Are these men part beast? As near as he could tell, only men bore this trait. He touched his own face, wondering if it would one day happen to him. The idea was deeply disturbing.
At first glance, he thought them to be rather ungainly, the way the men lumbered about, and most were in dire need of a bath. While not exactly repulsive, they lacked the cheer and grace he was accustomed to seeing. They trudged about their business joylessly, oddly reminding him of a bear on its hind legs. Surely they would not believe he was one of them.
To his relief, only a few people took any notice of his passing, their eyes lingering mostly on the balisari across his back. But their faces were impassive and the interest fleeting. So far, he was blending in quite well. Do I really look like them? he wondered.
On either side of the main avenue were several more streets, all of which were flanked by buildings. The air carried a foul odor, cow dung mixed with … he didn’t know what. But it was making his stomach churn.
Lem reached the far end of town in only a few minutes. Beyond, the road stretched on into the wilderness, though where it ended he had no idea. Without a notion of what to do next, he thought the best course of action would be to explore the town properly and learn as much as possible about his new surroundings. This didn’t take long. Aside from the main avenue, in total there were about ten or so streets, and all but one of them appeared to be residential. The exception was the last street to his right. Here he found more shops, a tavern, one of two he had seen, and a blacksmith. It was also where his next surprise occurred. This one had him staring in slack-jawed wonder.
It was a massive, four-legged beast. Taller than a steer, and with a much longer face and snout, it had a sleek yet powerful-looking body, long pointed ears, and no horns. Thick hair sprouted from the back of its muscular neck, and where Lem would have expected to see a fairly smooth tail, it looked more like a wide splay of loose hair tied tightly at the base and reaching nearly to the ground. A man was astride a leather seat bound to the creature’s back, and he was directing it with a strap affixed to a metal bar that had been shoved into its mouth.
“Spirits and fire! What in blazes is that?”
“You’ve never seen a horse before?”
Lem spun to see a young woman eyeing him curiously. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. She was wearing a blue-and-white-striped shirt and tan pants, and carried a small basket over her left shoulder.
“Y-yes,” he stammered. “Of course I have.”
The woman cocked her head. “Where’s your accent from? I’ve never heard one like it before.”
The hairs prickled on the back of his neck. This was it. Exposed in his very first hour. His mind raced, searching urgently for a response. “You wouldn’t have heard of it. It’s very far away.”
“Fine,” she said with a shrug. “Don’t tell me. It’s not like you’re the first man to come to the frontier to hide. What did you do? Kill someone?” This suggestion was as shocking as her enquiry about his accent had been frightening. But at least she had moved away from his surprise at seeing the … horse.
“No. Of course not,” he told her.
“Yeah. I guess you’re too cute to be a killer,” she remarked. “Better watch yourself, though. A pretty fella like you could get himself in trouble in this dung heap of a town.” After one more admiring look, she turned to walk away.
“Wait,” Lem called after her.
The woman stopped, her expression now one of impatience. “What?”
“Where can I find lodging?”
“Nowhere to stay? Well, you could try the Oak and Amber.” She pointed a bit farther up the street and over to the right. “It’s just a tavern. But they usually have a spare room to rent.”
Lem bowed. “Thank you.”
The woman shook her head, laughing. “Where do you think you are? A royal court?” Her voice then lowered a touch. “Look, if you are some sort of runaway noble, you’d better learn to act like us common folk pretty quick. If you don’t, you’ll stand out like a pig in a pastry shop.”
Not knowing exactly what a ‘noble’ might be, he still caught her meaning. “Thank you for the advice.”
With a heavy sigh, she rolled her eyes and continued on her way. Lem waited until she had entered a building a few yards farther down before setting off toward the tavern.
The sign above the door was covered in what appeared to be holes from a knife and barely legible. Even before opening the door, Lem was struck by the reek that seeped out through the cracks in the walls. He shuddered, covered his nose, and steeled himself. Did everything in Lamoria smell so bad? How did they stand it? You had better learn, he thought, forcing his hand back to his side.
As bad as it had been outside, the stench was immeasurably worse inside, causing his stomach to heave violently and his mouth to fill with saliva. The dimly lit interior made it impossible to see for several seconds.
“Close the bloody door, boy,” called a harsh gravelly voice.
Lem took a small step forward, swallowing hard, and closed the door, as the voice had instructed.
As his eyes adjusted, he could make out a circular bar set in the center of a large room. Several tables of poor craftsmanship, looking as if they had been repeatedly broken and repaired, were scattered about on either side. An odd assortment of lamps hung on the walls and from the rafters above, though none of these were giving off enough light to see clearly. The patrons were all hunkered at their seats, mostly at the bar, though a few at the tables, mugs gripped in their hands and muttering to one another in slurred voices, eyes darting over to the new arrival.
A hulking figure of a man wearing dark trousers, a stained shirt, and an apron was leaning lazily against a support beam off to his right. “What do you want?” he barked, an uninviting scowl on his face.
“A room, please,” Lem replied, doing his best not to retch. “A young lady told me you might have one available.”
The man huffed. “A young lady? Some cheap strumpet, more like. What you need a room for, boy? You got business in these parts?”
“I … I’m just looking for a room, is all. And possibly, some information about … the Thaumas?” Not knowing what to say in the face of these gruff questions, Lem stuttered out something possibly too near the truth.
At that, the man’s countenance turned even darker. “The Thaumas?” he snapped. “How about I guide you to the street, flat on your face.”
With strides that were quite agile and quick for so large a man, he lunged forward. Lem shuffled back until he was pressed to the door, his heart thudding wildly. The man was a full head taller and, though it seemed impossible, smelled even worse than the tavern.
“I’ll leave,” Lem told him, praying that he was not about to receive a sound beating.
The man grabbed Lem’s collar, his malicious grin displaying teeth as stained as his clothes. “That you will.”
The power in the bartender’s arms was fearsome, and Lem felt himself being lifted to the tips of his toes.
“Put him down, Durst,” called a female voice from somewhere behind the man’s massive frame.
Durst looked over his shoulder. “Just taking out the trash, is all.”
“I said, put him down.” She spat out each word slowly and distinctly.
Glowering with suppressed rage, Durst released his hold. “Yes, ma’am.”
As the big man moved aside, Lem could see a woman standing in a doorway at the far left corner of the room. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was held back by a head scarf, and she was wearing a simple green cotton dress. She looked perhaps ten years his senior, her eyes not yet etched with the lines of middle age. After giving Durst one final scolding look, she smiled in Lem’s direction and waved him over.
He hesitated for a moment. The few patrons who had bothered to look up had already lost interest and were concentrating again on their drinks.
“It’s not polite to keep a lady waiting, young man,” she added, one hand planted o
n her hip, the other holding a slender, long-stemmed glass.
Lem crossed the room with his head kept low, taking care not to glance at anyone directly.
Once he was standing in front of her, she slowly looked him over from head to toe, nodding with admiration. “Lovely. I suppose it’s too much to hope that you’re in need of a job. I could use another server.”
“I am, actually,” he replied, trying not to sound too eager. “But I was hoping … well … I’ve never served before.”
“Let me guess. You’re a musician.”
Not much of a guess, given the balisari poking up from his back.
“Yes.”
She inspected him once again, as one might a pig or a sheep before purchase. “Are you any good?”
Lem nodded. “At least, that’s what I’m told.”
“Haven’t had a musician in a while,” she said, to herself more than to Lem. “Might be worth a try. What’s your name?”
“Lem,” he replied, eyes still downcast.
“Well, Lem, I’m Zara.”
He bowed, regretting the action immediately as he recalled what the woman outside had told him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Good-looking and polite. I like that. And not from these parts, from the sound of you.”
Thinking it best not to say anything on this score, Lem waited for her to continue. To his relief, she did.
“So long as you don’t start playing hymns, I’ll give you a chance. Folks who come in here don’t like being reminded that they’re sinners.”
“I won’t play hymns,” he assured her. Not that he knew what a hymn was.
She took a sip from the glass, then gave him another long look. “You need somewhere to stay, you say? Well, I’ll make you a bargain. Play for the customers each evening, and I’ll give you room and board. Agreed?”
Lem nodded.
Assuming that the proposition needed no further discussion, she turned to the door. “Durst will help you get settled in.”
As soon as she was gone, Lem had an uncomfortable feeling that the barman’s eyes were boring into his back. Taking a deep breath and putting on a smile, he slowly turned to face him.
“I’m sorry if I’ve caused you any trouble.”
Apparently this was the wrong approach. Where before Durst’s scowl was merely unfriendly, it was now blatantly hostile.
“Is that right?” he snarled. “You’re sorry?” He didn’t wait on a reply. “Let me tell you something, boy. You’re not the first pet Zara’s had warming her bed. You won’t be the last either. So you’d better watch yourself. Or you will be sorry.”
His warning shook Lem. Pet? Bed? Sweet spirits of the ancestors! Was that what this offer was about? Surely, she didn’t expect him to … what had he gotten himself into?
Durst reached under the bar and produced a small rusted key. “Come on, then. Move your sorry ass, before I plant my boot in it.”
Lem followed him to a corridor off the far-right corner of the common room, then along this to the last door on the left. With a final look of contempt, Durst handed him the key and plodded back toward the bar.
“Supper is served in an hour,” he called back. “Don’t expect me to come get you.”
Lem opened the door, careful not to break the key off in the lock. Unsurprisingly, there was little in the way of comforts: just a bed, a dresser, a washbasin, and a single lamp hanging in the corner. There was a window, but this had been heavily boarded up. Lem decided to leave it like this for the time being, lest there be some good reason for the measure.
At least it doesn’t stink quite so badly back here, he thought, trying to keep up a positive attitude.
A closer inspection revealed the pillow and blanket to be covered in dust and badly worn. “It’s still better than sleeping in the woods, I suppose,” he muttered, unstrapping his pack and balisari.
This opinion was quickly revised as soon as he sat down on what he immediately felt must be the hardest and lumpiest mattress ever made. Even under his fairly light weight, the bed creaked and cracked in protest.
It was a start, albeit a rough one. He already had a place to live and employment. And while his first mention of the Thaumas hadn’t been well received, Durst had seemed determined to dislike him from the moment he’d walked in. Perhaps the two reactions were unrelated. Whatever the case, he would need to be careful until he learned more about the ways here.
He decided to unpack later, after he’d had the chance to clean the room up a bit. As a start, he beat the dust from the blanket and pillow by hand before lying down. Staring up at the ceiling, he began to wonder how it had been for his mother. How had she managed? More than ever he wished that she had told him the truth before she died. Though on reflection, he doubted that anything she could have said would have adequately prepared him for this experience.
So far, the stories about the outside world were seeming quite plausible. If a mere barman could be that antagonistic, what would others be like?
Of course, the woman with the horse and the child on the road had been pleasant enough. And Zara was at least willing to help him. Then again, if what Durst had suggested was the case, her help might come at a steep price. It was unnerving that someone could be so aggressive with their desires. Vylarians were not like that. Passion certainly existed, but it was rarely so blatant and open, and never expressed on a first meeting.
After what he estimated to be an hour, urged on by the rumbling in his stomach, he left his room and returned to the bar. Only about half of the patrons remained, and most of these had moved away from the bar in favor of a table. A bent old woman with thin silver hair was carrying bowls of what Lem could only assume, given the aroma of meat and spices struggling to overcome the ever-present stench, was the evening meal.
Durst looked up from the bowl he was cradling. “You eat in the kitchen.”
Lem wasn’t going to argue.
The old woman clicked her tongue at Durst. “Don’t be cruel. He’s just a boy.”
After passing out the remaining bowls, she took Lem’s hand, smiling warmly. Her palms were rough and her grip surprisingly strong. “Come and eat with me. I could use the company. It’s Lem, isn’t it? I think that’s what Zara told me.”
He returned the smile and nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Well, Lem, I’m Martha. And best you stay away from this lot. They can be a bad influence on a youngster.”
She led him out through a side door and down a narrow alley at the rear. The kitchen was a completely separate structure from the main building. This was done in Vylari as well, mostly as a precaution against fire, but only at large banquet halls, never with anything as small as a tavern.
Inside, Lem was impressed by the scope of the place. Several ovens, only one of which was currently lit, and a long row of neatly organized tables ran along the right-hand side. Against the opposite wall stood a number of well-crafted cabinets, while to the rear were several doors, which, if the same as kitchens back home, would be rooms for dry storage.
“All this just to feed the tavern?” asked Lem.
Martha chuckled, patting him on his shoulder. “Don’t be daft. At one time this kitchen served over half the town. Back in the days when it was a town.” She pointed him to a table near the lit stove, then tottered over to a steaming pot.
Lem took a seat and waited for Martha to return with a pair of bowls and cups of wine. Though he was uncomfortably aware that it was rude of him, he was unable to prevent himself from staring suspiciously at the offering for a long moment before eventually scooping out a spoonful. A smile quickly formed. It wasn’t as bad as he had feared—a simple beef stew. Not as good as Uncle Shemi’s, but decent enough. The wine, on the other hand, had a bitter taste about it.
“What happened here?” he asked. “You know, to make things change.”
Martha sighed. “Copper mines dried up. Nothing else worth coming this far out for. Most folks either moved back to the cities
or went north, if they could get work at the new mines opening up.” She shrugged and took a mouthful of stew. “Not much else to say. Same old story up and down the frontier. One day a town is filled with people, the next they’re gone.”
“Why did you stay?”
She let out a sad laugh. “It’s my home. Where else could I go?” She straightened her back and blew a short breath, banishing her melancholy. “Besides, it’s not so bad here. I have my own little patch of land. And the Archbishop doesn’t bother us much; one of the perks of living in the ass end of nowhere.”
The mention of the Archbishop got his attention.
Martha gave him a knowing look. “You don’t have to worry. I can hear you’re foreign. I won’t judge you.” She leaned in, her eyes darting around, as if to make sure no one could hear. “And don’t let the others fool you. Most folks around here are about as pious as a viper. Still, if you don’t follow the teachings of Kylor, you shouldn’t go around advertising it.”
“I won’t. Thank you.” Kylor? The Archbishop? One thing was certain—he would need to learn more about things before someone realized his complete ignorance. He shuddered to think where that could lead.
“So tell me,” Martha continued, her face softening back to a kindly state. “What’s a nice young man doing way out here in the middle of nowhere? You’re far too well-mannered to be from Bulvidar. And you’re definitely no miner.” She scrutinized him for a moment. “If I had to guess, I’d say you’re from … Lytonia?”
Lem decided to take a chance. “Is it that obvious?” Bulvidar? Lytonia? How many names did this world have that he would need to learn?
Martha laughed. “You mean I got it right? No wonder you look like a lost puppy.”
“I feel like one,” he admitted. “To answer your question, I left home so I could see the world. I guess I’m not ready to settle down just yet.”
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