Presently, however, it was Gentry doing the entertaining, performing the trick he was known for: swallowing a sword. There was no illusion. No trick. It was a dangerous act, and Gentry did it masterfully. The sword was hilt deep into the boy, and his arms were stretched wide, showing the crowd he wasn’t hiding anything. The trick was met with a round of applause, and Gentry carefully pulled the blade out. He coughed twice, but that was to be expected.
Whitney felt bad sipping the sour ale while the kid did all the work, but Gentry was adamant about repaying Whitney for the coin purse he’d used to bail Gentry out with the Pompares. Although Whitney didn’t feel it necessary, he knew what it was like to feel indebted.
As if to further push guilt upon him, Aquira rubbed up against his leg after having snuck in through a window. Having such a rare and expensive creature at his side may have been a problem had he been alone, but with the Pompare Troupe, it added to his act. She’d pop up and light the torches, earning oohs and ahs. Sometimes, she’d even dart through the air between them and really got crowds going.
But at night, when she nestled up next to him, all she did was remind him of Sora. Whitney didn’t think there’d be enough time in his life to pay Sora back for everything she’d done for him. He’d probably have gotten himself killed by Redstar and his Drav Cra buddies back near Oxgate if Sora hadn’t shown up. Beyond that, she’d practically saved him from himself. She’d taught him what it meant to care about something other than Whitney Fierstown.
He took another sip. Then a gulp. He didn’t want to think about her or his feelings any more this evening.
Gentry continued the show until the moons, Celeste and Loutis, rose so high they had to begin their inevitable nightly descents. Whitney was proud of him, performing so many things beyond his typical tumbling act—things Whitney had been working with him on since they’d departed from Yarrington. He was a fast learner; would make a fine thief.
Whitney shook the thought from his head. There was no way he was going to drag that poor boy through the same puddle of shog he’d been trudging through his whole life. Gentry had real talents, usable talents. He could perform for kings one day.
Gods that sounds boring, Whitney thought.
When Whitney was Gentry’s age, he was skipping stones down at the Shellnak River with Sora. “River” might have been a bit of an exaggeration. By the time the arm of the Shellnak reached Troborough, it was little more than a dried out creek.
Stop thinking about Sora!
He peered up at Gentry. The kid was young. It made Whitney wonder how he’d ended up in Yarrington with these other Glintish folk. He’d spent enough time with the boy to know he wasn’t related to any of them. At least not in any other way than heritage, no more than Torsten was related to Gentry, or Whitney was related to King Pi.
When the last, stumbling couple made their way up to their room, Gentry hopped off the foot-high stage and plopped down on the seat next to Whitney, exhausted.
“Great job, kid,” Whitney said, placing a hand on Gentry’s shoulder. It sometimes scared Whitney how much Elsewhere had changed him— wanting to teach Gentry to better his life without it being about Whitney’s name attached to him as an apprentice? Who was he?
“Someday, people are going to say, ‘Hey, you’re that kid Whitney Fierstown mentored, aren’t you?’” Whitney said. He couldn’t help himself.
Gentry laughed.
“So, what will you do about your dues?” he asked.
“The Pompares?” Whitney said, taking a sip of his ale. “They’ll be a problem for tomorrow. Tonight, we sleep on something softer than the dirt before we hit the road.”
Whitney shoved his ale toward Gentry.
“Really?” Gentry asked.
“Sure, you’re what like fifteen?” he said.
If Gentry’s skin could have turned red, Whitney was sure it would have.
“I don’t know,” the boy said.
Whitney’s eyebrows raised. “That sounds like a tale.”
Gentry took a small sip from the mug and gagged. “That’s awful.” Leof, the bartender looked over but said nothing. “Is it spoiled?”
It was Whitney’s turn to laugh. “No, it’s actually pretty good. Most of it tastes worse than this. Call it an acquired taste.”
“I don’t think I want to acquire a taste for that.”
“Smart boy,” Whitney commented. “So, how is it you’ve come to join this little group of misfits? You still haven’t told me.”
“It is a tale… and a long one.”
Whitney motioned to the empty room, and as he did, thunder boomed outside. “We’re not going anywhere.”
“I don’t remember a lot of it,” Gentry said, slumping back in his chair. “You don’t want to hear about me.”
“I certainly wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t. Come on, kid. Tell me.”
Gentry smiled and sat up straight again. “I grew up in Myen Elnoir… the capital of Glinthaven. That place we were in back in Yarrington…”
“South Corner?” Whitney offered.
“By the docks? Yeah. There’s nothing like that in Myen Elnoir, not at all. Have you been to Glinthaven?”
Whitney considered telling the boy how he’d once been in the old Glintish temples when gold flakes fell from the heavens, but instead, he merely said, “Once, a long time ago, but never Myen.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Gentry said. “The whole kingdom is like that. Like Myen. Beautiful. Clean. Proper.”
“Far cry from Yarrington, I’d say.”
“Yarrington’s not bad. Just kind of… dirty.”
“That’s a word for it,” Whitney chuckled.
“People in Glinthaven aren’t used to kids like me: barely three years of age and living alone underneath the Gilded Bridge,” Gentry said. “At first, people didn’t even notice me. When you never see vagrants or vagabonds, you don’t really know what to look for. They probably just thought I was up early and out late playing.”
Gentry lifted the ale to his lips, gave it a whiff, then put it down. Whitney snatched it back.
“Eventually, one of the sentries—you really should see them if you haven’t,” Gentry said. “All of them are impossibly tall, with gold armor. Their helmets have these plumes at the top, gold as well. Thing is, the sentries are mostly for show. No one commits crimes in Glinthaven. The Glass barely even needs fortresses there.”
Whitney knew that to be true. During his time spent there, he found himself nearly incapable of stealing. It was as if magic compelled him to behave, but really, the place was just so peaceful he didn’t want to disturb anything. It reminded him of his first year in Elsewhere. Awful.
“We have no enemies, no rivals,” Gentry said. “We, as a people, merely live under the Glass’s rule. Happy really. We didn’t even have need for a ruler they say, until the Glass put Warden Quilarez in control of our lands. So, when something as strange as a boy beneath a bridge stirs the attention of the guards, it stirs the attention of the whole land. I was a bit of a centerpiece for conversation.”
“You boys need anything?” Leof called over.
Whitney raised his pint. “Good for now.” The man turned, and Whitney stopped him. “Maybe water for the boy?”
Leof nodded and returned to the bar.
“When I stood before the Warden,” Gentry continued, “he asked where my parents were, but I couldn’t answer. It wasn’t because I didn’t know. Everyone assumed they died, but they didn’t. They did that which was most aberrant in Glinthaven. They’d brought me to that bridge, hugged me, and left. To this day, I don’t know where they went. I didn’t answer because I had no language.”
Leof set the water on the table and went back to doing what all bartenders did: cleaning mugs and wiping down counters the drunks had made a mess of .
“You mean you couldn’t talk?” Whitney asked.
“I was only three years old and had no one to teach me,” Gentry said. “I’m not sure how long I was
under that bridge. Really, I don’t know how I survived. I think back and can barely remember how I kept myself fed.”
Whitney couldn’t imagine. When he was three, he didn’t have a care in the world. His parents might have been…
“Looking back,” Gentry continued, interrupting Whitney’s thought, “I realize I was an embarrassment. I thought, at the time, I was being done a kindness when the sentries sent me away with the Pompares. Told me I was meant to see the world and not be confined to the borders of Glinthaven—but they just didn’t want their peaceful land marred by an abandoned child.”
“You’ve been with the Pompares since you were three?” Whitney asked.
“I got lost once,” he said. “I don’t know how long I was missing. Got beat pretty bad that day. Fadra has a bit of a temper, right?”
Whitney’s face grew hot at the thought.
“Where are your parents?” Gentry asked.
“My dad is dead,” he said before thinking.
“And your mom? She’s alive?”
Whitney was shocked at his own answer. His mother was dead too; at least, his real mother was. But he’d spent so long living in Fake Troborough that he often thought about Lauryn as the living, breathing, plump woman he’d left there just a month ago. Even so, no one, fake or not, survived the demon attack.
“She’s dead too,” Whitney said. “That one’s just harder to verbalize.” Then, before Gentry could respond, he said, “I have a friend who’s an orphan. Her parents died in the Third Panping War.”
“Glinthaven has no wars,” Gentry said.
“Maybe a stupid question to ask a kid—no offense—but I’ve been to Glinthaven. I could barely manage to draw my knife from my belt. It’s like some god or magic keeps violence at bay. How then, did Liam manage to conquer it?”
“Only things I know I know because I’ve heard the older folks talk about it. I’ve heard them say the only thing Liam asked of them was for them to pay tribute and claim to follow their God.”
“People have destroyed realms over far less,” Whitney said.
“Sure, but when you’re a people who care nothing for gold or gods, you do what it takes to keep the peace.”
“Sounds like fairy tales to me, ” Whitney scoffed. “I’ve never heard of a people who care nothing for gold or gods. Only liars who claim it.”
“Francesca said once that you could throw a dagger at the Pikeback Mountains and you’re like to hit a vein of gold. You remember the streets, right?”
“Shimmered like gold at sunrise,” Whitney said.
“And that’s what they walk on there.”
“Okay, but I’ve been to the temples nestled in those same mountains.”
“Tradition, from what I hear,” Gentry said. “I’ve been with these folks my whole life, and I’ve never heard one of them speak of gods or goddesses.”
“Sounds like a place no one would ever want to leave.” Whitney raised a finger to the bartender. When the man arrived with Whitney’s ale, Whitney said, “One more for the night and then we’ll take our room.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Leof said sheepishly.
“For?”
“I… uh. Please don’t get upset,” he said, placing the ale down and taking a step away from the table. Aquira stuck her head out from beneath the table, but Whitney shoved her back with his foot. “Turns out, I.. uh… I just sold our last room.”
“You did what? But we had a reservation,” Whitney said. “We performed all night in exchange.”
“Yes, yes. But…”
Whitney stood. “No, buts. You took a reservation.”
“I did… I took one, but he offered so mu—we no longer have a room is all,” Leof said with a forced sternness. However, it seemed he immediately lost his resolve when he stuttered, “I-I’m sorry.”
Whitney grabbed the man by the collar. Aquira whipped up from under the table, and slid across the top, her talons scraping up the varnish. The man looked like a mouse: pointy nose, bushy eyebrows, balding head. He wasn’t exactly fat, but he definitely tipped the scales more toward the higher end.
“The whole point of a reservation is to reserve the room, you shog-faced triss,” Whitney said, blood boiling. “Anyone can take a reservation. You’re supposed to keep the reservation.”
“I didn’t expect so many folks willing to pay tonight,” the bartender said.
“You’re going to have to kick someone out.”
“P-please, Mr. Fierstown, you have to understand.”
Whitney looked over at Gentry who stared, horrified. Whitney cleared his throat, then let go of the man, smoothing his apron as he did.
“Thank you, sir,” Leof said. “It’s just… a noble came in just before the young boy finished his act. Demanded a room—you know how them lords can be.”
“Mmmm. Payment then,” Whitney said, holding out his palm.
“Excuse me?”
“Payment,” Whitney repeated. “To me, and my associate for… oh, let’s say six hours of work apiece. That’ll be…” Whitney pretended to do the numbers on his fingers. “I think twenty-five silver autlas would suffice.”
“Mr… Sir, I cannot authorize that kind of payment. I—I’m just an employee.”
“It seems we have a bit of a problem, then, don’t we?” Whitney said.
“Okay, look. I have a spare room down in the cellar. There’re even a couple of beds. Not the most comfortable things, but they’ll do for a night. It’ll keep you dry at least.” The man was sweating.
“Breakfast in the morning?” Whitney said.
“What?”
“Breakfast. In the morning,” Whitney repeated, slower this time.
“Yes, yes, fine. Of course.”
“Hot?”
The man groaned. “Yes. Hot breakfast. Toast, eggs, and bacon.”
Whitney smiled, reached out and shook the man’s hand. “We’ve got a deal. A room for the night. Hot breakfast in the morning. Tea. Lots of tea. Oh, and we want to perform again after breakfast. Isn’t that right Gentry?”
“Absolutely!” the boy blurted, spitting out some water mid-sip.
The bartender coughed into his hand, nearly choking. “Tomorrow? But I’ve reserved the stage for the famous solo bard Fabian ‘Feel Good’ Saravia to stop on his travels to the Glintish festival.”
“Funny thing, reservations,” Whitney remarked.
“Please, sir. He comes highly recommended and is performing a new song about the Slayer of Redstar the Deceiver.”
A laugh snuck through Whitney’s lips. He plopped back down and took another sip of his ale.
“What’s so funny?” the bartender asked.
“Torsten saves the kingdom, maybe the world, and he doesn’t even get his name on the title. Now I definitely don’t plan to let the man play until I say we’re leaving. Right Aquira?” He gave her a scratch under the chin, but her sharp, yellow eyes never left Leof.
“Okay, you’re right,” Leof said, swallowing hard. “A fine deal. Please, follow me.”
“C’mon, Aquira,” Whitney said, leaning down. The wyvern crawled up his arm before he stood.
Together, the three followed Leof Balleybeck down a short hallway, walls lined with bags of flour and sugar. Wooden barrels were stacked everywhere, even on the stairs themselves as they delved into the cellar. Cobwebs hung from every corner and Whitney was sure he’d seen a rat the size of a dire wolf pup scurry across the floor.
“Sorry about the mess,” the bartender said. He pushed aside a crate with his leg, then motioned toward a doorway on his right with a lit lantern. “Right this way.”
“I’ve slept in dungeons with less rat shog,” Whitney whispered. That drew Leof’s attention, but he kept walking, occasionally peering over his shoulder, nose twitching nervously. It took a few seconds for Whitney to realize it was because he’d just admitted he was a dungeon-faring criminal. People didn’t visit such places for leisure, after all.
The lantern cast eerie shadows i
n the unfamiliar place, and Whitney placed his hand on Gentry’s shoulder. Then, after clearing his throat said, “Come on, kid. Don’t fall behind.”
Leof showed them to a couple of hay piles stacked in the corner with bedrolls covering them. It reminded Whitney of his parents’ barn in Fake Troborough, where he and Kazimir spent many nights.
“I’m sorry, it’s all we’ve got,” Leof said.
“It’s all you’ve got now.” Whitney corrected.
“Here,” Leof said, shoving a small pouch at Whitney. “Least I can do.”
Whitney shook it. “Yes, probably.” Sounded like a few autlas. It was impossible to tell what kind they were without opening the bag, probably bronzers, but it was the man’s own coin.
The loud crack of thunder aboveground made Whitney think about the meager tents he and Gentry would’ve been sleeping in. His clothes were dry; his bones were warm. Whitney tossed it back. “Keep it,” he said. “Leave the lantern, and we’re even.”
“Th-thank you, sir. Good night.” Leof didn’t wait around for Whitney to change his mind. The little mouse-man handed over the light, then scuttled up toward the tavern. Whitney didn’t blame him. He couldn’t decide why he’d thrown the bag back either.
Aquira zipped to one of the bedrolls and curled up. “Guess that one’s mine,” Whitney remarked.
A nasty-looking spiderweb draped between the corners of the walls right above it. He’d seen enough spiders for a lifetime. He broke it up with one hand, closing his eyes in case the spider fell on him. Then he put the lantern down on a crate and began unlacing his britches. His boots came off next. He sighed, relieved that his feet could breathe again.
“What are you waiting for?” he asked Gentry.
“I… well… it’s dark,” the boy stammered.
Whitney grabbed the lantern and handed it to him. “Watch the sides. They’ll be hot.”
The Nesilia's War Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set: Books 4-6) Page 9
