She grabbed her skirts in one hand and knelt down, pulling a rag from her apron. “Not the first time these boards have tasted ale.” Her voice was pleasant enough, but her eyes were narrow and her jaw tight. She finished wiping up what she could and stood up. “Now then, maybe some hot food would help soak up some of this ale, eh? Would you gentlemen be needing some supper then?”
The curly-haired soldier said, “We’ll be needing some more ale to soak up the ale,” and he laughed.
The other soldiers joined him, all but Scolin, who said, “Food would be fine. Another round as well.”
“Short enough.” She turned and headed back to the kitchen. She emerged a short time later, tray laden with steaming food, and her father handed her two fresh mugs of ale. Another boy who I assumed was a brother trailed behind her, and it became immediately clear why he remained out of sight most of the time. All of his features were horribly asymmetrical. The left side of his face was several inches higher than the right; eyebrow, nostril, lips, ear—all horribly aligned. Body as well. Both his left arm and leg were shorter than the right, and he walked with a noticeable hitch.
He stopped by the bar after Syrie, and his father placed four fresh mugs on his tray as well, scowling at him. The brother limped over to the table of soldiers and set their mugs down. All of the soldiers look at him with the same expression I must have worn, one of awe and revulsion. But when the curly-haired soldier saw him, he immediately let out a loud laugh. “Gods and demons, we got a monster serving us. What hobgoblin buggered your mother, boy?”
The poor boy set the bowls and spoons on the table as quickly as he could as Syrie made her way to our table. She heard the mocking but tried to ignore it as she sets our bowls and mugs before us, smile nowhere in sight.
The brother bowed quickly and turned to head back to the kitchen, but the curly-haired soldier stuck a leg out and tripped him. He fell face first, tray sliding across the floor. The soldier jerked out of his chair and stood over him. “Who said you was going anywheres, goblin boy? We were just getting started conversing.”
Several of the other patrons stood up as well, though I wasn’t sure why. Clearly, no one was going to contest the actions of a table of drunk Hornmen. Hobbins and Syrie rushed over to the boy. Hobbins grabbed the back of his son’s tunic and hoisted him to his feet. “Up, up with you. Back to the kitchen, boy.”
Scolin had the curly-haired soldier by the elbow and was trying to guide him back down to his seat. Syrie grabbed some mugs off the table and said, “No worries—you won’t be charged for these.”
She started to leave but the curly-haired soldier grabbed her hair and pulled her back, saying, “Whoa there, calfling. We got use for those yet.” Scolin tried to restrain him but the drunken soldier shoved him away and pulled her hair again. She tripped over a chair leg and fell to the ground, mugs of ale overturning in all directions. The drunk soldier kicked her backside and she slid forward in a puddle of ale. “You stupid bitch.” He reared back to kick her again and found a blade next to his throat. Braylar’s.
I’d been so transfixed, I didn’t even see him approach. But Braylar had his long dagger across the soldier’s throat, a full mug of ale in his other hand. Braylar lifted the mug very slowly to his lips, blew some foam onto the floor, and took a long, slow swig, eyes never leaving the Hornman. After he swallowed, Braylar smiled and said, loud enough for the innkeeper to hear, “Your ale tastes like ox piss, Hobbins. Truly it does. And you know what they say of pissy ale, yes? It makes patrons irritable. Of course, if a patron doesn’t like the drink or atmosphere, he’s free to move on. The city has many inns to choose from. Myself, I don’t mind a little pissy ale, makes you appreciate the finer brew. So I’ll stay.” He took another measured swig, licked his lips, and asked the soldier, “How about you? Are you going to ride on, or are you going to stay and enjoy the ale?”
The Hornmen behind curly-hair suddenly appeared more sober than they had all evening, and their hands were one and all wrapped around the hilts of their swords. I glanced at Braylar’s retinue, and they seemed equally poised to spring out of their seats.
As Syrie gathered the mugs and ran off to the kitchen, Mulldoos whispered, “Easy, lads. Let it play out a bit. Nothing rash now.”
Hobbins was there then, nervously wiping his hands on his apron. “It is pissy ale. Can’t deny that. And my daughter, she’s a clumsy cow. But neither’s reason to spill blood. No, no reason at all. Been no blood spilled here in… some time. So why don’t you—”
“Ride or drink?” Braylar put a little more pressure on the dagger. “What’s it to be then?”
There was a long pause. I was sure the Hornmen and Syldoon would clash any moment, and Hobbins would be mopping up blood for days. But in a quiet, croaky voice, the curly-haired soldier said, “Drink.”
Braylar pulled the dagger away and slid it back in the scabbard. “Very good. Hobbins, fetch another tray of ales, yes? These boys seem thirsty yet. I’ll pay for those that spilled and the coming round as well.”
Hobbins mumbled something to himself and started back to the bar. Braylar was walking back to our table when the curly-haired soldier drew his sword and tried to stab him. I thought the captain a dead man for certain, but he must’ve heard the sword clear the scabbard, because he pivoted and spun to his left. The blade slid past him and Braylar swung the mug, a spray of ale trailing behind. It cracked across the drunken soldier’s face, splitting his lip, and from the sounds of it, breaking his nose as well. Then Braylar cracked him in the back of the head, just above his neck. The soldier started to slump forward, and Braylar hit him again on the way down for good measure. The mug broke with a loud crack and the cylinder landed on the man’s back and rolled to the floor.
The other Hornmen had their swords out now, all of them pointing in Braylar’s direction. The retinue were on their feet as well, weapons drawn. Braylar looked at the handle in his hand and called out, “Your mugs are weaker than your ale, innkeeper. I regret I have to pay for either. Still…” He reached into a pouch and tossed a silver coin over his shoulder. “That ought to make amends.”
A soldier with thick ropy hair said, “You just struck a Hornman, dungeater.” He was younger than the rest, but now that the first man was unconscious, clearly the drunkest man standing.
Braylar turned and examined the swords. “A Hornman?” he asked. “Truly? I’m a stranger to these parts—is that some kind of musician?”
“You watch your filthy dungeating tongue, dungeater. I’ll cut it out and… and… I’ll cut it out of your filthy mouth, I will.”
“Bold words when facing a man armed with a mug handle. Are all Hornmen so fearless, or are you one of the elite?”
The boy took a step forward but Scolin put a hand on his shoulder. He gave Braylar a hard look. “What he means to say is, striking a Hornman is a bad idea. Bad as striking at the law itself. Usually, a man strikes a Hornman, we just throw him in the stockade, and if he got no friends, he’ll stay there a good long while. But generosity’s a lean commodity these days. So maybe we hack off the offending limb. Or, we got the time and a good tree, we just hang the dumb bastard until the life stretches out of him. Just not a good idea, striking a Hornman. If you take my meaning. Now, you look like a traveler, maybe you just didn’t notice our surcoats and baldrics. That right, stranger? You just didn’t realize who you was striking? Didn’t see our surcoats? Or our horns hanging on our sides?”
Braylar replied, “No, I didn’t immediately notice your surcoats. What I did see was a drunken lout abusing a cripple and beating a girl. That must not be a hanging offense, or any offense at all, no?”
The ropy-haired soldier said, “Let’s cut him open, Red. Open him cock to nose.”
Braylar fixed him with a stare. “Surely you would find naught but dung, Hornling, but I welcome you to try.”
Scolin, who for mysterious reasons was called Red despite the light locks, looked down at the unconscious soldier. A small puddle of blood
was pooling around his head, mixing with the ale. Red Scolin nudged the man with his foot, and he moaned. Red Scolin sighed. “Lunter’s as big an ass as you’ll find when he’s got ale in his belly. Truth is, you done us a favor by shutting him up.” He sheathed his sword and took a step forward. “But you see these surcoats now, stranger, and you’ll mind that tongue of yours, or I’ll have it out and fry it with our morning bacon. You hear?”
Braylar chose his next words carefully. “No doubt it would be finer than anything Hobbins has planned for us, but I’m rather fond of my tongue and would hate to see it in a pan. So I’ll mind myself, particularly when addressing those bearing horns. At least, so long as they aren’t musicians, who are naught but scoundrels.”
Red Scolin laughed, and though the other soldiers didn’t, they reluctantly put their blades away. Braylar slid the mug handle in his belt. “Unarmed and amiable again, you see? In fact, I’d do even more to make amends for my uncouth behavior.” He turned to Hobbins. “Two pitchers for the Hornmen, innkeeper, and one for myself, yes?”
Hobbins looked at Braylar and back to the soldiers. He licked his lips and left to fetch the ale. The other soldiers moved back to their chairs, but the ropy-haired soldier was still peevish. “That it, Red? Lunt’s bleeding like a, like a butchered hog, and all you gonna do is warn him?”
Red Scolin sat back down at the table. “No. I’m going to drink his ale and be glad to hear no more from Lunt tonight. Take him upstairs.”
“The dungeater?”
“Lunter, you ass. Take Lunter upstairs. Clean him up, put him in bed.”
“You ought not to let him go like that.”
Red Scolin asked, smiling, “Lunter?”
Ropy-hair looked confused. “The dungeater, Red. He struck a Hornman. We all saw. Struck him in the face, and in the head. He hit him with his mug, across the face and mug. I mean head. He—”
“Right enough. Struck him with his mug. Right after Lunter tried to stab him.”
“But the dungeater, he drew blade first, he—”
“Enough. I gave an order, soldier. Get him upstairs, now, or maybe it’ll be you seeing the inside of a stockade, you hear me?”
Ropy-hair gave Braylar a hateful look before bending down and sliding his hands under Lunter’s armpits. “Give me a hand here, Looris.”
Another soldier started to rise, but Red Scolin replied, “Just you, Barlin. Don’t forget to clean him up, neither. Basin’s by the bed. I want to see it full o’ red when we come up later. No blood on Lunter, no blood on the bed. You got that? Clean him good before you come back down. Go.”
Barlin cursed. He hefted Lunter up, almost slipping in the puddle of blood, grunting with exertion. “Lunter… you sack of guts… nothing but a…” but the rest of his declaration was unintelligible. Barlin slung the larger man over his shoulders. He wobbled as he walked, from the ale and the weight, and he tottered dangerously up the stairs, swearing the entire time. I expected the two to come rolling back down at any moment in a wild tangle of limbs—but somehow he completed his task and disappeared down the hallway.
The conversation resumed in the room, hushed at first, but gradually regaining its boisterous volume. Ale makes for short memories.
Braylar nodded to Red Scolin and returned to our table. Mulldoos laughed. “Got a real special way with people, you do, Cap. Should have been an emissary, diplomat maybe.”
“We all have talents.”
Syrie brought a pitcher and new mug and filled it for Braylar.
When she finished, he lifted it to his lips and drained it top to bottom. He tapped the brim and she filled it again. “We try to keep him in back, my brother. Easier that way. For everyone, but especially him. He doesn’t like it when people stare, and people are always staring. Likes it less when people abuse him, and they do that often enough as well.” She sets the pitcher down. “So what I’m saying, trying to say, is thank you. For stepping in like you did. You didn’t need to. We would have handled it. Always do. But thank you, just the same.”
Braylar drained most of the rest of his mug and wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. “Sweet, sweet Syrie, I’d happily break a thousand mugs over a thousand skulls if only to see you smile again.”
And with that she did. “Now, they’ll be no more of that, you can have the smile for free. I got enough to clean up without worrying about no thousand mugs and thousand skulls. But I thank you kindly just the same. For the rescue and the compliment. Now, I’ll be back straight away with your food.”
Vendurro said, “Cap, I got to say, if I’d have known that’s what you meant by discretion, that would have clarified things right quick. See, I had a whole different idea in mind.”
Syrie arrived with our food a few moments later. “And will you be needing anything else this evening?”
“One more pitcher, Sweet Syrie,” Braylar said. “Perhaps a tumble or two in your bed. Nothing more.”
Syrie laughed. “The ale you shall have, but I won’t be tumbled so easy.”
“No? Pity. I suppose I’ll have to settle for the smiles alone then. And the ale. Please, please, don’t forget the ale.”
She laughed again and spun off with her platter to the next table. I couldn’t help wondering how many times my mother had been propositioned like that. Or more to the point, how many times she had rebuffed someone when she had.
The other Syldoon continued their talk, mostly of seductions or failed attempts, and Lloi stood up to go.
Mulldoos said, “Not leaving now, are you, dog? We’d all love to hear of the maids you’ve stuck your filthy nubs into.”
Lloi replied, “Betting you would. Only difference is, mine would be true whereas yours are all drunken lies swelled up like a cow bladder.”
“You got a mouth like a rasp and a cunt full of nettles. Even that fat sow Andurva knew enough to talk sweet once in a while. Guessing that silk house rued the day they paid for you.”
I wondered what he meant when Lloi started walked around the table toward Mulldoos, taking her time. I watched her hand, afraid it might drift to her blade, but it stayed clear. She laid her good hand on Mulldoos’s shoulder and leaned down, mouth close to his ear. “You nailed it true. I should be sweet as honey, especially to them that show such kindness like yourself. Starting now. Let’s say we go up to your room, you and me, and I file the rasp down some, give that massive cock of yours a good tongue bath? Or—”
Mulldoos knocked her hand off his shoulder and glared at her, but she continued undaunted, “Maybe prune the nettles some and drop my slippery nest down on your horsedick, show you what a good little—”
He shouted, “Enough!” And when some of the other patrons looked at the commotion, he quieted, if a little, “Enough. By the gods, you’re a filthy beast. Go to barn with the rest of them. Leave the men to their drink.”
“And bloated boasts. You’re welcome to them.” She nodded to Braylar and headed out the door.
The rest of the Syldoon struggled not to laugh, and ultimately failed. Vendurro spit out, “Could have had yourself a free one there, Mulldoos.” That set the table to near hysterics.
Mulldoos nodded in exaggerated fashion, clearly not amused at all. “That’s right, you whoresons, that’s right. Have your fun.” He took a huge swig of ale and turned to Braylar. “I swear to Truth, Cap, you didn’t need her so awful bad…”
He left the thought unfinished, but Hewspear didn’t. “You’d take her for your very own?”
That set off another raucous round of laughter.
“Leper lesions, the whole stinking lot of you.” Mulldoos slammed his mug on the table.
With the latest potential bloodshed diverted, I finally settled in to eat.
⊕
After we finished our meals, Syrie collected our plates and dropped off more ale, and before I knew it, my mug was again empty and in need of refilling. Unaccustomed to drinking at a soldier’s pace, my head was truly beginning to swim. I excused myself and retu
rned to the room.
I woke several hours later. My bladder was full and my head was pounding, so I suspected one or both being the cause of my rousing. But then I realized I heard a muffled laugh and low voices. Disoriented, and my head still clouded from the ale, I thought for a moment it must have been one of the patrons in the next room. But when I heard the voices again, I realized they were coming from within my room. Braylar and a woman. A giggling woman. They spoke again, but low and soft, and I couldn’t make out the words.
Without a window the room was near pitch, and I couldn’t see anything either. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want them to know I was awake, but wondered if the woman knew I was in the room. It occurred to me she must have, for the entire inn saw that Braylar and I were sharing the room. I doubted a patron had arrived in the middle of the night, and doubted even more that even if she had she would’ve immediately made her way into a strange man’s bed. Presuming then that it was a woman already in the inn, I began to wonder who it could be when the answer struck me like cold water. Syrie.
Would my mother have cared about a man being in the room? Probably not. Why should Syrie have been different?
I felt my cheeks grow hot and wondered how I could excuse myself. Perhaps I should have simply cleared my throat and gotten up with a blanket, heading downstairs to join the others on the common floor. That would’ve been awkward, but so was staying put. Deprived of all sight and now fully alert with my anxiety, I heard the rest of the noises with an almost inhuman clarity. And really wished I hadn’t.
There were some soft sounds and movement—what I assumed was them slipping out of whatever remained of their clothing—and a giggle from who I was certain then must have been Syrie. There was a sharp wooden sound—the slats of the bed adjusting to the weight shifting above them—followed by another giggle. Braylar said something, though, trying as hard as I could despite my paralyzed embarrassment, I couldn’t discern individual words. I heard nothing for some time, save my own breathing mixed with theirs, and while much of me hoped they’d fallen asleep, I’m shamed beyond my ability to express that there was a part of me that yearned to hear more. I tried to comfort myself by thinking that it was a common enough human curiosity, nothing more—a fascination with what people do in the dark when they’re alone (or believe they aren’t being spied on)—but I wasn’t certain I believed that.
Scourge of the Betrayer Page 4
