Dragonsbane (Book 3)

by Shae Ford

  The Rat’s Whiskers Inn

  “We have to go after him. Give the order to move —”

  “Are you mad, Captain?” Morris cut in. “We haven’t got one foggy clue about how many of them there are or what it is they’re doing. If they see the horde of us crossing over that hill,” he snorted, “well, it’ll be all darts and darkness.”

  “We could go in quietly,” Jake suggested.

  “They do nothing quietly,” Nadine said, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at the giants.

  Several of them grunted in agreement.

  Lysander snapped his fingers. “A small party might be able slip in and pull him out. We’ll have to leave our armor and most of our weapons behind — anything that says I’m part of a larger force waiting over the hill to sack your village.”

  Morris watched him unbuckle the Lass, mouth hanging open beneath his wiry beard. “This is madness, Captain! How do we know he isn’t already dead?”

  “That wasn’t the signal for death,” Lysander said, as if it should be obvious.

  “Well, then what was it?”

  “Ah, it was either extreme peril or imprisonment. I’m not sure. Now,” he propped his fists on his hips, “who’s coming with me?”

  Nadine volunteered immediately, but Declan shook his head.

  “If you’re aiming not to be noticed, you shouldn’t bring a woman.”

  “I’m afraid he’s right,” Lysander said when she started to protest. “A lady does tend to draw the eye. I’ll admit I’ve certainly noticed one or two in my time. We can’t have anything odd or memorable about us. Which I’m afraid puts you out of it, Morris.”

  He held up his nubs. “Aye, Captain.”

  “Jake’s going, of course. That’s a given.” Lysander studied him carefully. “He’s slight and unassuming.”

  “And I’m a mage, which some people might say is useful,” he muttered.

  Morris’s watery eyes swept between them. “You can’t go in with only two. What about Declan? He’s man-sized.”

  Nadine rolled her eyes. “Not many men have arms bigger around than their heads.”

  “I’m built even,” he growled, jabbing a finger at her.

  Lysander shrugged. “We’ll throw a cloak over him. If we’re lucky, nobody will be able to tell what’s wool and what’s bulk.”

  *******

  Crow’s Cross was a beacon in a sea of darkness. Yellow light streamed from every window and beneath every door. Shouts and drunken laughter billowed over its walls and out into the silent night like fog off the sea.

  The front gates hung open. The thick oaken planks had been smashed in at their middle, snapping the massive beam that’d held them closed. Now the gates sagged on their hinges — leaving the way open for all manner of villains.

  Bandits weren’t the only plague in Crow’s Cross. A pile of charred corpses near the front gate marked the end of any order, and warned travelers of the sort of evil they might find inside.

  The reek of death was everywhere — a tang so potent that most who braved the city’s streets wore thick scarves around their noses and mouths. Bodies hung half out of broken windows and filth clogged the alleyways. Nearly every puddle was murky with either blood or sick.

  Men in ragged cloaks stumbled down the cobblestone streets, knives drawn and eyes searching. They came across a bandit passed out over his drink and swarmed around him. Their knives went in and out; they cackled when he tried to fight them off. Two stripped his corpse of armor and weapons while three more stood sentry.

  A couple of thieves watched in interest. As soon as the cloaked men had moved on, they slipped in and took whatever trinkets had been left behind.

  At the center of all the chaos was the Rat’s Whiskers Inn. Bandits, thieves and murderers alike flowed through its doors in a constant stream. Wild shouting emanated from the shattered holes in its windows — along with the noise of a familiar, shrilling instrument.

  Lysander and his cloaked companions followed the many off-kilter notes to the inn’s crooked front door. “Heads down, gentlemen,” Lysander said as they approached. “Speak as little as possible and try not to meet any eyes. We don’t want to be remembered.”

  The doors swung open and three bandits tumbled out. They only managed to make it a few steps before they collapsed upon the ground in a mass of gurgling swears.

  “These clodders won’t be remembering what their mothers named them in the morning, much less anything about us,” Declan grumbled as he shouldered his way inside.

  Lysander followed after him, but Jake hung back. His eyes wandered over the front door in a slow, meticulous line.

  “Come on, pick up your feet,” Lysander hissed. When Jake still didn’t move, he spun impatiently. “What is it?”

  “There are latches on the outside of the door. Why would there be latches on the outside?”

  Lysander furrowed his brows. “I haven’t got a clue, and I’m afraid there’s no time to wonder.” He grabbed Jake by the front of his robes and pulled him inside.

  They followed the fiddle’s screams through a stinking sea of bodies to the hearth at the back of the room. Jonathan stood beside the fire, a lively tune shrilling off the end of his bow. Sweat drenched his hair and left dark rings beneath his arms. He kept a forced grin plastered on his face as he played.

  Declan tried to wave but Lysander grabbed his wrist. “We don’t know him.”

  “Of course we do — that’s the wee fiddler.”

  “No, we have to pretend we don’t know him. We’re just three ruffians stopping by for a drink. Now follow my lead.”

  Lysander wove his way to the head of the line and led them in a wide circle towards the hearth. They were nearly there when a redheaded serving girl stepped into their path.

  “Have a drink, sir?”

  “Thank you, my dear.” Lysander swiped three tankards from the tray she carried and slapped some coin into her other hand.

  She narrowed her eyes at him before she walked away.

  “What was that look for?” Jake hissed as Lysander passed them each a tankard.

  “Maybe it had something to do with Captain Dashing and his fancy manners,” Declan grumbled.

  “Dashing? I didn’t even smile.”

  “Well, you can’t go sweeping and bowing to everybody. You’ve got to be a bit gruffer in a place like this. Watch.” Declan threw his arm out and shoved a hapless thief hard in the back. “Out of my way, you!”

  He tumbled over a bench and landed flat on the floor. When he tried to get up, a passerby kicked him smartly in the ribs. Someone else dumped a full tankard of ale on his head — much to the amusement of the nearby tables.

  “See?” Declan said.

  Lysander pursed his lips. “Let’s get our man and get out quickly. I’m not sure this place is fit for a pirate.”

  At long last, they made it to the hearth. Declan and Jake pretended to be warming themselves by the flames while Lysander slipped up to Jonathan — cloaking himself in a black patch missed by the fire’s light.

  He brought the tankard casually to his lips while his stormy eyes roved about the room. “All right there, fiddler?”

  “Never better,” he replied through his teeth. “I would’ve come back sooner, but these chaps asked for a song. Of course, I couldn’t refuse.”

  He raised his leg slightly, revealing the shackle clamped around his ankle. A thick rusty chain ran from the shackle to the wall, where it wrapped several times around a torch sconce that had been bent forcibly against the mortar — forming an inescapable loop.

  “Is it a standard irons lock?”

  “Standard as they come. The picking should be easy enough.” He leaned to the side and the flap of his coat opened a bit, revealing the many rows of lock picks sewn into it. “I’ve got a few things stashed for a rainy day.”

  “Or a tempest,” Lysander muttered.

  “The iron’s only half of it,” Jonathan hissed through his grin. “They’ll know the moment
I’ve stopped playing. I tried to take a breath about an hour ago and wound up taking the backside of a bowl straight to the ole jewels, instead. They said they’ll throw knives next time,” he added with a grimace.

  Lysander raised his brows. “Gravy. Well, we certainly can’t have that. I’m sure we’ll be able to think up something clever. But for now, let’s see if I can’t get you out of this shackle.” He waved behind him. “Declan? Put those uncannily large shoulders to use and block for me, will you? No, don’t stand there cross-armed like a guard at His Majesty’s castle!” he hissed. “Sit down somewhere. Blend. Just make sure nobody can get a good look at what I’m doing.”

  Declan thumped over to the table directly in front of them and shouldered his way onto a bench filled with mountain bandits. Instead of bones, red scars adorned their skin — branded into the shapes of letters and symbols.

  The bench groaned as Declan sat. The bandits seated on either side tilted slightly inwards — while those across the table were lifted until just their toes scraped the ground.

  They stared, open-mouthed, as Declan drained his tankard in two gulps. He thumped it down when he was finished — so roughly that it left a shallow dent in the tabletop.

  “How’d you do that?” one of the bandits said.

  Declan shrugged. “It’s ale, isn’t it? There’s no point in savoring it — just up you tilt and down it goes.”

  The bandit exchanged a quick look with his companions before he slid a full tankard across the table. “Do that again.”

  “A copper says he can’t!” one of them cried.

  They slapped their coin onto the table.

  While Declan kept the bandits occupied, Lysander chose one of the picks and stuck it into the shackle’s mouth. It rattled uselessly against the tumblers.

  “What’s taking so long, mate? My poor fingers can’t keep this up much longer,” Jonathan said, raising his voice to be heard over the wavering notes of a jig.

  “It’s rusted,” Lysander grunted back. “They haven’t taken very good care of it.”

  “Well, what’d you expect? They’re villains! Before one of them came up with this chain, they were going to just nail my foot to the floor.”

  Lysander let out an exasperated sigh. “Maybe Jake has a spell —”

  “Hang on a second, there.” Jonathan’s eyes went wide and he jerked his leg away. “I think we ought to consider chopping my foot off, first. No telling what one of those spells would do. He could blow me off at the knee!”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Lysander said after a moment of craning his head around. “It looks as if he’s wandered off. You and I are on our own.”

  While his companions had been focused on the lock, something across the room had caught Jake’s attention. He left the hearth and wove his way through the crowd. His slight body was tossed this way and that by the masses, bouncing him from one hardened shoulder to the next. He rode the waves of passersby until he finally stumbled into a clearing.

  One of the serving girls was headed in his direction — a forest woman with loose, dark hair and eyes to match. Her lips sat calmly, but she wore a scowl that could’ve melted flesh. She’d tried to sweep past him when he reached out and grabbed her arm.

  It was a mistake.

  Jake’s head thudded into the top of a nearby table and he groaned as she twisted his arm behind his back. “Hello, Elena.”

  She released him immediately. “Jake? What are you doing here?”

  “Well, I — I ought to be asking you the same thing!” he sputtered, rubbing his arm. “What in Kingdom’s name are you doing in such a dark, horrible —?”

  “He’s with me,” Elena interrupted, waving to a redheaded serving girl who’d crept up behind Jake.

  She walked away with a nod … slipping whatever sharp, glinting object she’d been holding back into her belt.

  Elena waited until she’d gone before she turned her scowl on Jake. “I’m here because I happen to own this place.”

  His mouth fell open. “You own it? How …?”

  “It was given to me,” she said shortly. She gathered up her tray and stepped past him, heading for an empty table.

  He followed at a trot. “Who gave it to you?”

  “The man who owned it before, of course.”

  “And he just handed over the keys, did he?”

  “Well, I suppose it’s more accurate to say that I inherited it — it’s sort of a tradition.” She plucked the empty tankards off the table with both hands, flipping them and setting them in a balanced ring upon her tray. “The man I got it from inherited the inn from the first owner, who was executed by Midlan for harboring criminals, or something.”

  “I see.” Jake crossed him arms. “And what happened to the fellow before you?”

  She waved a hand. “Oh, he … died. It was all very sudden. And tragic.”

  “Elena!”

  He glowered at her from over the top of his spectacles, and she frowned back. “Let me show you something, mage. You see those girls over there?” She pointed to the bar, where three redheaded serving girls were busy loading their trays with tankards and pies. “They’re sisters. They fled from the Unforgivable Mountains after Titus burned their village and had no choice but to try to find work in the Valley. The man who owned this inn before me … he was horrible to them. He hurt them.

  “I came to the Valley because it was the most peaceful place I could think of. I only meant to stay in Crow’s Cross for the night. But when I saw how that man treated those girls …” Her eyes glinted like daggers’ points. “I took matters into my own hands.”

  Jake shook his head in disbelief. “But how have you managed to survive all this time? What about the bandits?”

  Her hand dipped beneath her collar and returned with a small, flat bottle of murky liquid. “The locals call this dragon spit. I haven’t got a clue what it’s made of, but it works about a dozen times faster than ale. Every time they sober up, the bandits storm in here swearing they’re going to burn us to the ground. So I offer them a drink. And before you know it,” she waved a hand about the room, “we’ve got ourselves a peace treaty.”

  Jake frowned. “You know you can’t keep that up forever.”

  “Sure I can. The cellar’s full of this stuff.” She slipped the bottle beneath her collar and swept the full tray effortlessly onto her palm. She’d gone to walk towards the bar when Jake stepped into her path.

  “Your cellar is going to run dry eventually, and then what will you do? What if Titus sends his men through here — or Crevan sends his army? They won’t be so easily fooled.”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “You can’t possibly be happy here. Look at this place!” He stretched a hand towards her, but recoiled at her scowl. “Come with us to the mountains.”

  Her lips parted slightly before she shook her head. “No. No, my fighting days are over. I left to find peace, and I’ve found it.”

  “Here? This couldn’t be the furthest thing from … is that fellow dead?” Jake pointed to a dark corner of the room, where the body of a bandit was sprawled facedown upon the floor.

  Elena shrugged. “He’s probably just asleep.”

  “There’s blood coming out of his throat!”

  “I’ll sweep it up in the morning,” she said impatiently. “The point is that I run an honest establishment and make an honest living. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  “You mean you want to stay here and be a — a common tavern wench? That’s right, I said it,” he snapped when she glared. “A wench.”

  She held his eyes for one deadly second. When she spoke again, she growled each word: “I’m happy here. In fact, I couldn’t be happier. Good day to you, sir.”

  He stood, slack-jawed as she brushed past him and marched away. His feet carried him to the hearth. By the time he made it back to his companions, Jake’s thin shoulders had slumped considerably.

  Lysander, on the other hand, had made some real progress
. “Almost … ah, there!” He grinned as the shackle snapped open. “I just had to be a little rough with her.”

  “That’s all well and good, mate,” Jonathan took a deep, gasping breath, “but how’re we going to get out of here? I haven’t been able to feel my fingers for two songs and my poor fiddle’s just about to catch flame. I think there might actually be some smoke whisping off it!”

  Lysander’s stormy eyes swept around the room. “We need a distraction — something loud enough that they won’t notice the music.”

  Jake had been staring at the floor while they talked. But quite suddenly, his chin shot up. “I’m going to start a brawl.”

  “A brawl would certainly do it,” Lysander agreed. “But wouldn’t a nice spell be just as —?”

  “I want to punch somebody.”

  Lysander’s brows arched high. “All right. Have at it, then.”

  Jake strode purposefully to the middle of the room, rolling up the sleeves of his robes as he went. A lone bandit sat at a nearby table, surrounded by a passed-out ring of his companions. Though he was still on his feet, he’d begun to slump over his tankard.

  With a deep breath, Jake tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, sir. But your manners offend me.” When the bandit turned, Jake slung a fist into his forehead.

  The result left Jake yelping in pain, while the bandit erupted in gurgling laughter.

  “Why’d you hit him there for?” Declan hollered from his table. There was an alarming number of overturned tankards scattered before him — but remarkably, he was still conscious.

  Jake grimaced as he wrung his hand. “I don’t know. I’ve never hit anybody before!”

  “You’ve got to smack him in the nose, right here on the side,” Declan said, pointing.

  Jake slung his fist again. The bandit’s nose crunched and a little trickle of blood ran out. But he stayed sitting up — still cackling.

  “Eh, that’s no good. You’re going to have to hit him with something else.” Declan swooped an arm out to the side, nearly flattening his branded benchmates. “Grab one of those chairs and smack him over the head with it. Go on — give him a proper walloping!”