by Bruce Blake
“Are you payin’?”
Silence floated upon the air like an unmanned rowboat bobbin’ on the sea, and Horace held his breath, hopin’ for the man called Birk to say aye. His gut grumbled again while the wait stretched on. Krin wiped the bar top with little enthusiasm; Birk eyed Horace as though appraisin’ him, decidin’ if he be worth a few coins.
Finally, a response came, but without usin’ no words. Birk kept his eyes on Horace while puttin’ two fingers in his brown waistcoat’s front pocket to pluck out a coin. He tossed the copper onto the bar where it rattled 'round on its edge until Krin scooped it up before it had a chance to fall o’er.
“Get him a bowl of stew and a pint of your best ale,” Birk said with a flourishin’ hand gesture. “And keep the change, kind sir.”
“I only got one kind o’ ale,” Krin remarked as he grabbed a cup from the counter behind the bar. “And there won’t be no change.”
Horace’s gut rumbled again, impatient now it expected to get filled.
“Thank you, sir,” he said layin’ his hand on Birk’s arm. “I cannot thank you enough.”
Birk glanced at Horace’s hand, the gaze makin’ the ol’ sailor wish he hadn’t touched him, then looked back up at him before steppin’ away from the bar.
“No burden, sir,” Birk said, smilin’. “Join me at my table when the good barkeep has provided you a bowl.”
“Yessir,” Horace said feelin’ he possessed no other choice.
Birk crossed the room to the table in the corner where he’d been set when Horace walked in, sat himself down and raised his own cup of ale. Horace leaned his elbows on the bar as he awaited his brew and his stew. His stomach grumbled and growled, distractin’ him enough he didn’t notice the barkeep sneak up until he thumped a tankard on the bar beside him. The amber nectar inside the plain cup shimmered in the lamplight and the barkeep stood in front o’ him.
“Are you sure you can afford this?” Krin asked.
Horace wrinkled his face up, not knowin’ what he meant. Hadn’t the other feller paid? He saw him pull the copper from his waistcoat and he saw Krin snatch it off the bar. Did he mean to get paid again? Horace opened his mouth, but the barkeep shook his head and turned his back on him.
The second Horace laid his hand on the tankard of ale, his mouth got to salivatin’ and he forgot 'bout the barkeep’s odd comment. He laced his fingers together 'round the rough clay tankard and picked it up in both hands, all the better to keep it from shakin’ and sloppin’ precious ale on Krin’s well-polished bar.
The ale floodin’ his tongue satiated him as good as the last time his prick slipped into a cunny, though to be honest, he couldn’t have said exactly how much time’d passed since that happened. Some o’ the men on the ship liked to play pretend—they pretended another feller’s asshole were a woman’s love openin'—but ol’ Horace Seaman didn’t go in for that, no matter how old a seafarin’ tradition it might be. Stinky old things, a man’s rear porthole.
The ale slid down his throat like honey, coatin’ it with goodness and returnin’ a batch o’ his senses to him. He gulped three mouthfuls before stoppin’ to get some air, settin’ the tankard back on the bar and lickin’ the frothy mustache outta the stubbly one on his upper lip. When the tasty foam were gone, Krin showed up again, holdin’ in his hand a plate with a hollowed out loaf o’ bread filled fulla stew set atop it.
Fragrant steam curled up from the bread bowl, its aroma findin’ Horace’s nose as easy as a huntin’ dog rootin’ out prey. He sniffed deep, finally drawin’ air what provided sustenance for his tired bones and made him feel a bit like a hero, though he knew full well he weren’t one.
“Smells delicious,” he said reachin’ for the plate when Krin set it down upon the pristine bar.
“Hold your ponies,” the barkeep said. He turned 'round and retrieved a wooden spoon from the counter behind him, clicked it down on the plate beside the loaf bowl. “It’s my mam’s recipe. You’ll like it.”
Horace’s stomach wanted him to snatch the spoon up offa the plate and get to scoopin’ stew into his mouth right away, but he forced himself to be polite. He didn’t know where he were nor how long he’d be here, so best not to make a man such as Krin angry. Especially a man the barkeep’s size.
“Thank you,” he said, bowin’ his head.
Krin leaned an elbow on the bar and waved a finger in the direction o’ Birk’s table.
“Don’t thank me. It’s him who’ll want to be thanked, I expect. Birk doesn’t do nothing for free.”
The barkeep’s words made Horace Seaman recall again the men on the ship who liked to pretend. Be that what Krin meant? The ol’ sailor’s porthole puckered at the idea. He’d had men try to make him before, but they wasn’t able to and usually left with black eyes instead o’ stinky cocks. Weren’t no way Horace’s shits’d squeeze out no faster than they ever had before.
“Thank you anyways,” he said pickin’ up the tankard in one hand and the plate o’ stew in the other.
Horace made his way across the tavern toward Birk’s table, his own movement blowin’ the steam from the stew into his face, its aroma stirrin’ his gut into a frenzy. He were already of the mind this’d be the best stew he ever ate, no matter whose recipe it be made from.
Birk sat leanin’ back in one chair, a booted foot up on another, a smile on his face as if he were the ship’s cat what found a bilge full o’ rats. Seein’ that grin made Horace’s hind side contract again, but he were too hungry to fret on it just then. He’d eat now and worry 'bout protectin’ his shitter if and when the need presented itself.
Upon his approach, Birk slid a chair out and gestured for him to sit. Horace obliged, grabbin’ the spoon and tuckin’ into the stew before his ass had a chance to settle onto the hard wooden seat.
Turned out Horace’d presumed right: the stew’s flavor were even better’n the queen’s pussy. Not that he’d ever had the pleasure of bein’ in the same buidlin’ as Her Imperial Highness, never mind touchin’ his tongue to her nether regions, though a rumor’d reached his ears that an acquaintance o’ his had.
He filled his mouth full o’ savory stew, followin’ up with a swig o’ ale before the meat and veggies made it down his throat. His benefactor watched without speakin’, knowin’ he weren’t gonna answer until he got his fill, Horace s’posed. If that’s what he thought, he’d’ve been right, ‘cause the ol’ sailor wouldn’t’ve stopped shovelin’ stew into his gob if the fuckin’ tavern burned to the ground 'round him.
When he scooped the last bit o’ stew outta the bread bowl, Horace proceeded tearin’ the bowl itself to pieces and gobblin’ them up, too, swabbin’ the plate with the chunks case he missed a little somethin’ and doin’ a better job’n Dunal’d ever done on the Devil’s decks. He knew 'bout some gravy on his lips and the corner o’ his mouth, but ignored it until he were done with the bread, then made sure he licked ev’ry last drop. Birk watched him the whole time, a grin spread wide across his mug, and Horace wondered if he were picturin’ his puckerin’ hole.
His meal complete, Horace took another swig from the tankard, peered into the bottom to see one more mouthful remained, then thumped the mug on the table and leaned back in his chair. He breathed deep through his noise and let go a noisy belch that tasted good as the stew. Birk laughed.
“It was good?”
“Best stew I ever ate,” Horace said, wipin’ his mouth on his sleeve like that’d prove it. The cloth still reeked o’ the sea, so he moved it away from his nose quick, before it made him lose a tasty dinner. “Thanks.”
“Oh, you are welcome,” Birk said, leanin’ forward with his elbows on the table. “It’s clear that when a man has needs, they must be met. Am I right?”
Horace squinted one eye at the man. “I’m appreciative, to be sure, but if you be aimin’ to fuck me in my hind porthole, or any other hole, for that matter, you be aimin’ at the wrong target.”
Birk jerked back from the table, a shocked ex
pression knockin’ the smile offa his lips. He stared at Horace a moment, head shakin’ side to side ever so slightly; the ol’ sailor crossed his arms in front of his chest, usin’ the gesture to indicate he truly meant his words.
“You’ve misinterpreted my good nature, sir.”
Horace unsquinted his eye and raised a brow, unsure if he detected offense in the man’s tone. Didn’t matter, he’d ate already. Weren’t no takin’ that back no matter how hard he tried.
“But you want somethin’.”
Birk shrugged and leaned on the table again. “Conversation, is all.”
“You wanna converse. With me?”
“You don’t notice many of the locals clamoring to join me at my table, do you? Sometimes, a man wants company.”
Horace squinted the other eye. “So, you don’t wanna fuck me in my shitter?”
“I have no interest in your shitter. Or anyone else’s.” Birk shifted in his chair, seemin’ more’n a bit uncomfortable with the subject, and that convinced the ol’ sailor his porthole was safe, at least from this feller. If the barkeep took a likin’ to him, keepin’ his bumhole safe might be trouble, but Krin didn’t appear the type.
“If you get me another ale, I’ll talk right up to the wee hours, it you like.”
“Good enough.” Birk waved his hand o’er his head to get Krin’s attention. “Barkeep! Another tankard of your best ale for my friend.”
“I keep tellin’ you: I only got one kind of ale.”
“Then that will have to do.”
Birk’s smile crept back across his face again, remindin’ Horace of a cat creepin’ up on a bird. Didn’t seem he had no reason to worry, though. After fallin’ in the ocean with the God o’ the Deep, then sneakin’ through the forest worryin’ 'bout bein’ in the Green, it weren’t no wonder he was feelin’ a bit paranoid.
“You have me at a disadvantage,” Birk said steeplin’ his fingers. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Horace.”
“Horace what?”
He opened his mouth and very nearly said ‘Seaman’, but stopped himself. He were done with the sea and anythin’ related to it; if he went 'round tellin’ people his name was Seaman, he’d be back on a ship quicker’n he’d get to half-mast in a whorehouse.
“Horace what?” Birk said again, his smile falterin’.
Krin interrupted with a new tankard fulla ale, givin’ Horace a second to think. He drained the near-empty cup and gave it to the barkeep with a thankful nod and the big man raised a brow at him. Horace ignored him in favor o’ takin’ a swig outta the fresh ale. When he set it on the table, Birk was lookin’ at him and no longer smilin’. Horace wiped his sleeve across his ale-moist lips.
“Horace,” he said and paused to belch the flavor o’ dark ale back into his mouth, thinkin’ desperately 'bout what else he might do aside from bein’ a sailor. “Horace Tailor.”
He cringed at his own words, his lack o’ plannin’. Durin’ his walk in the woods, didn’t it occur to him he might run into someone and they might ask his name? Couldn’t he have put some time into it to avoid just pickin’ somethin’ what rhymed with sailor? Truthfully, he’d worried too much on the Small Gods discoverin’ him to put much time into anythin’ but survivin’. And now he’d gone and named himself tailor when he’d never sewn a button in his life.
“Tailor?” Birk leaned back in his chair, tiltin’ it up on the two hind legs. “What kind of name is that?”
Horace titled his head and attempted keepin’ the surprised expression from offa his mug. Might he get away with his fuck up?
“What do ya mean? What’s your other name?”
“Simirslad. Birk Simirslad. My father was Simir.”
Horace shrugged. “Guess I’m not from 'round here.”
“No, I guess not.” Birk returned his chair legs to the floor and took a drink from his tankard. He made it look so good, the ol’ sailor did the same. “I didn’t think you were when I saw you walk in. We don’t usually get many visitors here.”
“But you ain’t got no friends here.” He scanned the tavern—a couple patrons’d left while he were eatin’. The others was careful to appear as though they was mindin’ their own business. “Ain’t you from here?”
“I am.” He twirled the tankard back and forth in his hands, ganderin’ at his own fingers. “I left when I was young, went to the city to get some school. I came back after but...I’m a bit of an outsider now.”
“How long you been back?”
Birk raised his eyes toward the ceilin’ like he might see how long inscribed on one o’ the beams above his head. Horace looked up, too, but didn’t find nothin’ but cobwebs.
“About fifteen summers, I suppose.”
“Hmph. I ain’t never been anywhere fifteen turns.”
“You are a nomad, are you?”
Horace’s brows inched closer together. “A what?”
“A nomad. A wanderer. One who doesn’t stay in one place for long.”
“Guess you might say that.” The sailor’s eyes darted 'round the room again, feelin’ uncomfortable with the conversation but not knowin’ exactly why. He suspected he might be more comfortable if they went back to talkin’ 'bout Birk fuckin’ him in the shitter.
The man leaned closer, glanced 'round the tavern himself, then gestured for Horace to lean in, too. The sailor hesitated, so Birk made a come here signal again, more insistent the second time 'round. Horace gave in and leaned forward.
“If you had asked me to guess,” Birk said, keepin’ his voice quiet so it were just between them two. “I’d have said you were a sailor.”
Horace tried hard to keep from reactin’. “No one asked you to guess.”
“No, I suppose no one did. But if that would have been my guess, others might guess the same.”
“What’d make you think that anyways?”
“The way you’re dressed,” Birk said directin’ his gaze at Horace’s shirt. “And you smell of the sea.”
Horace dipped his head toward his chest and inhaled deeply. Birk were right: he smelled o’ salty brine, like stinky ol’ seaweed left too long in the sun stuffed all his pockets full.
“Well I ain’t.”
“Too bad, I’ve use for a man who knows about the sea. Here, we have only tavern tales of a god living in the depths and the men it eats when they wander too far. Who trusts stories?”
Horace grunted and eyed the man who’d bought him dinner. He didn’t like how this were goin’, not at all, and he’d a mind to excuse himself before it went much further.
“Do you believe those tales?” Birk asked.
“I’m thinkin’ I ain’t heard none.” Horace pressed his lips tight, teeterin’ on the edge between gettin’ up and leavin’ or askin’ why he needed a man o’ the sea. If he inquired, he suspected he’d end up on someone’s boat again, and that were the last thing he wanted happenin’.
Birk leaned in closer, close enough Horace expected the man might kiss him on the lips. Then he’d have a reason to punch him and leave without seemin’ rude.
“Don’t you want to know why I need a man familiar with the sea?” Birk smelled of the ale they’d been drinkin’.
“No, sir.”
Birk ignored him. “It’s because I need someone to explain to me how it is that, a quarter turn ago, the ocean washed a man up on the beach not far from our village.”
Horace’s breathin’ stopped short, caught on the edge of the memory of a man in a white shirt and red pants floatin’ in the sea.
X Recovery
The soft din of the night wafted in through the open window, the chirrup of crickets and calls of night birds assaulting Teryk’s ears. He rolled over again, putting his back toward the noise, and threw his arm on top of his head to shut the racket out, but to no avail. Neither the singing insects nor hunting birds kept him awake, but his father’s words and the vision of colored flames dancing before his eyes.
The scroll hadn’t burned the way
one might have expected a dry and ancient scrap of parchment to burn. It ignited quickly, right enough, but the prince had never seen fire burn blue and pink and green, the colors dancing, reflected in the brazier’s polished brass. Not a soul in the great hall mentioned it. How could that be?
‘It has been touched by magic,’ Trenan had said.
Teryk sat up abruptly, the thin blanket covering his naked flesh falling away and leaving him exposed, but he didn’t notice the touch of the night air on his skin. His mind recalled the way the scroll whispered to him in the secret chamber, the sound it made when he touched it, the way Trenan jumped back from it, scared in a manner the prince had never seen the master swordsman scared before. And the colors.
The prince threw his legs over the edge of the mattress bed and stood, then retrieved his shirt and breeches from where he’d left them hanging over the back of a chair. He dressed hastily, distracted, as he wondered if his father might have chosen to post a guard outside his chambers to ensure he complied with his wishes.
He paused beside the table on which he’d not so long ago spread the scroll that now usurped his thoughts. A goblet of mulled wine his squire had brought to help him sleep still sat untouched, and he gazed upon it as his mind sought a story to tell a guard, an excuse for leaving his room. The surface of the dark wine reflected the dim moonlight shining through the window, the shimmer making him notice the dryness of his throat. He grasped the goblet and took a drink. The wine was no longer warm, but its sweet and spicy flavor gave the relief for which he yearned.
If I tell him my honey pot is full, he’ll simply empty it.
He set the goblet back on the table, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and scanned the room, searching for an idea to prompt him. His eyes fell upon his sword belt slung on the post of his bed.
I’ll tell him I left my sword at the practice arena.
He recognized it as a poor pretext, that it might not be enough for the guard to let him go, or that the fellow may insist on accompanying him, but he’d have to try to make it work.
