The Last of the Renshai

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Shortly, the three arrived at the border of the town. Arduwyn motioned them toward the main thoroughfare. “Look for something well-lit with people going in and out. It may not look like much.” Without awaiting a reply, he disappeared down a side road.

  Alone with Garn on foreign streets, Mitrian was suddenly gripped by doubt. I just gave money and my horse to a stranger I met this morning. What’s to stop Arduwyn from disappearing now that he’s gotten rid of us ? As soon as the thought surfaced, Mitrian realized it was paranoia. If he wanted to cheat us, why didn’t he take the money I offered? And why would he leave us his beast? Mitrian examined Stubs, who was standing obediently behind Garn. The woman had no idea what a donkey should look like, but this one seemed healthy. Its thick gray fur appeared clean, its dark eyes deep and clear. My instincts for people are usually good, and they tell me to trust Arduwyn. Mitrian started down the roadway, past rows of darkened, mud-chinked cottages.

  Few people roamed the streets, but the ones who did stared, nudging one another and passing comments Mitrian could not hear. Garn tensed at her side, his head swiveling like a trapped animal’s. Tiring of searching at random, Mitrian approached a woman staring from the door of a cottage.

  As Mitrian neared, the woman closed the door to a slit and peered out suspiciously.

  Mitrian stopped just close enough so the woman could hear her without her having to shout. “Please, could you tell me where to find a tavern or a meeting hall?”

  The woman opened the door far enough to make a throwaway gesture. She said nothing.

  Uncertain of the meaning, Mitrian tried again. “An inn?”

  The woman repeated the gesture, this time accompanied by a short burst of speech in a singsong language.

  She doesn’t understand me. Mitrian considered the best way to overcome the communication gap. Signals. She curled her fingers as if around a mug, then tipped it to her mouth and pretended to drink.

  The woman’s lips twitched, but the smile never formed. She pointed farther down the road, raising three fingers, apparently to indicate how many dwellings Mitrian would need to pass. Retracting her hand, she nudged the door back to a crack, watching.

  Mitrian waved her thanks and returned to Garn. “We’re headed the right way.”

  Garn nodded, having seen most of the conversation from the street. As they walked along the roadway, he seemed as edgy as the Northern woman. Obviously, he had never set foot in a tavern before, and Mitrian thought it wise not to admit that she had never done so either. No need to upset him any more than he already is.

  Garn and Mitrian passed two darkened cottages. As they rounded the second, they came upon a building in the same simple style, but slightly larger than the family dwellings. Light flickered, warped through thick glass windows. Smoke curled from the chimney. As they watched, the door banged open, and two men exited, speaking in loud tones. One staggered, and neither seemed to notice Mitrian, Garn, and Stubs standing silently in the shadows. Noise escaped the building in an unfathomable roar. Then the door swept shut, cutting off the sound as abruptly as a knife. As the Northmen wandered away, Mitrian and Garn found themselves alone in the street.

  “That’s it?” Garn asked.

  Mitrian guessed it was. “Yes,” she said, disappointed by the tavern’s appearance. The guards’ stories of drunken levity, good ale, and wild companions had caused her to imagine something more glamorous than a shack. At least the tavern in Santagithi’s Town had shuttered windows, fresh red paint, and a sign that identified it. “Let’s go.” Maybe the inside will look more impressive. She frowned, doubting the possibility, and headed for the door. Garn paused to tie the donkey’s lead to a corner post.

  Mitrian pulled open the door, momentarily blinded by all the lanterns and candles. Conversation rumbled, stilled to a hush, then resumed at a lower level. Mitrian did not bother to sift individual voices from the hubbub. They all spoke the Northern tongue. Gradually, the room came into clear focus, as dingy inside as out. Nothing graced the chinked log walls. Benches lined the walls, barrels before them serving as tables. In the middle of the room, three regular tables stood with odd numbers of unmatched chairs around them. Currently, six Northmen sat around the central table, their leathers and homespun rimed with dirt and sweat, their faces red from the sun. Mitrian counted a total of nine more Northmen on the benches, sitting in groups of three. Directly across from the entrance, a door opened into the back room. A sinewy man dressed in red and brown leaned in the archway between the rooms, apparently the proprietor. Despite their obvious status as farmers and peasants, every man in the room had the raw-boned frame of a warrior, a curly yellow or reddish beard, and a sword at his hip.

  Mitrian shuffled forward, convinced of Arduwyn’s warning that Northmen loved to fight. In Santagithi’s Town, aside from Rache, few of the off-duty guards and none of the civilians carried weapons. Not wanting to appear as inexperienced with taverns as she was, she forced herself not to gawk. The Northmen did not succeed as well as she. Some stared with obvious hostility in their hard, blue eyes. Others acted more furtive, studying Garn and Mitrian when they thought they went unobserved, then glancing away quickly when the couple’s faces turned toward them.

  Disconcerted by the Northmen’s attention, Mitrian sat self-consciously on a bench near the doorway, avoiding their stares. Garn quickly joined her. He seemed less bothered by the gawking, returning the Northmen’s regard glare for glare. He kept his right hand looped across his sword belt.

  As Mitrian took her seat, the proprietor wandered over. He spoke in the Northern tongue.

  Mitrian imitated the gesture the woman had used in the doorway to indicate she did not understand. “I’m sorry,” she said slowly and distinctly, as if this would make him suddenly able to communicate with her. “We don’t speak the Northern language. Does anyone know the Western Trading tongue?” She addressed the proprietor, but her gaze traveled over every man in the tavern.

  Every Northman looked away.

  The proprietor hesitated, as if in consideration.

  His expression confused Mitrian. If he didn’t understand me, he would have shrugged me off. It seemed more as if he spoke the language but was trying to decide whether to admit that fact to Mitrian.

  At length, the man nodded. “I speak it,” he confessed, his accent so thick and musical, it took Mitrian several seconds to realize she understood him.

  Mitrian tried to act casual, like she frequented taverns on a daily basis. “Food?”

  “Today it’s goose.”

  “Fine,” Mitrian said. “And ale for us both.” She had never tasted anything stronger than watered wine, but the guards’ descriptions of ale made it sound like a mixture of fresh honey and nectar, and her own glimpses of the foaming, golden drink intrigued her.

  “Pay in advance.” The proprietor held out his hand. “Six mynten.”

  It never occurred to Mitrian that the proprietor’s insistence on immediate payment was anything but normal, so the insult was lost on her. “I have no local coin.” She pulled the pouch of gems from her pocket, rummaged through, and selected a tiny ruby. She offered it. “Will this do?”

  The proprietor’s nostrils flared, and the corners of his mouth curved upward. “Very well. Yes.” He snatched the ruby and flicked it into his pocket. “I’ll be back with the food.” He turned and whisked back toward the kitchen.

  The proprietor’s acceptance must have satisfied his patrons. They returned to their food and drinks, their voices rising to their previous vigorous volume.

  Garn remained silent. He took Mitrian’s right hand in his left, obviously satisfied by her presence and not needing conversation.

  Mitrian sighed raggedly and managed a smile. This may work yet.

  The proprietor returned with a pair of crudely crafted tin mugs and set them on the barrel before Garn and Mitrian. “The food will be along later.”

  “Thank you.” Mitrian watched the proprietor retreat back through the doorway before turn
ing her attention to the ale. White froth bubbled atop a viscous drink the color of clean straw.

  Garn waited for Mitrian to take the first sip, apparently expecting her to give him cues to the proper way to drink it. Uncertain herself, Mitrian took a tentative sip. Winding up with only a tasteless mouthful of foam, she took a deeper gulp. The ale was thick, almost syrupy, raw and bitter. Mitrian gagged, covering it with a cough, then forced an even expression. Garn clutched his own mug, his features pinched, revealing the revulsion Mitrian fought to hide.

  “Takes getting used to?” Garn suggested.

  Mitrian nodded, thinking that after some of the meals the gladiators received, any drink that could distress Garn must be evil-tasting indeed.

  Before Mitrian could reply with words, the outer door twitched open, and another Northman stepped into the tavern. Though just shy of average size for the men of Santagithi’s Town, the newcomer seemed small, dwarfed by the meatier, local patrons. A fur-trimmed cloak covered stained leathers which had once been crisp and expensively tailored. A sword girded his left hip. Unlike the others, this Northman was clean-shaven and wore his hair cropped shorter than style should have allowed. White flecked his golden hair, and the creases in his face seemed to come more from age than hardship.

  As before, all talk ceased, then resumed as whispers accompanied by sidelong glances. Mitrian felt a pang of pity. She could understand the patrons’ speculations about herself and Garn, odd-looking strangers with another culture and language. But the Northmen’s mistrust of one of their own seemed cruel. She imagined the stranger’s discomfort, an aging soldier no longer confident of his abilities yet knowing he might have to prove himself to more than a dozen warriors.

  Leaning toward Garn, Mitrian whispered her observations, forgetting for the moment that she was adding to the unwelcome atmosphere of the tavern.

  But if the stranger knew the uneasiness Mitrian projected on him, he gave no sign. He seemed almost too casual, oblivious to the comments and actions of his peers. Removing his cloak, he tossed it across the back of a chair and sat, alone, at one of the tables.

  Just as Mitrian wondered if the newcomer was deaf and blind, the proprietor approached him, saying something rapidly in Northern. His voice rose at the end in friendly inquiry.

  The stranger looked up. “Renshai,” he said.

  Mitrian stiffened in surprise, certain she had misheard. Just as the members of an unfamiliar race can seem identical, the words of the Northman’s musical language sounded the same in general timbre and pronunciation.

  The proprietor laughed, and a chuckle swept through the ranks of his patrons. He addressed the stranger again.

  In reply, the newcomer simply shrugged. When he did speak, his voice remained calm. He pointed toward a barrel with one finger, apparently ordering food and drink.

  The proprietor’s demeanor stiffened, and he looked down his nose at the aging newcomer. They exchanged a few more words before the proprietor held out his hand for money as he had done with Mitrian.

  Every eye in the tavern watched expectantly as the older man drew out a fistful of copper coins, handed one to the proprietor and dropped the rest back into his pocket.

  Though apparently only partially satisfied, the proprietor swept across the common room and into the kitchen.

  Garn took a smaller sip of his ale. “What do you think that was about?”

  “I’m not sure,” Mitrian admitted. “I guess he’s from a different part of the North, maybe from a town that’s not on friendly terms with this one.” Mitrian could not help siding with the stranger. He seemed so unsuspecting, as if he didn’t realize he was the topic of conversation or the piece that jarred. “It hardly seems fair, though, that this one fading soldier should have to take the blame for his entire village.”

  “Tribe,” Garn corrected, his fingers wrapped around his mug. “How old do you think he is?”

  Mitrian studied the stranger’s sturdy, coarsening features. Though no scars marred the man’s face, he wore the serious, predatory expression of an experienced soldier. Despite the obvious white among his golden locks, his frame still looked hard, sinewy instead of sagging. So far, all his actions had seemed slow and careless, so she had not had a chance to assess him in her usual way, by agility of movement. But something about him gave the appearance of great age, and only several seconds of staring enabled Mitrian to figure out its source. Occasionally, his lips moved or his head twitched, seemingly in response to nothing, as if he carried on an internal conversation. The only other people she had known with this mannerism were ancient townsfolk who had grown senile or warriors who had taken too many blows to the head. She responded to Garn’s question as if no time had passed. “He’s about forty, I guess.” Spoken aloud, it didn’t sound ancient, though the stranger was still the oldest in the tavern by a decade. Only then, Mitrian considered Garn’s original comment. Tearing her eyes from the stranger, she examined Garn curiously. “You said ‘tribe.’ How did you know Northmen live in tribes?”

  Garn’s expression remained deeply sober. “I told you, I spent a lot of time listening. I paid specific attention to details about my enemies.”

  Garn’s intention became instantly clear to Mitrian. There was only one Northman Garn could have considered his enemy. Rache. The realization ignited a frightening thought. When Shadimar said I might kill a friend, did he mean I would do so directly ? Maybe my decision to help Garn was the mistake. What if Garn and Rache meet in the future, and Garn kills Rache ? A shiver ran through Mitrian. Her hand struck her mug, and only a quick, steadying grab saved it from a spill. She tried to steer her mind away from such ideas, but not before she dared to wonder. Could Garn beat Rache in a fair fight? Rache certainly possessed more skill, but Mitrian had seen Garn bull through ability with strength. And Rache can’t use his legs.

  The reappearance of the bartender with a drink for the strange Northman helped pull Mitrian from her uncomfortable thoughts. Logic intervened. I can’t judge everything I do by the possibility that it might cause someone else to harm a friend in the distant future. What my father did to Garn was wrong. Mitrian studied the gladiator beside her. Though he lacked Rache’s pale beauty, Garn’s rugged features and bright green eyes held a mysterious handsomeness all their own. I care deeply for Garn. And once I’ve gotten him far enough away, there’s no reason to expect he and Rache will ever meet again. The thought brought a strange sorrow.

  As Mitrian laid her fears to rest, the atmosphere in the Northern tavern seemed to grow equally peaceful. The proprietor returned to his kitchen. The lone Northman took a pull at his drink then set it down, his gaze roving to the half-dozen locals at the table in the center of the common room. As Mitrian followed the man’s focus of attention, one of the Northmen at the table beckoned the stranger with a crooked finger.

  Ignore them. Mitrian tried to send a mental message to the stranger, certain nothing good could come of a direct confrontation. You’ll get yourself in trouble you can’t handle.

  But the stranger accepted the invitation good-naturedly. Nudging aside his drink, he trotted over to the group of Northmen, his profile toward Garn and Mitrian.

  The Northman who had signaled spun his chair to face the stranger. He said something in the Northern tongue, his words indecipherable, but his tone crisp with warning. Again, Mitrian thought she heard the term “Renshai.”

  The stranger remained unruffled. Nothing about him indicated he saw any danger in the situation. His gaze fixed on the speaker. He seemed oblivious to the Northman’s five companions who had leaned toward the conversation, coiled and restless, the other nine locals on the benches, and Mitrian and Garn. His reply emerged composed and gentle.

  Despite the caution of the stranger’s delivery, his words inflamed the locals. The speaker stood, towering a full head taller than the older stranger. The locals tensed. Some hands clenched into fists. Others fell to sword hilts.

  Mitrian measured the distance to the door. This is none of our bu
siness. Best to leave before a fight breaks out. She turned to say as much to Garn, but the ex-gladiator was gone. Too late, she saw him striding directly to the center of the conflict. The warning died in her throat. The noble idiot. Now all three of us are going to die.

  Garn was halfway to the table before he spoke. “You ugly, sniveling bunch of cowards! Leave him alone. Any girl could win a fight against a helpless old man.”

  Mitrian cringed, realizing that, whatever else the guards had taught Garn, they had given him a volatile repertoire of insults. She was not certain he realized he had offended the stranger at least as much as the locals. She rose more hesitantly, hoping the Northmen could not understand Garn and that she could avert the battle before it started.

  The older man wore a bemused smile.

  One of the other Northmen at the table sprang to his feet. He shouted in the Western Trading tongue. “Who the hell are you?” He examined Garn with the withering disdain of a farmer offered a sickly, shriveled pig. “What the hell are you? How come your hair’s so dark? Someone shit on your head?”

  Mitrian found the comment too stupid for contempt, but it enraged Garn. He crouched, growling deep in his throat.

  Oddly, it was the aging stranger who brushed Garn’s anger aside. “Thank you for your stunning defense, but this isn’t your fight.”

  Garn seemed to take the words as a challenge. “Not my fight? There’s six of them. And that one just insulted me.” He jabbed a finger toward the Northman before him.

  The old man shrugged, never losing the composure Mitrian had begun to believe was a permanent facade. “Fine. You take the one who insulted you. I’ll take the rest.”

  If Mitrian had felt less concerned for Garn, she would have laughed. Quickly, she trotted to the table and seized Garn’s arm. She spoke soothingly. “There’s no reason to fight here. Why doesn’t everybody sit down, share a drink. I’ll buy a round. . . .”