by M. S. Verish
Arshod urged Rourke outside and shut the door. The old man began to shout from inside, and they climbed the stairs back into the kitchen.
“The old one is crazy,” Arshod said with a weak smile. “He has been so since he was brought here.”
“But he is the Prophet, ain’t he?” Rourke asked.
“So they call him. Perhaps he is both.” Arshod busied himself with the meal, and Rourke sat and watched him absently, responding shortly to whatever light questions the Jornoan tossed his way. He could not, however, shake the image of the prisoners from his mind, and worse still were the cries of the Prophet that promised their fate. So much for me being a hero. I feel more like the bad guy.
*
Once the sun had risen, so, too, had the other occupants of the manor. The air had warmed enough to entice the Priagent outside, and he invited his guests to dine alongside his brothers. Argamus accepted the invitation on behalf of his leader, who was curiously absent at the onset of the meal. He and Rourke exchanged an uncertain glance, and as if on cue, Rashir asked the inevitable question.
Argamus hesitated. “He was a touch under the weather last night. I think, perhaps, he will be joining us shortly.”
“‘Under the weather,’” Rashir repeated. “This is a new expression for me.”
“Such an expression is used when one is not feeling well,” Argamus said, taking a sip of his tea. “This is a rather unusual blend of herbs.”
“They are from our homeland,” Arshod said with a hint of pride.
“Lord Hale seems inclined to a certain fragility,” Rashir said. “I hope that he is hearty enough to endure our journey northward.”
“I would say he has more strength than he exhibits,” Argamus defended, then wondered if he should not have spoken at all. He found himself second-guessing most everything he said, uncertain if he would help or hinder Hale’s plans.
As if summoned by the conversation, Sebastian Hale appeared at the door to the veranda. He looked pale—even for his pasty guise. Shadows had settled beneath his eyes, and his hair was in slight disarray. He did not smile or nod but uttered a hasty apology for his tardiness.
“Think naught of it,” Rashir said. “We have the day to plan our course, and I would prefer everyone be well-rested and clear in thought.”
Hale glanced at Argamus, then held Rashir’s gaze. “If you do not expect to depart today, I would like to make the trip into Orecir to purchase some supplies for the journey.”
Rashir nodded. “I will send Hesun and Arshod with you. I can think of more than a few items we will need as well. The cart is at your disposal.”
Hale’s bland expression never altered. “Thank you. I hope to leave after breakfast.”
“Do not feel you must hurry,” Rashir said. “My intention is to leave tomorrow morning. There is little to prepare aside from gathering our provisions.” He poured a cup of tea and passed it to Hale. “This may ease that which ails you.”
Hale accepted the cup. “At worst I am unaccustomed to the climate. I suffer no malady.”
“From where do you hail?” Rashir asked. “Further north, I would imagine.”
“Caspernyanne.”
“Do you travel much?”
“When it is required of me,” Hale said. Conversation waned as he directed his attention to his meal, which he picked at like a crow plucking grapes from the vine. Every motion was meticulous and decided, and whatever morsels he disfavored were left in a neat heap upon his plate.
Once the meal had finished, the diners dispersed, and Rourke, Argamus, and Hale started for the stables. Argamus folded his arms. “I was not certain you would join us.”
“There is a situation,” Hale said, his mask of indifference slipping down with the weight of grim tidings.
Argamus stopped walking, forcing Hale to turn. Rourke rubbed the back of his neck and stared at the ground.
“Snowfire was uneasy,” Hale said. “I went scouting early this morning.”
“I didn’t mean nuthin’ by it,” Rourke blurted. “I couldn’t sleep, so I—” He glanced up to find both his companions staring at him.
“Let us allow our leader to finish before you make your confession,” Argamus said, his frown deepening.
Hale’s gaze alternated between the two of them. “There was an encampment east of Orecir. Five men; two I recognized. The Seroko are on their way.”
“The real Seroko?” Rourke asked. “Whadda we do?”
Argamus thumped his staff. “We have not been here a day, and our mission is in jeopardy.”
“There is a chance,” Hale said, “that we can dispel the threat before we need confront it.” He gestured for them to continue walking. “We are in the Freelands, and Freelanders do not take kindly to encroachment upon their land. Once we reach Orecir, I will attempt to rally support against the Merchants’ Guild representatives.”
“You mean you’re gonna start a fight?” Rourke asked, eyes wide.
“How many ways can this end poorly?” Argamus asked.
“It is our only chance,” Hale said. “I sent a letter with Snowfire to alert Othenis. I instructed him to meet me in the city.”
“I notice you have only mentioned your involvement,” Argamus said. “What role do you expect us to play in this ludicrous scheme?”
Hale opened the door to the stable and waited for them to file inside. “You are buying supplies for our journey,” he said simply.
Rourke looked down at his sword and sighed. “So we ain’t fightin.’”
“That is not our purpose,” Argamus said, agitated. “As it is, we seem unable to avoid trouble.” He tugged at his lengthy beard. “How many ways can this end poorly?” he repeated.
Hale patted the neck of his horse. “You must trust in me.”
Argamus snorted.
Hale began fastening the bridle. “What have you done, Rourke?”
“Me? Oh—I… I just went for a walk. Nuthin’ happened.”
“‘Nothing’ could be important later,” Hale said. “What happened?”
Rourke twisted his foot in the straw. “I just saw—” He froze when he heard a sound from behind him.
“I am pleased we will be joining you,” said a voice from the stable door. Arshod stepped inside, followed by Hesun. They advanced toward the cart, and Arshod gave Rourke a knowing nod. Hale raised an eyebrow.
“As are we,” Argamus said, forcing a smile.
*
The purse was considerably lighter, and Argamus hefted what remained in his hand. There was a grunt as Rourke placed the final bag in the bed of the wagon. “That all?” the brute asked.
Argamus stared down the road where Hale had left them a couple hours ago. Where are you? He sighed. “Yes, that should be all.”
Arshod and Hesun stepped up. “Do we expect Lord Hale back soon?” Arshod asked.
“Certainly,” Argamus said, purposely turning back to the cart. “He does not tarry when it comes to business. He should meet us here presently.” He found himself pulling at his beard again. Hale’s absence was not the only tension. He now knew the Freeland attitude toward medori, and while he was not currently red-skinned, his ruby eyes and wizard robes turned more than a few heads.
“Medoriate Dunn.” Hesun placed a hand on his arm. “I understand that our purpose here was to prepare for our journey, but now that we have, I thought we might pursue some entertainment.”
Argamus’s mouth dropped as he imagined a brothel. “I….”
“We are visitors here,” Hesun continued, “and in the name of good company, we thought you might join us.”
The wizard closed his mouth and opened it again, his thoughts reeling too quickly for an adequate excuse.
“The Snake’s Head—” the Jornoan gestured to a particular tavern—“is a reputed establishment. I should like to step inside.”
Argamus’s concern eased but a little. How is a tavern reputed? I should hope it is by its service and quality of food… His stomach growled
, and his hand subconsciously fell upon his belly. “I…I would encourage you to enjoy yourselves,” he said, “though I, regrettably, must stay with our supplies.” He gave a nod to Rourke, who was watching him with uncertainty. It seemed Arshod was already trying to coax the brute with a steering hand upon his shoulder.
“It is of no concern,” Hesun said, producing a few coins. “I will hire an attendant, and he can direct Lord Hale to our location. Please, join us.”
Clearly his mind is set. Argamus cast a lasting look down the road before following the trio into the Snake’s Head. The name alone should have prepared him for the atmosphere inside. The dim light was further diminished by a pungent haze, which did not seem to deter their Jornoan escorts in the slightest. So it was that he found himself seated on a stool at the bar, a cup of some unknown spirit reflecting his wary expression as he stared down at the contents.
“It is our treat,” Hesun said with a nod, his voice barely rising above the din of conversation and the half-hearted efforts of a drunken lutenist. Argamus saw that Rourke had been equally appropriated. For as often as he had indulged in spirits and a vintage bottle of his own, Argamus had rarely found himself in such a setting. His casual drinking had either been done in solitude or in the company of those he might consider friends. This was—with the exception of Rourke—a room full of strangers and potential threats. He sincerely hoped the Jornoans would be satisfied after a drink or two, and then they would meet up with Hale, and return to the manor without any mishap.
Argamus became aware that his company was staring at him, drinks raised. “Come, Medoriate,” Hesun said. “To the success of our journey!”
Argamus caught the barkeeper’s sharp stare before lifting his cup. “Yes. To our journey.” The drink—which was a bit more potent than he was accustomed—nearly had him gag. He dabbed at his watery eyes and managed a smile. Rourke had much the same expression, but with Hesun and Arshod between them, it was less than likely he could verbally communicate with his companion.
Poor James. He looks to me for guidance, but I cannot aid him beyond my own example. It seems, however, he has made a new friend since our arrival. Arshod was excitedly relating some sort of tale to the brute, and Rourke had leaned in to listen. Seldom did his lips move, but his eyes kept darting back to Argamus for reassurance. The best the wizard could do was shrug.
A second round of drinks appeared, and Argamus was tempted to decline, but between the watchful regard of the barkeeper and the expectant pause of his company, the pressure to conform had triumphed. While it was hardly the quality wine he would choose, this cup went down more easily.
“You do not like it?” Hesun asked.
“It is not bad,” Argamus lied, “though I admit it is not my customary beverage.”
“What is your drink, Medoriate?” Hesun asked.
“Bah, you do not need to cater to my preferences.” He could feel his face heating.
“Tell me. Tell me your preference,” the Jornoan insisted. “I wish to try it for myself.”
“A sweet red wine,” Argamus said dismissively. He drew his purse. “But if you insist, then I will indulge this round.” Once the coins had been secured, he noticed the barkeeper did not stare quite so intently at him.
“A fair drink,” Hesun said, licking his lips. “But it is not unlike other wine I have sampled.”
“You have not tasted the wine of my homeland,” Argamus boasted. “There is none better than vintage Markanturian red.”
“Your pardon?” Hesun asked, cupping his hand to his ear.
It was then Argamus realized his error, and though his face was now afire, he was grateful the noise in the tavern had muddied his answer. “Mystland wine,” he repeated, louder. “None better.”
“This is good,” Hesun said, “but it is not why I am here.” He set several coins upon the counter and slid them to the barkeep. There was an inaudible exchange between them, a nod from the latter, and a wave toward some burly gentleman at the back of the tavern. The burly man came to stand behind them, and Argamus could feel a chill down his back.
We have been discovered, he thought, panicked. He thought back to when he and Kariayla awoke in a Freeland prison. Rourke must have had a similar thought, because his eyes were wider than the cup before him. They were urged off their stools, the burly man herding them from behind. What do we do? I must think quickly… This was certainly not his element. Political debates were like plucking daisies compared to this, but how could he possibly think a way out of detainment?
They were ushered to a corner and through a narrow passage, down a flight of stairs, and to a door guarded by another burly man. A cellar? Argamus thought his heart might give out. What unspeakable horror will await us here—beyond the attention of anyone above?
“What about him?” the man at the door asked his peer.
Argamus forgot to breathe when he realized the finger was pointed at him.
“Never mind the caster,” said the escort. “You see they have an Enforcer with them. They paid their way.”
What is this?
The man at the door nodded and opened the barrier. The room inside was smokier, hotter, and darker than the tavern above. As they were pushed inside, Argamus realized they were being crammed into a smaller space choked with people. Unlike the room upstairs, this group was quiet, their attention rapt to some activity ensuing in the center of the cramped space. At once there was an uproar—shouts of joy and anger, followed by cheers of encouragement and curses that made Argamus’s ears twitch.
Hesun excitedly pushed his way to the front of them, clearing a tight path so they could follow. Still, there were elbows and knees and bodies bumping into them, and from the eye of the storm, there was the sound of tense breathing, grunts and gasps. Argamus raised himself on his toes to glimpse two men in an open ring grappling with each other. At once he realized the truth: this was an illegal fight—a gambler’s haven. Another glimpse revealed the bloody, half-clothed contestants, spittle running from their mouths, fevered looks in their eyes.
Hesun was already placing his bets with a man in a dark hat. Arshod was eager to join him. The Jornoan turned to them. “Will you place a wager too?”
“I think I must sit down,” Argamus admitted. He was sweating profusely, and the heat threatened to steal his consciousness from him.
Arshod nodded, and Argamus gestured for Rourke to follow him. He spotted a small bar at the edge of the crowd, and they worked their way toward it as quickly as they could. There were no vacant stools, but when the occupants saw a medoriate in their midst, several of them willingly vacated the area. Argamus’s thanks fell upon deaf ears as he sat down heavily, Rourke next to him. He dabbed at his neck and forehead, catching his breath.
“You gonna make it, fella?” the barkeeper asked.
Argamus nodded and removed his hat.
“I’ll get ya something,” their host offered.
He tried to mouth, “water,” but when he downed the cup, it was not water that burned its way to his stomach. Argamus fought a grimace. “How much do I owe you?”
“Nuthin,’” the barkeep said. “You’re paid for if you’re down here. Guess you’ve never been to a fight before.”
“Never,” Rourke said, dazed.
“Well here’s how it works,” the barkeeper said. “You get a few drinks, you place your bets, and you win or you lose. That simple.” Two more cups appeared, and he set them before his new guests.
“Dear me,” Argamus sighed, his head in his hand.
“Now don’t you worry. Ol’ Rey will take care of you.” The barkeep smiled.
“Arc—gamus,” Rourke whispered. “Mr. Hale’s gonna be mad, ain’t he?”
Argamus could smell the spirits on Rourke’s breath, and when he looked at him, he could already see the brute’s bleary eyes. “How many drinks have you had?”
“Not that many, I don’t think.”
“You are not as robust as you feel,” Argamus said. “It would
not take so many to inebriate you.”
“What’s that mean?” Rourke picked up his cup and downed it before Argamus could stop him.
“I fear it does not matter now.” He looked broodingly at his own cup. “And yes, I do believe Mr. Hale will be most displeased. If ever he finds us.”
Rourke looked horrified. “You don’t think he’ll find us?”
“I do not see how he could. If it has not been stolen, he might find a wagon with supplies. And if we are extremely fortunate, he will find an attendant who will point him toward this tavern. That is where his search will end, for I doubt anyone will enlighten him to the activities present in this secluded room.”
“Yeah,” Rourke said. “Yerright.” He looked at Argamus’s drink. “You gonna drink it?” He started to reach for it, but Argamus pulled it away.
“Yes, if it prevents you from stealing it.” He sipped from the cup and grimaced again.
“You gotta drink it straight,” Rey said. “Or it’ll do you in.”
“Of course,” Argamus said dryly. He did as instructed. “We should all lose our senses, because there is little hope of rectifying this situation.” He looked up at the wall, waiting for the slight shift in his vision to stabilize before studying the paintings behind the bar. He wondered how he had not noticed them before.
Rourke had followed his gaze, because he asked outright, “Who’re them?”
“Our famed fighters, of course,” Rey said with a grand sweep of his arm. “Some o’ them long gone, but they earned their place on the wall.”
Argamus hiccupped and pardoned himself. “Might I ask how one earns his respective place upon the wall?”
“Ask ‘im how you get on the wall,” Rourke said, patting the wizard’s arm.
Argamus cast him an irritated glance.
“Twenty fights,” Rey said. “You need to win fifteen out of twenty fights. Most fighters don’t last that long. You can only take so many hits, ya know. These gentlemen, they were the great ones.”
There were only ten paintings, and each had been done with the expertise one would expect of an artist decorating an illegal establishment. But for the lack of quality, it seemed the anatomy was fairly accurate, and no two fighters looked alike. Their names were printed below their images, and Argamus attempted to focus on them.
