The Innkeeper's Son

by Jeremy Brooks

  Ron studied Farrus’ face, rubbing the ginger stubble on his chin as he thought. He looked ready to tell them to leave and never come back, but Sim spoke first.

  “How do you know, Hisha?”

  “We be old friends,” Ron answered, but his eyes told another story.

  “Friends?” Sim questioned.

  “She was to be my wife,” he replied glumly. His shoulders slumped and he sighed deeply.

  “What happened?” Sim asked sympathetically.

  Ron looked at him, thinking about the question. “She was chosen, by an officer.”

  Sim was confused. Farrus shook his head sadly.

  “The boy here doesn’t know much about how things work in Desirmor’s world,” Farrus told Ron.

  “I see,” Ron said, looking thoughtfully at Sim. “By law, when a man with rank, be it an officer or a nobleman, chooses a common woman who be unmarried, she becomes his. He married her and took her away from me.”

  “I didn’t realize she was married,” Sim said sadly.

  “She is,” Ron answered.

  “That’s not fair. No-one should be forced to marry someone they don’t love,” Sim said angrily.

  “It’s always been that way. It’s one of Desirmor’s Nine Laws,” Farrus said.

  “It’s not right,” Sim said.

  “It’s not right,” Ron added. “But it’s the way things be.”

  “I’m very sorry for you,” Sim told him. “But Hisha knew we were in danger and chose to help us anyway. She sent us to you because she believed that you would help us as well. Farrus is right. I can’t tell you what this is all about, and it’s better for you not to know, but we have powerful enemies and helping us puts you in danger. I will understand if you want us out, but I’m asking you to help us.”

  Ron sat back in his chair and regarded Sim and Farrus for a few moments. Finally he nodded his head and stood. “You be welcome to stay, just try to keep it brief.” When Sim and Farrus stood and agreed, he added in a whisper, “and try to give me a warning if things start catching up to you. There be a hidden way out of the inn. With luck, I won‘t have to show it to you.”

  They thanked him and asked if he could recommend a good barber. Ron gave them directions to a friend of his who operated a barber shop just a few blocks away. As they made their way down the road, Sim immediately began to feel the chill of the milder climate.

  Farrus grinned when he noticed Sim beginning to shiver.

  “You’re going to need to toughen up, kid,” he said, with a snort. “There are places in this world where the wind blows so cold, the snot freezes right to your face.”

  “Take it easy on me, old man,” Sim said, acting offended. “It’s not my fault that I grew up at an inn in the tropics.”

  “Old man?” Farrus said as close to shocked as his gruff monotone would allow. “Boy, I’d still run circles around you.”

  “Of course you would,” Sim agreed, lightheartedly.

  The barber was standing in front of his shop, calling out offers to the passing traffic. His droopy brown eyes, framed by thick black eyebrows, lit up when he saw them approaching.

  “You two fine gentlemen look to be needing my services,” he said, in a thick accent. “Shave and a haircut?”

  “Ron Foust says you’re the best in the city,” Farrus said.

  “Ron Foust? He sent you here, did he?” The barber looked them over, running a hand through his thick black hair. He shrugged. “Five coppers apiece.”

  They followed him into the shop. There was a single chair set up in front of a large mirror. A table with razors and some leather straps stood next to the chair. Farrus told Sim to go first, so he took a seat on a bench off to the side. Sim eased into the chair and looked at himself in the mirror. He hardly recognized the face he saw.

  His once vibrant green eyes looked gaunt and hollow. A thick stubble covered his face and chin. It was the first time he had seen himself unshaven. Thick black hair, parted near the middle, fell about his face, hiding his ears and the side of his neck. He looked harder, angry. It scared him. For a brief instance he wondered how a single week could change a man so drastically.

  The barber started with a short razor, sharpening it on a leather strap. He positioned himself behind Sim and diligently began to trim Sim’s hair. He was careful not to cut too much at a time. The floor around Sim’s chair quickly filled up with sheared locks.

  “It’s been some time since I last visited your city,” Farrus said conversationally. “What news have you heard?”

  “Times be tough,” the barber answered with a sigh, remaining focused on Sim’s haircut. “Things never be easy around here that be true, but lately…tough.”

  “It’s much the same everywhere, my friend,” Farrus said. He sat forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and every so often he would spit into a wide brass bowl on the floor beside his bench.

  “True. True. The ruling class be getting all the breaks. It be only last year, my cousin Allim, lost his business. He made shoes. Not very good, mind you. The bank took his store and sold him to a merchant trader. I do my best to stay ahead of the taxes and banks. Sometimes it be close, but I manage.”

  “What do you mean they sold him?” Sim asked.

  The barber looked at him as though he had just asked a completely foolish question. He heard Farrus click his teeth.

  “You’ll have to excuse my nephew,” Farrus told the barber, telling Sim to keep his mouth shut with a hard look from his steely gray eyes. “He’s from a small island in the south. He doesn’t know much about the way things are in the world.”

  “You must be very isolated, then,” the barber said, looking at Sim in the mirror. Sim decided to keep his mouth shut and just shrugged at him. “My cousin be a slave now. When you be in debt to someone and can’t pay, they own you until the debt be paid. Sometimes you be owing so much you can never pay the debt. Then they can sell you.”

  The idea of being owned by someone made Sim shiver. Once again he found himself remembering Sarimus telling him about a land where men were enslaved and forced to work for the wealthy. Was this the place?

  “The Cortella seems to have grown,” Farrus said.

  “Indeed. It be growing larger everyday. People can’t pay the taxes in the city. Not long ago, there be raids nearly every night. Wasn’t safe to be on the street after dark. The Governor had more soldiers shipped in. The raids have quieted a bit, but there be something brewing out there. You mark me. Once winter hits and they be going from hungry to starving, we be having a riot around here. You wait and see. A riot.” The barber waved his razor at Farrus for emphasis. “And then Desirmor will bring his pain again.” The barber shuddered visibly.

  Farrus grunted and shook his head knowingly. Sim wanted to ask what they were talking about.

  “What about welfare? Aren’t they helping the families with kids?” asked Farrus.

  The barber snorted. “Welfare? There be no welfare. Desirmor don’t be giving promotions to Governors who waste coin on the poor. Nal’Dahara be a bump in the road to Governor Cantor. He be wanting a spot on the council.”

  Sim was about to open his mouth to ask another question, but Farrus shot him a look. The barber went over to the table and mixed a yellow powder in a bowl with some water. When he stirred it up the mixture began to foam. Using a horse hair brush, he spread the mix all over the stubble on Sim’s face and chin. He chose another razor, sharpening it first, before returning to shave Sim.

  The soapy foam on his face smelled like a rotted potato. Sim wanted to gag, but with the cold edge of the razor pressed against the underside of his chin, he forced himself to remain still.

  “I’m not familiar with Governor Cantor. Has he been here long?” asked Farrus.

  “Nearly two years, now,” answered the barber. He concentrated hard as he methodically shaved Sim’s face. “Came from down south. Welbourne, I think. Ambitious, that one. Hard too. Follows Desirmor’s laws to the letter. Must have about tw
enty women up at the palace. All slaves. Pretty girls, every one. He likes them young too.”

  Farrus nodded. “I haven’t seen many soldiers around, just guardsmen. Is there a strong military presence in the city?”

  The barber wiped Sim’s face with a warm wet towel and ordered him out of the seat. Farrus took his place.

  “Like I be saying before,” the barber said taking a handful of Farrus’ graying hair, “they shipped in more infantry to help cut down the raids. Most of the Imperial soldiers be patrolling the outer city and the Cortella. There be outposts all over the countryside too.”

  Sim watched the barber working on Farrus. They continued to talk, but Sim’s mind was drifting away. It was the razor. He found himself mesmerized by the steady, skilled cuts the barber made to Farrus’ hair. The more he focused on the blade the slower it seemed to move. Everything slowed down. The room around him began to lose focus and blur. Suddenly it all changed. He was standing in a familiar room, but he couldn’t be sure of exactly where he was. There were tables and chairs and a bar made of beechwood. The room was quiet save for the sound of chewing. Sim looked around but couldn’t figure out where the sound was coming from. He took a few steps toward the bar, and the sound grew louder. Then he looked behind the bar. The scene was gruesome. Prianhe sat on the floor, covered in blood, his eyes closed, and his head leaning back against the wall. A body lay across his lap, ripped apart, a giant gaping hole in its mid-section. Sim needed to vomit. He wanted to run, but his legs wouldn’t move. Then Prianhe opened his eyes. He looked right at Sim, with an oddly euphoric cast to his gaze. Sim wanted to flee, but Prianhe didn’t seem to notice he was there. Then Prianhe leaned forward and began licking the blood off of his fingers, greedily moaning with joy.

  Farrus slapped Sim sharply across the face, bringing him forcefully back to reality. Sim had to ignore the sudden stinging pain on his cheek because he felt suffocated and inhaled heavily, desperately trying to fill his lungs with air. He fell to his knees with Farrus leaning over him, rubbing his back and encouraging him to breathe easy. The barber stood there with a razor in hand, looking scared and confused.

  “Get me some water,” Farrus barked, sending him scurrying about for a glass.

  “I’m fine,” Sim coughed. Why was he so breathless?

  The barber brought him a glass of water, and he drank it gratefully. He found the strength to stand and looked at Farrus. His friend looked worried. The barber must have finished because Farrus was clean shaven and his hair no longer fell past his shoulders.

  “He be alright?” the barber asked nervously.

  “He’s fine. He just needs some fresh air.” Farrus handed him a silver coin. The barber thanked him for the generosity as he walked them out the door.

  Farrus led them away from the barber, keeping a hand on Sim’s arm to offer support. Sim could walk on his own, but he felt weak and was glad for the help. When they had passed beyond sight of the barber, Farrus pulled him into a thin alley between a tavern and a bootmaker. He checked to make sure they were alone, and then spoke in whispered tones.

  “What did you see?”

  “Prianhe,” Sim answered, watching Farrus’ eyes widen at the name.

  “I knew he wasn’t dead. We should have finished him off when we had the chance.”

  “He was eating someone, Farrus.” The memory turned his stomach. “He was licking their blood off of his fingers.”

  Farrus didn’t seem too affected by the revelation.

  “Could you tell who it was?” he asked.

  Sim looked at him in disbelief.

  “He was eating a person, Farrus. He eats people.”

  Farrus grimaced and put a hand on Sim’s shoulder.

  “I know, Sim. Prianhe isn’t human. He’s a Reikkan. His kind are descended from wolves. Most Reikkan don’t eat people, but Prianhe is different. He has the same hunger that drove his ancestors. It’s the heart he’s after. Reikkans once believed that by eating the heart, you gained the life-force and strength of your prey. Prianhe embraces that custom. It’s what got him exiled from his tribe and led him to the Imperial army. He’s an evil creature, free of feelings and emotion. That why he’s such an effective hunter and killer.”

  Sim felt more afraid then he could ever remember. He had seen the vision of the rainy cliff. He knew how he would die. Now that he could begin to understand his enemy, he was less certain of his chances of survival. Prianhe would find him. Prianhe would kill him. He winced at the thought that struck him next. Prianhe sitting on a rainy cliff, eating his dead body. It wasn’t a vision, just a thought, but it made his skin crawl.

  “I couldn’t tell who he was eating,” he said with disgust. “The body was too mangled.”

  Farrus nodded. “Well at least we know now. He’s still out there.”

  “He’s still out there,” Sim repeated grimly. “How can I beat him, Farrus?”

  “I don’t know,” Farrus said, with a sad shake of his head. “Don’t worry about that. We’ll figure it out.”

  Sim nodded glumly. He knew he couldn’t beat Prainhe.

  They headed back to the street and went in to see the bootmaker. Sim let Farrus do all the talking. They each got a new pair of stiff leather boots with fur lining to keep their feet warm in the colder climate. Just as he had done at the barber, Farrus asked the bootmaker for news around the city. The bootmaker had been long winded and talked at length about the raids and the increase of Imperial troops around the city.

  From there, they walked around until they found a tailor. He was a small, old man with little patience. Sim had never been fitted before since his mother had made all of his clothes back in Dell. As the tailor sized him for pants or shirts, he got poked with a needle every time he moved. The little man would look up at him over the rim of his glasses and chide him for not standing still. Farrus laughed uproariously every time it happened until he was getting poked by the tailor when it was his turn to stand still.

  As they tried on their new clothes, Farrus began to casually question the tailor.

  “I’m not one for gossip” said the tailor when Farrus asked what news he had heard.

  “Just being conversational,” Farrus said defensively.

  Sim was enjoying the fit of a new pair of black trousers the tailor had just finished hemming. They were far more comfortable than anything his mother had ever made for him. He pulled on a white shirt that had flared cuffs. It made him feel fancy.

  “Conversation is one thing, gossip is another.” The tailor eyed Farrus stoically. “How’s the fit?” he asked Sim.

  “Great,” Sim answered sincerely. “I could dine with the Governor in a shirt like this.”

  “The Governor doesn’t dine with the likes of you,” said the tailor derisively.

  “How would you know?” Farrus asked.

  “The Governor has employed my services from time to time. He only entertains society's elite. This young man is a rube.”

  “That’s not very nice,” Farrus said. Sim could tell he wanted to laugh out loud, though.

  “What is true is often unkind. I’m too old to care if I offend, and I’ve no need for lies.”

  “My mother always said if you don’t have anything nice to say then you’re probably talking about your enemy.” Farrus said.

  The tailor smiled, a barely perceptible curving of his lips, but a smile none the less.

  “It looks as though you are satisfied with the fit?” he asked.

  Farrus grunted and Sim nodded in agreement.

  “Is it alright if we keep these things on?” Farrus asked, slipping a sturdy wool vest over his shirt. Sim was admiring the fit of the black coat he was trying on. It had a weave of red satin thread embroidered on the arms that vaguely reminded him of a spider’s web.

  “Of course,” the tailor answered with a dismissive wave of his hand. “What inn are you staying at? I’ll have one of my apprentices deliver the rest in the morning.”

  Sim looked at a teenage boy, wa
tching from the doorway to the back room. He had pitch black hair and a large hooked nose. He seemed bored. Sim was sure he was the apprentice.

  “The Blue Trellis,” Farrus said.

  “The Blue Trellis? That’s Fanna Foust’s place.” Farrus nodded blankly. “Are you friends of hers?”

  “Why do you ask?” Farrus asked, suddenly looking at the tailor suspiciously.

  “Oh, no reason. Fanna and I go way back.”

  “The lady we are escorting chose the inn,” Farrus told him.

  The tailor studied Farrus over the rims of his glasses. Sim stopped admiring the feel of his new clothing. He suddenly realized that the tailor made him feel uneasy. It was the way he kept looking at Farrus, like a fox watching a hole in the ground to see if a hare would emerge. Sim could tell that Farrus noticed it as well. His friend had a dangerous look in his gray eyes -- a cold emotionless gaze.

  “You two are swords for hire then?” the tailor asked, seemingly unaware of the tension. “What’s your lady's name? Perhaps I know her?”

  “You don’t,” Farrus growled.

  “Oh come now. I don’t mean to offend.” The tailor threw his hands up defensively. He smiled nervously. “Just being conversational.”

  Farrus strapped on his sword belt, and Sim did the same. When he was ready to leave, he dropped a few silver coins on the stool the tailor had been using to take their measurements.

  “I’ll be expecting our things tomorrow morning,” Farrus told the tailor in a hard voice. The tailor nodded meekly and looked away.

  They stepped outside and began walking toward the inner city. Farrus looked angry. He set a fast pace, walking with a purpose. People that passed noticed the man gripping the hilt of his sword as he stalked about and made a wide berth. Sim followed a pace behind, wondering what he was missing. True the tailor had asked some probing questions, but they had seemed harmless enough.