Four long steps and Magnus is back, reaching over the counter to pull up the rim of the cask and get it back in place. Petri doesn’t say a word of thanks for the help, but he does limp back to the kitchen to fetch Magnus’s dinner. Magnus sits at the bar with me and says nothing until Petri returns with a plate piled high with steaming vegetables and meat.
Either the food is still too hot, or Magnus is blushing again. “Are all the ladies in Ector this, uh . . .” Magnus trails off for lack of an appropriate word.
“No, but they’re all persistent,” Petri replies dryly.
“So it seems.” Magnus says this in a self-cautionary tone, and sets to cutting another bite from his enormous steak. “You hungry, Tee?”
He must have seen me gaping. That much meat would last me a week. His blue eyes clamp onto mine with a relentless innocence I find annoying.
“Taking my meal at home tonight,” I lie. “Meals at home” are synonymous with “not eating so that my kids will. My stomach betrays me though, growling.
Magnus smiles. “That’s not what your stomach is saying.” He plops a coin down in front of Petri. “Get him some of this,” Magnus says, gesturing to his plate, “with those special Disappearing Angel rolls.”
Petri leers at me and limps off to the kitchen to pass on the order.
“You can eat again when you get home,” Magnus says winking. “Everyone can use a double meal now and again.” His smile is radiant. “I know you wall-scalers. You cram it down like nobody’s business.” His fork stops halfway to his mouth. “Got kids at home?”
I nod, hoping this charity doesn’t go too far. I have my pride.
“One? Two?” He shovels potatoes into his mouth and chews thoughtfully.
“Twins.” Timnus and Valery. They’re almost big enough to look after themselves, which means that they often do. Sara died when they were still toddling around the kitchen, so all I’ve got left besides my pride are two priceless treasures, a cobble shop sans cobbler, and a load of debt. Hence my acquisitioning.
Before Magnus can ask any truly painful questions, Barkus waddles out of the kitchen and towards the main dart board. The crowd hushes and stops harassing the waitresses.
Magnus and I leave the bar and bunker down with Markel, who is still snoring. His stench, and the danger of getting thrown-up on, have kept the table empty. Magnus pretends not to notice the smell, and I’ve waded through worse. . .
“Excellent match for tonight, ladies and gentlemen,” Barkus announces when we’re settled in. “THREEEEE games of Cricket! TWOOO games of 1001! ONE match of Loops and Bumpers to break the ties!”
Barkus has his shortcomings, but they aren’t in showmanship. People are already thumping their tables before he’s finished his first phrase.
“Ladies and gentlemen of The Black Cat, let’s welcome our players: Magnus Palaidus of Fortrus Abbey, Pale Tom Leblanc of Maudark, and our VERY. OWN. CHAMPION. GRIPHURK RAZLENOK!”
The applause is thunderous. I feel dizzy for a second and focus on the chandelier up above, its yellow candles dribbling hot boar’s wax. I imagine the chains creaking with the applause, though you can’t ever hear that unless you sneak in after Barkus has closed up for the night.
The three contestants mill about the hockey, like the three demi-gods in Ectorian legend: Tenebrus robed in swirling darkness; diminutive and calculating Giranna with flashing eyes; and Pan standing tall in a halo of holy righteousness, though that’s really just the chandelier glinting off his metallic seams again.
For a moment, silence returns as the players queue up. The crowd shivers together, a breeze playing across a placid lake. And then Griphurk throws. He doesn’t slow between casts. One. Two. Three. All three darts quivering in the center of the board, Magnus’s appreciative whistle drowned out by more applause. It’s rare to see Griphurk flourish, but tonight his lip quivers and breaks from habitual scowl into a brief smile.
Magnus throws thoughtfully, appearing to concentrate more than the other two, like a man learning a new game. The results of his concentration are equally impressive, however.
The contestants feed on each other. Whirling arms. Feathers on the air. Cloaks glinting in candlelight. Appreciative whistles. Barkus replaces a dart when its fletching pulls loose.
Finally, Magnus cedes. Grippy’s so far ahead on points that even when Magnus closes the 19s, Griphurk has him beat. There’s no way to catch up on points. “It’s all yours,” he says, stepping away from the hockey.
Then it’s Pale Tom’s turn, and his darts fly in deadly silence, whispers clicking against rickety shutters. There is no expression from the pale chin protruding from the black hood, no comment other than the situational irony of the black-cloaked man’s use of Grippy’s own strategy—closing the highest point throws before they can be put to use. Griphurk narrows the gap quickly, but it isn’t enough.
I don’t see much of this match, though. My face is buried in the plate of steak and potatoes Magnus ordered for me. My mouth waters at the green and orange steamed vegetables even as I chew the steak. The rolls go into my two pockets. “I really should be getting home,” I mumble around a buttered and steamed carrot.
Lucinda brings my usual to drink, even though I’m not sitting in her section. It tastes like water with a spoonful of cider dregs, because that’s what it is. I can afford it, since it’s free. “Petri said you put money on the match.” She’s not looking at me when she talks.
“Yep.” Broccoli sticks briefly between my teeth.
Lucinda nods once, lingering. “What do you think?”
“I think you want to be assigned this section tonight.”
“Careful, Teacup,” she warns. But she knows that from me it’s nothing more than a friendly observation, not mocking like Petri. Her eyes drift over to Magnus, who is watching the other two throw, cheering nearly as much as the spectators. “Really, what do you think?”
“That I’m going to lose my queenpence.”
“No, about Magnus.”
I point at my empty plate. “Nice guy. Somebody should look after him.”
One of the pensioners hollers for more ale.
“Cork it, Gerard!” Lucinda barks, casting one last glance over her shoulder as she goes to fill an extra-large tankard.
I turn back to the game. Magnus is a quick study of darts as they’re played in Ector. Against Pale Tom, he’s closed the bull’s eye and is using it as a point harvester.
Cricket’s a short game and Magnus comes back to the table grinning. He picks up his fork and aims it at his cold food. “No wonder I had to buy in. You boys mean business.”
I nod. “Just when Griphurk’s here.”
“And that black-cowled man?”
“Pale Tom? Yes, him too. Did you notice him looking at your seams?”
“No.” Magnus dismisses the question, looking thoughtful. “You say his name is Tom?”
“Thomas, actually,” I say, my curiosity piqued. “At least that’s how he’s registered down at the Prefecture.”
But Magnus drops this line of questioning. “How am I doing?”
It’s obvious that he wants a bit of approval.
“Amazing. Unstoppable.” I lay it on thick.
“Griphurk mentioned a girl named Carmen? A seamstress?”
I try not to blush. “Sure, Carmen. She’s pretty good.”
Magnus doesn’t notice my discomfort. He rocks back on his chair and prattles on about dart theory, alternative fletching, release contact, and variant throwing methods. Finally he wonders aloud if Griphurk ever gets beat.
“Not often.” I admit, pointing to a tile above the bar. “There’s the recent scoreboard. 93% Griphurk.”
Lucinda stumbles past, “dropping” a stack of ratty napkins in front of Magnus. He stoops to help her pick up but stops abruptly, averting his eyes. He’s red in the face because she’s bent over a bit farther than necessary.
“Celibacy is hard enough without reminders,” he mutters. The good-cheer mask
on his face slips momentarily and he stares angrily at Lucinda—at her eyes anyways—until she backs away. Then he shoves a potato in his mouth and chews stonily.
“Don’t hold it against her, Magnus,” I say. “Celibacy isn’t a common practice in Ector.”
I’m the only practicing celibate I know, except maybe Markel, and his vow isn’t voluntary. I don’t offer this out loud, though. No one wants to hear about my emotional baggage, which doesn’t seem so heavy tonight. Listening to him complain about beautiful barmaids feels like Sara prattling on about the high cost of leather, or like Carmen complaining that she sold another dress, that her inventory is diminishing. It makes me smile, and I can’t help thinking that his infectious good cheer is rubbing off. Or maybe I’m catching some glimmer of light off Magnus’s ridiculous seams.
“I guess it is a bit unusual.” His cheer returns slowly. “Even at the Abbey there’s still debate. Not for trainees like myself, of course,” he blushes. “For the more mature . . .”
Markel’s head lurches upward, leaving a puddle of drool behind and a shiny trail across his coat. “Of course WE practish it!”
“You’re awake?” Magnus’s eyes widen in surprise.
“Of coursh I am. . .” Markel taps an eyebrow conspiratorially. “Never shleep a wink!”
“And you practice celibacy?” His surprise at this is even more apparent than his surprise at Markel’s wakefulness.
“Jusht as fervently as the next man!” Hiccup.
Markel bends low, close to my face, so that I smell more of his usual charm than I want to. “What in Pan’sh name ish shellibashing?” he whispers in a booming voice.
“Celibacy,” I correct.
“ I shaid that.” He blears around the room. “Nevermind. I’ll ask shomeone else.” (When awake, Markel likes an audience.) He totters after Lucinda, who has anticipated his advance and is fleeing towards the kitchen. “Lushinda. Lushinda! I’m practishying shellebashing! Ishn’t that great! Want to help?”
“Oh, I am!” she yells, ducking out of sight.
Undeterred, Markel follows her though he’s not really allowed in the kitchen. A roar of laughter from tonight’s crowd follows him in. I guess Lucinda isn’t immune to every brand of roguery.
Then Griphurk waves a hand at Magnus from across the room. He scowls his let’s-get-down-to-business scowl.
This time, Tom throws first. His aim is more deadly than ever. Griphurk looks sideways every now and then in mild amazement. He’s never seen Pale Tom play like this.
As the match progresses though, Pale Tom lags. His throws, though good, are starting to dip a little. Griphurk plunks them down as usual, clustering them around the center to crowd the lines. The game is over fast, with Grippy closing first and Magnus finishing a close third.
Magnus shakes his head. “Good darts. If I didn’t know better, I’d guess you’re both half-goblin.”
Tom smiles, tugging his hood over his face. He knows how much Grippy likes to hear that sort of thing.
Griphurk blinks quietly, but takes no visible offense. In an alley out back, things might have gone differently. But he’s already starting the next game.
Grippy leads. Pale Tom follows, crowded close by Magnus. The inn quiets. The rain outside intensifies.
Then the unthinkable: just as Griphurk moves his arm, the room shakes from the largest, loudest, mug-shattering peal of thunder I’ve ever heard. I jump out of my chair, knocking my silverware across the table. Lucinda drops the napkins again, this time on accident. Petri spills the draft he’s pulling.
And Griphurk flinches!
The dart pulls left. Seventeen. A point reset.
Pale Tom doesn’t hesitate, but even with the excellent throws, he’s one dart shy of 1001.
For the second time of the night, Magnus’s smile slips. His brow clenches in concentration. He needs exactly one-hundred and sixty. Slim chance, you think?
He flings the dart like a spear, a weapon rather than a parlor game, and it sinks deep into dead center. His second throw, with even more muscle—unlike Griphurk’s crafty, light-fingeredness—crowds the first at the center. All he needs is sixty points. Guess what he hits this time?
Triple-twenty, on the money.
The tavern is painfully silent, stunned.
Madame Boucher breaks the silence, she’s clapping. “Tamara! Lucinda! One of you get me a round for the new guy,” she sings.
Now noise breaks like a wave over the inn. There’s a crowd around our table, so much so that Markel can’t get to his chair after chasing Lucinda for the entire match. “Thatsh my boy!” he shouts, edging in on the fun. “Everyone should be just as shelibret.”
When he can’t get back to his chair, he passes out on the floor instead, so as not to disturb anyone. He’s a good sport. I’m not worried. Markel’s got an internal rooster that crows him up when anything exciting or dangerous is about to happen.
From the congratulatory offers flying about it looks like everyone wants Magnus drunk, and fast, except for Pale Tom, who is holding a violent (but quiet) two-sided argument with himself.
I know why the rest are here. It’s ‘cause they all bet on Griphurk and aren’t accustomed to having things run this tight. It doesn’t matter how friendly they are, though, ‘cause Magnus laughs and says he doesn’t drink, at least not what they’re offering.
And then I get a note from Barkus, written in his crypt script so no one else can read it. In the press of bodies I can’t see who delivered it, but it matches his handwriting and smells of sage—his signature. The message is quick and formal. “Calling in your debt. Give Blue-Eyes the good stuff.”
My heart skips a beat. I’d turn down Pan himself on that request. But Pan didn’t bribe the tax collectors last winter to keep me out of debtors’ prison. Barkus did, and not out of the goodness of his soul. If I turn this down, I’m putting my kids at risk.
“Pure body means pure soul, right?” Magnus says, turning down another proposition.
“If you say so,” I agree, hardening my heart. I’ve got a family to take care of. “What will you take?”
Magnus breaks down. “All right, Tee. Grape juice or cider. No alcohol. Clouds the spiritual process.”
“Boy does it ever,” I agree, hating myself. “And your physical processes too. Could throw off your game.”
Magnus chuckles. “So I’m told.”
The propositioners quiet. Some of them look around sheepishly, but the smarter ones wait expectantly, knowing the game’s afoot since I’m usually very quiet and uninvolved, and since all drinks come from the bar, where bad things can happen.
“Lucinda. . .” I check that sentence. She’s looking a little. . . invested . . . tonight.
Barkus is ready. He calls her away and sends Tamara instead.
I hail her as if by coincidence. “Tamara! Get Magnus here a Number Thirteen apple cider.” I slip her a small vial. It’s non-toxic and non-permanent, but I still feel rotten doing it. It’s just a game of darts, I rationalize, but I know it isn’t fair and that Magnus’s in for a nasty hangover, even though there’s no alcohol involved.
Tamara raises an eyebrow but says nothing. She knows what I know: Magnus has Griphurk by the throat. He’s up first and in Loops it’ll only take one exceptional throw to finish ol’ Grippy off. “Not a whiff of that nasty alcohol stuff,” I remind Tamara. “Clouds the mind.”
Tamara knows what to do. We’ve run this drill before. She returns quickly, and I can smell the black pomegranate undercurrent as the cup passes my nose. I watch in dread as Magnus’s massive hand wraps around the pewter, and his ox-thick bicep bends gently at the elbow. For a moment, I hope, imagining Magnus walking through Ector’s Pavestone Wall without a scratch, without spilling his cup.
But it’s a slim hope. Black pomegranate is liquid concussion, and it always hits the big guys hardest. And it makes you blind. Temporarily. (I use it as an antidote for poisons used to protect other people’s valuables, but that’s a story for ano
ther day.)
The crowd around us thins.
Magnus polishes off a pastry. He’s tidy and precise.
We chat idly.
There’s no sight of Grippy or Pale Tom anywhere.
Then Magnus rubs his eyes. “Ugh.”
“What’s that?” I say, pretending not to have heard.
His fork clinks on the plate as he sets it down and he starts to squint. “Is someone trimming the lanterns?
On cue, Grippy suddenly appears. Long fingers close on Magnus’s shoulder. “Ready ’o trow, Magnus?”
Sweat drips from Magnus’s forehead now. It’s the drink, not any kind of nervousness. “Can we give it another minute?” He’s putting on a braver face than most do. He’s obviously managed pain before. “Tee, are the chandeliers going out?”
“It does seem a bit dimmer in here, now that you mention it,” I manage.
Griphurk smiles guardedly. “Two minutes.”
Across the room, Pale Tom cackles to himself. It puts my hair on end. I suppress the urge to vomit. My fault.
Magnus manages a chuckle, though his voice is strained. “Sounds like you got something bad, too. . .”
Lucinda scurries over. “Magnus, Tee, are you okay? What’s going on?”
“N-n-n-nothing,” I stammer. “Feeling a little funny is all.”
“Lucinda, can you get us a candle? It’s getting a little dark in here.”
Lucinda’s not dim. She knows instantly what’s going on. She grabs me by the shirt with both hands and yanks me out of my chair. “You didn’t!” she whispers.
I turn my head to the side, away from Magnus, so he won’t hear me whisper. “Barkus called in my debt.” I can’t look her in the eyes, anyways.
“I could’ve loaned you something,” she hisses. She shakes me in frustration, and I’m not big enough to do anything about it.
“Not enough to pay off what I owe Barkus,” I whisper. “You can barely keep the orphans fed. God’s blazes, Lucinda, put me down.” My feet windmill a little.
DARTS (The Paladin's Thief Book 1) Page 2