I threw Rikka a glance. She was watching them too, even trading a nod or two with those that glanced back. She knew they were sizing this most unlikely competitor up, and the burly centauress returned the favor.
“There it is, just up ahead,” Rikka said, pointing. “It’s on the right.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I said.
The crowds parted easily for the two of us as people stopped and stared at Rikka. At least it was mostly out of curiosity. But the centauress still had a serious advantage in being able to see over everyone’s heads.
Finally, I made out the tavern’s sign. I could see why Rikka remembered the place. It did look as if someone had torn the wooden door off the entrance to the building, set it on its side, and turned it into the establishment’s sign.
Whoever named the place had a pitch-black sense of humor. The hand-painted letters proclaimed that the tavern was called The Quiet Peasant. Underneath the name, the artist had drawn a recently beheaded body at the chopping block. Blood trickled wetly off the axe that was stuck in the block, as well as from the full basket next to it.
Well, that was about as quiet as a peasant could get.
I walked through the establishment’s entryway, squinting as I looked inside. The roof was high, and I saw that a couple of openings had been sawn in the roof to make crude skylights. The place was about half-full, with a bunch of people sitting around a handful of bare tables, quaffing their drinks out of huge wooden cups. A trio of musicians sat in one corner, puffing on sets of curved horns while tapping out a beat on the floor.
A bar top made from a huge oak plank jutted from the rear wall of the establishment. It was tended by a grumpy-looking older man in a stained white apron. Several knights in half or quarter-suits of armor leaned up against it, chatting loudly. A slab of slate with the drinks and their prices chalked in hung overhead on a set of chains.
Rikka followed me inside. The tavern’s wooden floorboards let out a creak as they bore the centauress’ weight.
Suddenly, the tavern of The Quiet Peasant actually did go quiet.
In a scene right out of a classic western, everyone paused what they were doing to give Rikka the once-over. Even the musicians’ beat faltered as they bleated out the last notes on their horns. A wave of mutters swept the room.
“Dame Chrissie,” Rikka said in a loud voice, “You were correct, this seems to be a fine tavern.”
Her comment got the warriors at the bar to take their eyes off the centauress and look at me. Actually, that wasn’t a bad way to play this. Regardless of what their lords might think, the knights around the palace certainly knew who I was. And I had built up some ‘street cred’ with them after the Noctua’s attack on the throne room.
“Yes,” I agreed, speaking both loudly and slowly. “I think we’ll drink here. You are my honored guest, being as how you are the Court Wizard’s sister and all.”
Okay, that was laying it on a bit thick, but I had to be clear about things. And it did work. The musicians traded a look between themselves and picked up their tune from where they’d left off. One by one, the patrons returned to their drinks.
Rikka nudged me and pointed to one of the square tables to our right. It was significantly taller than the others, and people had pulled most of the chairs away from it to use elsewhere. Even better, it was unoccupied and wasn’t in the middle of the room. We quickly commandeered the table so that Rikka could stand with her backside to the wall. I took my cue from her and sat off to the side so that my back wasn’t to the door.
A young female server who could’ve joined the Sexy Sweater Kitten’s photo shoot came up to us, an uncertain smile on her face. She had the slightly frazzled look of a waitress who’d been dealing with difficult customers all day.
“A fine day to you,” she chirped, before looking uncertainly up at Rikka. “You are both welcome at the Peasant, but I hope you can drink our fare.”
The centauress let out a laugh. “You hope I can drink your fare? Do I look like I cannot hold my drinks?”
The server blushed. I put in, “No worries, centaurs drink everything we do, and in larger quantities. Do you have any recommendations?”
“Well, we carry summer crush, of course,” she began. “But that is table fare, not fit for the air of a tournament! For that, we have a goodly selection of ales.”
I squinted at the slate, doing my best to make out the writing. The server wasn’t kidding. They had a lot of varieties, though the names didn’t exactly tell you what you were getting, aside from grossness or machismo. The brews available included Bard’s Trousers, Beaver Humper, Ye Olde Dirty Sack, Bucket of Blood, Bucket of Bone, Bucket of Guts, and Lickinghole.
“All our ales are a bargain,” she added, “for they are but two cups for a cup.”
Rikka frowned. “That doesn’t make sense to me.”
“That’s because you’re not familiar with Andeluvian coinage,” I said quickly, as I brought out my coin purse. It jingled in my hand as I did so. “A ‘cup’ is one of the silver coins of this realm.”
“Hm,” the centauress said, noncommittally. “Ale is nice, but what about mead? That is the true drink of the warrior.”
“We have that too,” came the reply. “At one crown per jug.”
That surprised me a little. From what I knew of the ratio of cups to crowns, mead was in a whole different price category. A much more upscale one, at that. Then again, maybe a jug was a lot larger than a cup. I dug into the purse, found a handful of gold coins, and handed over four of them.
“One for me. Three for my guest.”
“Of course, Dame Chrissie,” She bowed and left to fill the order.
Rikka rubbed her chin in thought after the woman left. The gesture reminded me so much of her older brother that it brought a smile to my face. She spoke in a thoughtful voice.
“I noticed your expression,” she mused. “Unless I miss my guess, it looks like you were surprised about the cost of mead.”
“You’ve struck in the gold,” I said, as I jingled the purse once more before putting it away. “Quite literally. I wish I knew why it cost so much.”
A man’s voice came from one of the tables near to us. It wasn’t a loud voice, but it got my attention.
“I can answer that question.”
Rikka’s hand went to the hilt of her topmost throwing knife. Her eyes narrowed as a male figure hooded in a dark-gray cloak stood and made his way towards us. He was tall and fit, though he walked with a pronounced limp.
The man stopped before us. Though he carried a sword at his side, he slowly held up his hands, palms out and empty. Rikka relaxed, though she remained resolutely alert.
“My name is Sir Quinton,” the man said, as he pulled his hood back. Quinton had a friendly, affable face under a mop of thatch-blond hair and a matching mustache. “And it must be fated that I stopped here, at this very tavern. For I returned to the capital specifically to speak with you, Dame Chrissie.”
Chapter Thirty
Now that he’d pulled back his hood, Sir Quinton did look familiar. But while his face was reasonably distinctive, I couldn’t recall ever speaking to him. I spoke cautiously, hoping that I wouldn’t offend a typically over-proud and over-sensitive Andeluvian knight.
“I’m sorry,” I admitted. “Your name sounds familiar to me, at least. But if you’ve been at court before, then I just haven’t seen you.”
Quinton grinned at that. “I have never been at court, but I will be there from time to time from now on. You have seen me, Dame Chrissie, though only once. And not in the best of circumstances.”
“This is getting good,” Rikka remarked. “You have me curious, Knight-of-Mystery.”
But the centauress’ curiosity had to wait for a bit. The buxom server appeared back at the table. She set out a quartet of muddy brown ceramic jugs along with a pair of clean wooden cups.
I picked up a jug by its handle and gave it a slosh. It sounded like there was a healthy amount of
fluid inside, but the jug itself wasn’t all that large; I doubted that it could hold more than twenty ounces. I opened it, inhaled the honey-sweet scent, and poured myself a serving.
Rikka stared at the incredibly small size of her cup, shook her head, and set it aside. She opened the top of one of the jugs and took a swig directly from its mouth. Her eyes closed in an expression of bliss for a moment.
“As my wizard brother would say,” she chuckled, “That was ‘eminently satisfactory’.”
“Now that we’ve been served,” I said, returning to our earlier conversation, “perhaps you can fill me in on where we’ve met, Sir Quinton.”
“It was at the battle of the Oxine River. I had been thrown from my horse. You waded into the muck and saved me from drowning. As you can see, aside from a badly sprained knee, I have come through intact. I returned to the capitol in part to thank you for your act of mercy.”
The event Quinton referred to came to mind immediately. I’d spotted the man’s half-moon cloak and stopped just long enough to pull him to where he couldn’t sink back into the river. In the recent crush of events, I hadn’t thought about it again until now.
“I do remember that,” I breathed. “Yet we hardly spoke then. How is it that your name sounds familiar to me?”
“That is because my elder brother died in your service,” Quinton said. “Several generations of my family have served with the Palace Guard. My brother was one. He had been assigned as your personal bodyguard when the cursed Noctua attacked our liege in his own throne room.”
My breath caught as the memory came back. Sir Quinton had been one of the first knights to perish when Raisah and her warriors had attacked. He’d fallen defending me, and he’d taken out at least one of the enemy in the process.
“Your brother was a valiant warrior,” I said gratefully. “I might not be alive today had it not been for his valor.”
“And my brother spoke highly of your valor in his correspondence to me. He told me that he witnessed your mettle firsthand when he joined one of King Fitzwilliam’s war parties. That was when you led them against the stone demon, the Old Man of the Mountain.”
I felt a slight flush come to my face. I took a sip of mead and let its honey-and-fruit mixture dance on my tongue a bit.
“You said that you came here to thank me, at least in part,” I said. “What was the other reason?”
“To report for my new duties. After my brother died, I was called up for service. I am a horseman by training, so I was picked for the King’s select group of cavalry.” His chest swelled a bit with pride there, which was understandable. “After my wounding at the Oxine, I thought I would be of no use. But Commander Yervan says otherwise. Apparently, even a lamed palace guard can be of service.”
“I look forward to your service, and shall feel safer with you at the palace.” I took Rikka’s unused cup, poured out a serving of mead, and handed it to Quinton.
“Then I thank you again, my Lady,” he said. Quinton and I raised cups to each other, while Rikka did the same with her jug before tilting it back to drain it.
“I too have an elder brother, one in service with Dame Chrissie,” Rikka remarked, as she opened a second container. “With you and him close by, I shall also feel more at ease.”
“With the tournament at hand, I shall indeed be close by,” Quinton agreed. He took a sip, adding, “This is fine honey wine, though I prefer our family’s brew. You see, our lands adjoin the forest of the Eastern Reaches. That allows us to search for and harvest hives to make mead, both for our own consumption as well as selling it for badly needed coin.”
“So you really can tell me the reason,” I said. “For mead’s high price, I mean.”
Quinton nodded assent. “It is a simple matter. Harvesting hives is a difficult process, and when you succeed, there is no more honey to be had. Not until you find another hive.”
I frowned. Something wasn’t quite adding up here.
“Don’t you mean, ‘harvesting honey’?” I asked.
“No, hives. When you locate a hive, you build a big bonfire just upwind from it. The smoke from the fire disorientates the bees and keeps them from stinging the axmen too badly.”
Stinging the axmen? That was a new one to me. But I kept quiet as Quinton went on.
“Once you hack down the tree, you can typically break open the hive and scatter the bees. That’s why finding a hive is a rare and celebrated event.”
“We do much the same thing in the Centaur Realm,” Rikka put in, as she started on her third bottle. “Our forest scouts are always on the lookout for hives to chop down.”
“But…” I sputtered. “If you keep destroying the bee’s homes, what do you expect? Of course finding a hive is a rare event!”
“It isn’t the kindest practice,” Quinton admitted. “But you asked for the reason for mead’s high price, and there it is. Honey is hard to find, and hard to get.”
“He’s right,” Rikka put in. “Besides, what other way is there to get honey in the first place?”
What way, indeed?
I squinted at the price slate that hung over the bar one more time. Just like in my world, alcoholic beverages had an insanely high markup. And here in Andeluvia, no one knew of a better way to harvest honey, which drove the price up even more.
My mind did one of its trademark clicks.
“I’m going to have to look into something,” I murmured, as if to myself. “Beekeeping. As soon as the Spring Tournament’s over.”
“Bee ‘keeping’?” Rikka let out a snort. “As if you could make pets out of them!”
“Your centauress friend is right,” Quinton put in. “Bees are not like hunting dogs or war horses. If you are looking at making money, why not consider something more certain to produce profit, like trapping? Furs are worth a great deal, especially in winter.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “It’s colder then.”
“In part, but many animals are worth more in the winter. When a new coat grows in, even the rattiest looking beast can look like a completely different creature!”
Before I could reply, the city bell rang four times in the distance. Sir Quinton downed the last of his cup before getting to his feet. He winced as he did so, but he still respectfully inclined his head to me as he spoke.
“Alas,” he said regretfully, as he stroked his mustache with one hand. “I am to report to Commander Yervan shortly. Given the speed at which I walk, I must cut our conversation short.”
“I understand,” I replied, as I saluted him with my own cup. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Sir Quinton. I hope to meet you again, either at the tournament, or inside the palace walls.”
The knight made a second bow to Rikka, which she returned. Quinton turned, limping heavily as he left the tavern. His departure left me in a thoughtful mood.
“That made me feel good,” I remarked to Rikka. “What Quinton’s elder brother said about appreciating my ‘valor’, I mean. There are times I feel all alone on the Royal Court.”
Galen’s sister took a final drink and then let out a rather unladylike belch.
“It’s only because you have your eyes closed,” she said.
That got a laugh out of me. “I wasn’t speaking literally.”
“Neither was I, Dayna.” Rikka shrugged and set aside her last bottle. “Come, let us retire to your tower before we both get a case of the four-hoof wobbles. I need my wits about me on the morn. And so do you.”
Chapter Thirty-One
For the hundredth time since the start of the New Year, I swore that I would get back into my yoga-and-exercise-bicycle routine. Usually those internal declarations happened after I’d eaten one too many plates of takeout. Sometimes when I was in a department store, trying on something a little more ‘couture’ than normal.
But this time was different. And I learned something important.
Nothing will make a woman feel fatter than literally being sewn into a dress.
They came shortly af
ter dawn, and even more recently after a quick breakfast of dried fruit and oatmeal. ‘They’ being the medieval fashion police, Lady Behnaz and a quartet of female dressmakers. And they brought along enough sewing equipment and extra cosmetics to fill a basket that had to be carried on a pole between two of them.
Rikka, the fearless centauress warrior, took one look at their gear and fled as quickly as she could. To be fair, she’d already packed the weapons she needed and had to get out to the tournament grounds before me. But it did make me feel like a sinking ship that everyone was busy abandoning before the final plunge beneath the waves.
“Now, let’s turn you into the Primrose Lady!” Lady Behnaz announced with a gleeful cry. Or maybe it was a cackle. I wasn’t all that sure anymore.
Behnaz had me stand still for the next half-hour or so, mostly with my arms half-raised. The four women who came with her pulled the frilly dress off the mannequin and began attaching it to my body. They also set up yet another bronze mirror so that they could check their work and allow me to watch them progress. At least they knew their work. Even with all the flying needlework, I wasn’t punctured once.
About the time my legs were starting to give out, Behnaz showed a bit of mercy to me. Her helpers got me into a chair by carefully draping the fur-and-fringe lined train over the back. Behnaz pulled off the snood and began removing the ribbons she’d put there yesterday.
“Excellent,” she pronounced. “Your hair picked up the curling agent perfectly.”
Lady Behnaz went to work putting on the final touches while the other ladies tidied up the strands of fringe on the train. She then took out a pink, cone-shaped headdress and brandished it before me.
“I trust that you have seen this type of headgear before,” Behnaz said, as she set it upon my head and began to fix it in place with a set of small hairpins. “This is what we call a hennin, and it is a mark of nobility as well as feminine virtue.”
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