by Damien Lake
“Can you sit for five minutes without starting a brawl this time?” Tallior asked nastily. “This isn’t the type of roughneck tavern you were born and raised in.”
His fingers clenched meaningfully on his carved club’s handle. Dellen grunted. “ ‘S cleaner, anyway.”
Dellen scowled when an older man, a better-than-everyone-else type if he’d ever seen one, approached from a corner by the street. No one else had shared his table under the window.
The gray-haired old fart ignored him completely, speaking to Tallior. “Good. This makes the fourth night I have dined here.”
Tallior renewed his scathing glare. “We weren’t able to travel as fast as I’d expected.”
“Don’t ya try and pin that on me!” Dellen barked back. “I didn’t see ya trying to help none back there. Who’s this fella anyhow?”
A quick, unspoken thought passed between Tallior and the moldy crust in his silk nickers. “I expect there is a long story behind…this.” The old man nodded at Dellen.
“You have to take what you can find,” Tallior replied, making no effort to whisper the words. “It’s not that he and his friends were the best of the lot. It’s that they were the only lots to draw.”
“It was ya fancy ideas what screwed it all to the hells,” Dellen snapped. “Don’t be blaming Beld for nothing! Ya the big man with all the metal, then. The one we keep hearing about?”
Both men treated his words as if he had never spoken. The old fart said, “Times are changing. Perhaps we are not so desperate as to be shackled hand and foot in this matter.”
Dellen felt his knuckles twitching. A scrawny, dried-up twig like him ought to know better than to brush off a man his size! Before any further words were uttered, a clean-shaven snot-nose with a white apron tied around his waist sauntered over.
“Good evening, sirs. Might I fetch you a drink, or are you interested in dinner? Our kitchen has several special dishes available tonight.”
“Tell Wysmin I have need of a private room tonight after all,” the old man ordered. After a jaundiced eye at Dellen, he added, “And bring this…fellow whatever he would like while he waits. Add it to my bill.”
They floated away toward the back. Dellen, grumbling, dropped into the chair pulled out from the corner table, which creaked alarmingly. Outside he could see numerous sorts traipsing along the streets of Thoenar’s Second Ring. Enough damned lamps had been driven into the ground to light up the city like festival night. No wonder the women didn’t have the sense to go home after dark. And what limp-wristed men running this place let their women wander around in the dark like whores, anyway?
The snot-nose came back to ask what Dellen ‘wished to partake of’. Dellen looked suspiciously at the white apron. No question. He was a bum-puncher all right. This city must be full of them. That explained why every woman who walked past the window had plastered on thicker makeup than Marina did on her evenings to serve the men who came to Gloria’s Tavern. No one went there for a meal, and most of the ale served wound up in the Toad Juice barrel for the local lushes next morning.
Dellen paused just to make the pervert wait. He knew this place rarely ever served real men. Not a tankard in sight. Artsy little fluted glasses on crystal stems were filled with wine. Red in most cases, except for the few looking like piss. The men sitting around the tables were dressed in the kind of clothing that a smudge of honest dirt would ruin, like the geezer Tallior had slunk away with.
When the aproned snot looked ready to wait until winter without discomfort, Dellen finally grunted a demand for a tankard filled with ale and a plate of whatever was most expensive at the moment. As an afterthought, he shouted after the brat an order to bring a pitcher as well.
May as well soak the situation for whatever he could. After all, Tallior had yanked him away from his paying job to ride halfway across the flaming kingdom after he’d gotten a letter from his boss. Never once bothered to say what burr was stuck in his ass, neither.
Dellen snatched the ale from the snot’s hand, draining half in the first deep gulp. The pitcher rested in the table’s center for only brief moments before he tilted it over the tankard’s rim. He could see that everyone else in the room refused to look into his corner. Well, screw the lot of them, anyhow. They weren’t anything special to look at, whatever they liked to believe.
A musician played a violin beside the hearth. The squeals made Dellen’s scalp twitch. It was as if the man were trying to win a bet to see how slowly he could drag that stick across the strings. Less than a minute would force him to cough up. Noise, not music, and no fit sound for a man to listen to while he drank. At least he kept from adding his own caterwauling to the racket.
He contemplated shouting at the bastard to shut up. The squalling kept interrupting his thoughts, making it blasted near impossible to think straight. Tallior and his bossman must be talking about the job to off the flaming mage along with his friends. Whatever they decided, it seemed clear they were thinking of cutting his crew out. Dellen had a heavy score to settle with the magiker…but more to the point, he needed to protect Beld’s interests. Beld would be furious if Tallior cut them loose right before the mage got what was coming to him.
All the worse would it be for Dellen if Beld thought he had screwed the deal over by not keeping them in the game. Aside from paying back the mage, Beld had started seeing a profit in dealing with Tallior. Or dealing with Tallior’s purse strings, anyhow.
The food that arrived came on a platter capable of feeding four. In the center were pork chops still on the bone. Eight chops had been laid in a circle, the bones sticking up where they overlapped the meat on the next. They drowned under a sea of thick brown gravy. Forming a restraining wall around the platter’s rim were mashed potatoes squeezed into a wavy pattern. In the very center rested a baked onion that had been battered and opened like a blossoming flower.
Dellen waited patiently until the snot-nose finished setting a clean plate before him and had positioned the silverware. Once he seemed done fooling around, Dellen thrust the empty pitcher into the gut behind the apron, demanding a refill. He grabbed a chop by its bone when the bum-puncher left, setting to gnawing off the flesh with his head propped on one hand, glaring at the door through which Tallior had left.
By the time those two returned, Dellen was scraping the tail end of his sixth chop through the gravy to coat the meat with a fresh layer. He wiped a trail of brown off his chin with his fingers, gifting them with the worst expression he could muster while flicking the mess away onto the tablecloth.
“So whatcha been talking about in there? Got anything to say yet?”
The bossman looked disgusted. Without a single comment, he walked to the door and collected a cloak that had to be a decoration rather than any protection against the night. He pulled a hat down over his ears and departed.
“I like that!”
Tallior lifted the silver fork. “Have you ever seen one of these before?”
“Yeah. They sell for a nice bit of metal in the right shops.”
With a flick, Tallior sent the fork spinning so it stabbed into the mashed potatoes an inch from his knuckles, staying upright for a second before gradually tilting to one side. “Let’s go,” Tallior hissed. “We have work to do.”
“Work?” Dellen exclaimed, followed by a belch loud enough to be heard on the next street. He patted his stomach. “Ale here’s pretty rich.”
“Stand up!” Tallior tugged hard on his arm, his words exiting in a sibilant growl. He continued until Dellen finally rose.
When the toerag glanced around for the snot-nose, Dellen dropped the bone back onto the platter. He debated, then lifted the onion, wiping the bottom off along the tablecloth to clear away the gravy. His stomach felt full but no sense in leaving the onion behind when it could fit into his oversized pocket.
Tallior led the way on the street, ignoring him as best he could. Dellen felt his balance swaying slightly. He could not remember if he’d finished the t
hird ale pitcher or not. All he knew was that he had long since grown tired of Tallior’s idiocy.
Planting his feet solidly in the walking path, he leaned with one hand against a lamp’s post. “Hey! Ya! I’m a-staying right here until ya tell me what in the bloody moon is on fire.”
“Do you know where your Thirteenth Squad was sent in mid-winter?”
“Tullainia. Beld told ya that. Or did ya plumb forget all about it?” He started a fresh sneer, but stopped when he felt the ale within him rallying for an escape attempt.
“Where on the Tullainian border?” Exasperation laced Tallior’s harsh demand.
“How should I know? Ya heard him ya’self. They was going to split up along the road. What’s it matter?”
“It matters because there are reports that several prisoner groups are being escorted to the capitol, mostly by elements of your band.”
“So ya saying Beld might be coming? Hang on,” he stated with a new belch. “Gotta make room.” He began fumbling with his breeches’ tie.
“For the love of all the gods, act like a civilized man!”
“I’m civilized! There’s some bushes, see?”
Tallior rubbed his temples with his fingertips while Dellen waded into the decorative shrubbery. The idiots running this city might be dumber than horseshoes, but at least they’d been smart enough to put the bushes near the taverns where they belonged.
“When’s Beld getting here? Ah, there we go!”
“As soon as the king declares all the street pavers to be replaced with jellied custards, for all I care! You can stay in the room tomorrow.”
“I ain’t sitting around, twiddling my fingers and pulling my dingus! Fella like ya can’t be trusted to do it right. Doing what, anyhow?”
“It’s against my better judgment to tell you, but there have been rumors circling around the court about that mage for quite awhile. Sounds like he came in a few days ago, escorting one of those prisoner groups. I’m not sure yet why, but the indications are that he will be staying for awhile.”
“He’s in Thoenar? That ratty bastard? How did ya know that all the way from Cedars?”
“I told you rumors had been flying. If we had made proper time, we would have arrived before him!”
“Proper time? I like that. In a saddle from before bleeding dawn till halfway after dark. I’m about rubbed raw!” He hitched his breeches up, fumbling with the strings while he stepped back into the street.
“I am going to spend tomorrow learning what I can about what is going on. You’ll stay in the room.”
“Like the hells!”
“Exactly like the burning hells!” Tallior spat back. “After I collect as much information as I can, then I’ll decide if you and your clown friends can be of any use in taking him down. The only reason I brought you was in case I turned out lucky enough to have Beld’s unit close at hand also. Although whether it would be good luck or bad is highly suspect.”
Dellen’s fist clenched, his other keeping his stubborn breeches from plummeting to his ankles. “Ya gotta start watching ya mouth! Remember what Beld said!”
“If the mage isn’t locked away inside your mercenary basetown, I don’t give a rat’s hindquarters what Beld ever said! These are my hunting grounds. The day I can’t win here is the day I finally meet my better.” Tallior resumed walking without a care for whether Dellen followed or not.
The failed mercenary-applicant cum bouncer half-hopped along until his fingers finally negotiated a non-aggression pact with his breeches’ tie. He stumbled after Tallior, noting the man had taken a firmer grip on his club at Dellen’s aggression and not yet loosened it.
All in all, he felt as if there were a number of questions that needed to be asked. His fuddled brain snatched at them. Each darted away with fishlike agility.
“It’s all right,” he finally declared. “Beld will find a way to get the skittering little maggot if he’s running around a city. No one to watch his back. Should be easy.”
Tallior snorted derisively. “You stay quiet in the room until I poke about. Then we’ll see who is easy meat and who isn’t.”
* * * * *
Marik stared at Rail, utterly lost for what to do. Twice he shut his eyes hard, expecting the man to be gone when he opened them, or be a stranger with only a passing resemblance to his father. That would make far better sense than the haggard man sitting at the counter.
In a daze, he rounded the L’s corner and slid onto an empty stool. Rail said nothing while the raucous cacophony thundered around them. At last, Rail cocked his head to the side, his eyes bisected by the long sword handle jutting up from where it leaned against the bar.
“Not to be fussed about it,” Rail grunted, “but I’m not in the mood for a drinking companion.”
“I—” Marik coughed out a wad of phlegm that stuck in his throat. No less uncertain for it, he tried anew. “I didn’t come to drink. Or eat a meal for that matter.”
“Friend—” Rail started before he had to pause as well. Rather than hocking out a blockage, he leaned more heavily on the bar, his breathing emerging in deep bellows until he regained control. “I’d rather finish this before it goes sour than be sociable.” He lifted a squat, clear glass filled with equally clear liquid that might have been water.
Marik waited, hoping for his brain to kick in rather than for Rail to recognize him. Over the last few years, Marik had undergone many physical changes. Other than his training to increase his strength and muscle bulk, the lingering aftereffects from his magical near-death adventures had left him with skin that looked weathered beyond what a man his age should claim, along with deepening the tone into a permanent tan.
Simply blurting out who he was seemed…unreal. He kept expecting to awaken from the dream at any moment. After a protracted period where Rail drained half his glass, Marik touched on the only topic with which he might be able to speak coherently.
“So you’re a mercenary, are you?” When Rail glanced sideways with a single eye, Marik hastily continued. “You’ve got the look. The clothes match, and the…this sword isn’t anything you see soldiers carrying. Beyond that, you’ve got the air. The bearing.”
Silence.
Marik groped for new words until a barman materialized opposite him, setting a matching glass before Marik with a loud thunk. “Four coppers on the one, unless you want fillers during the sport. Then it’s two for seven.”
“Sorry, I didn’t order a drink.” He brushed the barman off until the barman brushed himself back on.
“First timer, are you? Let me tell you then. As long as you’re in the Queen’s Head, you’ll be drinking the sporting man’s drink without complaint or hike it back out into the street. All the same to me, so what’ll it be?” He folded his arms over his chest, his gaze challenging.
Nonplussed, Marik dug a second five-copper coin from his purse.
“No fillers then. If you change your mind, it’ll be a fresh start at four for a new glass.” The barman kept the entire coin, never bothering to ask if Marik had meant to offer the last copper as a gratitude gesture. His gaze shifted off the barman’s retreating back. He noticed a soot-covered sign on the wall above a bottle row. It read, “Fancies make Reality.”
Marik seized the glass as the perfect excuse to avoid Rail’s line of sight for the moment. He thought nothing of the warmth his fingers detected until the contents entered his mouth. The liquid hit the back of his throat. A violent cough exploded from him. Whether it was from the odd alcohol or the high temperature to which it had been warmed made no difference to him while he struggled to breathe.
Rail studied him as a magistrate might look upon a pathetic liar spinning a story filled with holes to explain away pockets laden with stolen valuables. “Takes a cur to know a cur, is it? Although,” he deliberately arched an eyebrow, “if that is your first choice in fangs, then I don’t think much of your bite.”
Lifting the sword taken from the black soldiers, Marik replied, “My last sword was
destroyed during a fight. You don’t have much choice when you’re stuck with picking up a blade from the battlefield. It’s good enough until I get a replacement.”
A snort came through Rail’s nostrils while he raised the glass to lips. “Yeah. I’ve been known to do that.”
“But being destroyed while fighting on contract, I can get a quality replacement without much trouble. Sennet will complain, but he always does when I ruin his stock.”
Rail’s hand came to a stop over the space of several inches. It hovered over the counter in the act of returning the glass to the polished surface. “Did you say…what did you say?”
“It is noisy, isn’t it?” Marik dug through his purse until he fished out a flat iron tag that had drifted to the very bottom. He slapped it on the counter with the embossed red crown stared up between them.
“So…” Rail murmured, his eyes following the crown’s points. “A Crimson King, are you? That’s saying something in these parts. It’s tough as outwitting Vernilock at Stones to get into that band.”
“I know that. I had to train all the first winter to improve a class.”
“A D, were you? Plenty enough of them make it through the trials each year. I came in on the C/B line the year I applied to enter Kingshome.”
“I guess the Twelfth Squad must have been hit hard the summer before. I’ve noticed the best fighters usually get assigned to the squads that are hurting worst.” Marik ignored the sharp look from Rail to point at the massive sword’s hilt. “So this is the monster sword Sennet forged, is it? He never described it at all. Mind if I get a feel for it?”
Rail kept his hard, suspicious eye on Marik. Rather than demand how Marik could have known which squad Rail had once been part of, he quirked one corner of his mouth. “I think you’ll find it’s a sweetheart outside your ability to swoon. But give it a go if you like, out of respect for a fellow band member.”
Marik could see Rail’s knuckles clench slightly. He expected trouble. He thought it would likely come as a foolish attempt by this unknown stranger to attack him with his own sword.