Simon Hawke - The Outcast

He paused a moment within the alcove and looked around. The shop was laid out in a long, open rectangle, with battered wooden tables and benches to the left and a long bar to the right. Behind the bar were crude, dusty wooden wine racks holding a vast array of bottles. A few oil lamps provided illumination in the bar area. Large, square candles, thick enough to stand by themselves, stood in the center of each table, dripping wax onto the tabletops. The interior walls, as those on the outside, were made of plastered brick, with the plaster flaking off in many places. The wood-planked floor was old and stained.

The atmosphere was a far cry from the elegance of Krysta’s dining room, and the patrons seemed to fit the atmosphere. It was a rough, surly-looking crowd, and Sorak noticed a couple of brawny half-giants at each end of the bar, keeping an eye on the customers. Each of them had a club within easy reach, and several obsidian-bladed knives tucked into his belt. The one nearer the door gave Sorak an appraising glance as he came in. His gaze lingered for a moment on the sword, its hilt just visible beneath Sorak’s open cloak. A number of people looked up at him as he came in. Sorak paused and glanced around, then passed his hand over his mouth, as if rubbing his chin absently. If anyone recognized the signal, they gave no sign of it. He walked up to the bar.

“Whaf II it be, stranger?” asked the bartender, casually wiping down the bar in front of him with a dirty rag.

“Could I have some water, please?”

“Water?” said the bartender, raising his bushy eyebrows. “This is a wineshop, friend. If you want water, go drink from a well. I’ve got a business to run here.”

“Very well,” said Sorak. “I will have some wine, then.”

The bartender rolled his eyes. He indicated the racks of bottles behind him. “I’ve got all kinds of wine,” he said. “What kind would you like?”

“Any kind,” said Sorak.

“You have no preference?”

“It makes no difference,” Sorak said.

The bartender sighed with exasperation. “Well, would you like a cheap wine, a moderately priced wine, or an expensive wine?”

“Whatever this will buy me,” Sorak said, laying down a couple of silver pieces.

“That will buy you just about anything you like in here,” the bartender said, sweeping up the coins with a smooth, well-practiced motion. He set a goblet down in front of Sorak and then picked up a small footstool, moved a bit farther down the bar, and climbed up to reach one of the bottles in the top rack. He blew a layer of dust off the bottle, opened it, and set it down in front of Sorak.

“Was that enough for a whole bottle?” Sorak asked. The bartender chuckled. “Friend, that was enough for most people to drink in here all night and then some. I don’t know where you’re from, and I don’t really care, but you’re obviously new here in the city. Take some friendly advice: get yourself a better idea of what things cost. I could’ve robbed you blind just now.”

“It is good to meet an honest man,” said Sorak. “Well, it hasn’t made me any richer,” said the bartender.

“Will you have a drink with me?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” The bartender got himself a goblet and poured for himself and Sorak. “What shall we drink to?”

Sorak passed his hand over the lower part of his face. “How about new alliances?”

As he spoke, Sorak ducked under and the Guardian came to the fore.

The bartender shrugged. “Suits me.” He clinked his goblet against Sorak’s and drank. “My name is Trag.”

“Sorak,” said the Guardian. Then, speaking internally to Sorak and the others, she said, “He knows the sign, but he is wary.”

Trag saw that Sorak set his goblet back down without drinking from it. He frowned. “You propose a toast, then you don’t drink?”

“I don’t like wine.”

Trag rolled his eyes. “Well then, why in thunder did you buy one of my most expensive bottles?”

“Because you did not have water, and as you said, you have a business to run.”

Trag laughed. “You’re a strange sort, my friend. You come to a wineshop, but you do not want wine. You buy my most expensive vintage, but you do not even condescend to try it. Still, customers who pay as well as you do are entitled to their eccentricities.”

The Guardian probed his mind as he spoke. He knew about the Veiled Alliance, and he had caught Sorak’s not-so-thinly veiled remark, but he was not part of the underground group and had no connection with it other than knowing that his wineshop was a frequent contact point for them. Secretly, he was in sympathy with the aims of the Alliance, but they had purposely kept him ignorant of their affairs so that he could not betray them to the templars if he were arrested and brought in for questioning.

“This man cannot help us,” Eyron said. “We are wasting our time with him.”

“Time is never wasted,” Sorak replied. “It simply passes. Trag recognized the sign. Someone else may have recognized it as well.”

“You seem to get an interesting crowd here,” said the Guardian.

Trag shrugged. “I open late and close down late. That attracts the night people.”

“The night people?”

“Those who sleep during the day and remain awake all night,” said Trag. He smiled. “I can tell that you’re not city bred. In the outlands, people rise with the sun and go to bed when it sets. In a city, things are different. A city never sleeps. I like the night, myself. It’s cooler, and darkness suits my temperament. And night people tend to be more interesting. I get all kinds in here.”

“What kinds do you mean?” the Guardian asked. “Oh, just about any kind you can imagine,” Trag replied, “except what they call the better class of people. Tramps, thieves, traders down on their luck, common laborers, bards... A small wineshop such as this can hardly compete with places like the Crystal Spider. You will find no dancing girls or high stakes games in a place like this. Most of my customers can barely afford a goblet of wine to keep them warm. Beggars often come in to get out of the chill night air. I don’t mind, so long as they spend a ceramic or two. Some will buy themselves a goblet of cheap wine and nurse it for as long as possible, others will spend every ceramic they’ve managed to beg during the day and drink themselves insensible. Times are hard in Tyr these days, and when times are hard, people like to drink.” He shrugged. “Come to think of it, people always like to drink. It makes the world seem less oppressive for a while. Except for you, apparently. You did not come here to drink, so what’s your reason?”

“No reason in particular,” the Guardian replied. “I am new in the city, and I heard this might be a good place to make some interesting contacts.”

“Really? Who did you hear it from?” “He is distrustful,” said the Guardian. “He thinks we might be an agent of the templars.”

“But if he knows nothing, what reason should he have to be concerned?” asked Eyron. “I’m getting bored,” Kivara said. “Be quiet, Kivara,” Sorak said, irritably. He did not need to deal with Kivara’s childlike impatience at such a moment.

“Oh, I heard it mentioned somewhere,” the Guardian replied aloud.

“And where was that?” asked Trag casually, taking another drink.

“He is suspicious because we are not drinking, and because someone has been in here recently, asking about the Veiled Alliance,” the Guardian said, abruptly picking up the thought from Trag’s mind. “The man was obvious and clumsy... wait. I see his image as he thinks of him ... It was the marauder.”