Tal stood in the cobblestone street before a ramshackle inn. He was oblivious to the sheets of rain, just a breath away from snow. Nor did he heed the bitter howling of the wind. His gaze was fixed on the wooden sign that swayed above the door on a pair of rusty chains. It had been bleached white by salt, wind and time. Whatever name the place had once borne was as lost as the generations of sailors who’d perished in the maze of rocks in the bay below.
Should he enter? There was warmth, food and wine within. Yet there were also strangers.
The salt worn door gave a tired creak as Tal pushed it open, releasing a wave of warmth. He disentangled his sodden cloak and hung the ragged garment on a peg next to a half dozen others, conscious of the of the hard eyes that settled on him. The fisherfolk littering the common room reeked of thinly constrained violence.
The flames crackling in the rough stone fireplace painted their faces with a hostile brush. Hopefully that was just paranoia. There was no way they could know what he was. Still, a mere hint of his true nature would send them into a righteous frenzy. Not a comforting thought.
He forced a smile as he threaded through crowded tables towards the narrow bar at the far end of the room. The doughy woman behind it wasn’t impressed. She planted stout hands on even stouter hips, colorless lips descending into a scowl that no doubt sent children scurrying. If she had a husband Tal already pitied the man.
“What’ll it be?” she growled, low and deep like a man with a lifelong habbit of pipe smoking. Thin grey hair was pulled into a severe bun, adding to the masculine image. The faint grey mustache didn’t help either.
“I’ll take wine if you have it. Scut if you don’t,” Tal replied, smile wilting like a flower absent the sun. Blood but he abhored this little town and all the others he’d had to pass through. Why couldn’t he just go home? Because they’ll take the ring, he reminded himself. He couldn’t let that happen.
“We’ve got scut.” she spit back, her scowl deepening as she took in his tattered clothing. “I’ll see the color of yer coin afore I serve ya.”
“Of course,” Tal offered. He fished a slim silver coin from his pouch and slapped it on the worn bar with a hollow ring. “I assume this will cover a mug of scut and a bowl of that fish stew?”
He nodded at the bubbling cauldron hanging from a chain over the firepit behind the bar. It smelled like old boots too long in the rain, but he hadn’t eaten in two days. Anything that filled his belly was welcome, no matter the taste.
“Might be it does,” the portly woman allowed. Her eyes darted to the washed leather purse dangling from his belt. “You stayin the night?”
“Unfortunately,” Tal replied. He slid atop one of the barstools, which creaked ominously as he settled. “I’ll take your best room.”
“Best room?” the woman replied with a snort. “I’ve got one that’s too cramped or another with a leaky roof. They’re the best you’ll find in this piss stain of a town.”
“I’ll take the cramped one,” Tal agreed with a wistful sigh. How far he had fallen. “How much?”
The woman weighed him with a steely gaze for several heartbeats before replying. She took in his threadbare clothing, travel stained and badly in need of washing. His unkempt hair added to the image of the ruffian, or so he hoped. Her gaze lingered on the wrapped leather hilt jutting from his belt, as if deciding whether or not he knew how to use the weapon.
He didn’t like wearing his rapier openly. Swords were rare in Olivantia, especially slender weapons like his. It was meant for duels, not battles. Other men in the room wore heavy bladed bastard swords, or the occasional battered longsword. His weapon stood out like a high lady in a whore house.
Tal’s survival depended on not being found, which meant he couldn’t afford to be remembered. The people tracking him were smart, capable and doggedly persistent. They were also very, very lethal. The mere thought of Grond’s axe nearly made him soil his breeches.
“It’ll cost ya cost three marks. Hasran if you got em. You get gruel in the morning, but I want ya on your way by ninth bell. You don’t get to lay away the day in that room. I’ve got other customers.” the woman rumbled, raising an eyebrow reminiscent of a dying bush.
“Fine. I’ll take the bloody room,” Tal muttered absently, thoughts still on Grond. He fished out the silver from his purse and slapped the coins on the counter before realizing his mistake.
Three marks was pure robbery, yet he hadn’t dickered over the price. That suggested he had money, which meant not only would this woman raise her prices she might also attempt to rob him while he slept. Even if she didn’t she would certainly remember his passing. He couldn’t allow that. Now he’d have to rectify matters, despite the risk.
The woman snatched up the silver as if afraid he might change his mind. Her eyes lingered on his purse, alight with greed. He had to fix this.
“Is that the scut you promised?” Tal nodded at a dark bottle in a row of its fellows on a shelf behind the bar. It was still corked and sealed with wax. “For three silver I better get more than a mug.”
“Alright. I’ll give ya the bottle, but don’t think I’m doin ya no more favors,” she growled, though there was no real heat to her words.
Tal waited for her to turn before he began. This would be difficult without a focus, but he didn’t dare display one here. These people would roast him on a stake before the next bell tolled. He’d just have to make due.
Focusing his will was challenging given the din of the common room, but he forced the noise away and reached for the latent energies around him. Shimmering purple and red filaments coalescaed around his hand, forming a mutilcolored pool of incredible complexity.
He willed the energies into a precise pattern, forcing order from chaos. It took far more effort than he was used to, but that was hardly surprising given the lack of a focus. Still, the Dream and Fire bent to his demands. The spellweb came together with a quick flash, just as the innkeeper turned with the dusty bottle cradled in one meaty fist.
The web shot from his hand, settling over her head like a multicolored bonnet. It sank into her hair, disappearing so quickly he could have imagined it. The effect was both immediate and profound. The innkeeper’s eyes widened and her mouth curved into a soft smile, one reserved for an old friend returning from a long journey.
“Here’s that scut. It ain’t fit to cook with much less drink, but we ain’t seen decent wine in near on a year. Ships don’t pass by much and when they do they ask a dear price for the simplest things.” She set the bottle on the bar and removed the cork with a slender knife. The gesture was made with practiced ease. “Tell you what though, I’ll give ya back a silver mark by way of apology. Truth is I don’t normally ask that much for a room.”
“Keep the silver. I might even find another if you’ll do me a favor.” Tal replied, inwardly relieved the spellweb had worked. Some people were strong willed, though thankfully that was rare unless they were godmarked.
“I won’t lie, times are hard and I can use the coin,” the innkeeper’s gap toothed smile was truly hideous. “What can I do ya for?”
“A few days back a miller was kind enough to let me stay the night in his barn,” Tal explained, inventing the tale as he spoke. “His daughter snuck out while I was alseep, and her father assumed the worst. He chased me off his lands, and I think he’s still following me. You’d be doing me a kindness if you forgot I was here.”
He doubted she’d have been foolish enough to believe such a tale, but the web’s effects made her considerably more pliant. The woman gave a sympathetic nod, “I understand. I’ll see to it none of these louts let slip that you passed through. Why don’t you keep that extra silver? You’ll probably need it more than I.”
“Thank you,” Tal replied, downing a liberal swallow of scut. The foul liquid burned on the way down, but it also spread warmth through his middle.
“Why don’t I get you something to fill your belly?” the innkeeper asked with an easy grin. She pulled a wooden bowl from under the bar and filled it with a generous heap of greasy stew from the cauldron.
Tal set to it with a will as soon as she deposited the bowl in front of him. It wasn’t nearly as bad as it smelled, and he wolfed the entire thing down. The innkeeper hovered over him like a mother hen, clucking her tongue as he devoured the meal.
A brief flash silhoutted the shuttered window, immediately followed by a boom of thunder that rattled the building like a mastiff shaking a kitten. Tal looked up nervously, nor was he the only one. A ripple of unease washed through the room.
“The dead gods are weeping tonight,” a beefy man down the bar growled. Tal hadn’t noticed him until just then. His bushy black beard was dusted with silver, and his clothing was stiff with salt and grime. A fisherman. “Maw pirates will be prowling the waves, way this storm is raging. Ain’t safe to be anywhere near the sea tonight.”
“Keep your susperstitions to yourself, Ivan. Ain’t no cause to go scaring my guests with foolish old tales. Keep it up and I’ll toss you out on your ear. See if I don’t,” the innkeeper growled, looming over the bar and resting the full weight of her gaze on the fisherman. He suddenly seemed very interested in his stew.
Tal turned his attention back to his own mug. The scut made his eyes water. It was horrible, but it grew more tolerable with each mouthful. He tried to ignore the howling wind and pounding surf in the distance.
What was he going to do? He couldn’t go home. His former masters would take the ring, and Stewards knew what use they’d put it to. Nothing he’d approve of, that was a certainty.
Tal’s heart nearly failed when the door to the common room slammed open. It was accompanied by a gust of frigid wind that spattered the common room with rain. He forced himself to relax as a figure entered. The stranger was shrouded by a deep brown cloak cut from supple hide that repelled the water. Tal had never seen the like. It resembled leather, but was darker and glistened as if oiled.
The figure raised gloved hands to lower the hood. A river of spun gold spilled down the woman’s shoulders, framing an oval face that ripped the breath from Tal’s chest. She was exquisite. Most men would kill their brother for a chance to taste those lips.
Fortunately, Tal wasn’t most men. Recent events had taught him a very important lesson. Beautiful women usually had large, overprotective men accompanying them. Even were that not the case he’d read too many tales that began with a woman in need entering an inn. Oh sure those books generally ended with the hero winning the woman’s love, but Tal wasn’t foolish enough to think he’d be the hero in that story.
He was a coward, a thief and a liar. At best he was the likable villian-cum-squire who cracked ill timed jokes while the real hero saved the day. It wasn’t an enviable role, which was why he avoided anything resembling those tales. Rather than catch the woman’s eye he turned back to the bar and busied himself with his scut. She was probably a mean-spirited wench anyway.
The common room quieted behind him, the only sound the occasional spoon tapping against a bowl as a patron devoured the foul smelling stew. The floor creaked as the woman wove her way to the bar. She slid onto the stool next to Tal with the grace of a hunting cat, despite the fact that there were several empty ones further down the bar.
She was going to be trouble. He just knew it.
