"How may I be of service today?" Her smile was faker than the blush on her cheeks as she surveyed the state of these guests, coated in dung and leaves as if they'd just had a roll in the fertilizer. Or worse, were professional peasants.
Ciara steadied herself, "We'd like to sell you something."
Liarta snarled, "I don't do trades. I have all the bruised fruit I could need thanks to that ninny next door refusing to fix the leg on her tables."
But the girl was undeterred; she leaned in as if she had some major secret. Subconsciously, Liarta joined her until their heads almost touched. "Now, I shouldn't be telling you this. My mistress would throw a right fit she would, but for you, and just for you, I'm offering velvet. Royal velvet."
The shopkeep snorted, "Show me?"
Ciara pointed a finger to the boy who up until this point had been counting the buttons in the case beneath the counter.
Liarta leaned back, her hands sliding under the counter, "You must be joking."
"No, no," Ciara grabbed Aldrin by the shoulders and pushed him into her waning sight. Pulling upon his doublet, she wiped some of the ground in mud away, showing the plum hidden beneath. "See, real velvet."
"It's more mud than velvet," the shopkeep scoffed, even as her own fingers wandered over the soft allure.
Aldrin tried to squirm away from two women pawing over his clothes, but Ciara held him fast. "It's an aging technique," the girl was thinking quickly, her mind trying to piece together every inane bit of psychology she'd picked up from existing beside the rich, "you put a young boy in your best attire, send him out to roll in the mud, and then you wash it."
Ciara smiled wide, her teeth dazzling in the brown sugar mouth full of pure sweetness and honesty. Liarta narrowed her eyes, still poking at the small spot of pure velvet. "Why?"
"What?"
"Why the whole mud, boy, rigmarole?"
"To make it softer," Aldrin said, catching both women by surprise.
The shopkeeper had assumed the boy was dumb at best, a walking sack of potatoes at worst. But Ciara picked up his string and knitted away, "Yes, yes, to make it far softer than any other fabric that has ever graced skin. It was started by Lady Diane of Magi."
Liarta seemed swayed by the stranger's words and cautiously opened negotiations, "How much?"
Ciara counted on her fingers, "A set of winter coats, mittens and boots, a pair of cloaks..."
The shopkeep nodded, she had some useless, moth eaten rags she could pass off for this treasure. But Ciara wasn't done yet, "And three Ravens."
"What?! Are you out of your mind? Your skin isn't worth that price."
"Fine," she pulled the velvet scrap away from Liarta's fingers, causing a sigh of relief from Aldrin, "we'll take our business elsewhere."
Turning the boy, Ciara got as far as opening the door, the bell jangling in discomfort, before a harried voice called, "Wait. What about the winter clothing, the boots, the mittens and this lovely hat? It was worn by the Empress herself." She raised a pile of felt woven into an old basket handle that had a few vulture feathers stuffed into the top for good measure.
Ciara folded her arms and tried to not look at the damn thing, "How about the winter clothes, a fresh set of tunics, the boots, the mittens and 50 Salamanders?"
Liarta twisted in the wind, her mind already churning with what she could transform that tantalizing velvet into. A simple slit down the back, a little letting out of the seams, and she may just have created Arda's first muumuu. "The clothes, the tunics, the boots, the mittens, the hat, and 15 Chickpeas. My final offer."
It wasn't anywhere close to the amount she'd been hoping for, but Ciara needed that coin, and she suspected there'd be a lot less gullible people through the pass. "Sold."
Liarta vanished into the backroom to cobble together the trade while Aldrin looked up at Ciara, "What just happened?"
"Take your shirt off."
"Beg your pardon?" the boy's hands flew up to cover himself.
But she wasn't about to lose what small gains they'd made that day, "We need money, we need supplies. We can get both money and supplies if you take your Balta damned shirt off and give it to the nearsighted woman who just bought it."
He glared up at her, unwilling to part with what was his, "No."
"If you don't sell her your shirt, we don't eat."
"No!"
Ciara leaned back, crossing her arms, "Very well, we'll sell her your pants instead."
His fingers fumbled with the collar trying to unlace it and slide it over his large head. The mud soaked velvet landed with a thud on the countertop just as the shopkeep returned, her arms overburdened with packages.
She tried to snatch up the mud laying on the counter, but Ciara got the velvet away first. Resigned to the trade, Liarta deposited the packages in Aldrin's cold arms. He welcomed the bundle that obscured his undershirt no longer so under anymore.
Holding out her hand, Ciara waited as the shopkeep excruciatingly counted out each chickpea, the coins landing with a wooden thud on top of the other. With the final fifteenth, Ciara passed the velvet to the woman's lusting arms and pushed Aldrin out the door before the woman could realize the bag of mud soaked magic beans she'd just been sold.
"Pleasure doing business with you," Ciara called out as the bell gave one last mournful cry; no one ever accepts business advice from the greeter.
What remained of the sun as they'd entered town had passed and they found themselves standing on a deserted street with an oversized package and a fuller purse. Ciara began to rifle through the find, most of the coats would at best last a month, the boots were in even worse shape and Oh gods of course she snuck that damn hat in there. Luckily, the tunics weren't too itchy and probably didn't have lice, severely upping the chances someone died in them, but she didn't mention that to Aldrin as she passed him one.
"Here, put this on."
He still glared, a face that was hard to maintain by one without a chin, even as he pulled the shirt over his head. But this was a tunic sewn for a man who'd already gone far past puberty. The hem fell down to his knees.
Ciara tried to stifle a giggle as the large neck cut into a V almost slipped over narrow shoulders. Aldrin struggled, but without saying a word undid his belt and rebuckled it over the tunic, his sword from Marna still tucked safely in the leather.
"At least we got a lot of coin out of the sale. Enough to hire a carriage to Tumbler's End, I'm sure."
This time Ciara didn't bother holding back and barked a laugh at the boy who had probably never handled a coin in his life.
"A pair of horses, then?"
The laughing grew harder, her giggles coming in bursts as she tried to keep breath flowing.
"At least a good night's rest at the inn."
Ciara managed to compose herself, gently resting her hand upon the shoulders barely covered by tunic. "We'll be lucky if we can get a pile of straw in the barn."
"But..."
"The reason we call them chickpeas is because that's about all one'll buy, a chickpea. Come on, help me grab the coats. We need to make for the inn before we get marked."
Aldrin tried to mutter something about how unfair it all was, how could anyone live when the choices were clothing or food? Ciara simply thought, No wonder the kingdom's in the shape it is, they wouldn't know a good deal if a plate of gold landed on their heads.
CHAPTER SIX
His unwanted tunic pulled and bunched in the back, causing Aldrin to shift his shoulders while trying to keep a hold of the piles of clothing still clutched in his hands. Ciara, always in the lead, pushed through the unhinged doors and held it open for the wandering prince.
Some Kings prided themselves on having a common touch, spending nights ensconced around the hearth trading exaggerated tales, wandering amongst the back ranks and even the archers giving little pep talks, and of course nipping into every local tavern and drinking the biggest guy there under the table. Then finishing the night terrorizing some women, stealing
a chicken, and bedding a cart.
But King Edric loved little more than a warm plate of clotted cream (preferably on top of whatever pie was in season), then a long night under the duvets his fore-bearers earned in blood and about five ravens to the royal embroiderers. The only info Aldrin knew about such places of ill repute came from either his nurses or the knights whose knees he'd play carts under during meals.
This place was neither a den of debauchery as demons whipped patrons and fires roasted men alive, nor was it a nirvana of top-heavy women swimming in pools filled with ale. It was actually quite boring.
A few tables, most made from the doors that refused to stay on the single hinge, littered the wooden floor. While the ground did cling greedily to the bottom of his shoes, no gaping mouths with razor sharp teeth lay buried in the floor ready to gobble him straight to hell. It did lean a bit, but he doubted his old nurse would have cared.
Some men gathered around the table painted a cheery blue, one accidentally dropping his mug onto the doorbell that was still hooked up. A handful of others took up permanent residence at the bar itself, formed mostly from old apple crates which, judging by the piquant smell of rotten fruit, still had a few non-evicted tenants.
"Regulars," Ciara mumbled under her breath as she turned from the bar and pointed towards a circular table, greener than a meadow's lawn.11 She tossed her burden on top and turned to Aldrin, motioning to a chair where the back legs were sawed a good two inches shorter than the front giving it a major lift.
He settled his things down on top of hers and watched the girl pace up to the bar, her hood starting to slip off. Aldrin tried to inconspicuously sit in the chair but the challenge to gravity caused his legs to fly up and kick hard into the green door, rattling the bright brass knob in the middle.
A few eyes perked up at that and background conversation, undetectable at first, grew still. Each ear waited to see what the outsider would do next. As Aldrin struggled to pull himself forward, a few grizzled grunts responded as he failed to rise from his seat. This approach going nowhere, the boy then tried tipping all the way back, hoping a fall to the floor would offer some freedom, but his legs caught again, rattling the knob a second time.
More grunts, these short and quick like a pig rooting through the ground, followed suit. Growing tired of this game, Aldrin pushed his body to one side and fell butt first onto the ground. The table of grunts erupted into full apple peals of laughter, a few even clapping, as Aldrin struggled to his feet, turned the chair backwards, and leaned upon it like a sled.
A set of bags fell into his vision and a then a dark glare, "If you were trying to draw attention to yourself, mission accomplished."
Ciara slid a plate towards the prince, its gray mass congealing quickly now that it was away from the warm fire. He gingerly raised a spoon to the slop and poked it, the mass jiggling a bit as if it were laughing at Aldrin as well. Then the smell, a pungent mix of onions, old boiled beef bones, and 'them's spices what we don't ask what they is' found purchase in his nose.
For the first time since watching his fellow countrymen get sliced up like Soulday ham, hunger stampeded back inside twisting his intestines like a pretzel. He gobbled down the beef surprise faster than the eye could follow, getting some in his ear. Never before had mush flavored beef (or beef flavored mush, it was hard to tell) tasted of pure ambrosia, or ambrosia substitute. A small tear dribbled down his cheek, offering some much needed salt to the dish, but Aldrin didn't care. He'd have gladly eaten this culinary nightmare for a week straight. Going without was a good duller of the palate.
The girl watched, intrigued by the nobility's table manners, but not really surprised. If you couldn't do something however you wanted without consequence, it wasn't worth doing for the landed gentry. She, having a fairly good idea just what was inside the slop of the day, took her time trying to not throw off her stomach.
Aldrin licked his plate clean, dragging his fingers along the edge and slopping the last bits onto his tongue. He felt the eyes upon him again from across the room, seeming to wait for something exciting to happen. The boy slowly lowered his spoon onto the plate facing to the left to signify to the servants the meal was finished. He watched the girl twitch, as if she were supposed to pull the thing away before he could berate her, but she continued to eat her meal slowly. Aldrin got the message, this wasn't a castle anymore and he wasn't a child. Sliding back off his sled chair, the boy rose, carrying his own plate back to the bar.
The regulars didn't even flinch as Aldrin loudly dropped his plate onto the crates, his face a giant smile. There was no greater fun that pretending to be what you weren't, and for the moment the prince got to be a "commoner". He stood there impatiently, waiting for someone to appear, to take his escorted dish, and perhaps reward him for a job well done. But no barkeep appeared, no jolly man in an apron with some hilarious saying painted upon it. Not even a shrewish wife, who clucked her tongue at the spec of food he didn't finish.
Ciara smacked her forehead as she set down her own spife12 and noticed the idiot still standing there, drawing even more attention to himself, "Pst. Get back here."
Aldrin jumped at her theatrical intrusion and blinked slowly at her narrow glare. Properly cowed, he returned to his chair slope.
"What were you doing up there?"
For being one of the dark people, she didn't mince words. "I was waiting to be acknowledged."
Her brow furrowed as she absentmindedly scraped off the embedded bits of dinner, "The last thing we want is someone to 'acknowledge' us."
Watching her, Aldrin wondered just much experience she'd gained hiding out from the authorities, ducking through dark forests for safety, and outmaneuvering entire armies. For his sake, he assumed it was greater than her years allowed. Five year olds could be wanted criminals.
"I got us a bed of sorts for the night. It sounds like the winter's gonna turn soon judging by all the creaking bum legs. If we don't head towards the Northern Pass now, we can kiss making it before snowfall goodbye."
The prince nodded, as if any of that made sense. His cartography skills ranked somewhere around the sailing acumen of a landlocked pirate. Ciara gently placed her plate on the floor where the "dishwashing crew" would lick them clean later and began to stuff the coats in the bags. Aldrin watched her unfold each piece of clothing, weigh them in her hands, then toss one at his side before folding the other into the pack in front of her.
Ah. He fumbled with the pack she acquired from the "manager," as Fred demanded he be called. The buckles he undid, flopping to the floor with a clank. A black eyebrow raised and caramel eyes watched as the prince tried to lift the lid of the pack. Finding it still seemingly sewn down, he searched through the front for a missed buckle, a snap, anything else he could undo, but he only found more canvas.
Picking up the coat she had tossed his way, he crumpled the edge into a small ball and forced it into the tiny opening on the side. Then, like a rat catcher working a small pipe, he wormed the end through the opening, slowly wadding the coat as he went. The thing was over half way in when Ciara, aware of the attention this was gathering, snatched the thing away and seemed to open the top flap by a magical spell, offering a glimpse of the tortured overcoat inside. Aldrin looked up at her in awe.
She sighed and pointed to a slit on the back of hers, "It's on the back that way pickpocket's can't easily get in without you noticing."
He grinned widely enjoying this vacation, before wadding up a pair of mismatched mittens, which might have once been socks. Ciara sighed at his exuberant face and picked up her weak ale, more water than anything approaching alcohol. Well, she hoped it was water.
The doors flew wide, one finally succumbing to the harsh mistress of gravity and accepted its retirement as a drink supporter. Two men wandered in, slugging each other in the shoulders the only way a pair besotted to the point of near blindness could. Their clothes were obscured by muddied fawn cloaks but the familiar clank of armor betrayed them.
&nb
sp; The regulars sat bolt upright at the sound, but these men weren't with the local tab enforcement. The bearded one fell onto what had once been a highchair and banged the table, "Mead!"
"An' anly good shit too. We knows you're all hidin' it," the second one, clean shaven, spoke with a lilting accent as if the Cadaratchian tongue was only native to him thanks to a lot of dirty limericks and a prostitute who turned to teaching to supplement her income.
Aldrin's eyes grew wide as Ciara again slowly raised her glass to her face. She whispered over her drink, "Sit down, slowly."
His buttocks obeyed before he absorbed anything she said. The life drained from the room with the appearance of the two soldiers. Men traveling with war were never a good sign even in the best of times. Anyone throwing around the name Harbinger tended to find himself naked outside the town with a few days missing from his memory. And most in that tiny room watched the flames leaping across the towers in the west through the night.
A small boy, or possibly a girl, was shoved out from behind the apple crates with a bottle of brandy tucked under his or her arm and two glasses balanced on her? head. Despite being unable to find their own bottom with both hands and an assist from the other, the soldiers still managed to snatch the brandy out from her arm and pour it into the glasses.
As the second was lifted off his head, the small child yelped and dashed back to the safety of the crates. The intruders clanked glasses and were about to drink when Bearded stood up. "A toast! To the Empire!"
"Ja! To the Empire!" his compatriot joined in.
No one else in the place moved their hands. The cold, previously kept at bay by the roaring fire, crept across the creaking floorboards as the men started to wave their arms around, banging their scabbards together in a mock fight under the table.
"I was there," Bearded started, as if he'd told this tale a thousand times before. "I watched that blade go right through tha' fat bastards neck."
The King's Blood Page 6
