Ordination Page 5

  “A pint’d buy lots o’silence.”

  He fixed her with a narrow look and opened the door of the room.

  Mol shrugged and followed him toward the door; when they passed nearby she briefly raised one hand as if to take his, but he, busy at tugging on his iron-studded gloves, did not see. Once downstairs, in the not yet very crowded taproom, he guided her to an unoccupied corner and sat, the bench creaking slightly under his weight.

  A barmaid soon came to them promptly and stood, waiting impatiently, one hand cocked on her ample hip.

  “Too early in the day for charm, then?” Allystaire offered a grin, but she was having none of it and simply sighed heavily. “Fine. Whatever you have that is more wine than water, and not at all vinegar, for me.” A pause, as he looked at Mol. “And a mug of small beer for my niece.”

  Soon enough, the drinks were set down in clay cups that matched the basin in their room. Allystaire sipped between frowns. Mol happily slurped. And so they sat through the afternoon. Shadows gathered, as did the crowd. There was a hearth across the room, but the fire in it was barely lit, for the more bodies that filled the room the less it was needed. Allystaire watched the crowd grow and change. He noted where men sat and who shoulder-heaved whom aside. He watched who apologized and who didn’t, who sat at tables that had remained empty and who crowded around the bar.

  Finally, something seemed to please him, and he nodded to himself; two men, one of a size with him and one taller, but slimmer, sat together at a table in the center of the room. They wore woodsmen’s greens and long knives. The taller one pinched each serving woman who passed by close enough and received tired grins and forced laughs; the stouter one simply leered at them with broken teeth. Most of the men gave their table a wide berth, though some stopped by to share a bit of news or a joke. Allystaire noted with interest that two of their first four rounds were stood to them.

  Very quietly, his mouth barely moving, he said to Mol, “Say nothing. Just nod.” She nodded. “See how the room moves around them? See how boorish they are, and yet no one says a word? Folk are scared, and want to be thought their friend for fear of the opposite. Toughest men in the room, or so they want everyone to think.” He took a quiet, deep breath and rolled his shoulders; one popped audibly. Then he stood and shuffled oddly towards the bar.

  Mol watched him, eyes wide and shining in the rushlights that the barmaids were now lighting. He leaned heavily on the bar, had his mug refilled, and dropped an entire silver link to pay for it. He held the broken circle of metal up where everyone could see it before tossing it to the barman. Then, once again shuffling away, he moved with the walk of a man slipping into his cups, but not too far gone. With exaggeratedly slow and careful steps, he passed by the table of the two men and suddenly tripped on a chair. The mug of wine fell onto their table, splattering them both.

  “So sorry lads!” Allystaire turned as bright a smile as he could upon them. “Well, likely the pair of you were due for a bit of a wash anyway, hey? Just sorry it had to be my wine!” He laughed, loudly, at his own feeble joke.

  The silver had caught their eye, and the spilled wine had drawn their ire. The insult seemed to get their backs up, Mol saw. They shared a look, then the taller one stood up, looking down at Allystaire, who smiled placidly back at him. “It’ll be costin’ ye more silver now, fellah,” he warned, rolling his tongue around his teeth as he talked. “We’re drinking on yer weight the rest of the night, aye, and we’ll be fergettin’ about this, right? That’s a good man.”

  Allystaire pursed his lips and shook his head; Mol was watching him so intently that she saw his stance widen, his back straighten, and his arms relax. “Afraid I cannot do that, my friend. Now if you will excuse me…” He turned his head as if to look back at the bar, but not, Mol noted, his feet.

  “No yer don’t,” muttered the taller man, as the stout one stood up and started to move to the side. “We’ll be having enough silver to see us through the week, we will.” As the scene developed, drinks were lifted off tables and the crowd drew back to the edges; Mol was forced to stand up on the bench to look over the now rapt audience.

  The tall man started to reach for Allystaire, and had one hand on his shoulder when suddenly his breath rushed out of him in one great cough. The iron-studded punch Allystaire had driven into the middle of his stomach hadn’t been fast, but had traveled a short distance with no wasted motion. His hips and trunk turned into the blow, and before Mol knew it, the taller man was leaning against his table for support.

  That is, until Allystaire seized the back of his head with one hand, pulled him back by the hair, and then slammed him, face first, against the table. A smattering of cheers broke out, but quickly died at the sound of steel drawn.

  By then the stouter man had come on, knife in hand. “Be yer blood now ye bastard,” he snarled, all pretense of drunkenness gone, Allystaire stepped away from the table, raising his hands, fists clenched. The room fell quiet enough to hear the leather of his gloves creaking.

  “Put the blade away, man. Or I will hurt you.” His voice was low and angry, filling the now hushed room. His feet were spread the width of his shoulders, and he crouched slightly, his weight shifting from one leg to the other.

  The man lunged, blade first; Allystaire stepped toward it, catching the stab with his left arm; the bracer beneath his sleeve turned the blade, and he snatched for the man’s wrist, squeezing it once he caught it.

  The man grunted in fear and anger, but perhaps to his credit, wasn’t out of the fight; he stepped close in and snapped his head forward into Allystaire’s face.

  “Damn it man,” Allystaire bellowed, though his yell didn’t drown out the small yet sickening crunch. “That hurts every freezing time.” Mol saw his nose was splayed to one side, and so did the stout man, who laughed and drew back his head again, before suddenly letting out a shriek.

  Allystaire’s eyes had shut when his nose had broken, but the grip of his hand around the man’s wrist suddenly tightened. In the relative hush of the room, the sound of bone grinding against bone was loud and chilling, and the stout man’s shriek became a whimper. He fell to his knees, but Allystaire, eyes still closed as the pain of the broken nose washed over him, did not release his grip. When his eyes finally blinked open, he drove an iron-studded fist into the knife-man’s dirty, stubbled face once, then twice, then a third time.

  By the third, spots on his cheek and a streak of flesh above his eye socket had been torn open. Allystaire struck him once more, in the jaw, and he collapsed in whimpering heap as the knife clattered away.

  The taller man was starting to push himself off the ground. Allystaire shook his head and took a step, saying, “Stay down, man. Stay—” Then, with a shake of his head and a muttered, “Freeze him,” he launched a kick straight into the man’s stomach.

  Allystaire stood for a moment, sucking great lungfuls of wind, and, ignoring the rising murmur of the crowd, bent to collect the forgotten knives from the ground. With one in each hand, he stuck the blades fast between planks on the table the men had occupied, then bent them toward each other till the blades snapped and tossed the wooden hilts to the ground.

  “Surely even this dung heap holds better men than this,” he said, suddenly addressing the crowd, who immediately hushed again. “Or will I have to look elsewhere?” He scanned the crowd a moment or two, which parted as he went back to where Mol was standing. Without meeting her wide-eyed gaze, he gestured, and she hopped lightly down off the table and scampered back up the stairs to their room.

  CHAPTER 5

  An Oath

  “Why’d ya do that? Those men’d done ye no wrong,” Mol accused as soon as the door was closed.

  He sighed, nodding. “I know, lass. I know; but you saw how they behaved, aye? They were bullies, and they had it coming. You grew up in an inn, aye? Surely you have seen their type before.”

  Mol shook her head si
de to side, her face set in stern disapproval, arms crossed fiercely over her chest.

  “You have never seen men turn violent in your father’s inn?”

  “No. There never was any fightin’ there that I saw. Not until…” The girl trailed off, the stern anger melting as she remembered.

  Allystaire sighed. “I had more reason than merely punishing bullies.”

  She dropped her arms to her sides and glared at him, awaiting an answer.

  He sighed, reached up to his nose, and, with a deep breath, tenderly pushed it back into place until it popped. He released the air with a grimace and a bitten curse. “Two reasons, in point of fact. First,” he held up one finger, “everyone is less likely to give us trouble. Second, word will spread that I mean to hire men, and handing the likes of them a beating helps with the weeding. If I can handle them, then only tougher sorts—skilled sorts—will come see me.”

  “Why d’ya need a guard for, since ya can beat up all these bullies, hrm?”

  “I do not. You do. I need to move around this place and find where your people are.” If they’re still here, he thought. “If I do leave you alone, you will probably join them in a slave pit even faster than if I take you with me.”

  “If the whole town’s so horrid, why d’ya expect a guard to stay with me?”

  “Because I know people, Mol. I do. Or at least I know the kind of men who make a living with swords. I can find a man who will stay bought. Trust me.”

  She didn’t answer; instead, she turned to stare into the very dim coals that barely filled the small fireplace with their glow.

  “Listen; even here, the slavers have to make the gesture of staying hidden. Sure, the pirate who calls himself ‘baron’ and the thugs who work for him know, and maybe most of the common folk suspect.” Allystaire reached up and gingerly pressed around the edges of his nose with two fingers, wincing and sucking in his breath. “But they will be hidden, at least a little, and probably close to the docks, because most of the buyers will want to load their cargo quickly, and—”

  Mol suddenly whirled on him, raising an accusing finger. “They aren’t cargo,” she hissed, “they’re people. They’re whatever’s left of my family and friends. Don’t call them cargo!” She stamped a foot and stepped toward him, raising a finger in anger. “If I don’t come wi’ ya how do I know ya’ll even save them, and not just come back to tell me they’re gone from here and toss me to yer priests t’be blinded?”

  Taken aback by the sudden ferocity of the girl’s outburst, Allystaire found his mouth pulling into a sour frown. “I have done everything I told you I would do. Why do you doubt me now?”

  “Because ya still think on leavin’ me,” the girl said, her voice rising angrily. “I can see it when yer thinkin’ it. Ya won’t say it, but you’re afraid that watchin’ me and findin’ my people’ll kill ya. Part o’ya is hopin’ to find that they’re already dead or gone so you can wash yer hands of it, maybe sail off somewhere you can earn gold bein’ a bully ‘stead o’ spendin’ it while fightin’ em.”

  The child’s keen insight startled him, and anger bloomed inside him. She is right, he told himself. That’s why I am angry. His anger faded as swiftly as it had flared.

  Before he could answer, Mol stepped forward, jabbing a finger up at him. “Yer own words t’me, about the great and powerful? T’not expect ‘em t’care for the likes o’me? So y’were a lord or a knight then, aye? And y’just can’t wait t’be one again, I s’pose.”

  Not anymore, he thought.

  With his dark blue eyes solemn above his swollen nose, Allystaire went down on one knee in order to look Mol in the eye. “You are right, Mol. I have had the thoughts you accuse me of, and it shames me. My apologies.” He took a deep breath, still fixing his eyes on her. “I have broken oaths in my life. Yet I tell you this and I mean it truly; if your people are to be found, I will free them, or I will die in the attempt.”

  The solemnity of the gesture was somewhat hampered by the swelling on his face, but Allystaire’s gaze was even and his voice soft. “I need you to be guarded, because if I find your folk, to successfully free them, I will undoubtedly be forced to kill men. Maybe a lot of them. And I cannot do that and protect you at the same time. You have my word that I will not leave you behind.”

  “Or give me t’the blind priests.”

  “No,” Allystaire assured her. “I will not give you to any priests, blind or otherwise. I promise.”

  Mol sat watching his face in the shadowed darkness of their room, then stepped forward and put her arms around his neck. Allystaire knelt stiffly, unsure of what to do; before he could try to return the gesture, she had pulled away, unwittingly nudging his recently broken nose with her head. He stifled a grunt, and she laughed lightly.

  “If yer such a great warrior, why’s yer nose been broken so much?”

  Chuckling, an uncomfortable sound in his throat, Allystaire stood and brushed his hands on his leather-clad thighs. “I lead with my head.”

  Before Mol could say more, a timid knock sounded at the door. Allystaire stifled a curse and lifted a finger to his lips. “Yes?”

  The obsequious voice of the innkeep dripped, “Thought ya might want supper, erm, Allyst…er…m’lord. Wi’ my best wine, bottled stuff it is, been storin’ it. Ya did a good thing down in me taproom.”

  Allystaire allowed himself a brief, satisfied grin before opening the door. The innkeep stood, tray in hand, and with his free hand eagerly held up a thick, squat, glass bottle toward Allystaire.

  “We would be happy to accept, goodman,” Allystaire said. “Have you a lamp in the house, or only rushlights?”

  The innkeep glided in, practically bowing, a feat he managed neatly despite his full hands, and set tray and bottle down on the small table. “I should be able to scare up a lamp, m’lord, if you give me time.” Without asking, he moved to the pile of firewood and tossed a few sticks into the fireplace, then seized a poker and stirred the coals. He cast a brief glance at Allystaire before adding, “Don’ keep such in the bar no more; too expensive to keep replacin’, if y’understand, m’lord.”

  “You want to know if those men will be back, and whether I would chase them off again?” Allystaire tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowed as he considered the man. “They will not be; they have been shamed in front of folk they thought cowed. They will not darken your door again, if I am any judge of their kind.”

  The innkeep nodded, sighing a little. “I may miss their weight but I shan’t miss them. Too bad ya din’t kill ‘em, m’lord.”

  “I do not kill over bad manners, goodman,” Allystaire said icily. “I had not seen them do anything that warranted real blood.” He stepped quickly over to the table to survey the tray—fresher bread and fish instead of broth. “Soon enough there may be folk in your taproom to see me. They drink on my weight, but I want a strict count kept of how many each man has, aye?” The innkeep shrugged, but nodded, his hand straying of its own accord toward his forelock.

  “As y’say, m’lord.”

  With that, he was off down the stairs. Allystaire barred the door and leaned against it, pressing his ear to it. He nodded, satisfied, at the sounds of boots clattering away.

  “He may have heard us talk, lass. We must be more careful from now on.”

  Mol nodded solemnly. They sat around the small table, Allystaire on the floor, the girl on the single stool, and ate silently. Allystaire looked out the small window, covered with only a small grill of four iron bars.

  While chewing, Mol watched him sidelong, but intently, as though figuring a calculus well beyond her years.

  CHAPTER 6

  Finding a Shadow

  Back downstairs in the taproom roughly half a turn later, twilight had given way to a sultry summer night. The regular crowd was still drinking, laughing, and talking, albeit slightly subdued and gathered mostly on one side of the room
. The smoke of pipes, rushlights, and hearth filled the air.

  The corner table Allystaire and Mol had occupied earlier had been left unoccupied, with two mugs, a pitcher, and a lit oil lamp set upon it. Allystaire couldn’t quite stop a misshapen grin from tugging at his lips, but he quickly forced it away when he saw the gathering at the side of the bar nearest the door.

  There were eight men, so far, and a few exchanged muttered small talk as if they knew each other. Probably do, he thought. Like as not they’re reminiscing about the murder they’ve done together. It was true that, regionally, soldiers, warriors, and swords-at-hire generally came to know each other by reputation or type, if nothing else. At the least they’d likely served in bands that fought each other, or for the same lord. They were of a piece, leather-clad and well-armed. Some were tall, others short. Some whip-thin, others threateningly broad. All shared the same air of bored menace.

  “Go sit. I will be along.” Allystaire shooed Mol off to the table and walked to the bar, thumb absently hooking behind the head of the warhammer he’d slid into its iron loop on his belt.