Blayke was happy enough when Arcon halted outside the neat three-level building. Freshly painted weatherboards greeted them, and a sign showing the white head of a goat on a bright blue background hung above the door. “Keep Fang hidden please. This inn has a good reputation for being clean and serving disease-free meals. I don’t think they’d appreciate a plague-carrying customer.”
“He doesn’t have the plague. How can you say that?” Blayke glared at his uncle.
Fang piped up in their minds. I don’t have any diseases, thank you. I’m probably cleaner than you, Master. It was Arcon’s turn to be offended, although he had to admit he was exuding a pungent odour, which came of having bathed way too infrequently.
“We don’t need to draw any unnecessary attention to ourselves.” His voice projected a sternness he didn’t employ often, so they quietly followed him inside.
Arcon pointed for them to sit at one of the tables. They were soon approached by a young and beautiful serving lass. Her long, blonde hair was tied back in a loose tail; two strikingly blue eyes peered out of a slender, heart-shaped face. She was slim with ample roundness in all the appropriate places. Blayke stared. When she reached the table, she addressed Arcon. “What will it be, sir?”
“Two ales please. We would also like a room for the night, if you have one free.”
“Certainly, sir. I’ll inform Mistress Eugene.” Blayke was rewarded with a smile and wink before she departed to fetch the beer.
“Too skinny for my liking. Too much trouble for your liking, I would have to say.”
“Do you have to ruin all my fun? Anyway, you can’t stop me from looking, and if she chooses to speak to me, I’ll have to answer.”
“Just don’t get too attached—we’re only passing through, and I don’t have the energy to deal with any dramas. I’d also bet she has a vigilant father who’s chased off better than you.”
Blayke looked down at his travel-worn clothes and didn’t need to raise his arm to smell himself. He realised he must look close to a vagabond. Imagine if she saw he had a rat in his pocket. He laughed. “Hmm, maybe I’ll come back when I’ve had a bath.”
Arcon nodded, then shook his head; he approved of the bath part, but that was it.
She had a wide smile for the younger man when she placed the tankards on the slab of a table. He plucked up the courage to smile back. “Has anyone ever told you what white teeth you have?”
She giggled in reply and left to serve another table.
“Oh, lad, that was pathetic. After seeing you in action I don’t think I’ve too much to worry about.” He laughed as Blayke’s face turned a sunburnt shade of red. “Have some of the ale, it might cool your head a bit.” Fang was quietly squeaking his laughter inside Blayke’s pocket.
Arcon ordered a hearty lunch of freshly roasted beef, bread, and mashed potatoes. It was a meal they all savoured in silence and Blayke’s eyes stayed on his food for most of it. He suddenly felt like staying at another inn. He imagined her telling everyone what he’d said, making him the laughing stock of the Goat’s Head Inn for days. Blayke was relieved when they finished lunch and Mistress Eugene showed them to their first-floor room. It looked towards the stables at the rear, and a muted odour of manure and straw permeated the room. It was newly swept, had clean sheets on the beds, and fresh water in the basin. Both men availed themselves of the water, and because Blayke washed last, he felt like he was removing grime and replacing it with more dirt. He hated washing after Arcon.
Arcon sat on his bed to think about where to start. Where would those bandits have originated from within the town? They must have been from around here because they had had knowledge of the lay of the land. He remembered the tone of their voices, the way they spoke; they had looked to be strong men, well-fed. They must have been manual labourers of some kind. The leader had displayed too much confidence to have been a lackey, so he had probably been in a position where he had told people what to do. It would have been good to question them, but now any evidence of their identities was gone.
Arcon finally worked out how they might find out their identities, but it would take a while, and by then Morth would either have disappeared or tried another mode of attack. “We’re going out for dinner tonight, separately. There are two inns popular with the farriers and labourers of the town.”
Blayke sat up and leaned forward, glad for the subject to be well and truly changed from the embarrassment of lunch. “These inns are places I would go if I wanted to hire ruffians for a quiet job. If we can subtly ask around, we can find out who, amongst the regulars, is not there. We may even get an angry wife coming around to cease her husband’s drinking activities when he doesn’t come home at the usual hour. One of them is bound to be married.”
“What if Morth is around? Will he try to kill us again?”
“Probably, but not in full view of everyone. Be careful when you leave to come back here. Make sure you’re not being followed. Fang can watch your back. Leave him to make his own way into the inn.”
“OK. This could be fun. Hey, Fang, does that sound good to you?”
Fang nodded. “I’d like to find this Morth person too. I’ve grown attached to you, and I’d be upset if anything unfortunate happened.”
Arcon took Blayke around the town to familiarise him with both locations. If he needed to make a quick getaway, he would need to know the best avenues for escape. It wouldn’t do for Blayke to run to the wrong part of town and be killed by a cutthroat looking for a few coins. They wandered the streets, Fang and Blayke memorising where the twists and turns led. Arcon showed them the inns and a good escape route.
He showed them the seedy end of town, which was slightly less seedy during daylight hours. As the afternoon wore on, the desperate, addicted, and pathetic were crawling out to commence their depraved activities. The smell alone was enough for Blayke to recognise the area by the pungent odours of stale urine, vomit, and garbage searing themselves into his nostrils. “How do you put up with the smell, Fang?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, don’t rats hang out in the garbage and sewers?”
“Only the unfortunate ones. I hate garbage. If I were starving I would have to consider scrummaging a meal from a rubbish heap, but generally rats, the upper class ones anyway, make their homes in clean, warm kitchens. It’s a misconception that we’re all dirty. I’m quite clean and take offence at the suggestion that I’m dirty.”
“Point taken. Don’t get your whiskers in a knot. So, the ones that hang out in the garbage are on the same level as the people that hang out in the same kind of places, like here.”
“Yep.”
Blayke looked at the people as they walked past. It was sad that society not only turned a blind eye, but also accepted that to survive, men, women, and children had to prostitute, steal, and murder. A meal or addictive substance came at a higher price than it was worth.
Arcon marched them out of the area a lot quicker than they had walked in. Eventually the air smelled cleaner, and they were able to breathe without gagging. They reached the markets. Stallholders were packing up in the dimming light. Arcon made his way to The Arms and sent Blayke to The Anvil, but not before he handed the young man a dagger. “I’m hoping you remember how to use one of these enough not to hurt yourself. Hopefully you won’t need it, but you never know.” Arcon made sure Blayke had learned how to use swords, daggers, and even a bow and arrow, however he wanted him to hone his skill as a realmist, so he frowned on carrying conventional weapons. Arcon feared Blayke might be taken by surprise and wasn’t confident he could focus his will quickly enough to fell someone with power. The dagger was a precaution.
Arcon watched Blayke and Fang go towards The Anvil, then he turned toward The Arms. He suddenly walked with a hunched back and limp. It was always good to be underestimated. He sent a thought to Phantom, who was just waking up. He had found a comfortable rafter in the barn at the Goat’s Head Inn. Arcon told Phantom what was happening and
asked him to keep an eye on The Anvil, just in case Blayke got himself into trouble.
The Arms was three blocks from The Anvil. Arcon hobbled up the three steps. He wondered why Inns had any steps at all, considering the patrons were usually intoxicated by the time they left, and would find it hard to negotiate any uneven ground. More drunken men had received injuries from falling down the stairs than getting into a fight whilst on the premises.
The Anvil was like any inn in any town. By this time, early evening, the noise was a loud buzz interspersed with laughter. A fire crackled in the hearth, and mouth-watering aromas filtered through from the kitchen. There were no empty tables, so he chose a large table at which two tough but weary looking men were seated. His approach was slow and disabled, duly noted by the men hunched over their ales. Finally, he stood at the end of the table, and the men pretended he wasn’t there.
Arcon cleared his throat, his voice feeble. “Is there room for an old labourer?”
One of the men grunted, the other lifted his eyes to meet the old man’s. “Please sit. Don’t mind Tormill. He’s a sour sort of fellow at the best of times, and you happen to have got us on a particularly bad day.” He offered Arcon a seat.
“Thank you. My old bones can’t stand for long these days.” He proffered a newly gnarled hand. Arcon had used energy from the Second Realm to change his appearance, and his bones were aching as a result. Vergit was a persona Arcon had adopted in the past to gain information, so his resurrection felt like meeting an old friend. “I’m Vergit. Pleased to meet you.”
“Hi Vergit. I’m Salden.”
“Pleased to meet you, Salden. Don’t know if I can say the same about your friend though.” Tormill was staring at Arcon with an unfriendly gaze. “Would it lighten the mood if I were to purchase a round of ale?”
Tormill’s glower eased.
The ale arrived, and Arcon ordered the special for dinner, which turned out to be pork, cabbage, and potatoes. His companions remained quiet, so he nibbled at the food he normally would be wolfing down. It was frustrating pretending to be old. He considered himself lucky; he was older than everyone in the town, however, when realmists aged it was only on the outside, and slowly. Power from the Second Realm kept their bodies healthy and fit—maybe not as fit as a young man such as Blayke, but fit enough. Arcon ordered another round, knowing it would loosen their tongues.
Arcon finished his dinner and spoke into the silence. “So, Salden, not meaning to pry, but what has made your day particularly bad?” If nothing else, people liked to whinge and grumble. Maybe this was all they would need to open up.
“Well, we’ve been working on a bugger of a job at one of the merchant’s joints; a bloody big house. Anyway, he’s paying a bonus if we do the job well and within a certain time as his daughter’s getting married soon. We’ve been working our arses off every bloody day for the last bloody month. We’ve been on schedule up until this morning. Mind you, that doesn’t make Farcus, that’s the merchant, any happier. Every bloody thing we do is not quite right. We’ve had to redo some things three times over. Anyway, we all shut our mouths and keep working ’cause the bonus is gonna be good. I’ve got my missus whinging at me every day for coming home after the dinner’s cold, and Tormill here has been turfed out for the same reason.”
“Silly cow doesn’t appreciate how hard I work.”
Salden leaned across the table and patted his mate’s back in sympathy.
“Anyway, this morning half our crew doesn’t turn up. The schedule’s blown to buggery, and who knows if they’ll be back tomorrow. All our hard work may have been for bloody nothing. If I could get my hands on Claxon and his men, I’d kill the lot of ‘em.”
Tormill grunted in agreement and slammed his now-empty tankard on the table. Salden raised an eyebrow at Arcon. Arcon reordered. He was slowly getting somewhere. He wondered how Blayke was doing.
In The Arms, the warm, orange glow from the fire coloured Blayke’s face. He stood holding a tankard of ale, listening to his companion’s stories about his recent experiences abroad. He had left Fang just outside to find his own way in. He thought he would find out whatever he could himself, and Fang would be able to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations.
He found himself chatting companionably to a middle-aged man who had a luxuriously curly mane of golden hair, and a kindly face. The fellow was a travelling merchant who supplied various markets in Veresia and Wyrden. He was clothed in a spotless shirt, newly pressed jacket, and very expensive looking, shiny shoes. Blayke figured it must take a lot of time and money to look that good. He would have described the man as cultured and handsome, although he rarely had an opinion on the merits of another man’s looks.
While Blayke listened, he gazed around the room, looking for any suspicious people and wondering if he should just ask around for a fellow called Morth. Commonsense prevailed, and he decided not to be that obvious. If Morth were still looking for them, he would inevitably hear about a stranger asking after him.
“Aaron. Aaron, can you hear me?” Blayke’s head whipped toward the merchant. He had forgotten to answer to the false name he’d supplied on their introduction.
“Oh, yes. Sorry. What were you saying?”
“I was just asking where you were from. I’ve been rambling on all night, and I realised I don’t know anything about you at all.”
Blayke remembered a piece of advice Arcon had once given him. If you were going to lie or make up a story, keep it simple. The less you made up, the easier it would be to remember the whole lie. “Bayerlon.” He had been there a few times with Arcon and knew the city relatively well. The place was so big that no one who lived there could possibly know everyone else.
“What brings you to these parts, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“It’s rather embarrassing, actually. I’d rather not talk about it.”
“What could be so embarrassing?” The merchant rubbed manicured fingers over his small, pointy beard. His eyes lit up. “You wouldn’t be running from a lady, would you? Or better still, maybe some young lass’s father.”
“Nothing like that. My father sent me. My sister ran away with a much older man.” He willed his cheeks to go red as he stared at the floor. He looked up again. “I shouldn’t even be talking about it. My father thinks it will ruin the good name of the family and I’ve broken a promise to him by telling you.”
The merchant gave an understanding nod. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”
“Thank you.” The sigh Blayke gave was more in relief that the man had so readily believed his story. He was feeling proud of himself.
“Look, if you’re serious about fixing your little, shall we say, problem, I think I can help.” The merchant leaned his pointy-bearded face conspiratorially into Blayke’s so that Blayke could feel the man’s breath on his nose. “I might know someone who can help. This person can find things one may have, shall we say, lost.”
Blayke was not so proud now. What had he done? Now the man wanted to help him find his imaginary sister. “I don’t know. I assume your friend requires money for his services, and my father didn’t give me all that much. I’m afraid I’ll have to track her down myself.”
“I’m sure if you went home with your sister in tow, your father would be happy to pay any amount to have her home safely.” The merchant took the tankard out of Blayke’s hand and placed it on the mantle above the fire, his smile encouraging. “I insist. It will make your life so much easier, and I’m sure my friend won’t require an unreasonable amount of money.”
He gently placed his fingers around Blayke’s upper arm and proceeded to pull him toward the door. It occurred to Blayke that everything happens for a reason and maybe the man he was taking him to would know, or even be, Morth.
“OK. Maybe you have a good idea. Where are we going?”
“Not far, just a couple of blocks away. It won’t take long, and if you decide not to employ his services we can come back here and grab anoth
er drink.” He genuinely seemed like he wanted to help. It was nice to think there were still good people in the world. The merchant followed Blayke outside, and once in the street he led the way, chatting amiably about women he had bedded. Blayke would have found the conversation more interesting if he could have forgotten what he was trying to achieve. As they walked further from the inn, the streets became more and more shadowy, and there were fewer and fewer people. Blayke felt for the dagger in his belt. The cool touch of the handle made him feel safer, and the merchant’s idle chatter was calming.
Within two blocks the gentleman led Blayke down a dark, narrow alleyway, clearly the dodgiest lane they had traversed all night. Blayke was wondering if all people who could ‘find’ people operated from dark alleyways; it would have been a nice surprise if he had been led to a brightly lit mansion. At the end of the alley the merchant stopped and turned to Blayke. “Have you ever been fishing?”
He was caught off guard by the change in subject. “Fishing?”
“You know about bait, don’t you? A small fish, used to catch a bigger one.”
Blayke was figuring through what the merchant had said. He heard footsteps behind him and turned. Through the gloom he saw a plump woman whose grin was wicked and cunning. He looked into her eyes; dark eyes full of malicious glee, eyes that were looking at the man behind him with familiarity. He understood his predicament in the second it took to feel the pain in the back of his head before he blacked out.
The old woman stepped over Blayke’s body and pulled a large ring of keys from her pocket. She opened the door and stood aside so the man could drag Blayke’s body in. “About time, son.”
“As I always say, mother, if you want a job done, you have to do it yourself.”
“Yes, Morth, I know, I know. Just get him in here so I can shut the door.”
Fang watched the gate close. Arcon was not going to like this. Apparently they had found Morth, just not the way they had planned. Fang looked up to the sky, but Phantom was nowhere to be seen; he was already racing to get Arcon.
Shadows of the Realm (The Circle of Talia) Page 14