by Angus Wells
“Master?” Watery eyes took in Calandryll’s finery. “What’s your pleasure?”
“Wine. Strong wine.”
“I have a vintage from the Alda Valley that’ll please your palate.” The innkeeper produced a dusty bottle, a goblet of cheap glass that he polished briefly on a soiled cloth. “Try that, young master.”
Calandryll sipped. The wine was, indeed, strong. He emptied the goblet and nodded, taking the bottle. There were tables enough empty that he found a place close to the fire, near a low doorway that led into the bowels of the tavern.
“Would you eat, master?”
He shook his head, waving a dismissal, and the fat man returned to his desultory polishing of the bar. Calandryll filled his goblet and stared around.
The other drinkers were mostly seamen, he thought, from the cut of their clothes and the heavy rings that decorated their ears. Many wore swords, all daggers; several were clearly drunk. There were a few mercenaries, no doubt in the employ of local merchants, dressed in protective leather, long blades strapped to their sides or hung across their backs. The women had the look of doxies, their gowns cut to reveal breasts bound high, cheap jewelry glittering about their throats and on their fingers. They studied Calandryll with professional eyes. He smiled at nothing and drank, refilled the goblet and drank again. He could not help comparing the women with Nadama, so he drank some more to drive away that hurtful memory.
In a while the flagon was empty and he called for another slumping in his chair with outflung feet as the fat man brought the bottle.
“It’s to your liking, master?”
“It’s to my liking. It’s a most excellent wine. My compliments on your cellar.”
His voice was thick and he chuckled at the sound, at his joke. The innkeeper beamed obsequiously and left him. Calandryll sank lower in his chair, grinning, oblivious of the wine that stained his shirtfront, grateful for the dulling of the pain.
He emptied half the second flagon and forgot that he was drunk. A torpor that was almost pleasant weighted his limbs, the goblet heavy in his hand as he raised it, the fire warm at his side. He stared around with bleary eyes and a slack-mouthed smile, the other occupants blurred shapes, their conversation a distant ground swell. When he set the goblet down it tilted, falling on its side, spilling wine like bright blood across the cracked surface of the table. He studied it, watching the redness spread and begin to drip to the floor, over his outthrust legs. He chuckled, then sniffed and began to weep, becoming immediately angry with himself so that he lurched straighter in his chair, wiping a careless sleeve over his face.
He set his goblet upright and filled it once more, his movements cautiously exaggerated, pleased at the success of the maneuver. As he raised the smeared glass he saw a shape disengage from a group about a nearby table and move toward him, coalescing as it approached into the form of a woman.
She was more than a few years older than he, with hennaed hair and vermilion lips, eyes accentuated with kohl, the lashes like spikes. Her gown was cut low and waisted high, bright yellow, cinched with a wide corset of black leather. She leaned toward him, affording a clearer view of her breasts, and his nostrils flared at the waft of cheap perfume and sweat that drifted from her. She smiled, exposing stained teeth.
“You drink alone. You’re too handsome to drink alone.”
Calandryll blinked, resolving the three images that wavered before him into a single, more comprehensible form, and replied forlornly, “Nadama doesn’t think so.”
The woman took this as an invitation and settled herself in a chair to his left.
“Then Nadama is foolish. My name is Lara.”
He said, “Lara,” thickly, turning to peer at her through the wine-fog misting his vision.
He saw that she held a glass and filled it. She swallowed and smiled some more.
“Nadama was your sweetheart?”
“I love her,” he answered solemnly, “but she is to wed my brother.”
“Then you’d best forget her,” Lara advised. “Shall I help you forget her?”
Calandryll frowned, enunciating his reply with difficulty.
“I don’t think I can.”
“Oh, you can,” Lara declared. “Come with me and you’ll forget every woman you’ve ever had.”
His frown deepened and he said, “I haven’t had any others. I haven’t even had Nadama.”
Shrill laughter rang in his ears and she leaned closer, a hand on his thigh. “A virgin? Are you really a virgin?”
He felt his honor was somehow questioned, but he could only answer, “Yes.”
“Well then,” Lara shifted her chair until her breasts pressed against his arm, her hand stroking his leg, higher, her mouth close to his cheek, “it’s time you became a man. Come with me.”
“Where?” he asked.
Lara tossed her head in the direction of the door. “There are rooms back there. Old Thorson asks only fifty decima for the night; and I ask but a single var.”
Calandryll turned toward her, then away as breath redolent of stale wine and decay assailed his nostrils. Dimly it occurred to him that he carried no money; slightly less dimly that he felt no wish to bed this blowsy doxy.
“Thank you,” he said primly, “but no.”
“Don’t be shy.” A hand brushed his hair, another his crotch. “I’ll show you what to do.”
“I know what to do,” he said.
“Then come,” urged Lara, taking his free hand. “We’ll bring your bottle with us and I’ll give you a night you’ll not forget. You’ll remember me long after you’ve forgotten Nadama.”
A rush of panic filled him and he tugged his hand from her grasp, shaking his head: “No!”
Lara’s stroking became more insistent. “Don’t be shy,” she repeated, “Come with me.”
He swallowed a mouthful of wine, feeling himself respond to her touch despite the distaste he felt. Lara chuckled and said, “If it’s the money, then I’ll bed you for half a var. Because you’re a virgin.”
“It’s not the money,” he said, regretting it as he saw her smile fade, “Well, it is.”
“Half a var?” Her tongue licked briefly over her lips. “A young noble like you surely has half a var.”
“No.” Calandryll smiled apologetically. “I don’t have any money.”
“What?”
Her hand quit its stroking as she sat back, upright, dark-ringed eyes widening in outrage.
“I don’t have any money,” he said. “Not with me.”
“Cheapskate!” Lara’s voice was strident, attracting the attention of the other drinkers. “Who d’you think you are? You come here, drinking, and you’ve no money? Dera rot your manhood! Do you nobles think you can come down here and lord it over us honest folk?”
The tavern keeper, Thorson, appeared at the table, his moon face apprehensive.
“What’s the trouble? I don’t want the watchmen in here—I run an honest tavern.”
“Honest? You talk about honest?” Lara was on her feet now, arms akimbo, face flushed. “Ask him about honest! What’s he had? Two flagons of that Aldan and no coin to pay with!”
Thorson seemed torn between fear of offending Calandryll and fear of losing his profit. Nervously he asked, “Is this true, master?”
Calandryll nodded. “I fear so. But I have this ring.”
He began to fumble with the signet, but Thorson shook his head after glancing at the thing. “That’s no use to me.” The honorific master was gone now. “I take that and the watchmen’ll be asking questions. It’s strictly coin here.”
“Tomorrow,” Calandryll offered, nervous now, seeing others join the innkeeper, an ominous semicircle about his table, “I can bring you coin tomorrow.”
Thorson shook a ponderous head. Lara snorted cynical laughter.
“You believe that, Thorson, and you’ll believe anything. This bastard’ll cheat you and laugh about it tomorrow.”
“You have no coin at all?” asked Thor
son.
“None.” Calandryll heard the onlookers mutter angrily and felt his apprehension grow. His head began to ache. He attempted a placatory, wary, smile and said, “I can pay you tomorrow. I promise.”
“Nobles’ promises are like wind,” sneered Lara. “They blow away.”
“Yes,” agreed a voice from the crowd, “it’s coin you demand from us, and coin you should demand from him.”
“I am,” snapped Thorson, “and he hasn’t got any.”
“He says,” returned another voice, scornfully “but I’ll wager he’s got a purse on him somewhere.”
“Search him,” advised another. “Strip him down and search him.”
“I don’t!” Calandryll shouted, frightened now. “I swear it. In Dera’s name! I’ll pay tomorrow.”
“Bugger Dera,” said someone else. “This bastard comes down here lording it over us in his finery and looks to cheat honest folk. He needs a lesson.”
“I don’t want the watchmen in here,” Thorson warned.
“Who needs the watchmen?” asked a voice. “We’ll teach him a lesson ourselves.”
Calandryll rose, pushing back his chair. It hit the wall and he felt his knees falter. His head pounded. “Please,” he said, “I swear I’ll pay you tomorrow. I’ll bring money from the palace.”
“The palace!” Lara hooted. “Listen to him—the palace! He’ll tell us he’s the bloody Domm next.”
“Bloody nobles!” cried an angry voice. “Get him!”
“No, please!”
Calandryll thrust out defensive hands as the table was dragged away. The flagon, the goblet and Lara’s cup tumbled to the floor in a spray of breaking glass. Hands fastened on his tunic. He heard someone shout, “Watch out! He’s got a knife.”
He had forgotten the dagger and would likely not have used it even had it not been snatched from the sheath and tossed aside. Fleetingly he thought that Tobias would have remembered that, and used the weapon, but then a fist hit his cheek and he thought only of the pain.
It got worse as more fists struck him, filling his belly with a surging nausea that doubled him over, barely aware of the blows that crashed against his back. He realized that he was on the floor when sawdust joined the taste of blood in his mouth and a boot thudded hard into his ribs. He struggled to rise, but was knocked down, drawing knees to his chest, arms protective about his head. They began to kick him, warming to their sport, boots landing against his back and thighs and chest.
Then, abruptly, it ended and he heard a harsh voice say, “That’s enough!”
“Who says?” came a snarling answer.
“I do.”
Calandryll lowered his arms, peering from swollen eyes at a pair of well-worn black boots, cracks like friendly wrinkles striating the leather. He looked up, at leathern breeks, a wide swordbelt hung with falchion and long dagger, a shirt of soft leather beneath a tunic of the same material, all black. He could not see the man’s face because he turned as he spoke, eyeing the crowd.
“You’ll stop us?” There was contempt in the question.
Confidence in the reply: “If I must. He’s had enough. He’s learned his lesson.”
“Give him some more,” Lara urged.
Calandryll saw a tanned hand descend to the hilt of the falchion, then gasped as steel rustled against leather. The falchion slid from its scabbard, smooth as a striking serpent, lamplight glinting briefly on the blade. It flickered out and a man shouted, sword clattering loud in the sudden silence.
“I’d prefer not to kill you.”
The voice was accented, not from any Lyssian, the statement flat, as though no doubt existed that the implicit threat could be made good. Calandryll heard the thud of a sword rammed home into scabbard.
“Stand up.”
He spat blood and got his hands under him, fingers splayed wide on the dirty floor. It hurt, but he got to his feet, swaying, moaning as he straightened his back and pain shot fiery through his side. One eye was closing, the other blurred as he saw that he was of a height with his savior, that the man’s hair was long and black as his clothes, drawn into a loose queue like a horse’s tail. The eyes that swung momentarily toward him were a startling blue, surrounded by tiny wrinkles as though accustomed to narrowing against the glare of the sun, set deep in a face tanned near as dark as his shirt, the nose flattened where some old blow had broken it, the mouth wide, drawn back from even teeth.
“Can you walk?”
He tried a tentative step and nodded, the motion spilling blood from his nose.
“Then walk to the door. No one will stop you. Eh?”
The grunted question was emphasized by the falchion: Calandryll moved toward the door.
His rescuer paused, studying the crowd, knees slightly bent, his blade extended as he backed away.
Thorson asked, “What about the wine he drank?”
The man laughed curtly. “Take his knife in payment, it’s a pretty enough blade. Now leave him be, and don’t think to follow us.”
He moved swiftly to the door, finding Calandryll still there, shouldering the younger man roughly through.
“Quick!” he urged. “They’ll likely find their nerve in a moment and there’s more than even I can handle.”
He locked a hand on Calandryll’s arm and hurried his bloodied charge across the plaza to the closest alley. Calandryll had no choice but to match his lengthy stride, despite the agony that lanced his body with each step. The stranger dragged him along the alley as angry shouts echoed behind, ducking into a smaller passageway, then turning again, winding a way deeper into the maze of passages.
At last he halted and Calandryll slumped against a wall, panting, clutching at his aching ribs.
“It’s unwise to come coinless into the Sailors Gate,” his companion advised, then chuckled, “and none too bright for innocents like you to bring coin.”
“I’d have paid tomorrow,” Calandryll grunted, probing teeth with tongue.
“Let Thorson keep your dagger,” said the man. “And learn to use a blade if you intend to wear one.”
Calandryll nodded, moaned.
“I owe you thanks.”
The man shrugged: “Accepted. Now—I’d best see you safe home.”
Calandryll groaned at the thought. Suddenly the notion of returning to the palace, bloody and disheveled, his dagger lost, was more than he could bear.
“No,” he muttered. “I mean—please?—not like this. Tomorrow. I’ll return tomorrow.”
The man studied him critically, then grinned. “I take it this is no habit of yours?”
“No.” Calandryll shook his head, groaning afresh at the pain that buffeted the interior of his skull. “I’ve never done this before.”
“Best not do it again. But you’ve a point—you look a mess.” He paused, chewing his lower lip, then shrugged again. “Very well, I’ve a room with space for another on the floor. Come on.”
He hauled Calandryll from the wall, supporting the young man as he tottered. Calandryll felt mightily grateful for the arm that held him upright: he was not sure he could walk any farther unaided.
“My name is Calandryll,” he said. “How are you called?”
“Bracht,” said the man. “I am called Bracht.”
SUNLIGHT shone in a dust-filled band from the window set high in the wall, forcing reluctant consciousness on Calandryll. It illuminated his face, filling his closed eyes with a fierce red that seemed to burn a way into the nethermost regions of his skull. He groaned, reaching for the tasseled cord that would bring a servant, cool water to slake the thirst drying his mouth, some restorative potion for the pounding that assailed his head. His hand struck rough plaster and the shock opened his eyes, wincing as the light struck louder gongs of pain from the templates of his confused mind. Squinting, he saw that there was no bell cord, only a whitewashed wall, a plain wooden sill beneath the casement admitting the offensive brilliance. He groaned again, sitting up, instantly regretting the movement, and rubbed
at his temples, struggling to pin down memories that danced like fireflies through the tortured convolutions of his whirling head. He had been in a tavern and there had been a woman, a fight. He gasped, turning to examine the room. He was not in the palace; someone had rescued him from a beating. Bracht—yes, that had been his name. A dark man, dressed all in black; a mercenary. And Bracht had agreed to let him sleep here because he had been afraid—or ashamed—to return to the palace.
Where here was, he had no idea. It looked to be a room in some cheap inn or lodging house. There was a bed, neatly made, a single chair, a washstand, a small cupboard; the floor was uncarpeted, plain boards, scarred and dusty; the ceiling low, the angles of the obtruding beams suggesting the room was located high, beneath the roof. He lay on a blanket, another covering him; of Bracht there was no sign.
He shuddered, regretting the excesses of the night; regretting more the confrontation that must be inevitable on his return, and pushed the blanket away. He was naked beneath its dun-colored wool and ugly bruises discolored his ribs and thighs. He looked at the washstand, praying that the ewer held clean, cool water, and began to rise. It seemed then that daggers drove between his ribs and the muscles of his legs screamed in agony: he fell back, panting, twisting awkwardly to avoid the light burning his eyes. Closing them seemed the wisest course, so he did that, and fell asleep again.
When next he woke, the sun had shifted across the sky and the window no longer cast its radiance on his face, though his head still throbbed and it seemed his body was wrapped in heated bands that creaked a painful protest at every movement. His thirst was worse, his tongue furred and swollen in a mouth seemingly filled with sand. He gritted his teeth, feeling at least one loosened, and rolled onto his belly. Rising on hands and knees was an effort that brought sweat to his brow, standing an exercise he doubted he could complete. The muscles of his belly protested, and when he straightened his back he thought his spine must break. Bent over, shuffling like an old man, he crabbed a way to the washstand and grasped the ewer in shaking hands. The water that spilled into the bowl was tepid, stale, but he drank it as though his life depended on it, then filled the bowl again and dunked his face.