He entered the copse of trees and once cloaked by the shadows, quickened his pace. Then he ducked behind a tree and waited.
A moment later, the man appeared headed for the trees. He only paused a moment as he looked into the shadows before hurrying forward.
Scar tensed and when the man began to pass by leapt from behind the tree. Slamming his shoulder into the man, he knocked him off-balance and thrust him against the tree opposite them. A knee to the gut and a blow to the head sent the man sprawling to the dirt. Instantly, Scar was on him.
Scar put a knee in his back, grabbed his hair and pulled the man’s head back. The man fought until he felt the blade of Scar’s dagger pressed against his throat.
“Who are you?” Scar demanded. When the man didn’t say, he pressed his blade against the larynx. The man gasped, “Wait!” he felt a drop of blood well forth and course down his throat.
“Are you one of Garrock’s men?”
“Yes,” he gasped.
Scar relaxed his grip on the man’s hair allowing him to breathe and speak easier.
“How many does he have in Cara?”
“Twenty.”
A man and woman walked by just outside the shaded area. Scar said, “Shhh,” as they passed and pressed the blade once again against the man’s throat as they waited. When the couple entered the nearest building, he relaxed his grip and pulled the knife back a ways.
“What are his plans concerning us?”
“Kill you both,” the man replied. “And take the treasure for himself.”
“Treasure?” queried Scar. “How does he know about that?”
“Tork told us right after you two escaped.”
“Curse that old man,” Scar spat. “I’ll settle him later.”
“Did he tell Garrock about the man we are to meet?”
“No.”
Scar pulled the head back and again pressed the knife against the man’s throat. “Did he?”
“No!” the man cried. “I swear it.”
Relaxing his grip on the man’s head, Scar let his knife fall a short ways away so it no longer rested against the man’s throat.
“Where is Garrock?”
“He’s staying at the Cask and Candle.”
“Thank you,” Scar said. “But I can’t let him know we are here.” Grabbing the man’s hair, he pulled the man’s head back and with a quick slice of his sword, ended his life. “At least not yet.”
Potbelly drank ale, flirted with the barmaid, and had a test of strength with another patron, all the while keeping an eye on the remaining man. When Scar didn’t return after his third ale, he grew worried. But then midway through his fourth, Scar caught his attention from near the door at the back side of the common area.
He gestured for Potbelly to leave through the back door.
Nodding surreptitiously, he downed his ale, stood and stretched, then leisurely made his way from the common room and out the door.
Scar stood pressed against the wall next to the door. “Head around the stable to the back,” he whispered when Potbelly emerged.
“Got it.”
Without missing a step, Potbelly continued across the courtyard. A few moments later, the other man passed through the doorway.
Scar waited for the man to follow Potbelly then fell in behind.
Potbelly angled to the right and walked around the side of the stable. The man hurried forward with Scar silently following behind.
Scar must have made some sound for just as the man reached the corner of the stable, he paused and glanced over his shoulder. Scar was on him in an instant; a punch to the throat and another to the midsection doubled him over and kept him quiet.
Potbelly rushed back and dragged the man around the side of the stable and away from the view of any in the courtyard.
Glancing around, Scar saw that their nocturnal activities had gone unnoticed, he hurried after.
“Garrock’s man?” Potbelly asked.
“Yes.”
“Where’s the other one?”
“He won’t bother us again.”
Potbelly gestured to the man between them. “And him?”
“They plan to kill us,” Scar replied. “Either we take care of him now or we fight him later.”
“I won’t,” the man gasped as his diaphragm started functioning again. He turned on his back and looked up at them. “I swear it!”
“Sorry,” Scar said. “We can’t take that chance.”
The man’s cry was cut short. They dragged the body off into the woods and dumped him among a thick section of undergrowth
“There are twenty, make that eighteen men with Garrock,” Scar said.
They returned to the courtyard. Not seeing anyone, they entered the stable and made ready to travel.
“Garrock is staying at an inn called The Cask and Candle.” He leaned in close to Potbelly as he whispered, “He knows about the treasure.”
“How?”
Scar spat, “Tork.”
“Damn him.”
“Probably sold us out to save his own neck.”
“I don’t know,” Potbelly said, “Garrock and his men seemed pretty hesitant to take him on.”
“Then why tell him?”
“I don’t know.” Horse saddled, Scar mounted. “And I don’t care. We’re going to find Matlin, get the map, and track down the treasure. If Garrock or his men get in our way, we leave them for the buzzards.”
Potbelly swung into the saddle and they headed down the darkened road toward the lights of Cara.
-8-
Halfway between the inn and Cara, buildings began dotting the road. First was a rundown tavern that looked like it had been constructed with material salvaged from the remains of many different buildings. The men standing in the area were a seedy lot and not the sort they felt inclined to seek help from in searching for Matlin.
They knew that among those lining the road had to be one of Garrock’s men. Which one was nearly impossible to tell. Nearly all watched them as they passed, more than half continued casting glances their way even when they were well beyond the tavern.
Other shops appeared, an inn or two and a series of five well-constructed buildings housing a wide variety of buxom young ladies ready to entertain those with sufficient coins. Scar eyed the women longingly but knew now was not the time for a dalliance.
Closer to the gate, streets branched off from the main trade route as the buildings grew denser. Even at such a late night the area from a few blocks out to the gate was bustling with activity.
Hawkers called out to those passing by, some would have hands full of wares and come right up to the riders. One man with strings of necklaces planted himself in front of Scar and practically demanded Scar buy one or he wouldn’t move. Scar kicked his horse, it lurched forward and the man dove out of the way; necklaces went flying. Curses and vows of retribution followed them as they entered the area before the gate.
The gate area was awash with light. Poles with oil lamps held back the shadows along the two roads merging at the gate area. A squad of uniformed soldiers stood guard at the gate; a wagon being drawn by two horses was currently being inspected.
Before they entered the area illuminated by the lamps, Scar motioned for them to cross to an area amongst the buildings just beyond the reach of the lamplight where they could observe the gate area from the shadows.
A dozen men loitered near the gate; half looked to be beggars but a few were well armed and very alert.
“I would bet my right arm that one, if not more, is Garrock’s.”
Potbelly nodded. “Wouldn’t be surprised.”
The road merging with theirs at the gate area looked to run along the outside of the walls; along which sat many shops, inns and taverns.
“Might be a tavern along that outer road,” suggested Potbelly, “that Matlin may frequent when he comes out of the hills.”
“Perhaps.” He gazed at the men standing by the gate, saw how they scrutinized everyo
ne that entered. “It’s as good a place to start as any.”
Keeping to the shadows, they worked their way through back alleys and between buildings until they reached the outer road. Not far down they came to a tavern that looked respectable. There was light music coming from it and a couple leaving was well dressed and had the air of money.
“I’ll try here,” Scar said. “Stay with the horses.”
“You got it.”
Scar dismounted and walked to the front door. Just as he was about to enter, it opened and a dandy of a man passed through. The man eyed Scar from head to toe, sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose before hurrying on his way. For some reason, Scar felt a strong desire to hit him. But his mission overrode such desires.
Tavern was not quite the best description for what met him on the other side of the door. People dressed in their finest sat at tables covered in white linen. Instead of mugs and bottles, teapots and teacups decorated tabletops. A man dressed in clothes that must have cost more coins than Scar could hope to see in a year came up to him.
“Yes?” the man asked, looking down his nose at Scar. “Can I help you?” The distaste he felt at being in Scar’s presence was very apparent. So apparent that Scar felt like giving him something to really dislike, but he refrained.
“I am looking for a friend of mine that lives in the area,” he said. “His name is Matlin and he lives up in the mountains near here. Would you know him?”
“No,” the man said. “I am afraid I have not had the…uh…pleasure.”
“Do you have a problem?” Scar asked, his nature getting the better of him.
“No, sir,” the man said. “There is no problem.” His tone belied that, inferring that there was indeed a big problem and that Scar should be going.
His irritation blossomed into full blown anger. He clenched his fist and was about ready to lay this guy low, when two elderly women entered through the door. Not wanting to cause a ruckus in front of them, he unclenched his fist, glanced to the tea room and an alternative idea formed. He spun on his heel and walked by the ladies and out the door.
“Did you find out…?” Potbelly began then saw the set of Scar’s jaw. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Scar replied as he walked to his horse and gathered his travel bag. “Let’s have some tea.”
Potbelly remained perplexed for a moment, his mind trying to come to grips with Scar’s last statement. “Tea?”
“That’s right,” Scar said. “Bring your stuff.” He spun about, dropped his bag into the dirt, kicked it for several feet, then picked it back up. Without waiting to see if Potbelly was coming, he headed back to the door.
The man with whom he had spoken to earlier was in the tea room helping the two elderly ladies that had entered prior to his leaving. Spying a table next to theirs, one that would be in clear view of where the man stood, he strode purposefully toward it.
“…that can be arranged,” the man was saying. “If you will but…” Spying Scar taking a seat stilled his tongue.
Scar met his gaze, and plopped the dirt-covered bag onto the impeccably white tablecloth. Dust exploded outward. “Can I get some tea?”
“Excuse me a moment, ladies,” the man said.
“Why of course,” one said as he walked around their table to Scar. About that time, Potbelly arrived.
“So what’s this about tea?” he asked. Then he saw the man standing there with a look like he had just sucked a sour persimmon. He glanced from him, to Scar, then back. “Oh.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer…a tavern?” the man asked.
“Why, no,” Scar replied. “We are the adventurous sort and have never tried tea.”
“No….”
They turned at the elderly voice and saw the two ladies looking sadly at Scar and Potbelly. “You boys have never had tea?”
Scar shook his head. “Not that I can remember,” he replied. “Heard about it though and thought to try.” He looked up at the man and added, “But I don’t think we are welcomed here.”
“Nonsense!” one lady exclaimed.
“Of course you are,” the other said. To the man she said, “Yorlen, bring us a pot of Steanmen’s Best.”
Yorlen nodded. “Two servings of…”
“Not two,” she said. “Four.” Then she turned to Scar. “That is if you handsome fellows would not mind the company of two old women?”
Scar saw the extreme distaste that Yorlen had for the prospect, so grinning, he nodded. “I would love to enjoy your company.”
Potbelly just rolled his eyes. There were only two things that would cause Scar to act so out of character; women and spite. He knew the later was the motivator this evening.
The two ladies rose and moved to their table. Scar removed his pack and did his best to brush the dirt off but only managed to grind it in all the more.
“But…” began Yorlen.
“But nothing,” Scar said. He snapped his fingers. “Bring us some of,” turning to the ladies he asked, “what was that you asked for?”
“Do you mean Steanmen’s Best?”
“Yes, precisely.” He slapped the table then said to Yorlen. “A pot, make that two, of Steanmen’s Best and don’t keep these sweet ladies waiting.”
Yorlen glanced from Scar, to the ladies, then to Potbelly. He shook his head, bit his tongue and turned about to head to the kitchen
“How is it that you two have never had tea?”
Scar shrugged. “No one I know has ever drunk tea. It’s always been ale or wine.”
Patting him on the arm, the old lady said, “Then you are in for a treat. By the way, my name is Elora, and this is my friend, Namma.”
“Nice to meet you,” Scar said. “You can call me Scar, and he’s Potbelly.”
“Odd names,” Elora said.
“I suppose some might think that,” he replied.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to offend,” she said worriedly.
Scar laughed. “You did not offend.”
“Thank goodness.”
Potbelly looked at his friend as if he’d lost his mind.
Scar caught him watching and shrugged and then darted his eyes toward the kitchen.
Yorlen appeared bearing a tray with two tea pots and four cups and saucers and three other small spouted vessels. He set a cup and saucer down before each and then the teapots he set in the center of the table. The trio of spouted vessels he set near Elora.
He flashed Scar a look of distaste then said to Elora, “Anything else, madam?”
“Not at present,” she replied. “Thank you, Yorlen.”
Giving her a slight bow, he bustled off to wait on another table.
Scar reached for one of the steaming teapots but was stopped when Elora placed a hand on his arm. “Never pour in the tea first,” she explained. She picked up one of the spouted vessels. “Milk first, then the tea.”
“Ah,” he said.
She poured a small bit of milk in the bottom of his cup, then took up the teapot. With practiced ease, she lifted the teapot and added tea to the milk. The mixture blended, the colors swirling to a light brown color.
Scar spied spoons sitting upon the table, picked one up and commenced to stir. The clattering he made as the edge of the spoon rattled against the side of the cup cut through the soft music the bard strummed on his mandolin.
Namma chuckled; Elora flashed her a disapproving look. Then to Scar she said, “One must treat the tea with respect. Never, ever clink your spoon against the side.”
“Why?”
She turned to Potbelly. “It simply is not done that way.”
“Yeah,” Scar said to his friend.
“Like you know,” Potbelly mumbled under his breath.
Scar watched the two ladies stir their tea in short, brief swirls. His second attempt proved less noisome though there was a bit of clinking.
Potbelly poured his own milk and tea and when he stirred, made no sound. He flashed Scar a superior grin.
“Now
try it,” Namma said.
Knowing there had to be some sort of special way to drink tea since everything else about it had been so particular, Potbelly hesitated.
Scar on the other hand, wrapped his hand around the cup and took a large mouthful. His face turned red and if not for the ladies would have spit it out right there. Instead, he swallowed it and felt the hot liquid burn the entire way down.
“That was amazing,” Namma said.
Sweat beading his forehead, Scar nodded. “Yeah,” he gasped.
“Tea should be sipped, not gulped,” Elora chided.
“I’ll remember that.”
Potbelly, seeing his friend’s faux pas, gingerly sipped. Though it did not have the boldness of ale or the kick to it, he had to admit, it was almost tolerable. “I like it,” he said to be polite.
The ladies smiled. Elora turned to Scar. “Did you enjoy it?”
“Other than the burning of my innards,” he said, “it was okay.”
“But you must learn the proper way to hold a tea cup,” Elora said.
She slid her index finger into the handle to the knuckle, then pressed her thumb against the top of the handle. Then her middle finger braced the handle’s bottom and the other two fingers curled back toward her wrist. “Like this.”
Scar held the cup as she had but his pinky finger stuck out.
Elora moved the pinky so it rested curled under like the fourth finger. “There, that should do it.”
Potbelly could barely contain his amusement at the sight of Scar daintily holding a teacup.
Still a third of Scar’s cup remained. He raised his cup, fighting to keep his pinky in place, then sipped it. Finding it cooler, he drank the rest. Then he spied the inside bottom of the cup.
“Ugh!” he said, putting the cup down. Spying Yorlen coming from another table, he stood and hollered. “You got dirt in your pots!”
The look Yorlen shot him would have sent him to his maker if looks held such power.
“No, no, no,” Elora said. She placed an arm on Scar’s and urged him to retake his seat. “This is not dirt.” She tilted the cup for him to look.
“It isn’t?”
Namma chuckled.
The Improbable Adventures of Scar and Potbelly: Ice Terraces of Crystal Crag Page 9