“That’s the proprietor.” Dorian yelled in Eleanor’s ear over the shouting and cursing. “He runs a tight ship around here. He won’t put up with any shenanigans from these boys.”
“I feel very safe,” said Eleanor. “Are you sure he didn’t name this place after himself?”
Dorian pointed at the walls. They were covered in mural-sized paintings of the Ogre Wars of five hundred years ago. Eleanor shivered at the violent, lifelike portrayals.
“A businessman and an artist,” Dorian said, and winked.
Brian and Raoul claimed a table and the women sat while Dorian, Gregory, and Roffi pushed their way through the crowd to the bar. They returned, arms laden with beer tankards, and passed out the drinks. Gregory squeezed in beside Eleanor.
“Remember, I’m a boy,” she said.
Roffi raised his glass. “Orvid Jones may be having much genius, but you ladies are still the loveliest here.”
“Facial hair and all,” said Raoul. Margaret giggled.
Fine Carthean ladies did not drink beer, but the new taste went down easily. The women in the bar, both those that worked there and the other patrons, smelled money and flocked to their table. They slid into the men’s laps and whispered HighGod-knows-what in their ears. Eleanor nearly spit her beer back in her tankard when cool hands touched on her own bare neck.
“You look sweet, boy,” said a buxom girl younger than herself. Her teeth were yellow. “Can I do for you tonight?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” said Eleanor, trying to deepen her voice. Dorian sniggered into his glass across from her.
“Furrball,” she said.
The beer flowed and the conversation coarsened. Gregory was already slurring by the time Dorian suggested they order something to eat, and he waved off the suggestion. A dark-haired girl, one from the porch, stationed herself firmly in his lap and he seemed perfectly comfortable. She ran her hands though his hair and dragged her cleavage across his nose each time she reached down the table for a drink. Eleanor caught Dorian’s eye, and shrugged. She was having too much fun to be angry with Gregory. She rolled her eyes when he wagged his eyebrows at her over his new friend’s shoulder.
Do I even care? The thought swam through her fuzzy mind and she drowned it in a swig of beer. She noticed Margaret was quiet. Eleanor followed her line of sight. Roffi had bellied up to the bar with a pretty barmaid. He wound one of her blond curls around his finger. Margaret smiled weakly and lifted her shoulders. Eleanor squeezed her hand. She tried to distract her by pointing at Brian, who had, as Raoul predicted, found company. Two girls in matching black gowns were dragging him away. He did not reappear for nearly an hour.
“If only Father knew how you spend his money,” Anne Iris chided in disgust when he returned to the table.
Brian he leaned back in his chair, all smugness. “Father was a young man once himself.”
“You’re not so young,” his sister grumbled.
A quartet of musicians squeezed into the corner across from their table and struck up a jaunty tune.
“Let’s get closer,” Eleanor said to Margaret and Eliza.
Dorian grabbed her arm. “Be careful,” he said.
The drink made her bold. “Why should I fear when I know you’ll be watching me?”
So he did. Eleanor and her friends elbowed their way to the band and stood tapping their feet and clapping. Dorian wondered how anyone could believe they were men. He focused on Eleanor’s new red hair, and waited for an excuse to go to them if anyone got too close.
Someone cleared a table beside the performers and a young man wearing the tall boots of a stable hand leapt onto it. He danced a lively jig, the metal on the soles of his boots firing off a sharp rhythm on the tabletop. The audience cheered and lifted him down. Another young man followed, and then a fat woman who swished her skirts and kicked up her thick ankles, much to the men’s drunken appreciation. Eleanor yelled with the rest of them. She said something into Eliza’s ear, and Eliza shook her head. She yanked at Eleanor’s arm as Eleanor pushed toward the table.
“Here we go,” said Dorian as Roffi handed him a drink.
“Should we stop her?” Roffi asked. “Eleanor!”
“Shut up, man!” Dorian stood and Roffi followed him to the musicians. By the time they reached the table Eleanor was already in full swing. The crowd screamed for more as she spun down the table. Dorian swore he saw her hair getting longer. He glanced at Roffi, who watched her as aptly as anyone. Roffi caught Dorian’s lifted brow and chuckled.
“Now that,” Roffi said, “that is entertainment.”
Dorian clapped him on the back. “Have another beer, friend.”
The crowd thinned as late night bled to early morning. Most of the patrons had either passed out or were tossed out. Only a few sturdy souls managed to stumble home under the power of their own two legs. Eleanor stopped drinking, and as her head cleared an ominous throbbing began behind her eyes. She yawned.
“If we can’t drag these three out of here soon Raoul and I will take you ladies home,” said Dorian. Raoul nodded. Margaret had dozed off, her head on his shoulder.
“They don’t show signs of slowing yet,” Eleanor said.
Gregory, Brian, and Christopher Roffi were leaning on the bar. Roffi was teaching them Svelyan drinking songs. Since neither of them spoke the language, it was a useless exercise. Their voices carried in the emptying tavern.
“Ah, boys, look there.” Roffi pointed at a group of five men gathered around a card table. “I think they are playing De’menna. How do you say it, Tailspin?”
Gregory squinted. “Yes, yes, Tailspin.”
Roffi’s eyes lit up. “My favorite game! A pastime at court in Nestra.” He slid off the bar stool and lurched across the room. Gregory and Brian followed him.
“This won’t be good,” Dorian said. He gave Anne Iris a bag of coins. “Take these to the barkeep. It’s time we paid our bill.”
Eleanor turned her attention to the men and their cards. Roffi placed his beer on the table. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Are you having room for one more at your table?”
One of the gamblers, a rangy man with his black hair tied back in a ponytail, rubbed out his cigarette. “No,” he said.
Roffi laughed. “Ah, you have only five players. In my home we know more players are better for Tailspin. Better odds.”
The man glared up at him. “Better odds, right. Don’t matter, we ain’t got room for you.”
Roffi threw up his hands and started to walk away. “Well, then you will keep your money.”
“Where you from, anyway?” asked one of the others, younger, and heavyset, with bad skin. “You from down the way of Sage Town or somethin’?”
The first gambler spit. “No, you daft bastard. Can’t you tell he ain’t from Cartheigh at all? I’m thinkin’ he might be from far north.”
Roffi turned around. “Is there a problem?”
“Are you a Svelyan?”
“Yes.”
“Then yeah, there’s a fuckin’ problem.”
Brian put his hands on Roffi’s shoulders. “Come on, Chris, no need.”
The ponytailed gambler kept at it. “You know, boys, I heard all Svelyans look like this bloke here. Big, blonde. You know why they all look the same?”
“Why, Pat?” asked the pimply one.
“Because they’re all related. They all fuck their mothers.”
Roffi lunged at them. Gregory and Brian held him back.
“Yeah, Svelty,” sneered Pat. “You got your rich Maliana boys behind you. Maybe Svelyans don’t just fuck their mothers. You must give them some reason to protect your ass.”
That was enough for Gregory. He let go of Roffi and went in swinging himself. Unfortunately, he was the drunkest of the lot.
Eleanor leapt to her feet, but Dorian was faster. He climbed over the table between himself and the prince. He yanked Gregory back by his collar. His fist plowed into Pat’s nose and it exploded. Blood sprayed across the tabl
e. The pimply instigator and one of the other players tried to make an exit. Dorian took both of them by their ears and soundly whacked their heads together.
One of the other gamblers tried to scramble past Eleanor. She reached down, picked up her abandoned tankard, and smashed him in the face with it. He hit the floor like a bag of rotten tomatoes. Gregory got back on his feet, and he grunted and ran through the fat doorman who tried to break things up. At least a dozen men joined in the scuffle, and the few women who were still sober enough to realize what was happening jumped onto the tables to avoid being trampled. Eleanor’s friends gathered behind her, as if she might offer them some protection.
“Let’s get to the door,” she yelled over the ever-growing pack of swearing men. There were more people left in the Ogre Bar than she had thought. Maybe the noise of the fight had rousted the ones sleeping under the tables.
She scanned the room as they worked their way to the exit, and caught glimpses of their male counterparts in the mêlée. They were holding their own. She noted with perverse pride that Dorian had cleared a wide swath around himself, and even her drunken husband was making a solid go of it. The best moment of the night, however, came when the four women bumped up against a woozy old codger, who wrapped his arms around Eliza. Her dark blonde hair hung down her back again.
“Hey, pretty, where did you come from?”
Eleanor tried to drag Eliza away, but Margaret came to the real rescue. She grabbed a heavy candle made from an old bottle of wine and covered in dried wax. She blew out the wick, and hit the old man squarely on the back of the neck.
“Margaret!” shouted Eleanor as the old man sank out of sight. “How clever!”
They huddled by the door, uncertain as to their next move. Eleanor started to suggest they retrieve their horses and wait outside when Dorian appeared above the crowd. It took her a moment to realize he had climbed onto one of the tables. His enchanted hair was retreating, but he still had to push it back from his face. He pulled out a Fire-iron dagger. He swung it over his head and sliced one of the chandeliers clean off the ceiling. It slammed onto the table, overturning cups of beer, which fortunately doused the few remaining candles. Everyone froze as if in a children’s game of ice tag.
“Ho!” he called. “We’ve had enough. If anyone else needs to prove himself, he can do so against me. Right now.”
No one stirred.
“All right then.” Dorian sheathed his knife. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
Gregory, Brian, Roffi, and Raoul fell in behind him. The bald proprietor stepped from behind the bar.
“You lot don’t need to come back here anytime soon,” he growled.
“Very good,” said Gregory. He took a small gold ring from his finger and handed it over. “Sorry about that chandelier.”
The sentry at Eclatant waved them through the back gate. Their disguises had mostly worn off, and they rushed to their chambers. Eleanor shushed Gregory and Roffi, who hung on each other professing their true friendship and love like any drunken sailors on weekend leave. They dumped Roffi with his valet, who mumbled under this breath in Svelyan. The others broke for their own rooms and Eleanor and Dorian were left to shove Gregory into his bed and tug the boots from his feet. He showered them both with praise, and promised Eleanor he would make it up to her tomorrow night. She laughed and kissed his forehead.
“You’re a silly man, Gregory Desmarais,” she said. He was already asleep.
His two hounds leapt onto the bed. They circled and scraped at the sheets. “Move over, move over,” they growled at each other.
She turned to Dorian. Nothing remained of the spell but a touch of five o’clock scruff. She pulled her own hair over her shoulder. It was long and blond again.
“You should let me look after that cut,” she said. She reached toward the gash under his ear.
He put his own hand over it. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing.”
Eleanor gently closed the door behind them. They walked up the stairs, but she stopped before they reached the landing. She stood two steps above Dorian, so they were eye-to-eye.
“The witches will be busy repairing broken noses in Pasture’s End this morning,” Eleanor said.
“Don’t forget concussions. That man you hit with the beer mug got more than he was gambling for, should you pardon the pun.”
“What a night.”
“Yes, it was.”
She lingered, trying to think of something else to say. She reached for the wound under his ear again. Her fingers grazed it, then traveled down his neck and caught in the dark hair curling around his collar.
He took her hand and held it to his lips. He took the other hand and balled both her fists together, and eased them toward her chest. When he let go his own hand brushed the loose cotton covering her breast. Her skin tingled.
“I will sleep better knowing you’re protecting the castle,” he said.
“And I you.”
“Sweet dreams, princess.”
“Good night, Dorian.”
He disappeared up the staircase. She sat down on the hard stone, and wrapped her arms around her knees.
CHAPTER 23
Suspicion and Outright Hostility
As Eclatant filled with guests in preparation for the Harvest Fest, Eleanor threw herself into her charity work. She wanted to eke as much support out of the gathered aristocracy as possible. Since Afar Creek Abbey provided so much aid to the poor people of Maliana she started her planning there. Rosemary arranged a full afternoon of tours and meetings, and Eleanor arrived ready to work.
Eleanor’s carriage passed under the stone gate and into the bustling outer courtyard, where witches mingled with visiting townsfolk. They doled out medications, sold creams and tonics from rickety wheelbarrows, and bartered the fruits and vegetables grown at the Abbey for cloth and other sundries. Obviously ill patients were directed toward the sick rooms. Some were carried on stretchers, and their mournful cries rang out over the squawk of chickens and the friendly arguments between the merchants and the witches as everyone tried to drive a bargain.
Eleanor climbed five uneven steps into the stone edifice of the Abbey itself. Rosemary met her at the entrance. Countless wooden doors lined narrow corridors lit with sputtering torches. There were few decorations, a portrait of some long-gone Abbottess here, an ancient, faded tapestry there. Women walked with quiet purpose on the gray flagstone floors, talking softly amongst themselves. Eleanor flattened herself against the wall to make way for an old woman who seemed to be consulting a fat pony on the best treatment for colic in babies and horses. Weird smoke in a prism of colors drifted from the cracks under the doors. The scents matched the colors: blue-green smoke hinted at salty ocean air, yellow held a bit of lemon, dark brown the warm odor of a barn full of cows. Eleanor tried to peek around the few open doors but Rosemary urged her on.
First Rosemary led Eleanor past the sick rooms that took up much of the first floor, where witches cared for the poorest citizens of Maliana, those who could not afford to have their illnesses treated in their homes. There were two chambers, one for those with contagious diseases and one for injuries and chronic conditions. Eleanor stopped in the babycatching room, where a woman could seek care before, during, and after the birth of her child. She chatted with the new mothers and left coins for the tiny bundles nestled in their arms.
“How do the witches avoid falling ill in the sick rooms?” Eleanor asked.
“In general we have a higher tolerance for these kinds of things,” said Rosemary, “but not always. Some do sicken, and some do die.”
They climbed a steep stairway to the library, two full floors of books and manuscripts. They perused the stacks for several hours. Eleanor enjoyed their conversations with the scholars. No one curtsied or paid her false compliments. The witches were open and honest but not overly deferential. It was a refreshing change.
They left the library, and climbed yet another flight of stairs to the dormitories. Eleanor ha
d begun to wonder how the witches did not go blind in such perpetual dimness, but there were more windows on these three floors. They wandered through the simple but comfortable adults’ quarters and into the children’s wing. Eleanor gazed in wonder at the mish-mash of childish magic in the gathering room. The girls had brought in giant flowering plants and live trees, and monkeys and squirrels capered in the branches. The bone-dry floor appeared as running water below her feet, and great bands of color swirled around the ceiling like captive rainbows. Eleanor felt as though she had stepped into a little girl’s storybook about the Talessee jungles.
She pulled up a mushroom shaped stool and talked to the girls, who ranged in age from about five to fourteen. Their hard questions belied the whimsy of their decorations. They grilled Eleanor about the conditions in the slums of Meggett Fringe and what the prince planned to do for the poor people. She whispered in Rosemary’s ear. “This is worse than a High Council meeting.”
“We tell them the truth,” said Rosemary. She stood, and asked one of the girls to join her. “Eloise would like to read you the story of the Great Bond, in her own words.”
The witch, who looked to be in the realm of ten years old, cleared her throat. Aside from her pitch, she sounded as strident any Godsman at the pulpit.
“In honor of your visit, Your Highness,” she said with a quick curtsy. “It all started three hundred years ago. A young farmer by the name of Caleb Desmarais, a poor and lowly born man who owned a plot of land outside the marshes south of the Dragon Mines, found an orphaned unicorn foal. He raised the colt to adulthood when no one had ever been able to keep one alive. To this day no one knows exactly how he did it. Some say he was a magician, but all agree it was the most important thing ever in the whole history of Cartheigh. He released that first unicorn, a stallion called Eclatant, back into the marshes. Amazingly, Eclatant brought together a herd of mares and returned without anyone even asking him to Caleb’s small farm.”
“Unicorns are mystical creatures. Through fear or respect, the dragons became quiet as kittens among the unicorns and their chosen people. Well, almost like kittens. They are still big and fiery. But even so, the Svelyans had always used force to control the beasts. With the unicorns at their sides, the Cartheans mined larger piles of Fire-iron for both for trade to other countries and their own use. They did not have to work anywhere near as hard as the Svelyans had and not too many men even died doing it. Caleb was hailed as king of Cartheigh. The Great Bond has continued these three hundred years, and all Cartheigh has flourished.”
The Cracked Slipper Page 24