“Thank you.” Roark took the proffered mug, steam curling up from its wide clay mouth, and held out a pair of gold pieces in return.
The olm raised one hairless brow at the money, then met Roark’s eyes with a condescending frown. “If the young master is so much in need, consider the drink a gift.”
Roark smirked and added another three pieces of gold. “If the tavern’s in such dire straits, I’m happy to contribute more.”
The elderly salamander’s eyes flattened, clearly unamused, and he snatched the payment from Roark’s hand before returning to the bar.
Alone again, Roark held the warm mug in both hands, taking a moment to savor the dizzyingly rich aroma of blueberries and spices rising on the steam. The first sip was stronger than he’d been expecting. Obviously the wealthy of Frostrime liked their wine fortified.
He studied the card play for a few hands, sipping the warm drink. The game looked similar to Riot, a staple of his mother’s summer card parties for peers and dignitaries visiting the von Graf Manor. Of course, being only a child, Roark hadn’t been allowed to play then. He’d perfected his Riot skills later on in life, bluffing tavern regulars out of drinks and coins while he listened to the local gossip and gleaned what news he could of the Tyrant King’s movements.
The table closest the wall had the fewest players—only three—and was playing for the highest stakes. Over the course of the last hand, the gold had piled up, and when the regal-looking dark elfess laid her handful of roses on the table—every one a high card—the heavyset nobleman in the feathered cap let loose a string of profanity.
“Come now, Henri,” the elfess said, scraping her winnings into her lap. “Didn’t you pay attention to the first run? No red to be seen at all.”
“I knew they were out of reach,” the nobleman grumbled. “But I had hoped the roses would be spread a little more evenly betwixt you both.” He craned his neck and called over his shoulder, “Another drink over here, Willam! I can’t break Madera’s blasted winning streak without being decently crocked.”
The Legionnaires perked up when Henri shouted, but the feather-capped nobleman apparently hadn’t quite broken the noise limit. When he slumped back into his seat and snappishly bought into the next hand without further shouting, the Legionnaires relaxed, a shadow of disappointment in their eyes.
Roark smiled into his mug. If anyone in this tavern could be goaded into a fight, it would be Henri. He watched them play another round, this one going to the elfess as well. Henri turned a red nearly as dark as the egg-sized ruby in his ring, then put the blame on their silent third, a rog with the finest silks stretched across his muscular frame, for taking all the best cards in the leaf suit.
When he felt certain he could keep up with the game, Roark ordered another spiced wine, then made his way to the table by the wall. This drink was merely for show. The last one had numbed his skull and extremities a good deal, which would be an unexpected advantage should Henri prove a scrapper. And the vague sensation of invincibility the wine had generated did wonders for his lordly posture as he swaggered over.
“How much to buy in?” Roark asked.
The quiet rog and dark elfess eyed him shrewdly, but Henri was too far in his cups and anger to take Roark’s measure.
“Ten gold and whatever dignity you brought with you,” the feather-capped nobleman growled.
“I have no dignity when it comes to cards,” Roark said, tossing the coins on the table carelessly as if he had more than he could ever spend. He fumbled a little as he took a seat—not entirely on purpose, thanks to the wine—but the elfess and rog exchanged pleased glances, clearly thinking they smelled blood in the water. “It gets me into the odd row with my father, but only because the old blowhard can’t understand that I can’t win back what I’ve lost if I don’t play.”
This drew a chuckle from Henri. “A young man after my own heart.”
“You’re a hero?” the elfess asked, her piercing aquamarine eyes focused on a point above Roark’s head, likely reading his nameplate. “Have you played Lush before, Rebel_of_Korvo?”
“Never, but I think I can muddle along with you.”
Her face stretched into a toothy smile that she quickly corrected into something friendlier and less predatory.
“You’ll catch on quickly,” she said, patting his hand.
The rest of the players bought in, then the rog dealt five cards to each of them. Roark got an assortment of rubbish, but matched the others bet for bet. When they laid hands, the elfess tried desperately not to look too pleased.
Henri cackled openly, clapping Roark on the shoulder. The nobleman was obviously happy not to be the worst player at the table anymore.
When, in the next hand, Roark staked a small fortune on a pair of twos, the whole table had a much harder time containing their glee. Even the rog rumbled with laughter.
“Oh my dear, sweet summer child!” Henri wheezed between gales of mirth. “A hundred thirty gold on nothing more than twos! Twos! Get this boy a house in town, Madera, we’ve got to make him a regular at the table!”
Roark ducked his head in false humiliation. “I didn’t think anyone could beat them.”
“Twos!” howled the nobleman.
Over at the bar, the Legionnaires were focused once more on the boisterous Henri.
“Lower your voice, Henri,” the elfess cautioned him, though she, too, was grinning. “Those Orderlies at the bar have the look of a pair who haven’t made their nightly quota yet.”
Henri quieted, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes.
“Ah,” he sighed, shaking his head. “Twos.”
Roark scowled, playing up the guise of irresponsible young lord desperate to regain his losses. It was his turn to deal, which meant the time had come.
He tossed out cards to his fellow players, sneakily sleeving three emperors and a pair of princes. The motions weren’t terribly deft as the wine’s warm buzz was still well-entrenched in his limbs. The dark elfess’s brow creased, and her aquamarine eyes narrowed. It looked as if she’d spotted his sleight of hand, and Roark waited for her to call him out, but she gave the slightest shake of her head and returned to her own hand.
Roark staked another small fortune on this round, driving up the bidding each time it came around. The elfess’s suspicion would serve him well in these next few moments.
“That’s it,” Henri said, tossing out his last handful of coins. “Flash us your unmentionables, folks.”
While the other three fanned out their hands on the table, Roark sat back a bit and fumbled with his.
“Oops.” His cards fluttered to the floor. “Just a moment.”
Roark scrabbled his chair back and leaned down, scooping them together with one hand while he pulled the winning hand out of his sleeve with the other.
A fat pink hand wrapped around Roark’s wrist.
“Here now, what’s this?” Henri demanded. He hauled Roark up and slammed his arm on the table, scattering the high cards. “You little cheat!”
“Of course,” the elfess said, her aquamarine eyes chilling to the shade of ocean ice. “I thought so.”
Roark wrenched his hand from the nobleman’s grasp and stumbled over his chair in an apparent rush to get away. Henri lunged for him, but Roark pulled a low-level rapier and brandished it, ready for the coming brawl. For his part, Henri looked ready to leap at him, armed or not.
But before the ruddy-faced nobleman could attack, the rog stood and snapped his huge fingers.
“This trash just tried to cheat us,” he rumbled, addressing the Legionnaires evenly. “And as you can see, he’s pulled a weapon in a public tavern without provocation. I believe that’s a direct violation of bylaw nine-five B, subsection eighteen.”
“It’s subsection twelve,” the shorter Legionnaire corrected the rog with obvious relish. He slid down from his stool and leaned forward on the balls of his feet.
Roark backed up against the wall. Both soldiers were already on t
he move, closing in from both sides.
“If you think I’m going peaceably, you’re delusional,” he warned them, adding a dagger enchanted with a Larval Pox Curse.
“Threatening a Legionnaire, too?” The larger one chuckled, then pulled a massive cleaver with one hand and his ivory buckler with the other. “In the Holy Name of Order, I hereby place you under arrest for the breaking of numerous Frostrime and Imperial laws. Surrender now.”
“Not bloody likely,” Roark said.
The Legionnaire grinned, showing needlelike teeth, then feinted, the firelight glinting off the sharp edge of his cleaver. Roark saw it for the ploy it was, but lunged an extraordinary step in return and made an off-balance thrust for the olm’s center. Forcing himself to execute the sloppy maneuver wasn’t easy. The years of swordsmanship ingrained in his muscles screamed for him to move his body out of line and forward, executing a girata, and deliver a series of sweeping squalembrato slashes to back the Legionnaire away. He doubted whether he could sustain the clumsy moves for any length of fight without giving himself away, but it turned out not to matter.
In the midst of his first lunge, his entire body froze, icy numbness sweeping through him from head to foot like leaping into a spring swollen with fresh mountain snowmelt. A gray-green aura had enveloped him.
He had been Paralyzed.
“Threat contained,” the smaller Legionnaire said, hands enveloped by that same gray-green aura, palms aimed at Roark. “A good bit of misdirection, as always, partner.”
“And a fast cast from you, partner,” the larger one said, stowing his weapon and buckler. “To the docks?”
“Gladly.” The smaller Legionnaire nodded. He swung his body around, dragging Roark’s paralyzed form across the polished floorboards. “If you’ll just get the door...”
“Of course. Have a good night, Willam.”
It was the most maddeningly civilized way Roark had ever been arrested. The part of him that had geared up for a scrap before giving in was disappointed.
Across the room, the elfess, rog, and nobleman returned to their game as if they’d already forgotten the incident.
But just before the door closed behind Roark and the Legionnaires, cutting them off from the warmth and light of the tavern, Henri shouted over his shoulder, “Enjoy frozen hell, lad!”
Inside, Roark grinned. He intended to.
A Barge of Scoundrels
EITHER THE SPELL CASTER of the Legionnaires didn’t have the required strength to lift Roark’s Jotnar body higher than an inch or so off the ground, or the olm enjoyed bouncing Roark’s feet and ankles off every obstacle and rock between the tavern and the waterfront.
The Legionnaires dragged him down the docks, the salt-worn planks clunking beneath their boots. With the paralyzation holding strong, Roark didn’t have to attempt to hide his interest in the massive shadows lining the docks on either side. The moon had risen nearly to the highest point overhead, throwing shadows from the masts and ratlines of the dozen carracks, clippers, and junks moored there. Roark had never spent much time on the ocean in Traisbin—there was only the single known continent, and the tyrant he wanted to kill never strayed from it—but he’d always had a passing fascination with seafaring vessels. The smell of fish and salt in the air, the constant creaking of wood and rope, and the endless slapping of waves on hull were enchanting.
At the farthest end of the dock sat a bulky, unwieldly looking hulk without a single mast. A row of open portholes lurked just above the waterline, and Roark could see hands poking out of more than a few. In the moonlight reflected off the water, they looked like corpse hands grasping for living flesh from beyond the grave.
The Legionnaires brought him up a wide gangplank to a desk where another of their comrades sat making notes in an enormous ledger.
“Name?” the notetaker asked.
“Rebel_of_Korvo,” the spell caster read from Roark’s illusory nameplate. “Hero, level 15.”
“Place of arrest?”
“The Frosty Ocarina, Frostrime Main Street, Frostrime.”
“Crime?”
The larger Legionnaire with the cleaver launched into the exhaustive list of Roark’s crimes by way of the number, section, and subsection of each law he’d broken while the notetaker recorded each one. It took a full five minutes to recount his illegal exploits, the scritch-scratch of quill on parchment never ceasing. That done, they emptied weapons and armor from his Inventory, cataloguing each piece Roark had brought along, which amounted to nothing he wanted to lose. The dagger and rapier, a few changes of leathers. Nothing unusual for a level 15 hero.
They left his assortment of magical items, modest Health potions, and scrolls.
“Don’t get your hopes up, prisoner,” the spellcasting Legionnaire said. “Magical items don’t work in the ferry or Chillend. Though you might need the Health potions.”
Everything taken was painstakingly recorded, and in return, Roark was given a set of Threadbare Breeches and Footwraps. The paralyzation came off long enough for Roark to put on the meager protection against the icy clime, then went back on while the notetaker launched into a bored litany he’d clearly gone through hundreds of times.
“Prisoner, you will be detained in the Frostrime harbor until first light, at which time the ferry will depart for Chillend Prison. Your total fine is eight thousand gold pieces. If you have someone in the mainland willing to pay your fine, a messenger will be provided to you. Please note that payments are accepted through alternate characters. If you are caught attempting to escape, your fine will be doubled. If you are caught damaging prison property, ferry included, your fine will be doubled. If you attempt to incite a mutiny, either in the prison or on the ferry, via a rousing freedom speech, you will be gagged indefinitely, and your fine will be doubled. Do you have anyone you can contact for payment?”
The paralyzation spell cut off again, the gray-green aura and icy numbness going with it.
Roark shook his head. “No, I don’t.”
“Very well.” The notetaker aimed the nib of his quill at a dark spot on the deck. “Deposit our prisoner in the holding cell, Legionnaires.”
They snapped off a sharp salute, heels clicking together in attention. A moment later, Roark found himself Paralyzed again. The dark spot on the deck glowed bright pink, illuminating a thick iron grate. It swung open and the spell caster Legionnaire floated Roark out over the black void and dropped him unceremoniously into the hold. Roark landed in a splash of stinking bilge water several yards below, hitting the wood hull hard enough to knock a handful of red from his filigreed Health vial. With a groan, he unfolded himself and limped to a standing position.
Huge arms engulfed him, lifting him from his feet.
“Roark made it!” Kaz squeezed Roark until ribs creaked.
“Quiet down, big guy.” Zyra’s low whisper drifted through the darkness. “And remember, he’s Rebel_of_Korvo until we’re home again.”
“Kaz feared Roa—er, Rebel was harmed or killed during his arrest,” the Mighty Gourmet said, his grip only tightening.
“But now you can clearly see that I’m fine.” Roark winced. “Put me down, Kaz, before you kill me.”
Kaz dropped him. “What took Rebel so long?”
“I had to throw a few hands of cards before I could reveal that I was cheating, or it would’ve looked suspicious,” Roark said. “How did you both get here so quickly?”
A choppy wave hit the hulk, sending it listing to one side and gushing seawater through the portholes on the far side.
Roark stumbled and nearly fell, but Zyra caught him by the elbow.
“Takes a while to get your sea legs,” she said. “We’ve got a dry spot over here. Come on.”
She led him up a steep curve in the hull to a place where it flattened out beside a porthole, then let go. The porthole let in a bright circle of moonlight, but she folded her legs and sat just outside its touch, in the shadows. Kaz sat squarely on the light, a wall of muscle blocking
them off from the other prisoners.
Of which there were quite a few, Roark realized. Now that his eyes were adjusting to the darkness, he could see at least fifty bodies clustered around the portholes on either side of the massive hold, many of whom had just been drenched by that rogue wave. Countless other shadows skulked in the darker places. Enough to make him wish the Legion hadn’t taken his blades.
“Don’t mind them,” Zyra said, noting the drift of his attention. “They won’t dare come close again.”
“Again?” Roark asked.
“Kaz and Zyra had one run-in with a group of ruffians sent by a local chef,” the Knight Thursr explained. “But Kaz had a cinnamon stick the Legion didn’t confiscate.” He pulled out a jagged brown stick. “Kaz snapped it in half and cut two of the ruffians before they could descend on him and Zyra.”
“It was downright brilliant,” Zyra said, flashing a smile at Kaz.
“Kaz got the idea from when he was trying to mull some mead and cut himself on a cinnamon stick. Cinnamon sticks can be very sharp. If Kaz ever writes a book like Gry Feliri or Jordan Bamsey, Kaz’s will detail the dangers of cinnamon sticks.”
“Hang on.” Roark lifted one hand. “Did you say a chef sent them after you?”
Kaz nodded his massive head. “It is how Kaz was arrested. He suggested that the chef used too little salt in his stew, and that was the reason it tasted flavorless and flat, and the chef attacked Kaz in front of all his customers. Kaz only defended himself, but he was arrested as well for participating in a brawl in a public space and exceeding local noise limits.” The Knight Thursr glanced over his shoulder, then pointed a finger the size of a plantain across the ship toward a distant porthole. “That is the chef. Kaz thinks he may be holding a grudge.”
Roark sized up the hefty man in the stained white jacket and flattened chef’s toque. Even from this distance, it was clear the chef was glaring at Kaz.
“I’d say you’re right, mate.” Roark made a mental note to keep an eye on the disgruntled chef until they were safely away from him.
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