Soon Halas noticed his friends tiring, and the burden of entertainment shifted from the visitors to the locals. Several of the townspeople wanted nothing more than to share their tales with fresh ears, most of which consisted of great and false deeds.
There was Brahm, who had once served directly under King Melick’s father, King Formic, as his personal bodyguard. Martin, who was responsible for slaying not one, but two dragons with only a crossbow. Horace claimed to have bedded over half the women in Galveston. Lo, a foul-mouthed woman roughly sixty years of age, who had once been the personal mistress of King Melick. She was, in fact, mother to a secret prince, a boy imprisoned in the bowels of the castle to prevent embarrassment to the throne, and one day she would return to Cordalis to free her son and rule as queen. Aeon himself smiled at this but said nothing.
There were many more. Had the stories contained even a single grain of truth, every single man and woman in Bakunin was a great hero worthy of song. Halas decided that he didn’t much care for their falsehoods. He wanted to talk with Miriam again; Halas liked her. She’d been just as grandiose as the rest of them, but only in mannerisms. At least she was honest. The moose was delicious, so he busied himself in that. It came from the last stores of the previous hunt, Braham said. Marrok had cooked it with spices he never shared with the other villagers.
“Go ahead,” said Brahm, “take advantage of the place. The innkeeper’s a Sayad; he’ll do anything to keep a customer.”
“He’s the only tavern in the village,” said Elivain. Unlike the boys, he had kept to just one drink, and nursed it throughout the evening. Halas himself was rounding on seven, and Marrok’s fireale was stronger than much of what he’d grown used to in Cordalis. True to its name, the ale left tendrils of fire curling in his throat and belly, and the burning taste remained on his tongue well after he’d swallowed. Aeon did not appear to be drinking at all, and Halas had long since lost track of Desmond’s total. Even after everything they had been through since leaving home, it was nice to know that his friend still drank like a fish.
“Yeah,” said another man, who was just as fat as he was drunk, “but he’s a bloody Sayad! Nobody wants to eat with one of them.”
“Bout thirty years back,” explained Brahm, “a small group of the things came up here, started living in the north corner, keeping to themselves mostly. But last winter, the old tavern burned down, and poor Weston didn’t make it out. So Marrok started this place up. Some folks think he did it, burned down the old place.”
“Which is a load of bollocks,” said thin, nasally woman.
“Sure it is!” boasted the fat one. “If Marrok didn’t kill old Wes, I’m King of Aelborough!” He hiccupped.
There were eight rooms in the hotel, and all eight were available. The four travelers were put in separate lodgings, for eleven detricots a night. Halas found himself wishing he were quartered with Des. He laughed the thought away. It would be nice to have some time alone. He arrived in his room to find it not yet done up. There was a woman there. A Sayad, like Marrok. She was pulling a sheet tightly over the bed. “Hello,” she said, bowing her head slightly. “I will be out of your way shortly.”
“No worries,” said Halas. “What’s your name?”
“I am Jassia; I am wed to Marrok. You must forgive my slowness with your room. It is not often we have patrons here.”
“Perfectly fine.” He settled into a chair by the door and yawned into his hand. His head felt heavy, and his legs thin.
“You are very kind, sir. Is there anything else you require?”
“A hot bath would be wonderful. I injured my leg on the road, you see, and it has been many weeks since my last.”
“I will see to it.” She smiled at him, a provocative smile that she wore well.
As Jassia went about the room, Halas found himself watching her. She was beautiful. The room around her swayed, but the woman herself was clear to him. He saw the way her hair met her skin as she walked, the way her curves moved beneath her thin gown—he shook his head tiredly. Such thoughts never led to anything good, especially concerning married women. “How long have you lived here?”
“All of my life, sir. Marrok and I were wed when I was but thirteen years of age, and he fifteen. Our parents arranged it.”
“They allow that?”
“It is customary of my people, sir.”
“I see.”
“I understand that you think it odd. Most everyone here does. They do not look upon Marrok and I, or our poor boy, as equals. We decided to give our son a more common name to help him blend in. Adrian. Though many of the other boys still taunt him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He was nodding off. Oh dear.
“The truth is that Marrok does not usually help to put these rumors to rest. He is loud and obnoxious, and often drunk. He is not pleasant when he is drunk.”
“Sorry,” Halas repeated, attempting to stifle a yawn.
“No, no,” said Jassia, “I am sorry. I should not trouble you with such matters.”
“No!” Halas said, getting to his feet as she went for the door. “No, it is all right. I’ve simply had a long day, and am very tired. May we speak more of this tomorrow?”
“I would like that,” she said, “but cannot. Sorry. Good night, sir. Your bath will be drawn whenever you wish it.”
She left. “Good night,” Halas muttered down the corridor, but he was too tired to be bothered. He barely made it to the bed before falling asleep. It took a warm bed to realize just how tired he was. He slept for almost a full day.
“Do you believe that Marrok killed the old innkeeper?”
It was Desmond who spoke. He and Halas sat in Halas’ room. Desmond had brought his breakfast up, most of which Halas had hungrily devoured.
“I don’t know,” Halas said between bites of Desmond’s bacon. “An accidental fire in the middle of winter? Such a blaze would be difficult to come by, I imagine.”
“These people are sheltered. Far more than anything we’ve known in Cordalis.” A lump rose in Halas’ throat at the mention of their home. He stifled it. “I entertained a group of men earlier this morning with a tale of how we are on a holy pilgrimage.”
“Perhaps you should tell them that we’re brigands, on the run from the law.”
“I was going to scream it from the top of a mountain later.” Still, Des looked embarrassed; despite Elivain and Aeon’s near constant arguing since their arrival, he hadn’t thought of that.
“If he did, Jassia would know. She and he are betrothed, and she’s not fond of him. She tells me that Marrok is a drunk and a liar. It wouldn’t surprise me, judging by the other folk here.”
“We should speak with her,” Desmond said. Halas agreed.
They left the room and turned toward the stairs. As they walked past Elivain’s room, a rough hand grabbed Halas and stopped both of them. It was Elivain, looking surly and annoyed, as usual. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” he asked.
Des jerked a thumb toward the stairs. “Going to see Marrok,” he muttered.
“Do not lie to me. Do you think it wise to call notice to yourselves? You would leave this village in shambles and then depart. This is not our concern. Do not start trouble if you have no intention of seeing it through.”
“If this man has committed murder, he ought not go free. We should expose him,” said Halas.
“As you did with Torgeir?”
At this Halas’ face went red. He looked at his feet, suddenly angry but unsure of what to say. “So what do we do?” asked Des.
“We shall slip away from the village as soon as the sun is gone. I’ve sent Aeon for provisions. You two should go help him carry everything back. I imagine it’s all quite heavy.”
“Sure it is,” said Des, but they both got the message. They wrapped up and tromped across the tightly packed snow toward the building they had figured to be the town’s shop. A group of townspeople had assembled at the fire pit, busy piling on fresh woo
d. Among them, Halas recognized Mayor Graves and Brahm, from the night before. Graves steadied two heavy looking logs while Brahm and another man pushed a third into place beneath them. Graves offered them a wave. The pyramid they were constructing buckled, and he quickly returned his grip to the logs, breathing a sigh of relief when everything didn’t come toppling down. “Mornin, boys!” he said.
“Good morning.”
“What’s the occasion?” Desmond asked.
“Having a gathering tonight. Something Miriam likes to organize in her spare time. Lots of women and old stories and the like. You fellas interested in joining?”
Brahm stood up from his task and walked past Halas and Des, whispering, “Get out while you still can,” under his breath.
“Don’t listen to him,” Harden said. “Brahm’s an old softy. Likes the gatherings more than most, I figure.”
“I can imagine,” said Desmond.
Halas felt saddened that Elivain wanted to leave that night. Though he thought most of the people of Bakunin to be pompous braggarts, the thought of sitting around a roaring blaze with them sounded appealing, relaxing. “We may stop in for a bit,” he said, meaning it. If nothing else, he would glean more life stories to tell Cailin. The Bakunin folks were far more entertaining than those who crowded the Cordalis Gate courtyard. “Do you know where we can find the shop?”
“Right over there,” said a man who had somehow managed to stuff two bundles of chopped wood under each arm. Halas had never seen someone with such unusually long limbs. It was impressive. The man pointed at one of the buildings from under his bundles. “First on your left, with the hole in the awning.”
“Thank you.”
Halas found the store easily. Standing directly under the awning, he could see a ring of clear blue sky above his head. Desmond joined him. “Think they’d have this fixed by now,” he said.
“Desmond, when you repair your own porch, maybe you can have a go at this one. Until then, no talking.”
Desmond went inside.
Aeon stood before the shopkeeper, a counter and list between them. The shopkeeper noticed their entrance before Aeon did.
“Quite the outfit you boys are building up,” he said. Halas nodded. They walked to Aeon and said their greetings.
“What do we have here?” Halas asked.
Aeon laid out what he’d so far purchased. They needed more and better-fitted furs, and plenty of food. They also needed a large supply of fuel, and the shopkeeper said that it would not hurt to keep their own firewood. There was good news: with all the snow, water would not be hard to come by; they would not have to carry any, only skins. “What are those things?” Desmond asked. He pointed to the wall; on it were a pair of balloon-shaped objects, with holes cut out of the wide end in a checkered pattern and a rough handle.
“Those? Those’d be snowshoes,” the shopkeeper said. “You wear em on your feet in deep snow. They’re supposed to distribute your weight more evenly, so you don’t sink in, get stuck.”
“How much for four pairs?” said Halas.
An hour later they had everything they would need. The shopkeeper offered to keep it all in a back room in the store, but Halas declined. It made him nervous to think that someone might know exactly when they left, and between the four rooms they had at the inn, there was easily enough space to store it all. So, carrying heavy loads on their backs and in their arms, they marched back. With Elivain, they divided up the gear into what they would carry, and spent the rest of the afternoon packing.
When Halas finished, he felt like finally having his bath. Pain burned brightly in his thigh. Elivain wanted to leave just before dawn, and it was already dark. Likely the party had already started outside. Halas wanted to join them, but a bath sounded, quite honestly, like the best thing in the world. He found the boy, Adrian, loitering about the common room and asked him to draw it. When the boy was finished and departed, Halas peeled off his clothes and stepped toward the basin, already relishing the warm feeling on his skin. He slipped into the tub and actually found himself sighing. It was as if all the pains and burdens of the journey were washed away instantly. Halas relaxed his legs against the end of the tub and let himself go under the water. Layers of grime peeled themselves away, but that was the least of it. Halas allowed himself a moment to pretend that he was back home. He would surface, to find himself in Cordalis, with Cailin waiting, and his friends and family just outside. But it was not to be. This is all happening, he told himself one last time, there’s no escaping it. I will get home, but for now, I’m stuck. Just have to deal with it.
Someone knocked on his door. That was odd; his three companions would just come in. Feeling suddenly vulnerable, Halas sat up in the basin and wished he had a weapon. “Come in,” he said.
The door opened and Jassia glided in. She wore a red gown, and put a finger to her lips, closing the door behind her. She knelt at the edge of the tub.
“You remind me of a lover I once had,” she said. “He was tall, handsome, and brave. He and I were happy together.” She leaned in and kissed Halas on the lips. He started, jumping up and backing away. The rim of the tub caught his knees and he tripped, hitting the floor hard on his injured leg. Water sloshed over the sides of the basin. Halas scrambled up, to the far corner. This seemed to crush Jassia. “You do not wish to share a bed with me?”
“Well,” Halas stammered, very surprised. “No. My heart belongs to another. What happened to your lover?”
Jassia’s smiled sadly. Still kneeling by the basin, she placed her hands on the rim and swirled a finger across the surface of the water. “My husband is a jealous man. We were not yet even wed.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Do not be. Just, please, do not deny me some degree of happiness. I am a lonely woman.”
She came at him again, but he backed farther away, pressing himself up against the wall. “No, Jassia. I cannot. I am sorry, so sorry, but I cannot.” He looked at her body, and almost changed his mind. No! Remember Cailin, he scolded, upset with himself.
“If you are worried about what my husband would do if he found out, he will never. Only you and I would ever have to know. Marrok is with the others, by their fire. Your own lover would never discover us. We are safe.”
He was in a corner, and very suddenly aware of the fact that he was completely naked. She pressed herself up against him, stroking his arm gently with her finger. She was so warm, so soft. Her skin was smooth. Halas tried to contain himself, but was hard-pressed. Their lips came together, but only for a moment. Halas pulled away, hating himself both for doing so and for not doing it soon enough. He took Jassia’s shoulders and held her at arm’s length.
“I can make sure Marrok does not bother us again,” the woman pleaded. “I know things about him, things he’s done. He murdered my lover, and he murdered the former innkeeper. It was he who set fire to the inn.”
“How do you know?”
“Myself and several villagers saw it, but Marrok is a terrifying man, and he threatened us. They all have families. I have Adrian. But I am not afraid anymore. I can speak up; I can get the others to cooperate. Just give me tonight. Please.”
She wrapped her arms around him, but he slipped out from between her and the wall, stumbling over to his clothes. “Do so,” he said. “Expose him for his crimes. It is the right thing to do. But we cannot be together. Goodbye, Jassia.” Gathering up his things, he stumbled naked to his room and dressed. He felt alone, and alone he would be vulnerable to the woman’s charms, so he took his share of the supplies and moved to Aeon’s room. Desmond was likely asleep.
Chapter Eleven
Another Hasty Departure
Elivain roused them. It was still dark outside. Halas looked at Aeon. “You ready?” he asked.
Aeon nodded. “I am. Thank you, Halas,” he said when Elivain left the room. They embraced; no other gesture seemed to do.
“Lead on, Prince.” He grinned.
The four stole out of the inn, pa
ssing the still smoldering fire pit. Halas felt a pang of regret as he remembered the gathering. He’d been too afraid to leave Aeon’s room the previous night, worried Jassia would be about. The surrounding buildings were dark, still but for a few lazy columns of smoke from a chimney. While the bulk of the village’s inhabitants lived in the area around Little Sayad, Halas found that the village itself was a lot larger than he’d thought. Most of the buildings were abandoned, but as they made their way north, they saw farmhouses and shops and little sheds. Many of them had been stripped bare, disassembled for firewood or repairs to places that remained occupied.
Their packs were heavy and their layers thick. It had snowed again during the night. Even with the snowshoes, the stuff came up several inches above Halas’ boots. He trudged on, just behind Elivain and beside Desmond. The wind blew sharply, and they were glad they had bought masks and goggles to cover their faces. But the stuff somehow managed to get around their protective layers and sting horribly.
After a few hours, Elivain held up his hand to silence the three friends. They stopped. Elivain crept ahead. “There is a farm here,” he said, “but I see no one within. We should go around.”
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