Andrew Hartley - Act of Will

At the far end of the room by the cold hearth of a carved fire-place sat Mithos, Renthrette, and Garnet. They had changed out of their peasant clothes and wore light cotton fabrics which looked like they would breathe well, even under armor. The barman sent a boy with Orgos to tend to the horses as I hung my armor up with the rest and ordered a pint of best.

I took my mug, sauntered over to the table where the others sat, swinging the crossbow roguishly by its strap, and cast Renthrette an easy smile. She might as well have been wearing her armor, because it glanced off and fell in some dustless corner. I sat beside her anyway and made sure she noticed the sword I was wearing. I thought it made me look pretty sharp.

“Isn’t it a bit early to be drinking?” she said.

“Drinking?” I repeated, momentarily baffled. “This is beer.”

“It contains alcohol, doesn’t it?” she said. She had a slightly prissy attitude that annoyed me.

“Not like whiskey,” I said, shrugging. “But a bit, yeah. So?”

“You’re a child!” she said.

“I’m eighteen,” I said, straightening up. “What is it with you people?”

Mithos gave Renthrette a look.

“In the city, everyone drinks beer,” he said. “All classes, all ages. It’s their primary source of nutrition, which, given their markets and the condition of the water supply, is probably as well. It’s liquid bread.”

She wrinkled her nose at me. I framed a pointed smile and sipped my ale. It was excellent, but at three coppers a pint you would expect that.

“I still think it’s disgusting,” she said. “A child drinking-”

“Listen, lady, I’ve been working for my living since I was five,” I said. “I am not a child and haven’t been one for a long time. And how old are you, Grandma? Nineteen?”

“Twenty, actually.”

“How incredibly ancient,” I said. “I’m surprised you can still walk.”

She shrugged and looked away, her face tipped slightly up as if she was trying to ignore a bad smell. I just stared at her. I didn’t know what to say anyway. She annoyed me, was all. With an effort, I turned my attention to Mithos, who had been talking.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

He sighed pointedly and repeated the question. “How did it go?”

“How did what go?”

“Your passage out of Cresdon. Was it successful?” he concluded with a little impatience in his voice.

“No,” I said flatly, “they only let me through on the condition that I would turn you in immediately. There are two platoons of Empire troops waiting outside.” I grinned. “Only joking. Yes, it was successful. A piece of cake.”

They looked at me silently. No one laughed. In fact they didn’t seem overjoyed that I had made it out at all. There was a lengthy pause and then Orgos rejoined us. Sensing the tension around the table as he sat down, he smirked at me. Mithos looked pensively into his beer and said, “Well, Master Hawthorne, you are out of the city. We can part company here. It would take you several hours to get back to Cresdon by yourself if you wanted to inform on us, and the gates will be closed till morning anyway.”

“He helped get us out of the city,” said Orgos suddenly. “He’s a good talker. Might prove useful.”

Mithos looked thoughtfully at him, then at me. The moment felt loaded, embarrassingly so, and I was almost glad when Renthrette punctured it.

“Well, of course he’s a talker,” she said with a brittle smile. “He’s an actor .”

She said it the way she might say “goatherd” or “dung beetle.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“So,” said Mithos, still considering me like I was a fish that had fallen out of the sky. “Will you be going further with us?”

Garnet scowled across the table, daring me to say yes.

“Yes,” I said simply.

“Oh, for crying out loud, Mithos,” Garnet protested. “Must we carry this childish snake about with us? Why can’t we leave him here?”

“Bleeding in a ditch, no doubt,” I muttered.

“That wasn’t what I meant,” he replied testily, “though the idea has a kind of appeal.”

“Oh, I’ll bet it does,” I shot back at him. “In fact-”

“Would you shut up for a moment,” said Mithos, staring at the table. “Listen, Master Hawthorne, we don’t expect thanks for saving you from the Empire, but we don’t expect abuse either. Orgos thinks you might be useful and for that we will let you ride with us, but you will refrain from voicing your suspicions about our profession or character. Do I make myself clear?”

“Well, I don’t know about that-”

He cut me short by banging his olive-skinned hand on the table and turning his black eyes on me. He had a firm jaw and a commanding look at all times. When he wanted to he could look very dangerous to contradict.

“Crystal,” I said quickly.

“Good,” he concluded.

He picked up a board with a piece of parchment listing the dishes on offer tacked to it, consulted it, and passed it round. Now, I was used to chalkboards stating the dish of the day or, more frequently, the week, so this was an unexpected benefit. I was starving, and what was on offer was a far cry from the Eagle’s cheese pasties. The prices were outrageous, but I didn’t have any money anyway. I figured I’d eat and worry about the bill later.

While they mulled over what they wanted I took my first decent look at them.

Renthrette was taller than me, but that wouldn’t bother me if it didn’t bother her. Her hair was the color of soft straw and she wore it tied back, though I had seen it breaking around her shoulders while she was getting dressed and she had looked quite the picture. Her eyes were a cool blue flecked with grey and her mouth was slim and pink. Both had a tendency to freeze up when she looked at me, but I figured I could engineer a thaw of some kind. There was a slight peach tint to her cheeks, and her nose and chin, though both thinner than the fashion, had a strength of character to them which I could have done without.

Garnet had, it suddenly struck me, something of the look of her in his own features. I remembered a play that said that lovers came to resemble each other. Maybe there was something to it. It might explain his hostility to me, his new rival. He read the menu with a kind of studied dignity, like he was about fifty-five, looking for something cheap and wholesome. His eyes were an unnervingly deep green and his hair unremarkably brownish with a slight wave to it. He wore it short but the curl was still there. He had a peppering of beard, but I’d bet he hadn’t been shaving that much longer than I had. His skin was pale and would probably turn lobster pink given enough sun, hence the long-sleeved cotton shirt. Like the rest of them he was fit, but his arms were sinewy and thin despite their strength. I doubt there was an ounce of fat on him.

Mithos was the oldest of the group, though he could be no more than forty, a bit more than Orgos. I couldn’t say if the darkness of his skin was just tan from the sun or it was something in his blood. The blackness of his hair (long enough to flow down to his shoulders) and eyes suggested the latter. He was the tallest of the group and stood well over six feet, his physique less obviously powerful than Orgos’s, but well defined. His arms could have come off the athletic statue that stands at the entrance to the Cresdon arena. It seemed like he brooded a lot. He didn’t say much, but when he did, everyone stopped what they were doing and got out their notebooks.

“While you’re with us,” said Mithos, “the party will cover your costs.”

“What?” I said. “A party? When?”

“Give me strength,” muttered Garnet. Renthrette gently rested her hand on his forearm in a soothing gesture. So, I was right! That charmless streak of thunder and rainy weather? He didn’t deserve her.