After turning left onto a cobblestone street, they came to a vendor selling spiced sausages—a balding man in his mid-fifties with a mouthful of wooden teeth, a couple of which were cracked and beginning to grow mold. They planned to eat as soon as they got to the inn, but the smoked meat smelled so good that Gaven stepped into line anyway.
Trilla and Jade, not seeming at all impressed by the sausages, went next door to take a look at some silk flowers being sold, according to the young boy yelling to the crowd, at a substantial discount.
“So…what was the deal back there?” Andaris asked.
Gaven shook his head and flashed Andaris a grin. “I’m sorry,” he said, leaning in close, “I should have warned you. You had a Tinarian woman--well, girl,” he corrected with a wink, “take note of you after only a few minutes in the city. It’s a great honor, and really very rare for them to be interested in a foreigner.”
“Interested?” Andaris said in a tentative voice.
“Yeah,” Gaven answered. “You see, Tinarians have very unusual views regarding social interaction.”
“How so?” Andaris asked, trying his best to sound casual.
“Well,” Gaven said with a gleam in his eyes, “each woman can have as many willing husbands as she wants.”
“Re…really?” Andaris stammered.
“Really,” Gaven assured him. “It’s said they have insatiable appetites, if you catch my meaning, and consider it unfair to limit themselves to only one partner.”
Andaris studied his feet as they walked, struck momentarily speechless. He had never heard of such a thing. Why, the women back in Fairhaven would have been flabbergasted. He smiled, imagining their shocked expressions and acerbic remarks, a smile made larger by the knowledge that some of Fairhaven’s most prudish seeming women were in fact its biggest hypocrites, condemning in public what they did in private. Indeed, the ones who preached the loudest about fidelity were often the ones being the most unfaithful. At least the Tinarian women are honest about it, Andaris thought.
“That girl back there wanted to initiate a courtship with you,” Gaven explained, his grin broadening. “And, if you were to her liking, marry you.”
“Marry me?” Andaris said. “But I—”
“By maintaining eye contact with her for so long, you were, by law, accepting her proposal.”
“I was what? But that’s ridiculous!”
“Maybe so, but that’s why I got you out of there, before her father saw and decided to hold you to it. So now you can relax, and begin pondering your good fortune in knowing me.”
“Yes…I suppose you’re right,” Andaris agreed, his face beginning to pale. “Thank you.”
Gaven shrugged his shoulders. “Let’s just get you off the street, before your magnetism disables yet another young nymph.”
“Hmph,” Trilla sniffed from behind, “I don’t see why you liked that bag of bones anyway.” Jade barked as if in agreement, then both turned and stepped swiftly away.
After paying for their spiced sausages on a stick, Gaven and Andaris walked to where Trilla and Jade were waiting, beneath the broad, outstretched arms of a silverleaf maple tree. The shade felt good after being in the sun so long, so they plopped to the ground and began to eat.
Ah, Andaris thought, allowing the grease to run down his chin, real food.
When they were finished, they licked their fingers, stood up, and continued down the bustling boulevard of shops and eateries, cutting a straight line through the many throngs of peddlers.
“I have the best cookware in town!” one yelled. “For much less than the others!”
“Buy your soap here!” another one cried. “It will get you the cleanest!”
“Two coppers per blanket!” offered a third. “Two coppers off!”
“Fresh baked bread!” yelled a fourth. “Two loaves for the price of one!”
“Never sharpen another blade! Buy enchanted steel!”
“Want to be smarter? Better looking? We have potions for every occasion!”
Gaven and Trilla seemed somewhat annoyed by it all, but Andaris was fascinated. Having come from a farming community, this was an entirely new experience for him.
“Well, here we are,” Gaven exclaimed a few minutes later. “The Willing Wench!”
Andaris peered up at the swinging sign, the grainy surface of which featured a crude carving of a fat barmaid winking and hiking up her skirts.
“Gaven,” Trilla said in her best little girl voice, “could we please stay somewhere else?”
At first, the big man neither moved nor spoke, his face set in defiance. A moment later, however, while looking into Trilla’s big, imploring eyes, he nodded. She had him wrapped around her little finger, and she knew it. “Sure,” he said with a sheepish grin. “Come on, I know a place a little ways down.” He was the best fighter Andaris had ever met. He would pit him against anything or anybody—except for her. Against her, he was defenseless.
The inn turned out to be farther away than Gaven remembered. Nevertheless, within the hour, they found themselves sitting at a small round table, safe and secure within the highly respectable walls of the Golden Stag. They had just sat down, and already Gaven looked bored.
“Now, isn’t this nice?” Trilla asked, glancing approvingly about the room.
It was a quiet place with low conversation and prompt service. There was a large fire pit in the back, with what looked like the hindquarter of a hog turning above it. The fellow doing the turning was a friendly sort with a big gut and a bulbous nose.
“Yes,” Trilla went on, “this will do nicely.”
Gaven rolled his eyes and gave Andaris a “we’re in for it now” look.
“My name is Lana,” the waitress said in a schoolmarm voice. “May I get you something?”
They looked up and saw a pleasant, but remarkably plain woman, with mousy brown hair, pale skin, and small hazel eyes.
Definitely not a native, Andaris thought.
“So, Lana,” Gaven inquired, “what kind of ale you got?”
“Only Tinar’s finest,” she replied amicably.
Gaven brightened. “Well then,” he said, “we’ll have ale all around.”
Andaris nodded his agreement, surprised to hear no objection from Trilla. A princess who drinks ale, he thought. Scandalous.
“So,” Gaven continued, “what’s good to eat?”
Lana smiled at him, a warm, genuine smile that almost made her pretty. “I like Forgenian cake,” she said, winking at him “but they don’t serve that here.”
She’s flirting with him, Andaris realized.
“Well, maybe when your shift’s over,” Gaven said, “you’ll let me buy you some.”
She looked quickly to her feet and giggled. “I’d like that,” she admitted. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” he said.
Trilla shook her head and nudged Gaven in the ribs. “Uh…so, anyway,” he asked, “what do you recommend? What’s your special today?”
Judging by the gleam in her eyes, she was about to reply with something clever. But as she opened her mouth to speak, she spotted the proprietor glaring at her sharply from behind the bar, and was once again just a waitress. “I recommend the margony steak with a side of winter potatoes,” she said. “It’s really very good.”
“Oh, I’m sure it is,” Gaven agreed lustily.
Clearing her throat, she looked away and tried not to smile. “Okay, one margony steak coming up. And what about you two?”
“The same for me,” said Andaris.
Trilla just nodded and grinned.
“Oh, and do you think you could bring some scraps for our dog?” Andaris asked.
Jade whined pathetically from beneath the table.
Andaris rolled his eyes. “Of course only the finest scraps will do. Nothing secondhand for our Jade.”
“Oh, of course not,” said the waitress, her eyes lingering, smoldering and smoky on Gaven as she turned away.
When s
he was safely out of earshot, Andaris chuckled.
Trilla nudged Gaven in the ribs again. “Just your type,” she said with a knowing smile.
A sly grin spread across Gaven’s face as, amidst the rising discord of clanking dishes and shouted orders, he watched Lana disappear into the kitchen. “Yeah,” he confessed, eyes twinkling, “that she is.”
It was nearly dawn by the time Gaven came stumbling back into their room at the Golden Stag. They had considered purchasing a separate room for Trilla, but eventually had agreed that the danger, not to mention expense, outweighed her desire for privacy. Gaven mumbled something in drunk talk to Andaris, then collapsed onto the floor beside him, immediately beginning to snore.
Andaris envied him. He’d been tossing and turning most of the night. Gaven’s snoring didn’t help matters. The main problem, however, was the throbbing in his back. He had thought about waking Trilla, but ultimately had decided to wait and see if it would go away on its own. He didn’t want to worry her needlessly. She felt guilty enough as it was. He would be fine. He just needed some sleep.
Morning came all too soon for Andaris and Gaven. Trilla was flitting about the place like a butterfly, as rested and cheerful as could be. Gaven cracked open bloodshot eyes to stare at the source of the unwelcome noise.
Trilla caught him scowling at her. “So,” she said, putting her hands on her hips, “you two were out all night drinking.”
Gaven stared at her as if she’d spoken in a foreign tongue. Andaris didn’t bother to correct her. He would let her believe what she wanted—better that than she know the truth.
“Well,” she continued, her tone leaving little room for debate, “we don’t have time for you ruffians to sleep it off. I hope you still think it was worth it after a few hours in the saddle.”
Gaven’s luxurious grin suggested that it had been.
Trilla stood there, tried to look angry, then shook her head and smiled. “Come on you two, let’s get something to eat.”
They breakfasted on krikken eggs and goat milk biscuits. Andaris found the eggs delicious, especially considering their source. While recalling his near-fatal run in with the krikkens, he took perverse pleasure in consuming, bite by delectable bite, their unhatched young.
When they’d finished eating, Trilla asked for directions to the nearest stables. The innkeeper—a portly man with a bushy moustache and a bald head, told her of a place not far down the street.
As they approached the stables, Gaven leaned in close and, in a confidential whisper said, “Let me handle this. I’ve had dealings with these sorts before.” Trilla rolled her eyes, but didn’t argue.
The stables were large and well maintained. A boy of about ten ran out to greet them, a scrappy youth who looked to have sworn an oath to defend his skin against the ravages of soap and water. Squinting up at them, he combed back his disheveled hair with his fingers, and spat some tobacco juice into a tin cup. “Name’s Puck,” he announced proudly, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “Do ya wanna board, or do ya wanna buy?”
“Buy,” Gaven declared. “Who do we talk to?”
Puck frowned and spat again. “There’s no one but me,” he said.
“You?” Gaven asked. “You run this place?”
Puck nodded his shaggy head. “Ever since Mother died and Papa got sick.”
Gaven’s brows drew down. “And how long has that been?”
Puck shrugged. “I’m not sure, a few months maybe. The only thing that helps him is the Black Cordone. He needs three bottles a day just to stay awake. It’s very expensive, so I have to keep working hard.”
Gaven nodded grimly, understanding all too well what sort of problem the boy’s father had. “I drank some of the black fire last night,” the big man told him, glancing meaningfully at Trilla, “and no doubt a little nip would set me right today, but I’m not going to have any. Do you know why?”
Puck just stared at him.
“Because it’s poison, that’s why. Your Papa just tells you it’s his medicine because he’s hooked on it.”
“But…I….” Puck stuttered, “I’ve seen him. If he doesn’t get it he starts going crazy and throwing everything up.”
“That’s just the withdrawals,” said Gaven, his eyes turning hard. “I know something about that, too. Now. Tell me. Where’s your Papa?”
Puck hesitated, biting his lower lip, his face drawn with uncertainty.
“Where?” Gaven asked again, his tone matching his eyes.
“He…he’s in the back, but he gets mad if anyone bothers him before lunchtime.”
Ignoring the warning, Gaven set his jaw, squared his shoulders, and walked towards the back. Andaris glanced at Trilla with concern, his face a question mark. She met his eyes. Her lips, however, remained tightly pursed, un-parted by even a single syllable.
From the rear of the house, they heard some yelling, a loud crash, and the sound of breaking bottles. The boy’s tough kid facade had already begun to lower. Now it dropped entirely. “He’s not hurting him,” he asked, tears welling in his eyes. “Is he?”
Trilla wrapped him in her arms and said, “Oh, no, honey, Gaven wouldn’t do that.” But her expression looked unsure.
When Gaven returned, his normally genial face was darkened by disgust. “I think your papa will start to get better now,” he said, shrugging his badly tousled shirt back into place. “He’s a good man. He just went a little off track. It happens.” Exchanging another look with Trilla, Gaven got to one knee and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “It’s very important that you don’t give him any more of the Black Cordone,” he continued, reaching up and wiping the tears from Puck’s cheeks. “Your Papa promised he wouldn’t touch the stuff again. But even so…he might try.”
Puck nodded, looking with obvious trepidation towards his father’s room.
“He has to have time to work it out of his system,” Gaven explained. “He’ll be worse at first. He’ll likely get angry with you.”
“I promise,” Puck blurted, now seeming younger than ten. “I won’t give him any more.”
Gaven cleared his throat, brushing the bangs from Puck’s eyes. “That’s a good lad. Before you know it, your Papa will be back to new. Now,” he said, getting to his feet, “how ‘bout those horses?”
“Follow me,” instructed the boy, raising his tough kid facade like a shield. “I’ll show you where I keep the best ones.”
Gaven haggled briefly with Puck over the purchase of three horses, all of which were bandy legged and nearly as shaggy as their keeper. The big man was impressed, after everything that had happened, how easily the boy slipped back into business mode. Andaris found it sad that someone his age could be so calculating. Sad, yet not wholly surprising. The boy, like everyone else, was a product of his environment. Gaven made a show of grumbling and shaking his head at the asked price, but in the end took pity on Puck and bought all three horses, paying almost twice what they were worth.
“I can see now that you are right,” Andaris said as they left the town behind. “Truly, Gaven is a cunning businessman.”
Trilla laughed behind her hand.
“They might not be the swiftest,” Gaven argued, “but they’re stout enough.”
“Oh, I agree,” Andaris replied, trying not to smile. “Mine’s nearly stout as a donkey, and twice as hairy. In fact….” He leaned down and patted the side of his horse’s neck. “I think I shall name you Del, in honor of my uncle.”
Trilla started to snicker. Gaven began to say something in his defense, and then burst out laughing instead. Soon all three were chuckling and smiling.
After the mirth subsided, Trilla peered at Gaven with a thoughtful look on her face, staring at him for several minutes, as though trying to come to a decision about something.
Andaris imagined a complex system of wheels and pulleys turning inside her head, the interlocking parts moving in concert with one another, yet in seemingly random, and ofttimes opposing directions, the disc
ord of their machinations rising to a fevered pitch. This was something Andaris frequently visualized when he delved too deep into the shifting labyrinth of the female mind; attempting, foolishly, to ascertain what she was thinking—attempting being the operative word. After all, how could he understand what, at times, remained inscrutable even to her?
“It was a good thing you did back there,” Trilla finally told him. “I’m proud of you.”
“I remember how it was with my father,” Gaven said in a husky voice. “I had to at least try.”
She obviously wanted to say more, but for Gaven’s sake allowed the conversation to end there. They listened instead to the whispering of the wind and steady clopping of hooves, the two combining, at length, to quiet their minds. It was one of those rare instances when things felt just right, as though this was precisely where they should be and precisely what they should be doing at this exact moment in time. And so on they rode, westward into the setting sun, the Sokerran grasslands stretching before them like brushed gold, the horizon glittering as if on fire.
The Amulet
The king leaned back in his desk chair and smiled, feeling more rested than he had in months. The amulet had apparently worked, for his dreams the past couple of nights had been untroubled and blessedly mundane. He wrapped his hand around the amulet and found, to his surprise, that it was warm to the touch. He worried about this for a moment, and then decided it didn’t matter. As long as it works, he thought.
Laris wasn’t quite ready to run a foot race, but was certainly much improved. His head was clear and his joints no longer felt as if they’d been packed full of gravel. As heartening as this was, however, his newfound verve also filled him with sorrow, for if one part of the dream was true, how could he deny the other?
One of his trusted advisors was a traitor. He had to accept this. But which one? he wondered. Who would have the access? Who would have the motive? If only there wasn’t the defense of the kingdom to worry with, he’d have more time to root the traitor out. Though if war comes…. When war comes, he reminded himself, whom can I trust? He just might have to take the time, whether he had it or not.
The Eight Walls of Rogar: An Epic Fantasy Adventure Series! (The Lost Kingdoms of Laotswend Trilogy--Book One) Page 15