In Pain and Blood

by Aldrea Alien

  “Do you think trade’s been cut off?” Marin asked. “If the Talfaltaners came through here…”

  “This place doesn’t look like a huge armed company hit it,” the warrior countered. “No one seems the slightest bit unnerved. I’m willing to bet the Talfaltaners never came this far up the river. Or if they did, they sailed past.”

  “You make an excellent point, dear woman,” Tracker said. “Simply another thing to ask my contact. But for the moment…” The hound stopped outside a two-storey timber and brick building. A sign hung above the courtyard entrance, declaring it to be The Sheppard’s Axe. “Perhaps I could interest all of you in some decent food and lice-free beds?”

  Marin hummed as she eyed the place. “A little bit of a downgrade from our last stay, isn’t it?”

  Tracker chuckled. “If you are looking for that kind of inn, you would be best to start travelling across the river. If you can get past the gate guards on the other side, that is. The people in this half of Whitemeadow do not tend to have much coin.”

  “You’re not one of those people, though.”

  “That I am not. However, my contact lives on this side of the river. I will speak with him in the morning, but I do not wish to bribe the guards another time to let us pass simply for a few extra pillows on my bed. For now, maybe it would be best for all of you wait in the tavern whilst I procure our rooms.”

  “Actually,” Authril said, hoisting her pack further onto her shoulders. “Since we’re staying, I think I’ll seek out a bathhouse.”

  “Yes,” the hedgewitch replied, “some amenities of civilisation would be welcome. I can’t recall the last time I was properly clean.”

  “Then you need not go far,” Tracker said. “There is one such place in that direction.” He nodded towards the inn’s stable. “Alan should be working nearby. Tell them I sent you and he should be most accommodating to your needs.”

  “Another friend of yours?” Authril asked.

  The hound scoffed. “Dear woman, Whitemeadow is an important stop in this part of the kingdom for a lot of people. I prefer staying here to the hound accommodations across the river. Is it wrong for me to be on good terms with those who work here?”

  “Sorry I asked,” the warrior muttered.

  Tracker watched the women file off. When they had disappeared around the side of the stables, he smiled at Dylan. “I guess it is just you and me, yes?”

  Dylan’s stomach rumbled. With the city so close, they hadn’t paused for a midday meal, opting to consume the meagre amount of stale bread left to them and the last of the wizened fruit. He jerked his thumb at the tavern door, a heavy-looking thing bound with iron. “I’m going to eat.”

  The hound frowned. “Just me, then.” His gaze flicked to the door, the creases in his forehead deepening. “I will attempt not to be too long. I truly dislike the idea of leaving you alone.”

  “You think I’m going to saunter in there flinging magic everywhere?”

  “Not at all, I trust you to know the appropriate moments to use your magic. And that you understand the sight of a spellster is less frequent here than in the other cities we have visited. Still, some people may recognise your uniform and will not look kindly on you.”

  Dylan’s gaze dropped to the army-issued robe. Its style was common amongst those in the tower, and he’d seen a few men from the temples wearing similar attire, albeit in brighter tones than this dark green. There wouldn’t be much call for leashed spellsters beyond the army, and there would be those who’d recognise his attire for what it was, but he’d chosen to stick with the robe due to practicality. Besides fitting him, he would only be forced into a similar outfit once they reached Wintervale. “I promise not to start anything.”

  The elf’s lips flattened into a grim smile. “That is not my concern.”

  “Then I’ll try to keep a low profile.”

  That honey-coloured gaze roamed across Dylan’s figure. “I rather doubt that is possible, that lanky frame of yours is built to draw the eye. Just… refrain from killing anyone. If you can.”

  “I would’ve thought no magic at all would be better.”

  “If you are able to do so, then yes. But I cannot expect you to remain defenceless should someone threaten your person.”

  “I’ll try to avoid that scenario, then.”

  “Please.” Tracker clutched dramatically at his chest. “For the sake of my poor heart. I would rather prefer not to have to spend every waking moment with you to ensure your safety, but if you are going to get yourself into trouble…”

  “And what are you going to do to me if I do otherwise? Put me over your knee and spank me?”

  The elf’s brows lowered, although the quirk of his lips did ruin the overall seriousness of his expression. “Dear man, if that is what you want, you need only ask.”

  Grinning, Dylan nodded to himself. That was about the answer he expected from the man. He couldn’t really say the thought had ever appealed to him. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

  “I thought you might.” Tracker pressed a small pouch into Dylan’s hands. “This should be enough to get what you want and keep you out of trouble.” The elf’s brow furrowed and his nose gave the faintest twitch that spoke of an attempt to conceal his concern. “If someone goes to summon a hound, do not leave the room. Not even to find me. Not every hound is as willing to give someone the chance to talk as I am, but if you run, they will assume guilt and pursue a great deal harder.”

  I know. He’d gotten lucky with Tracker. If the man hadn’t let him speak that night in Toptower… Well, he didn’t want to think about what could’ve happened. “I thought you said you’d be quick. You sound like you’re going to be a while.”

  “My swiftness really depends on Madam Gwen’s mood. She is quite the mercurial type, especially when it comes to her inn. The rooms here are often packed at this time of year and I am uncertain how much negotiating it will take to convince her to kick a few people out if need be.”

  “If we’re going to be that much of a bother, wouldn’t it best to find somewhere else?”

  “No, it will be pretty much standard everywhere on this side of the river.”

  “Maybe I should come with you, then.” He could always wait until either Tracker or one of the women returned before venturing in search of food.

  His stomach grumbled its own opinion on the thought.

  Tracker chuckled. “Go.” He patted Dylan’s belly and turned them around until they faced the tavern door. “Feed this beast before it chews its way free. I will endeavour to be swift.”

  With the gentlest of nudges towards the door, Tracker jogged off in the opposite direction and up a flight of stone stairs.

  Dylan bounced the coin purse in his hand. It shouldn’t be too difficult to stay out of trouble, so long as he kept his head down and made no attempt to use his magic—a simple enough task in itself.

  He pushed the door open and stepped into the tavern.

  Compared to the bright sunlight, the room beyond was dingy. A fire glowed at one end. Lanterns and smoky candles lit up other parts, poorly. He stood in the doorway, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

  Even in the mid-afternoon, the tavern had its patrons. Elven and human alike, they watched him with an air of suspicion as he crossed the room to the bar, the rushes beneath his boots rustling.

  There were whispers. People were nervous about the influx of soldiers along the plains—an unheard of route for the army and the people didn’t look like the king’s men anyway. Some baker had been found dead in an alley not far from here and apparently deserved it. Most of the cargo boats had been commandeered by the king and taken to Wintervale, for what purpose, no one knew. And there was a strange man wearing a robe striding through here like he owned the place.

  Dylan smiled to himself. That last one had to be him. So much for keeping a low profile.

  The bartender, an elven man and quite advanced in years judging by the heavy amount of grey in his hair, eyed Dylan. There w
as a certain familiar wariness to his ruddy, weathered face, as if he couldn’t quite decide if Dylan was trouble, or at least the kind the man was worried about. “What’ll it be?” He was missing a tooth and the words whistled through the gap.

  Dylan looked over the bottles and mugs decorating the shelves on the wall behind the man. His stomach rumbled another reminder of the scant midday meal and, even though he caught the faint scent of mould over the smoke and stale beer, the place didn’t seem too bad. “Food would be nice.”

  “There’ll be mutton stew later.” The man scratched at his cheek with a thumb. “But I haven’t got much on offer right now. Can get you pickled venison or fry you up some eel a mate down dock way caught this morning. Suppose there’s some roasted trout bones you can pick at, can’t guarantee it’ll be the freshest.”

  Those were the only options? He didn’t mind venison. “I…” Had the man said pickled? What sort of people pickled venison? His insides squirmed at the thought, his hunger waning. He swallowed the sudden abundance of saliva pooling in his mouth and slapped two coppers on the countertop. “I’ll wait for the stew, thanks, but I’ll take a pint of beer now.”

  The elf’s gaze lingered on the money, one brow giving an almost unnoticeable twitch. Had he not given the man enough? He was sure Authril paid that much in the last tavern.

  Dylan silently fiddled with the remainder of the coin in his pouch, counting what was left. A silver piece and five more coppers. If he put down much more, he wouldn’t have enough left to buy a meal later. One more copper should do it.

  The man’s fist closed on the coin before Dylan could add another copper, the money was whisked away and duly replaced with a mug almost full to the brim.

  He settled at an empty table, dumping his pack at his feet. The regular patrons hadn’t stopped watching him. They’d returned to their chatter and drinking, but he could feel their stares digging like arrows into his back. A group of men on his left seemed to be particularly interested in his presence, they jeered at him, then at each other, shoving their cohorts about.

  Dylan kept his focus on the beer. Each sip was watery, a little on the sweet side and tasted like home. He savoured each mouthful. If Tracker was fast enough with securing rooms, then perhaps he’d know of a better place to eat. Somewhere that didn’t serve so much fish.

  The jeering group died down, evidently finding little amusement in his mundane actions and lack of response. That suited him just fine. He’d hate to think what the hound would’ve done had he heard some of their lewder comments. If his reaction in the last tavern was any indication, then Tracker would bring far more attention down on them than Dylan did right now.

  Something heavy slammed onto the table.

  Dylan lowered his mug, suddenly aware of how quiet the whole room had become. A forearm, almost as thick as his leg, had thumped down not that far from where his elbow rested. He twisted in his seat whilst his gaze travelled up the bicep as big and round as his head to the scruffy, bearded face looming over him.

  Dread boiled in his stomach. Had he offended the man in some way? “Can I help you?” he asked. Perhaps it was something as innocuous as having taken the man’s usual perch.

  The smile that split the man’s muddy-brown beard revealed a set of yellowed teeth. “You’re one of them priests, aren’t you?” There was a faint brogue to the words that suggested foreign birth—Tirglasian, perhaps—and the pungent aroma of whisky and bad breath wafted in the air at every exhale.

  “I think you might be mistaken.”

  “Naw.” The man grabbed Dylan’s shoulder, twisting him around on the stool. “I’ve seen your sort coming across the bridge with your holy attitude and begging for our hard-earned cash so you can live in the lap of lady luxury. And the dumb folk pay, too, don’t they? Think they’re securing their toll down the river when all they’re doing is lining your purses.”

  “Please,” Dylan said, trying to keep his voice even. “I don’t want any trouble.” If the man didn’t leave him alone soon, then there would be fighting. A tussle Dylan would most certainly lose to this hulk of a man without resorting to magic. “I only arrived here this afternoon. I’ve never even stepped into this city before now. I have no idea how the priest here conduct their practice, although I assure you, I’m not one of them.”

  The hulking man laughed. “Listen to mister la-di-dah here,” he said to the room, jerking a dirt-stained, sausage-sized thumb at Dylan. “Come across the bridge to slum with us folk who have to do all the real work, have we? Look at you.” He poked Dylan’s chest. “All soft and scrawny. Bet you haven’t had to do a day’s hard labour in your life.”

  Dylan fumbled with the pouch of coins. “Look, let me buy you, and your friend’s, a round and—”

  “Oh ho!” The man slapped Dylan on the back. “Look who’s none too shy about flashing his coin around.” There was a nasty overtone to the man’s words. The smile that split the man’s beard didn’t look all too friendly either.

  Dylan bit his bottom lip, trying not to show how much the blow had stung, even as his magic soothed his smarting skin. He eyed the brute warily. The man wasn’t going to be placated by giving what he probably saw as a simple, hearty thump to the back.

  Sure enough, the brute shoved Dylan back against the table and spat in his face. “That’s what I think of your offer,” he snarled. “You want to part with your coin?” The man cracked his knuckles. Each fist looked easily twice the size of Dylan’s. “Well, I’d rather beat it out of you.”

  Dylan dragged a sleeve across his face. He glanced past the man, scanning the room. No sign of Tracker or the others. Damn. Talking his way out of this wasn’t working and he hadn’t enough faith in the moves Tracker had taught him to attempt going toe to toe with the man physically. All he had left was magic and there was precious little he could do that couldn’t be interpreted as a threat. Maybe he could hold the man back long enough for the others arrive.

  “You could,” he agreed, trying to stall for more time. “But that wouldn’t be a wise idea.”

  “Aye? We’ll see about that.” He drew back his fist in an obvious display. “What do you reckon boys? One punch ought to do it?”

  Jeering, his drinking mates raised their mugs. “Give him a taste of the old Tirglasian might, Willy.”

  Grinning, Willy swung his fist.

  Praying his shield formed in time, Dylan squeezed his eyes shut.

  The brute collapsed to the ground, howling obscenities—in both the Demarn tongue and Tirglasian—as he cradled his bleeding hand.

  Dylan swallowed the lump in his throat. The brokenness of that hand could’ve easily been his face. He knelt next to the man. Tirglasian spellsters were only allowed to practice healing, if Willy got into as many fights as Dylan suspected, then the man should be used to such magic. “Here, let me heal—”

  “Dinnae touch me!” Willy screamed in his native tongue, scrambling backwards.

  He absently followed the man for a few steps before halting. “I just wanted to—”

  “He’s a soddin’ spellster,” yelled another of the tavern patrons, as if the rest hadn’t seen what had become of Willy’s hand.

  “Someone tell the guard,” one of Willy’s companions said. “They’ll handle it.”

  A third man leapt to his feet and bolted out the door.

  Dylan faced the second man who’d spoken. Did he mean the guards would come here, or summon the hounds? What were the odds that another hound would be as willing as the elf to listen? Slim to none. Yes, he still carried the remains of his collar, but Tracker was right in that the explosion should’ve killed him. Maybe he should—

  Do not leave. Tracker’s warning came sharply to mind as he made for the door.

  Taking a deep breath, Dylan turned his back on the entrance. If he stayed and another hound appeared, Tracker would have a far better time explaining all this. Hopefully. He slowly walked to the counter and set down a few coppers. If he was stuck here, he might as well eat.
“I’ll have that stew as soon as it’s done.”

  Visibly trembling, the man nodded and took the money.

  Dylan returned to his seat and the half-drunk mug of beer. Come on, Track. You said you’d be quick. What could possibly be taking the man so long?

  Things had quietened back down by the time Tracker entered the tavern. No hound had come to collect Dylan, not even a guard had dared to poke his nose in here. The other patrons had eyed him warily as he ate. Slowly, the room began to stir with the hushed chatter of people.

  Dylan was halfway into his second pint of beer—bought more through a desire to wash away the aftertaste of what could vaguely be described as stew than a need to drink further. He hadn’t seen any sign of the women. It was possible they could still be enjoying the bathhouse or had even decided to dine somewhere less dubious.

  Tracker shouted for a tankard of mead to be brought over as he settled in the seat next to Dylan. The faintest scent of perfume wafted from his clothes. “My apologies for the wait.”

  “She took some convincing, I take it,” Dylan mumbled into his drink. Between the length of time the hound had taken and the smell of him, Dylan was pretty sure he knew what the payment had been.

  A man, young of face and human, set Tracker’s mead on the table. He gave the hound a rather warm smile as Tracker nodded his thanks. “The bathhouse is vacated and ready for you, sir.” The man lingered, leaning on the table, his hips gently rocking from side to side. “And could I perhaps pique your interest in an evening special?” The way the man spoke those last two words, all hushed and oozing suggestion, left very little ambiguity to the question.

  Dylan lifted the mug, using it as a shield for his face as he drank. Did the hound sleep with everyone he came across? And was Dylan about to witness the prelude to Tracker slinking off to engage in some mindless fun with the inn’s staff? Quite possibly. There was no reason why the man shouldn’t if he desired the company.