and didn’t take them on another trip around the entire village he might be able to keep up with Authril one last time.