Marcius said nothing, but inwardly his sentiments reflected Alicia's. The tavern his friend had lead the three of them to seemed, in comparison to the rich lofty portion of Harcourt they had walked through only hours before, barely passable as a shack. But Jared was the only one out of the three of them that had any extensive experience in the city. Marcius obviously had never been outside of Rhensford, and Alicia even admitted to only passing through Harcourt. So it was up to Jared to guide them as they collectively searched for a way to make enough money in the city to afford them the rest of the way to Aralene.
It made sense, in the logical portion of his head. If they saved money on room and board, it would go a long way in accomplishing their goals, and according to Jared, this place always had the lowest rates. But looking at the squalid tavern was enough to shake any faith he had in his blonde friend. Did they honestly have to go this low?
We have fallen low indeed, and the scent makes me sick.
Marcius wrinkled up his nose, subtly agreeing with his familiar. The smell was as bad as the view, something akin to the odor that lingered around poorly maintained stables. Everything around the Lowtown district just looked so used, worn down, and dirty. The people that hung about all wore the same sullen, defeated look as the buildings. Marcius found it difficult to ascertain if the residents of the Lowtown modeled their environment, or if the environment reflected the thoughts and feelings of those around it. This was where people who were defeated by life went to wallow in their misery. A place of forgotten dreams and lost hope.
And dust! It was everywhere! In his shoes, on his clothing, his hair, finding refuge in every facet of his known body, and even in some places he didn't know of until now! How could one live in such conditions? How could one end of the city be so magnificent, with temples awash in splendor proclaiming the laurels of their god or goddess and gaudy nobles chatting with smiles upon their faces, while the other side sat in quiet agony?
Rhensford had a poor district as well, but it was never this bad! Or was it? Maybe he just refused accepting such an uneasy notion of his hometown, subconsciously ignoring the truth before his very eyes? It just didn't make sense. Marcius sighed dismissively. Such thoughts were best reserved for later, when he wasn't standing in the middle of a dirty road, staring at a run-down tavern that would be his home for the next couple of days. Hopefully it wouldn't go beyond that. The place felt like a trap, drawing people in and ensnaring them in a web of hopelessness and despair. Something Marcius had felt a lot of, ever since the attack on Antaigne.
Magic. It had been magic that was at the root of his problems. Marcius felt that truth in heart, in the very marrow of his bones, and yet here he was, chasing that tempting mistress across the entire continent. Any sane man would have left long ago, given up that dream in the face of such loss and danger. If the whole situation wasn't so poignant to him, Marcius probably would have laughed at himself.
He felt helpless, adrift in an encompassing tide that was merely pulling him toward a destination that was unknown. There was little he could do but go along with the force and see where it led him. Apparently the building in front of him was one of the stops along his journey, a fact he had no choice but to accept.
The Black Rose tavern was written on a crude wooden cutout of a rose, and the sign hung by a single nail above the door, causing it to tilt to the side and sway as people left and entered the tavern. The stairs leading up to the door were rickety from countless patch ups, a mismatch of different woods and grains. The windows were cracked or, in some places, just not there. It looked as if the three story building might cave in on itself at any moment. It made Antaigne's place look like a mansion.
"Well," Jared put on his most comforting smile as he started up the stairs, "Let us go in and see how much trouble we can rouse?"
With a grumble about inappropriate humor, Alicia complied, following Jared up the patio stairs. Marcius hurried to stay near, not wanting to be left alone in such a place.
The stairs groaned warningly with each frantic step and the hinges protested loudly as Jared opened the door. The interior of the tavern was dimmed, so it took Marcius's eyes a few seconds to adjust. Marcius made sure to hold the door open a half-second longer so Faerril could flit his way in. There was no way he trusted leaving his familiar outside, even if the little creature was invisible. The flood of relief Faerril imparted his way showed that the tiny wyvrr agreed. He wondered, not for the first time, where Alicia's familiar was.
Various round tables, all mismatched in form and make, were arranged in a rough semi-circle in front of the bar. Judging by the worn floorboards in the middle of the circle, Marcius guessed that the tavern saw a bit of dancing. A fact he found hard to believe considering the sullen hostility he felt from the few patrons sitting at the tables. Blackened faces huddled behind their mugs, some raised in mid-drink, as they all stopped to regard the three of them. Marcius felt his cheeks flush in embarrassment and the edges of his armpits started to sweat profusely. What was he doing here!? This place wasn't for him. Just for a second he considered turning tail and bolting out the door. His familiar intervened.
Marcius! Remember your promise! This is nothing, and we still have so much to do! I am here, I am with you. You are not alone. You are never alone. Your friends are with you too. A strong wave of confidence washed over Marcius, driving away the self doubt.
Marcius took a deep breath, steadying himself with the comforting words of his familiar. Faerril was right. This was nothing compared to what he still had to do. Emboldened, he put on the most confident smile he could manage.
Thanks, Faerril.
No problem, Marc.
The dark eyes of the patrons continued to follow them as they walked toward the bar. Everything was eerily silent and the sound of their footsteps echoed as they approached. The bartender was a large bloated man with a shiny bald head and a bushy brown mustache that trembled as he muttered indecipherably to himself. He looked up from the glass he was cleaning. "What'ya want?" he lazily asked Jared as they approached, the mustache fluttering with each word.
"Do you have any rooms available?" Jared asked brightly. Marcius found himself envious of his friend's cool demeanor.
"Rooms, eh?" the man repeated Jared's question thoughtfully, taking a few extra wipes of the glass, "Yeah, we might have some rooms. You've some coins, I reckon'?"
Jared smiled. "Of course."
"Two silver a'night. No arguments or hagglin'," the man continued as if he hadn't heard Jared.
"Done." Jared reached into the pouch, and Marcius noted his friend kept the contents hidden. Pulling out two shiny silver pieces, he handed them to the man. The bartender was quick to take the money and, after biting it, was even quicker to deposit it in the bag hung about his neck. Tucking the bag protectively under his brown tunic, he reached under the counter and pulled out a small key.
"Yer room be the second one on the left, second floor. Might be a bit crowded with three people, but I guess you already knew that," he said, jerking a thick dirty thumb to the staircase off in the back of the room. "Name's Barry. Holler if you need anythin'."
"Well, Barry, a bit of crowding is not an issue. Thank you, my good man," Jared said, taking the key from Barry's outstretched fingertips.
Completely ignoring the rest of the bar, Jared turned around and smiled serenely at Marcius and Alicia. "Well now, that was simple. Let's go check out our room, shall we?"
The general atmosphere of the place seemed to retreat respectively back a bit, now that it was obvious that the strange visitors were nothing more than prospective tenants, though a few pointed eyes lingered on Alicia.
It was still mostly silent, a change from the few bars Marcius had attended back in Rhensford where the patrons were mostly rowdy sailors looking to unwind. Nonetheless, the hushed whispering of people amongst themselves was a marked improvement over the suffocating silence from moments before.
Marcius's relief lasted all the way up the stairs, thr
ough the dirty hallway, and the two seconds it took for Jared to open the door to their room. As soon as the door had creaked ominously open, all such thoughts vanished. Instead of the sanctuary they were expecting, what they got was a literal mess.
It was a rather small room with one corner housing a mattress supported on all sides by thick blocks of wood, and the sheets were stained a musty brown. The window above the mattress was cracked and a poor attempt was made in covering it with dirty cloth. A small shelf was set into the wall, misaligned and looking lonely with only a small, half-used, candle and its holder to keep it company. The floor seemed to have assimilated the filth of endless nights of excess, turning the formally brown floorboards into a grey-black waxy hue. If there was one thing that Marcius could find to praise the room, it was that at least there were no vermin running about.
He assumed they probably came out during the night.
"Well, at least now we know why this is the cheapest place in Harcourt," Alicia said tersely, stepping about the room warily as if the dirt was transmittable through her boots.
Jared sighed. "Look, Alicia, we're just going to have to make the best of it." He turned to Marcius with a pleading look in his eyes. “What do you think, Marcius?"
"I think. . . " and Marcius formed the words slowly, like a prayer, "I think. . . I think I need a drink."
The ring of their unexpected laughter echoed about the empty room, bringing some much needed humor to the whole situation. Suddenly, it didn't seem so bad. "Well," Jared began, running his fingers through his long blonde hair, "I think we can afford a bit of excess. But let's try to tidy up the room a bit first, eh?"
For once, everyone emphatically agreed.
Chapter 18
"Got yer coin, Simon?" Barry's outstretched hand waited expectantly.
"Of course, Barry. And just to show you that I am a man of my word, I'll pay for tomorrow as well," Simon responded, reaching into his pocket to pull out six silver pieces.
"Sounds good." Despite his words, Barry looked at the money suspiciously, as if it could be fake. Simon almost snorted. He did have some honor! Not much, but it was most assuredly there, buried right under the strong sense of self-preservation.
After a bit of inspection, which included a bite, Barry tossed the money in the pouch about his neck. Simon was turning to go up to his room when Barry's grubby fat hand shot out, grabbing Simon lightly by the forearm. Thinly disguised concern etched the lines on the man's face, and caused his thick mustache to quake."Listen, Simon, you'll be. . . ah. . . playing again tonight?"
Simon just smiled, though his thoughts were positively venomous. It was obvious why the barkeep wanted him. No doubt his playing loosened the tight purse strings of Barry's patrons. "Of course, Barry. Of course." He patted the man's arm in the most comforting manner he knew.
Barry shot him a greasy grin, complete with a missing tooth.
Trudging up the stairs, Simon went to his room to fetch his guitar, and then after a second of thought, scooped up his flute as well. Running back down, he was quick to take up his customary spot on a chair set against the back wall of the tavern.
He strummed a few test notes, tuning the various strings that had inevitably soured since last night. His gentle plucking caught the attention of the patrons as surely if it had been the tinkling of gold, and all were hushed as they all watched him; a fact he was well aware of, and even encouraged. He knew they enjoyed listening to him play, for it gave relief to their otherwise stale lives. Allowed them, if even just for a moment, to forget the sharp reality of the present. And he personally enjoyed obliging them on all fronts.
Simon paused, looking up and around the tavern. Every eye was on him, and he basked in the sheer power he held in that moment. Each person in the room was his to control, his fingertips alone decided the mood and disposition of his listeners. The knowledge of the sway he held over everybody was intoxicating and made him feel heady, as if he was literally drunk from the power.
Well! Time to make it worth their while, eh?
He ignored the greedy smile of Barry, who no doubt knew happy customers meant more drinking. Instead he looked over the general make-up of his crowd. They seemed to be mostly working men. Judging by their muscled arms and tough leathery complexions hardened by many hours out in the sun, he felt they were probably employed by various traders in the Bazaar,. That limited his playing to songs with easy lyrics that one could sing to. Preferably bawdy ones. Simon acknowledged his listeners with a nod; he had plenty of lewd songs that would make even the most uncouth person cringe.
Tapping his foot to an internal beat, he broke into a classic bar song, "The Man with a Hundred Hands and a Thousand Wives." In no time at all, glasses were being swung about to the hearty singing, the mugs literally spilling over in the excitement of the moment. Simon mused that although the singing was unrefined and at best, crude, it was at least from the heart. There was a quality to singing done for joy. The most refined song couldn't hold a candle to one delivered with genuine enthusiasm.
Simon allowed himself to be swept up in the sharp rhythmic beat of the song; though in reality it was no longer his to control. He was now following the tempo set by the crowd, and the words just flowed naturally along with them.
Alas, it was over way too quickly as the final notes broke out over the air and the voices died down. He, too, felt the acute disappointment one always does when something joyous ends. Oblivious to his tinge of disappointment, the bar erupted in laughter and more orders for beer were quickly called for, no doubt to Barry's delight.
He flexed his fingers briefly, and took a bit of pride in that he had just roused an entire room full of world-weary men, though, admittedly, it could just be the beer. Simon allowed his thoughts to linger on that notion before shrugging.
Wallowing was for pigs; if one was in a bar, they should be merry! He quickly launched into yet another toe-tapping song, and then another, intent on keeping the lively pulse of the night moving along. The patrons responded admirably, diving into each song with hearty praise and child-like eagerness. Beer flowed freely and everybody was having the time of their lives.
Or almost everybody. . .
Simon's eyes eventually settled on a group of people way off in the back that had not joined in. Offended, he got up and headed to middle of the circle of tables, playing and singing all the while, though inwardly his curiosity was piqued by this new development.
Why were they not joining in? Was it some fault of his own, or was his playing not up to par? As he reached the center, he was able to get a clearer look, and he finally saw the reason why. They were of a different ilk than his usual listeners, that much was for certain. It was a woman and two men. All three were trying to quietly blend in and ignore the passionate, well perhaps it was better to call them rowdy, patrons.
The mysterious trio had an air about them. Something Simon likened to haughtiness, as if joining in with the singing was beneath them. In fact, they reminded him of nobles, and yet they had some unexplainable pull, something which drew him in and heightened his interest. Simon found himself alarmed at the prospect, for the allure seemed not his own, and yet he was helpless but to obey it.
Now what were people like that doing in a place like this? Oh, and that woman! She was a fair step above the barmaids and such Simon had to shift through! Very attractive, with smooth pale skin. And the outfit she wore! While practical, it still managed to hug every curve of her body. He grinned lecherously to himself.
How to introduce himself to people like that? Simon skimmed through the possible options. Well, the song he was playing certainly wasn't going to do it. If they were indeed the proud people they presented, he would have to appeal to their perceived higher aesthetic tastes.
He chewed his bottom lip as he grappled with an internal argument and, after a few moments, he had come to a decision. Simon looked around as he finished his current song, taking in the general drunkenness of everyone about the room. They were smashed. Per
fect. It would make them more sympathetic to the song he had in mind.
It was time to unleash his secret weapon. It was his masterwork. The bardic guild, if one could call the loose grouping of wandering minstrels an actual guild, used it as a term to describe an unending song in which a bard would work on during the course of his life. The catch was that, like most artists, bards were never fully satisfied with anything they did, and only one that fully mastered his art would ever deem such a work as complete.
Now it was time to see if that all paid off.
Simon cleared his throat loudly, silencing the noise that had risen in the absence of his playing. "Everybody having a good time?" he asked as all eyes turned to him.
A chorus of affirmation greeted him and several toasts were made in his name. He just smiled and nodded, accepting the praise graciously. "Well, I've got a brand new one for everybody. I wrote it myself, and I need your thoughts! You wanna hear it?"
Again the cacophony of drunken cheers filled the room. Simon smiled. They had no idea what was coming next.
He placed his fingers gingerly on his guitar, for the chording for the song was complicated, and it took a few seconds to visualize the strings. The tavern was deathly silent as the first notes rang out and over the air. It started out slow, tentative in nature, gently caressing the ears of the listeners. He could see the surprise in their faces as he played; they were expecting a more upbeat song. Simon took that as a good sign, surprise was always better than drunken anger. He began to softly sing, matching the emotion in his voice to the soft tempo.
It started off about a boy, not quite an adult, setting out to carve his niche in the world. The beginning was a slow beat, and reflected the hopefulness in the heart of the innocent. Simon thought he had captured the sense of awe perfectly, the feeling of splendor all people feel when they finally locate that special place where they want to be. The dream was something everyone in the tavern could relate to; everyone, big or small, had some hidden ache in their heart.
A Dead God's Tear (The Netherwalker Trilogy) Page 26