Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

What more, indeed? I know what / want, Hargorn thought ruefully. I want to find out what the blazes has happened to Vannor! It had been so many days since they had entered the city and then split up-—at the merchant’s insistence. The veteran had told him over and over that it was a mistake, but Vannor, distraught over his wayward daughter’s disappearance, had refused to listen to a single word of sense. “We can find her far more quickly if we divide our efforts,” he had argued—and finally, when Hargorn had least been expecting it, had slipped away without trace into the labyrinths of the northern docks.

“The bloody fool,” Hargorn muttered to himself as he bought another flagon of cheap brown dishwater from the sour, pinch-faced little runt of a servingman. He would have preferred more of the grog, but ale would last him longer. Once this silver was gone, there would be no more—not in Nexis, at any rate. Word would be out on him now. Once Vannor’s coin had been used up; he had taken service as a private guard for Guildsman Pendral—a fat, tightfisted, money-grabbing little bastard with some very perverted habits, who had been one of the many merchants who had allied himself with Miathan’s cause, in order to screw a quick profit out of the poor suffering folk of the city while there was still a profit to be had.

Hargorn sighed. I make a lousy spy, he thought, Vannor should have sent someone with less of a temper and better sense. Keeping his mouth shut in the face of Pendral’s obscene greed had proved to be more than the warrior could stand, and he had taken to drowning his sorrows more than he ought, given his perilous situation. The last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself—but today, Pendral had paid him off for being drunk while guarding a warehouse, and the insults of that arrogant lump of lard had been more than the veteran could take. Admittedly, it had probably been a mistake to dump the little turd headfirst into that midden, but—For a moment, Hargorn’s black mood was lightened by a grin. By all the Gods, it had been worth it!.

To Tilda, on a raw black winter’s night, the tavern seemed like a dream of comfort. Business, bad since the Archmage had taken control of the city, was slacker than usual tonight, for the filthy weather meant that few folk were out and about. The twisting, narrow streets of Nexis were shrouded in a thick, freezing fog that caught in her throat and set off the hacking cough that had dogged her all winter. Enough was enough, Tilda had decided—why freeze your backside off on a drafty corner for nothing?

On reaching the Drunken Dog the whore paused in the doorway to straighten the dripping hems of her petticoats and fluff out her damp, red-dyed curls. She’d be mad to ply for trade in the Dog—it was Dellie’s patch, and Dellie was a mate—who wouldn’t think twice about flattening her if business was involved. Still, in this trade, it always paid to be prepared. Sometimes, you just became lucky . . . And as an aging streetwalker with a ten-year-old son to support, she needed all the luck she could get.

As soon as she entered, Tilda knew it wasn’t going to be her lucky night after all. Evidently, she had not been the only streetwalker in Nexis to tire of the miserable weather—it looked as though the Dog were playing host to every drab and catamite in town. For a single night, a truce had been declared, and most of the whores were chatting companionably around the tables, making the most of a rare evening’s relaxation. If only it could always be like this, Tilda thought as she exchanged a hard-won coin for a glass of grog. We’re all in the same boat, we should be mates—but she knew better than to waste time on such daft ideas. They all had to live—and competition for customers, even in a city like Nexis, was fierce.

Tilda was forced to squeeze her way to the tables through the tight-packed crowd. In addition to the whores and regulars, a group of bargemen were playing dice near the fire, and she glimpsed a shadowy movement in the darkest corner, and heard the low hum of murmured talk. Tilda looked away quickly, After years on the streets, she could tell when something shady was afoot. If you wanted to survive, you had to know when to turn a blind eye,

The most interesting customer, as far as Tilda could see, was a weatherbeaten, gray-haired man in a heavy soldier’s cloak. He sat alone, blind to everything but his tankard. For a moment, Tilda had hopes—but as she drew near, she saw that his cloak was patched and threadbare, and he was scowling into his ale with an intensity that turned her cold all over. Forget it, she told herself. That kind of trouble, you can do without! Sometimes the soldiers got like that, she knew. All twisted up inside, poor bastards—but after a few drinks, they would take it out on whoever was nearest, and once they started, there was no stopping them. Gods, a friend of hers had been crippled for life by a drunken soldier! No thanks, mate, she thought, and was about to take her grog to a table near the dice players, as far away from the glowering warrior as she could get, when suddenly she saw his face light up in the most mischievous of smiles. How it changed him! Tilda, charmed by that quick, infectious grin, drew nearer to the stranger, her curiosity aroused. Well, it couldn’t hurt just to speak to him, surely? “Sir?” She laid a tentative hand on his arm.

He swung around, with an oath on his lips—then turned away as though she had ceased to exist, and went back to glowering into his beer. He rubbed a hand across his eyes in a gesture so abjectly weary that Tilda’s heart went out to him. Girl, what are you thinking of? She chided herself. You’re as daft as he is! She’d seen grown men crying into their ale before now—it never meant anything. Still, it was worth a try ... “You look like you could use some company,” she said softly. “Won’t I do? Just for tonight?”

This time, the soldier’s expression was wistful. “Ah, lassie!” His voice was slightly slurred with drink. “You’d do all right and more, but . . .” He shrugged, and fishing in the pocket of his leather tunic, brought out a few scant coppers.

“Right now, I couldn’t even stand you an ale!”

“Oh.” Tilda turned away, oddly disappointed and angry at herself for feeling so. Why, it had been years since she’d thought of a man as a person! A living, that was all they were to her, and no more . . . “Tilda, you’re a fool!” she told herself fiercely. “Don’t you dare go soft on me now!” She turned toward the dice players instead, but they had pocketed their winnings and left, while she’d been wasting her time on some penniless stranger! “A pox on all bloody soldiers!” Tilda muttered. Well, she might as well go—she couldn’t afford to buy herself another drink. At that moment the tavern door banged open in a swirl of evil-smelling fog, and a dozen or so of the mercenaries that had replaced the original City Guard came hurtling into the room, followed by an obese, squint-eyed little man in the gold-stitched robes of a merchant. “There he is!” he squeaked, pointing at Tilda’s stranger. “That’s the man who tried to drown me! Arrest the blackguard at once!”

There was a thunderstruck silence in the taproom of the Drunken Dog as Guildsman Pendral gave orders to his troops. At a curt nod from their captain, the guardsmen fanned out to approach the soldier. It reminded Tilda of a hideous scene she had once witnessed in the ramshackle slums, when a pack of street curs had stalked and slain a helpless child. But this was no helpless child. With a steely rasp, the warrior drew his sword as he rose unsteadily to his feet. Tilda noticed, out of the corner of her eye, a general movement toward the tavern’s back door, as the skulkers in the corner sneaked away. The room emptied as if by magic—even the servingman had made himself scarce. The swordsman was plainly outnumbered—and not wanting to share his fate, Tilda thought it wise to make her own escape, while the guards were distracted. Quietly, she slipped out of her chair, and began to creep toward the back door.