by Ty Johnston
With Bayne leading the way, the two trod through the opening to find themselves in a large chamber lit by rows of candles upon the right and left walls. Immediately to the left of the entrance a set of wooden stairs ran up the wall, apparently to rooms above. A light smoke hung in a haze about the place, and the smells of eggs cooking, bread baking and frying meats lingered upon the air. Aged tables and chairs were spread throughout the room, and along the far back wall was a bar with several stools fronting it. A half dozen men sat throughout the chamber, most sitting down to a meal and drink.
A young man appeared seemingly from nowhere, dressed in a nice but simple tunic. “May I be of service to you two ...” His words trailed off as he took in the two men. The swords and the armor seemed to quell any instincts the lad had at courtesy.
“We will need a room for the night,” Bayne spoke.
The doorman’s face went pale. “Um … um ...”
“Is there a problem?” Bayne asked.
The doorman’s face went even more pale, almost the white of a fish’s belly. “No!” he nearly shouted. “Yes, a room for these two gentlemen. Up the stairs, last room on the left.”
Lerebus reached into the sack on his belt and pulled out a couple of silver coins. “Will this cover the fee?”
The young doorman gave a nervous giggle. “Yes, sir. Most definitely, sir. Breakfast will be included in the morning.”
“We also have horses out front needing stabling,” Lerebus said.
“I will take care of it personally,” the doorman said. “Our stables are around the eastern side of the building.”
“Fine.” Bayne turned left and tromped up the stairs.
Lerebus squeezed the two pieces of silver into the doorman’s tight, shaking fist, then with a nod spun about and went up the stairs after his partner.
Once inside their room, they dropped their saddle bags into a corner. Bayne plopped into a chair next to the chamber’s only window and stared outside past tied-back shutters. Lerebus found a spot sitting on the edge of the only bed, little more than a feather-stuffed mattress atop a rope bunk; the heavy warrior sank into the mattress, the ropes providing little support and slumping so deep the man’s rear nearly touched the floor. Despite the bed, it was a cozy enough room. A small pine table with a stub of a candle sat next to Bayne, and a wardrobe of a rough red wood stood next to the entrance.
Lerebus sighed and glanced toward the larger man. “Would you like to go downstairs and have something to eat?”
Bayne continued to look out the window, his gaze facing only the dark of an alley between the inn and the building next to it. “Perhaps,” he said, “though I am not sure we would be welcome.”
“Probably your scars jarred the poor fellow downstairs,” Lerebus said. “But it’s just as likely they are not used to seeing mercenaries or soldiers amongst them. I overheard the gladiators speaking of the peace brought about by the Trodans when Verkanus’s forces were defeated. Apparently even bandits fear to tread these lands.”
Bayne nodded. “I noticed the old man at the town gate was the only guard to be seen. At first I believed this was because of the festival, that perhaps even the town guards have the night off, but your words have the ring of truth to them.”
“So,” Lerebus said, “would you be interested in food? They seem friendly enough folk. They might give us the odd glance, but as long as we mind our own business, I believe we should go unaccosted.”
Bayne grinned. “Let them try to accost me and see where it gets them.”
Now Lerebus grinned, but his smile was more mirthful than that of his larger companion. “That’s the kind of attitude that could get us into trouble.”
“No trouble from me,” Bayne said, standing, “not unless they bring it to me.
“Let us go, then. It is rare I get to enjoy a meal indoors.”
Soon the two swordsmen were downstairs again. They confiscated a small table with two chairs in the front corner of the place, giving them a line of sight to all entrances, the other tables, the bar at the back and the stairs. As became civilized folk, Bayne had left his large sword upstairs beneath the bed. Lerebus had left behind his spear, but at his belt was his short sword. Each man continued to wear a dagger at his waist.
The crowd was gradually growing larger and louder, keeping the bartender busy as well as the doorman and the other two young men who worked the tables. Still, despite the business, it was only a short time before a leather jack of ale was before each of the warriors along with wooden plates of steaming beef and potatoes. Iron utensils were at hand as well as a bowl of soft butter and another plate loaded with rolls. It was all quite civilized. Lerebus made sure to leave another silver on the table, more than enough to cover the late meal as well as a sizable tip for the waiter.
Bayne stared at the iron fork and knife next to his plate as if they were demons from another world sent to kill him, but after a few moments he gave a shrug and lifted the utensils. It was obvious the way he ate with jerking motions that he was not familiar with the use of such tools. It brought another grin to his companion’s lips as they ate.
More and more folks strolled into the inn, each group larger and louder than the one before. By the time the two warriors had finished their meal, the establishment was packed. Theirs was the only table sporting just two sitters, a sign of the townsfolk keeping some distance from strangers, or perhaps because of Bayne’s unusual, scarred visage. Every other table had at least four customers, many with more than four, chairs and stools having been pulled from a back room. The bar, too, was now crowded, every stool filled and all spaces between stuffed with those standing and drinking and talking and gawking.
It was turning into a rather uproarious crowd. The poor table waiters and the bartender couldn’t keep up with the orders, and eventually the young doorman had to pull double duty, watching the door and bringing drinks to tables.
The only empty spot remaining in the large room was an open area at the bottom of the stairs that lead to the second floor. There to one side of the stairs had been placed a stool. But this stool apparently wasn’t for sitting as two tankards of ale had been placed upon it.
If Bayne had hazarded a guess, he would have concluded there were at least two hundred men now spread throughout the inn’s main room. A few womenfolk could be spotted here and there, but only a few.
The talk among the crowd was mostly mundane. Jokes were passed back and forth, as were tales of hunting trips and news from the far cities of Brome and Trode and Salvino. None of it was of interest to Bayne, though Lerebus appeared to keep his eyes and ears open. Too, the strangers in the crowd drew no more than the occasional glance from the townspeople; they feared strangers, it was obvious, or at least they feared two gigantic men who appeared ready for war, especially the one covered in scars and wearing a shirt of chain mail.
Bayne was just getting ready to suggest they retire to their room when a newcomer walked through the front entrance of The Undecided Rat. He was an older fellow, but not quite old. His hair was short and gray and a matching mustache road his top lip. He was short and dressed in simple garb, though of a slightly better quality than of the hoi polloi taking up the rest of the room.
This new fellow stopped just inside the door, placed his hands on his hips and stared about the place, his gaze flowing over the heads of the many there as if he was counting them. By this time the crowd had noticed his entrance and the room went quiet for a moment, then several men stood up in the crowd and began clapping there hands. Then everyone stood up and began clapping and hollering and shouting and yelling at the tops of their lungs. Whistle calls were not uncommon.
The new man grinned wide and waved at the crowd, then he turned and retreated toward the bottom of the stairs. He paused to take a sip from one of the drinks there, then placed the mug back on the stool and turned to face the room.
The hullabaloo continued. Men were waving and yelling and whistling until finally the older man in front of the s
tairs raised his hands and shouted with a smile and a twinkle in his eyes, though none could hear his words.
At that the crowd began to settle down. Men dropped back into their seats and ordered new drinks. The chat of earlier continued, but it was more low key than before, and all eyes were upon the man at the stairway who waved with both arms one last time before opening his mouth.
“I want to thank everybody for being here tonight,” the fellow said.
There was a slight uproar from the array of drinkers and talkers, all with smiles. More than a few mugs were hefted up high and a few joyous shouts let loose.
“Thank you, thank you,” the speaker continued.
The crowd quietened once more, a slur of excited talk just barely below the surface.
Lerebus watched with some interest, but Bayne eased back in his chair and quaffed his ale as if he had not a care in the world.
“It’s good to be here before you all, the best there is of our sleepy little town,” the speaker went on. “I see before me the backbone of our society. Farmers. Smiths. Laborers of all sorts. The kind of men who get things done.”
Enough eruption, a short one from the crowd, then near-silence returned.
“And I am one of you,” the speaker said loudly over the heads of the group. “You all know me. You all know Art Staebo, brick layer and quarry chief. We’ve grown up together, most of us. Worked together, went to school together, worshiped together. Hell, some of us have even had the same women.”
A few chuckles spurted from the crowd.
“And that is why I stand here as a proud member of the distinguished Optimal party,” Art said. “Our organization represents the values of our fathers, and the values of the working man.”
More hoots and hollers. It appeared the crowd was also full of Optimals and supporters.
Art Staebo raised his chin high, as if staring into an epic past. “A group of you locals asked me to be here tonight, and to run for mayor of our town. At first I was not interested. I am a busy man. I work hard. I have a family to raise. But then I thought about my own father, and his father, and his father before him. All of them were busy men who worked hard and raised their families. Just like all of you here before me. None of my fathers shirked a task, and so do none of you. Thus I realized I could not in good conscience shirk the task put before me. So I hereby announce officially to a public gathering that I, Art Staebo, am entering my name in the ballot for mayor, voting to commence in three days.”
The speaker’s voice had slowly raised with each word. By the moment’s final word, he was nearly shouting. And the crowd was right along with him, the chaos and clamor of the scene growing more and more rowdy. Men were stomping the floor and shouting. Others were smacking the tops of their tables or one another on the shoulders. Drinks were spilled and shouts went up for more liquor. All in all, it was a festive bunch.
Bayne sat motionless and unmoved. He saw not the spark of fire in the men’s eyes, but the glazed looks of simpletons and dullards.
Slowly it died down with Art raising his hands once more and lowering them several times as if patting at the air. It was a sign for silence, for him to speak further. The crowd understood and the crowd obeyed.
Now the speaker’s demeanor turned dark, his eyes narrowing and his brows arching. He hunkered forward slightly, his head drooping forward like that of a vulture eying a meal. His voice became conspirational, nearly hissing. “Enough about me and why I’m here. As I said, you all know me. But you also know my opponent, our opponent.”
Here the speaker straightened slightly and pointed out the front door of The Undecided Rat. His gaze was now hateful, angered. “Those … traitors! They are across the street at the home of one of their hoity toity types, laying their treacherous plans and planning for war against us all! Right here in our own fair town they are listening to the likes of Kym Scilicius, that piece of unworthy scum! He is telling them about his own running for mayor. He is making all kinds of promises. About how he is going to take away the land from the hard-working farmers! About how he’ll take away the wages from the hard-working laborers! About how he’ll steal our very children right from under our noses and make them into what he considers good citizens! All in the name of filling his own pockets! And the pockets of his cronies!”
Like a river crushing through a dam, the crowd burst again.. Men shouted and hollered and jumped to their feet. Tables were overturned, more drinks spilled, and the floor was hammered with boots stomping. Knives were drawn and thrust at the air. The few womenfolk cowered at this, easing back into corners away from the madmen that made up the crowd. The inn’s staff fled behind the bar in the back, the barkeep hoisting a club of wood as if he expected trouble.
Art Staebo raised his arm’s once more and the masses slowly went quiet, picking up their chairs and returning to their seats after sheathing their knives and daggers.
Through it all, Bayne sat unblinking, his face like stone. Lerebus appeared somewhat amused, a sly wink of a smile on his lips.
“Kym Scilicius represents the Popular party,” Art went on after order was restored. “He came here all the way from Brome a few years ago, supposedly to set up shot as a dye merchant. But we all know the truth! He is a seditious dog! He came here with his big-city ideals and humanistic thinkings to bring about the ruin of our quaint little town. Because that’s what the Populars do! They don’t believe in the old ways. They want to take everything away from all of us and change everything. They want to make our fine, strong nation, fought and bled over by our proud veterans, into some namby-pamby little country where no one can do anything but what they say!
“Our men fought in Pursia! And here, in Ursia! To free us from the likes of Verkanus and his empire. And now, all these years later, the Populars and the Kym Sciliciuses slide in like snakes in the grass to steal our families from us and our belongings from us. They want to take everything we’ve worked for! So they can have it all themselves!
“I say enough! It is time we declared war on the likes of Kym Scilicius! It is time we took back our town and our country and our families! It is time we put the blade to the throats of those who would steal from us and butcher us in the night like we were cattle! It is time to drive out those who think we are nothing but ignorant fools! Those of us who worship the old ways and the days of our fathers!”
The room went mad, worse than before. Other than that of Bayne and Lerebus, not a rear remained in a seat. Every chair and table was overturned, some even smashed. Men were screaming for blood. Knives were drawn again, jabbed at the sky and stabbed into furniture. Not a drink went unturned. The building shook from the stomping of boots and the bawling and yelling and shrieking.
All the while, Art Staebo stood at the front of the room with his head back and his hands on his hips. He stood straight with a look of fierce glee upon his face.
He shouted over the crowd, “And that is why, my fellow townsmen, you must vote for me for mayor come three days!”
A chant went up. “Staebo! Staebo! Staebo!” Louder and louder it grew, the walls and floor and ceiling of the inn shaking all the more until it seemed the place might fall apart, tumbling in upon itself to utter destruction.
But eventually the crowd grew tired. Men’s throats grew hoarse and their arms and legs were like lead. They picked up the furniture and began to resume their sitting and drinking. Weapons were put away and more drinks and food were soon proffered throughout the room.
Art Staebo moved into the crowd, slapping backs and shaking hands. Chatting idly here and there, his visage going back and forth between wide smiles and serious, stern looks. Everyone seemed to want to speak with the man, however briefly, and each seemed to want to touch him, to shake his hand or pat his arm. It seemed Art Staebo was the popular man tonight.
Bayne stood. The big man’s chair scraped across the wooden floor as it slid back against the wall, the legs of the furniture screeching loud enough to draw all attention in the room and to cause more t
han a few men to cringe.
Lerbus continued to sit, his only movement the gentle slide of one hand toward the sword at his belt.
The room's silence was instant. All eyes were upon the imposing warrior in the corner. Men half stood. Others had stopped a mug of ale almost to their lips. Some had arms raised as if ready to strike a blow. Art Staebo stood near a table of three of the townspeople, the speaker now appearing deflated, no smile gracing his lips and no heat of anger in his eyes.
Bayne’s gaze glided over the chamber, over the heads of all those present. Finally, his stern look stopped upon Art Staebo.
“You have traitors amongst you,” Bayne stated.
Staebo’s lips quivered, but he managed to speak. “Yes. They call themselves the Populars.”
“This is some military unit?” Bayne asked. “They have more the sound of infiltrators about them.”
Staebo shook his head. “No. They are a political affiliation.”
“Politics?”
“They are a political organization,” Staebo explained. “A party. A group of men who hold to one particular set of ideals.”
“You have made them sound as if they are murderers in the night,” Bayne said. “Your words tell of war and of enemies who strike against a man’s very family, of enemies who will steal from you and kill you.”
A sheepish grin crossed Staebo’s face. “Those are the words of politics.”
Bayne scowled.
“You would appear to be a stranger to our town,” Staebo said, “a stranger to our ways. We elect our leaders through elections, through votes, and I am vying for the seat of mayor.”
The warrior’s scowl deepened. “Your people take a tally to decide who is to be your rulers?”
Staebo nodded. “Yes. That is the matter of it.”
Bayne snarled and scoffed. “You are not men.”
