Jonathan Strahan: Swords & Dark Magic: The New Sword and Sorcery

Swillman stared down at them. “That tin? Lead?”

“Silver.”

“I can’t make no give-back on silver!”

“Well, what do you use here?”

He reached down and lifted into view his wooden cash tray. Its four sculpted bowls held seven buttons in three different sizes, a few nuggets of raw copper, a polished agate, and three sticks of stale rustleaf.

“No coins?”

“Been years since I last seen one a those.”

“What did it look like?”

“Oblong, not like yours at all. And they was copper.”

“What was stamped on ’em?” asked the short, bearded man who’d sidled up between the woman and Slim. “Whose face, I mean? Or faces—three faces? Castle in the sky? Something like that, maybe?”

Swillman shrugged. “Don’t recall.”

“One of these should do us for the night, then,” said the woman, nudging one of the silver coins in Swill’s direction.

“A cask of ale for you and meals, too, that would be about right.”

He could see that the woman knew she was being taken, but didn’t seem much interested in arguing.

The bearded man was eyeing Slim, who was eyeing him back.

The other man, leaning on the rail on the other side of the stocking-footed woman, was big and stupid-looking—Swillman could hear his loud breathing and the man’s mouth hung open.

Probably too dumb to understand what was going on about anything, from that empty look in his eyes and those snaggled teeth, yellow and dry jutting out like that.

Drawing the first three tankards, Swillman served them up. A moment later, two more women soldiers clumped in.

Slim scowled and did her usual shrink-back when people she thought of as competition ever showed up, but the bearded man just went and moved closer. “Keep,” he said, “give this sweet lass another one.”

Swillman gaped, and then nodded. He was already drawing two more tankards for the new women—gods, they were all cut up and bruised and knocked about, weren’t they just? All five of ’em. Addled in the heads, too, he suspected. Imagine, calling Slim a sweet lass! Bastard was blind!

The loud breather startled him by speaking up. “Seen no stables—we need to put up for the night. Horses need taking care of. We want somewhere to sleep under cover. We need food for the ride, too, and clean, boiled water. Is there a drygoods here? How about a blacksmith? Anyone work leather and hide? Is there a whetstone? Anyone selling blankets?”

Swillman had begun shaking his head with the very first query, and he kept shaking it until the man ran down.

“None of that?”

“None. Sorry, we’re not on, uh, any road. We see a merchant once a year, whatever he don’t sell elsewhere by season’s end, we can look at.”

Slim drained her tankard in one long pull and then, after a gasp, she said, “Widow Bark’s got some wool, I think. She spins something, anyway. Might have a blanket to sell. The stable burned down, we got no horses anyway. We got pigs, and sheep a walk south of here, near the other end of the valley, but all that wool down there goes into the next valley, to the town there—to Piety.”

“How far away is Piety?” the bearded man asked.

“Four days on foot, maybe two on horseback.”

“Well,” the breather demanded, “where can we sleep?”

Swillman licked his lips and said, “If it’s just a dry roof you’re looking for, there’s the old keep on the hill.”

They’d dug one of the pits too close to a barrow, and from one end of the rectangular trench old bones tumbled out in lumps of yellow clay. Graves and Snotty stared down at them for a time. Splinters and shards, snapped and marrow-sucked, and then Graves scooped up most of them with his shovel.

“We’ll bore a hole in the mound,” he said.

Snotty wiped his running nose and nodded. “I’m thirsty.”

“Let’s break, then.”

“They going up to the keep?”

Graves lifted the mud and bones and tipped the mess onto the ground opposite the back pile. “I expect so.” He set the shovel down and clambered out, then reached back to pull the boy out of the hole.

“They was looking at us as they went past.”

“I know, boy. Don’t let it bother you.”

“I don’t. I was just noticing, that’s all.”

“Me too.”

They went over to broach the second cask of water, shared the single tin cup back and forth a few times. “I shouldn’t have had all that ale earlier,” said Graves.

“You wasn’t to know, though, was you?”

“That’s true. Just a normal day, right?”

Snotty nodded. “A normal day in Glory.”

“I’m thinking,” mused Graves, “I probably shouldn’t have put up the rags, though. Soldiers can count that high, mostly, if they need to. Wonder if it got them thinking.”

“We could find out, when we get back to the bar.”

“Might be we’re not done afore dark, boy.”

“They’re soljers, they’ll stay late, drinking and carousing.”

Graves smiled. “Carousing? That’s quite the imagination you got there.”

“Taking turns with Slim, I mean, and getting drunk, too, and maybe getting into a few fights—”

“With who?”

“With each other, I guess, or even Swillman.”

“Swillman wouldn’t fight to save his life, boy. Besides, he’ll be happy enough if the soldiers pay for what they take. If they don’t, well, there’s not much he can do about it, is there?” He paused, squinting toward town. “Taking turns with Slim. Maybe. Have to be blind drunk, though.”

“She shows ’em her ring and that’ll do.”

Graves shot the boy a hard look. “How you know about that?”

“My birthday present, last time.”

“I doubt you is—”

“That’s what her tongue’s for, ain’t it?”

“You’re too young to know anything about that. Slim—that wretched hag, what was she thinking?”

“It was the only present she had t’give me, she said.”

Graves put the cup away. “Break’s over. Don’t want them t’drink up all the ale afore we get there, do we?”

“No, sir, that’d be bad.”

The sun was down and the muggy moon yet to rise when Flapp went off with Slim into the lone back room behind the bar.

Huggs snorted. “That man’s taste…can you believe it?”

Shrugging, Wither drained her tankard and thumped it down on the bar. “More, Swilly!” She turned to Huggs. “He’s always been that way. Picks the ugliest ones or the oldest ones and if he can, the ugliest oldest ones if the two fit the same whore.”

“This time he’s got it all and no choice besides. Must be a happy man.”

“I’d expect so.”

Captain Skint had gone to one of the two tables in the bar and was working hard emptying the first cask all by herself. Dullbreath sat beside her, mouth hanging open, staring at not much. He’d taken a mace to the side of his head a week back, cracking open his helmet but not his skull. Hit that hard anywhere else and he’d be in trouble. But it was just his head, so now he was back to normal and his eyes didn’t cross no more. Unless he got mad. As far as Wither could tell, there’d be no reason for Dullbreath to get mad here and on this night. This place was lively as a boy’s Cut Night after three days of fasting and no booze.

She and Huggs glanced over when a man and a snot-faced boy came into the bar.

“He ain’t so bad,” Huggs said. “Think he’s for hire?”

“Y’can ask him.”

“Maybe I will. Get his face cleaned up first, though.”

“Them two was the diggers.”

Huggs grunted. “You’re right. Could be we can find out who did all the dying.”

Wither raised her voice, “You two, leave off that table and come here. We’re buying.”