Mercy's Trial

by Sever Bronny

  “She’s got that innocent prettiness to her, I give you that,” another man said to the table, and the six of them leered at Bridget.

  Augum’s fists curled and he leaned forward once more only to see Bridget give the slightest sharp shake of her head, eyes boring into him. He glanced between her and the men and saw that she was not allowing them to get to her, so why should he? He acknowledged her caution with a nod and sat back, though the men continued to make rude remarks about her to each other. She bore it with a stiff lip while Augum focused on keeping his mouth shut and his temper in check.

  The Canterran minstrel smacked a metal stick against an already well-battered tankard, prompting the crowd to settle down. “And now for a new tune I wrote in honor of the merging of our two beautiful kingdoms.” She twisted a few knobs to tune the lute strings before giving them a dramatic strumming that resonated with a loud brrrrrring. “There once was a lord and lady sat inna golden chair …” She strummed the lute again—brrrrring. “He was a ’rena champion and she had raven hair …”

  Augum’s and Bridget’s eyes briefly met. Was this about what they thought it was about?

  Suddenly the young woman began strumming furiously, the melody galloping over the raucous crowd, who began clapping and stomping along, brrring-and-a-boom-boom-brrring. Her pigtails bounced as she gave the crowd Yeah, that’s right nods. When the crowd was well into it, the words tumbled forth in a rush. “But then they chose, to be-tray, their kingdom in, a whole new way, by becoming, Arcaners, pre-ten-tious, and trai-to-rous, lu-di-crous, and hu-mo-rous—” The strumming double-timed so that she was speeding along, the crowd going wild. “—they had a castle stupid castle overrated—confiscated!—was a prince, now a dunce, cursed The Path, gained our wrath—” Then she double-smacked the lute with each word, awkwardly stuffing the syllables in. “Arcaners. Equal. Traitors! Arcaners. Equal. Traitors!” followed by a bridge section where she got the stomping crowd ready for a repetition.

  Augum had to admit it was still a rather catchy tune and found his foot tapping along—despite the fact that it was obviously meant to sway crowds against the trio. Unfortunately, it seemed to be working—by the second repetition, the crowd had memorized the words and belted them right back so that the whole tavern jumped like a colony of rabbits. The tune went on to repeat no less than six times, and by the end both Augum and Bridget were slumping in their chairs, completely demoralized. Sepherin was successfully swaying the kingdom one herald piece, one Path Disciple, one song at a time.

  But then they perked up when the crowd parted and their food arrived on a silver platter, causing many eyes to follow it along. And when the patrons saw where that food was going, they started laughing and pointing, and Augum got the jest—the silver platter was an insult.

  But the food wasn’t. It was indeed delectable-looking. A whole steaming buttered lobster with small bread bowls filled with different kinds of spiced sauces. Buttered potatoes were nicely arranged around the platter and there were even two tankards of ale.

  “Now have you a taste of a proper Crimson Tooth feast, lordlings,” Sammy crowed, placing the platter before them and withdrawing two silver forks wrapped in cloth napkins, which she arranged on the table. Then she stepped back and curtsied deeply, first to them, then to the men, drawing hoots of approval.

  “Thank you,” Bridget said in a dignified manner, and went to reach for the napkin and fork, only to change her mind. Instead she picked up a claw, broke it, and sucked out the meat, getting butter all over her fingers. Augum dug into the feast with his hands as well, ignoring the gawking eyes and wishing Leera and the others were there to enjoy the sumptuous fare—not to mention there was strength in numbers, and despite his and Bridget’s arcane might, he felt uneasy.

  But thinking of Leera and Arthur walking side by side on the way to their quest brought a stab of jealousy. He imagined her giggling at his jests, him slipping closer and closer, until—

  No, I’m not going to let my insecurities get the best of me, and he shoved the thought away, choosing to focus instead on the delicious food and the problem of how to illicitly acquire a tankard of mead.

  Before long he again noticed the young girl who had tried to pick his pockets. She stood apart once more, invisible among the drunken crowd, cap sitting low on her head.

  Augum leaned close to whisper into Bridget’s ear, “I think we might have been recognized. The little girl with the cap.”

  Alarmed, she followed his gaze—except the girl had already disappeared into the crowd. Augum searched for her but couldn’t spot the wily little thing.

  The rough men the table over had begun arm-wrestling, taking bets on who would win. They seemed to be waiting for Augum and Bridget to leave before trying to rob them—or so Augum presumed.

  “I still haven’t thought of a way to do it,” Bridget said, interrupting his thoughts. She cracked the lobster carapace with her hands, leaving it open for them to pilfer the juicy meat inside, which was so good they had a hard time concentrating.

  “You mean the mead?” he countered. Thirsty, he took a sip of his ale. Thankfully, it was nearly as weak as water, which suited him just fine as he needed all his wits.

  “Yes. In my estimation, whatever we try will result in dimming.” She only mouthed the last part, just in case, and took a sip of ale, nodding in satisfaction at the taste.

  They continued dipping lobster parts into the various sauces and sucking on the delectable results, until nothing was left on the platter but husks and bread crumbs. Thoroughly stuffed and thoughts slowed from a post-feast fog, they leaned back against the walls to enjoy their weak ale, watching the crowd uneasily. Augum had hoped they’d have a solution by now, but not a single solid idea had come to him or Bridget.

  An argument broke out among the arm-wrestling men. “Naw, you’re so weak that there lordling ’lock could beat you. And I mean the wee wench.”

  Augum’s food-fog was blown apart as he bolted upright, blood racing with violence. But it was Bridget, having enough of their continued rudeness, who did something first. She scrunched her face in disgust; finished her ale all in one go, reddening her cheeks; slammed the empty tankard onto the table; and wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve.

  “Then let’s have at it, sirs!” she called, standing up to face them, a surprised Augum joining her. “Who will it be, huh?” She nodded at the smallest man. “You?” She nodded at the largest, a beast of a man as large as a bull. “What about you?”

  The crowd, ever eager for any sort of drama, took notice and started gathering.

  The men laughed drunkenly. “You pick, little lady,” said the smallest man. “And we’ll even allow you to use yer magic. Ain’t no one going to tell ’round ’ere.”

  “Ain’t no one goin’ to tell,” echoed someone in the crowd. “Ain’t that right? Y’all keep your mouths shut. A saltblood takes on a ’lock!”

  The crowd heartily agreed, raising their tankards in a salute.

  Without hesitation Bridget pointed at the largest man. “You.” As the crowd hooted with laughter, a glowing Sammy cleared their table, allowing Bridget to sit on her stool and dump her arm onto the tabletop in readiness, hand firm as she stared at the bull of a man.

  “Ooh,” cooed the crowd daringly, as if a school fight were about to break out. And then came the betting—suddenly it seemed like every patron had a stake on who would win.

  Augum stood behind Bridget, eyeing the crowd, watchful for anything out of place as his fighting instincts raced. He leaned down to whisper into her ear, “I got your back.”

  She nodded her thanks but remained focused on the large man. He was ripped with dockside muscles that showed through a rather tight and stained linen shirt. His neck was thick and leathery and he wore a necklace made of woven fishing line, the pendant a miniature iron anchor. His scalp was nearly bald and he had a wide forehead and matching nose that had seen many fights and nights of drinking.

  The man plopped himself d
own opposite Bridget on Augum’s old stool, smiling lecherously at her. Around him, the betting was fierce.

  “Ten to one odds!” a tiny man in tan breeches was shouting. “Ten to one against the lady lordling ’lock.”

  And then something strange happened: the pigtailed Canterran woman on stage began playing a piercing and primitive anthem about strong women of old taking vengeance on abusive husbands. She accented the slow and brooding song with occasional hawk-like war cries, raising goosebumps along Bridget’s forearm, which now lay exposed as she had raised her sleeve to meet the test of strength. The anthem seemed to slow the room, and people crowded the table to gawk and gossip amongst themselves.

  “Aww this’ll be fun seeing sweet-cheeks here get crushed,” a haggard bar patron said, reaching out to pinch Bridget’s cheek, only for Augum to snatch the hand and crush it. The man howled and his eyes watered as he spilled his ale all over himself—much to the crowd’s amusement. Augum let go with a spiteful jerk of the hand and the man quickly weaseled away from the table.

  Bridget’s fierce gaze remained on the huge man before her, fingers curling like claws, goading him. She wanted to test herself and trusted the two of them to find their way out of the situation afterward. It was brazen and bold and daring and reminded Augum of the time he had faced the infamous Robin Scarson in the Antioc Classic Warlock Tournament, and how Bridget was in his ear advising and watching his back—except the roles were now reversed.

  The bull man shook out his shoulders, stretched his neck, and thudded his elbow onto the table. “Go an’ cast your little spell, little ’lock.”

  “Virtus vis viray,” Bridget hissed, more than ready for the taunt. Although little outwardly changed other than the veins in her forehead and neck popping, Augum knew she had flexed all her muscles and the 8th degree Strength spell coursed through her like a river of lava, strengthening those muscles to arcane heights. He had never seen her test her strength in this manner and wondered if she could beat the behemoth saltblood.

  The small man who had shouted out the odds had finished collecting money and drew the two opponents’ hands together, playing arbiter. Bridget’s hand nearly disappeared in the man’s pot-sized palm. The arbiter placed his own hands over top and held the opponents firm.

  From the stage, the song reached a fever pitch as the pigtailed minstrel watched the goings-on, foot stomping on the planks as she slowly repeated the same refrain, “And she belted him across the face! Wide eyes as he fell in disgrace!” accented by a loud double foot stomp—boom-boom … boom-boom. The women in the room took up the anthem, from the bar maids to the thieves to the washerwomen to those hanging on their men’s arms, creating a symphony of female strength that seemed to bolster Bridget’s resolve. “And she belted him across the face! Wide eyes as he fell in disgrace!”

  Augum smiled. These Ordinary men were used to women being weaker than them, but in the warlock world, women were equal to men in arcane strength, which mattered way more than physical strength. Even if Bridget lost, she wouldn’t go down without a fight and would at least prove she could stand up for herself … and in a sense, for all the women in that tavern. But if she won, he wondered how many of these women would change their opinion of arcanery.

  The bull man leaned in, readying himself to destroy Bridget. For her part, Bridget only gripped the table with her other hand, fingernails digging into the hardwood as if it were made of bread, and lowered her chin, never taking her eyes off her opponent.

  The song continued like a funereal bell, accompanied by foot stomps and claps and clear feminine voices. Boom-boom. “And she belted him across the face! Wide eyes as he fell in disgrace!” Boom-boom.

  The men took up opposing calls, rooting for the huge dockworker and cheering him on, while the women held ranks and only sang louder.

  The arbiter looked between the pair of opponents as the tension mounted. “Ready yourselves. Here … we … go—!” He shot his hands away and eight bright earthen rings exploded around Bridget’s arm, making the crowd gasp and step back. Before they even finished drawing breath, however, the back of the bull-man’s hand smashed against the wood of the table, cracking it.

  The crowd, especially the women, went utterly wild at the near instant victory. Bridget just sat there panting, still pressing the man’s hand against the cracked wood, her arm rings disappearing as she breathed with exertion and surprise, while the man stared at her in utter disbelief.

  It was then Augum noticed the young thief girl again. She was standing mere feet away from Bridget, watching her with those same wild brown eyes, except they were wide with awe.

  And in those eyes Augum saw a great and bold hope.

  Rat

  “I don’t know what came over me,” Bridget said as Augum ushered her through the crowd. Hands, both women’s and men’s, clapped her on the back as she passed, as if she’d won a difficult arena duel. “I didn’t mean to do it like that, any of it. I didn’t mean to show my rings like that. But it was too late by then. I had this …” She raised her hands and looked at them as if they were stained with blood. “… this need to shut them up. All of them. The whole town. And … and I thought of Sepherin and how he wants to equalize—”

  “Not here,” Augum interrupted, knowing exactly what she was referring to—Emperor Samuel’s utterly insane desire to annihilate a great number of women to equalize all the deaths that men had suffered in war.

  “Right, sorry,” Bridget mumbled, shaking her head in disgust at herself while pressing the shaking heel of her palm against her forehead. “I’m sorry …”

  “It’s all right,” Augum replied, staring down a vagrant who was about to approach Bridget. The man instead turned on his heel and went in the opposite direction.

  When they finally cleared the tavern and were well away from the crowd, Augum placed two hands on Bridget’s shoulders and nodded. “That was something to watch, and I can’t wait to describe it to the others. Lee’s going to get a kick out of it.”

  “It was stupid and reckless and completely unnecessary—”

  “It was awesome.”

  “… and unlike me,” she finished in a mumble. “Really?”

  “Yes. Awesome.”

  Bridget swallowed. “I … I channeled two people. Mrs. Stone … and you.”

  Augum’s brows traveled up his forehead. “Me?”

  “Yeah. Specifically, you practicing your Telekinesis.”

  He smiled. “We better leave,” and felt for the coin pouch. “Maybe we can figure out how to get the mead another way—” He froze.

  “What is it?”

  “The pouch … it’s gone.”

  They stared at each other in horror before simultaneously twirling toward the tavern. Augum was about to stick his hand out to track the enchanted pouch when he spotted the young girl standing in the doorway before a backdrop of revelry.

  And dangling from her hand was the coin pouch.

  Bridget, somehow knowing what was going on, kneeled to the girl’s height, smiled, and gently beckoned. The girl tottered forth yet did not relinquish the pouch.

  “You’re them, ain’t you?” she said in a wondrous voice. “The famous ones. I know you’re them. I ain’t seen your picture but I knows you is them. Say so. Say it. Please.”

  Bridget glanced around uncertainly and, seeing no one nearby, gave the slightest nod and wink.

  The girl slapped a hand over her mouth.

  Bridget nodded at the pouch. “Would it be all right if we got that back? We need it.”

  The girl shakily held out the pouch, which Augum accepted.

  “Thank you,” he said, placing it back in his pocket.

  “I want to be a famous warlock one day,” the girl blurted to Bridget. “Just like you.”

  “Shh, we mustn’t be overheard,” Bridget whispered.

  “You’re on a quest, ain’t you?”

  “We are. But we are failing it. We have to do something that is against our nature. We have to
steal a cup of mead. And we don’t know how to do it without breaking our code of honor.”

  The girl leaned forward. “Meet me in the alley,” and she turned on her heel and ran back inside the tavern.

  “Wait—” Bridget called, but the girl was already gone. She slapped a hand against her forehead. “Gods, what have I done? What if she gets caught?”

  “Something tells me she’ll be fine.” Augum glanced past Bridget and saw that the pirate ship was slipping away from the dock in the fog, readying to meet them a half league up the coast. Men and women were crawling its deck and lines like ants as oars dipped into the water. “Let’s go wait for her as she asked and trust that the Fates will take care of her and us.”

  Bridget gave him a funny look. “Haven’t heard you talk like that before.”

  He shrugged. “And I’m not sure I believe it either. Just thought it was the right thing to say. Arthur was right—we could use some luck.”

  She surrendered a nod in agreement.

  They moved on to the alley and waited in the shadows, aware that they weren’t the only ones there. Shadowy men and women slunk through, muttering to each other or loitering about, watching them. Before long the young girl arrived carrying a tankard.

  “Here you go,” she said, carefully handing the mead over to Bridget. “I reckon this means I can be a warlock now, don’t it?”

  Bridget passed the tankard to Augum and kneeled once more. “Do you know how to read and write?”

  The girl shook her head.

  “Well, if you truly want to be a warlock like me, then make sure you learn how to read and write. And well, too. Read whatever you can as much as you can. Also, and this is really important, a warlock like me would never steal from people. I know you’re doing what you can to survive right now, but grow out of it as soon as you can.”

  “I can go to school, I guess. I ain’t wants to ’cause I heard it’s boring, that an’ The Path don’t allow it. But there’s a nice uncle up in Antioc who said he’d help me if I ever wanted to. Can teach me and the like.”