by Troy Reaves
As Lord Bartem sipped at his mug once more, Boremac inserted his own agreement with the thought. “Yes, you never know when a dagger might appear in the hand of one not favored with cards.”
“Indeed, there is no honor among thieves, so they say.” As Lord Bartem replied, Flora nodded to each of the men in turn, claiming breakfast had made her weary. She wandered to the stairs toward the rooms above. “You are a wicked man, Lord Matho, tiring your poor bride so.” Lord Bartem winked, calling for a serving maid hovering nearby. “Two snifters, lass, and a decanter of fine liquor. Be quick!” When the server returned moments after departing, his host poured two fingers of the brown liquor in each snifter and handed one over to Boremac. “I propose a toast. Let us raise our glasses to the fires of youth and the luckiest man I have had the pleasure to meet. Lord Mathos, may your luck in love give you favor in all things, especially cards for now.” The two men downed the rich tasting liquor at a swallow, slapping their glasses to the table. Boremac felt a smooth burning in his belly unlike he had ever known. “Most pleasant, what is it called?”
“I call it one of the many reasons to remain in Travelflor. The family that brews to it calls it Havlor’s Draught, named for one of the many faces of the God of Light among the mountain men brewers. God of Light bless them, no matter the name they choose to call him, so long as the keep aged barrels of this ambrosia coming!” He bellowed out laughter by way of approval. “Do not much care for the bearded broad mountain men as company but I would happily finance their operations to keep this stuff on hand.”
“Everyone should have a cause to believe in, Lord Bartem.” Boremac smiled at his jest. “This is as good as any. May I offer my own toast?” Lord Bartem nodded his approval vigorously before giving them each a finger full of the admirable liquid once more. Once his snifter had been refreshed, Boremac made his voice rebound off the great marble walls of the feasting hall. “My host, Lord Bartem, and all the bounties he has shared so freely. May he live long and drink well!”
“God and Goddess bless us!” Lord Bartem matched Boremac’s own call with one of his own. “Bring me the curse of the Fire Giants, Bring me Firebelly!” The lord’s staff response was immediate, as if they had been awaiting this particular request; a great porcelain jug the likes of which Boremac had never seen. Two men carried a huge decanter out on a holder with two small matching porcelain cups decorated with raised impressions of flame. As the men lowered the decanter to the floor and carefully put the smallest amount into each cup, Bartem’s face drew into a serious scowl. “I must warn you, Lord Mathos, this drink is not for the weak. I made the mistake of taking a full draught of it when challenged to do so the first time it was introduced to me. I woke up a few days later with my head pounding like war drums of the wild men and making a terrible mess hanging my head out my bed chamber window. I do not think the groundskeeper will ever forgive me. His hat and clothes were ruined!” The lord of the house chuckled at the memory. “I had to double his wages to keep him on! He was loyal to a fault, still is, though he looks hard at me every time I tour the garden. That said, sip. It should be enough to educate you.”
The stuff burned. Boremac’s sinuses, tongue, and even cheeks were ablaze as he cautiously tilted the cup to his lips. His throat cursed him and his belly forced a burp in an attempt to keep the caustic alcohol from reaching it. Its efforts were in vain. The lava touched the lining of his stomach after making him keenly aware of every nook and cranny it passed through on its way. He coughed three or four times, trying desperately not to outright gasp for air, afraid the drink fumes would invade his lungs if he did.
Lord Bartem somehow managed to speak through fits of laughter, nearly falling out of his great seat in the process. “That was priceless! Can you believe the fire giants drink this stuff from great mugs?!? Those bastards must have unbelievable constitutions. Would not want to be at one of their drinking contests. Can you imagine? Giants stumbling everywhere, no doubt falling on their faces at some point, and to think this stuff is used to honor the volcanoes that they choose to live near. Watch this!” Lord Bartem stood up, lighting a small stick of wood used to ignite the oil lamps spaced around the table. He turned and walked several strides away from the table, paying close attention to what was near him before quaffing his own small cup. No warning preceded the gout of flame that the master of the house belched forth, holding the embers of the lighting stick as far from his face as he could and spraying the foul intoxicant away from him. Even though the flames petered out well away from Boremac, he sat back in his chair as far as possible with his eyes wide open. This lord was obviously insane, or stupid, or both. Boremac had read of strange rituals involving flame among the shamans of the fire giants but to see one of the tools they used in one of their rituals turned into a object of amusement for an arrogant lord offended him deeply. That perplexed Boremac more than the transgression had shocked him. He latched on to this odd bit of honor and decided he would have to make this man pay for his slight. “Something to think about.” Boremac deliberated angrily. “How best to visit a lesson on this sot.”
“Truly amazing stuff!” Lord Bartem seated himself once more, calling for the servant still with them to pour slight amounts into each of their cups. “Let us begin your education in play. No ante until you feel comfortable and we should stick with water until play begins in earnest.” The host snapped his fingers, a completely unneeded gesture, and servers appeared with two cold mugs of water which were placed at each man’s hand. “Yes, we will no doubt want to cleanse our palates before play begins in earnest.” His face was now all seriousness as the deck of cards appeared before him, brought in by the master man servant who carried it like it was a small block of gold. It was kept it a silken purse with drawstrings at both sides to facilitate easy removal. The card backs shimmered in the morning light coming through the massive windows that had been mounted in the outer wall of the room. “The reflective sealing process intended to protect this particular deck must have cost a small fortune.” Boremac thought, trying to not drool openly at the sight of them. “The deck itself might very well be worth its weight in gold, or more.” Out loud he said only, “Interesting.”, doing his best to appear as disinterested as he could.
“Wait until you see the artwork on the card faces themselves. The creator of these cards would shame the most polished artists of this city, and that is saying a great deal. I have tried to have similar decks made, thinking to protect this one, and no one I have contracted has been able to duplicate the minute detail intricately woven into the very grains of the cards themselves. The surface of both card backs and faces are equally smooth. It would be easier to forge the Governor’s signature and seal than remake this deck I think.”
“I look forward to inspecting them.” Boremac stated nonchalantly, although in his head he could think of nothing he had ever said that was more of an understatement.
Lord Bartem shuffled the cards expertly into one another and dealt out the two starting cards to each man, setting the deck within ready reach at his left hand. He almost casually placed his fingers from that hand on top of the face down deck and shot a card from it which landed neatly in front of Boremac, before sliding one in front of himself. “That,” Lord Bartem said with a measure of pride, “took some time to learn to do properly. My other guest does it without thought, even when he is practically blind drunk. I assume he is so familiar with these cards that when he deals, the deck becomes an extension of him.”
Boremac took up the two cards nearest him intended to be his starting hand, and drew a sharp breath. “Ah, I see you have drawn the Queen, and at the first deal no less. The Goddess does favor you, in love and in cards it would seem. She is beautiful, is she not? The two queens are distinct in every detail of their rendering, but both are obviously intended as tribute to the Goddess herself. No woman could ever meet the images on these cards.” Boremac nodded his agreement as he examined the card more closely. There were telltale signs that this deck was inde
ed a tribute to the rogue Goddess Alchendia, if you knew what you were looking at when you saw it. The man who had carried these cards was obviously much more than Lord Bartem thought.
The Queen card itself was remarkable. The woman was clothed in shadow that draped down her from her left shoulder and flowed over her perfect form until the hem nearly touched the circular black marble that seemed to hover in midair. The shadowy gown appeared to have no weight, no adornments, and yet it clung to the Queen’s form exposing all of her feminine wiles. Her stance revealed a woman of strength and the shaded way her eyes had been rendered illustrated the artist was familiar with cunning women, women not to be underestimated. Boremac had to smile, thinking he had seen a similar shading in the hooded eyes of the twins, particularly Fauna, more often than he would have preferred. Her raven black hair was cropped neatly, hanging just above her shoulders. The Queen could have been a stylized version of many Goddess entities, mostly warrior types Boremac mused, except for her choice of arms. She held daggers in each hand, the left held a standard short bladed affair commonly used by bandits and rogues alike that appeared razor sharp, but the blade in the right hand was much more. It was the blade of the elite assassins in the lands, the Black Hand. The dagger blade had a puncturing blade with an elongated tip and rippled curves down the rest of the blade. The hilt extended perpendicular to the blade with sharp upturned spikes that ran parallel to the blade. The tips were short, just long enough to twist a weapon from an opponent’s hand. Boremac had never seen this dagger in person but there were stories. He hoped he never would. Those who had rarely lived to relate the tales themselves. Rumors were enough and sometimes the blades were left behind although no one had ever thought about it long enough to think why. The peoples of the land thought it safer to ignore the discovery of one of the Black Hand daggers. It was troubling enough to know one of the assassins had been in the area. “Yes,” Boremac thought as he smiled slightly, “this is someone I must meet. There is much more to the man Lord Bartem holds than the dungeon dweller has revealed.”
Lord Bartem let Boremac take the first few rounds of the game, or so it appeared, to attempt to lure him into believing the rogue had some skill or luck with the cards. The Lord was testing him, of course, and once the ante was revealed, Boremac had an idea of what the man’s plans using him were. “Alcohol poisoning?” Boremac could not hold back a wry smile as Lord Bartem put a small serving of the liquid lava in each of their cups. “You are a diabolical man, Lord Bartem, but I think you have taken my initial reaction to the drink as an indication of my tolerance. My father is very taken with bitters of all potency and harshness. I have been exposed to near toxic drinks for most of my life. I must ask, having said that, what you intend to gain?”
“There is nothing you would readily part with that could enrich my life beyond what I own.” Sadness touched the man’s eyes briefly and Boremac felt a tug of remorse for fooling the man. “I would ask a favor of you if you can best me at this game. Challenge the man in my dungeon. Best him with cards and loosen his tongue with drink. Find out why he is here. Find out how he breached my defenses so readily. Do this for me and my kindness would know no bounds where you are concerned.”
“What if I cannot?” Boremac cocked an eyebrow waiting for the inevitable trap.
“I know my search will continue for a true champion to best the scoundrel and I must relinquish yet more favors to that fiend. I will not ask any more of you. It would be ungentlemanly of me.” Lord Bartem laughed and dealt the first serious round of cards. Boremac could not help feeling like he was a cow before a farmer with a hammer in his hand.
The rounds went on and each man took their turns drinking the lava in their cups. A shadowy haze had invaded Boremac’s vision and both men were having to make efforts to speak clearly. Lord Bartem seemed to be having more trouble staying firmly seated, alternating between playing his cards and steadying himself with both hands before continuing to deal. The Lord had long since given up fancy card placement, sliding the blind draws to their appropriate position with care. The two opponents somehow managed to survive the first shuffle of the deck and Boremac did his level best to mix the cards until Lord Bartem called over the man servant who had brought them in the first place. The man shuffled the cards and placed them before Boremac with no hint of emotion, his face as unreadable as arcane writing and just as mysterious. Boremac lost the first three rounds and gravity came violently into play. His head, weighing roughly as much as one of the huge stones forming the outer walls of Lord Bartem’s home, dipped forward of its own accord, well on its way to striking the table. Boremac noted a dull exclamation from his host, “Thank the heavens!” as the rogue brought all his remaining strength and dexterity into play. His hands darted under the targeted area his head had chosen, somehow managing to drop the cards in his hand face down and save his face from the smooth oaken table, just long enough. Lord Bartem fell to the floor, sprawled out as if he had found the softest bed in his home there. Boremac smiled into the back of his hands, enjoying his victory. “Cunning and speed are my gifts, Alchendia favors me, and the mighty fall,” were the rogue’s last thoughts before he lost consciousness.
“Boremac, are you alright?” Boremac, wake up!” Boremac awakened to the thunderous sound of Flora shouting in his ears, at least that was what it sounded like to him. It was hard to tell with the bands of metal strapped to his head and the sound of thunder crashing every few moments in his ears. He felt like he was engulfed in some thick spider’s web, a giant spider of some kind that weaved strands as thick as ropes that must have been weighted by rocks. The more he struggled against the bonds, the more tightly they seemed to enclose him, and the deepest darkness he had ever known made him blind. “Stop wiggling, you sot! You will be sick again. Open your eyes, dullard. You are in our bed. The light has been doused for you and you should be fine. Lord Bartem sent you his home remedy for the beastly stuff you must have been drinking. Alchendia be blessed, it smells terrible but he swears it helps, at least his manservant does. Lord Bartem is recovering also.”
Boremac slowly opened one eye to test the lighting and take in his situation. He was glad that, even through the gray fog still clouding his vision, he could see Flora’s lovely face before him. He struggled to remember if she had always glowed at the edges of her features and gave up, just enjoying the effect. Fauna’s words hit him like another hammer blow, forcing him to open both eyes and direct his vision to the padded chair she rested in some distance away. “For all that you hold sacred, if anything, please wipe that stupid look off your face, Boremac. I have cried with laughter enough for several days at your misadventure.” Boremac noted that tears had streaked the kohl and other make-up she had been using since their arrival.
“Well, suffer me, Fauna, because at least I accomplished my purpose without bedding the lord. I do hope you managed to get the comb.” Boremac said, while sweeping away the cocoon of sheets and blankets surrounding him, suddenly uncomfortably warm. He took the mug Flora offered, drawing the potent drink away from his face as soon as its stench hit his nostrils. “Did the manservant give any indications what was in this concoction?”
Fauna levered herself out of the chair and closed the distance between the two of them faster than Boremac would have thought possible. She gripped his nose hard between two fingers and made a fist with her free hand. “Just drink it before I punch you in the belly and then make you swallow the stuff. You and Flora are expected for dinner soon.”
“The man wants to eat dinner? He is either mad or blessed or both.” Boremac stuck out his tongue in an effort to save as much of it from the foul draft as possible, swallowing it down in two hard gulps that would have made any mountain man proud. Despite the taste that would linger for some time, the drink eased his belly almost immediately. The fog withdrew to the edges of his vision and the thunder in his head quieted to a distant clanging. “It is magic! What is in that stuff and why does my mouth feel slimy?”
Fauna was to
o quick for comfort to answer that question after she let go of Boremac’s nose. Flora reached over to the table at the side of the bed to grab an empty wooden pail before Fauna could answer, dropping the thing into Boremac’s lap just in time. “That would be the ground lava worms, I imagine.” Boremac had just time to note Fauna’s wicked grin before making use of the pail in his lap.
11
Suggestive Conversation
Dinner was quiet. Fauna had joined the group, standing well away from the great dining table near Lord Bartem’s manservant and other servants. Boremac noted that the drinks of this meal were large mugs of cool water for himself and their host with Lady Niona, Flora’s chosen title, receiving a healthy glass of wine, the color of Lord Bartem’s and Boremac’s cheeks. Lord Bartem discussed local politics more quietly than was his custom between cautious bites. Both men seemed revived after some time at the table and Lord Bartem called Fauna over to him. Flora quickly patted Boremac’s hand, reading the tension that straightened his body and coaxing him back into his chair in a more comfortable position with lips pressed to his ear. “She can handle herself, love. Wait and see.”
Fauna, for her part, moved behind the large man’s chair and began kneading his shoulders in way that Boremac could only assume must have felt glorious. Lord Bartem relaxed deeper into his chair, closing his eyes as a gratified smile broke across his face. “Such hands she has. Blessed by the Goddess herself. So much softer than the callused paws of my personal masseuse. What would you take for her? My riches, my title, my home? Having lost your hand to this fine gentleman, Lady Niona, I would do well to settle for one so skilled.”