Steel And Flame (Book 1) (11 page)

Harlan answered in Maddock’s stead.  “The rivermen are
little better than highwaymen.  They charge to cross, but most of the fee goes
into the tax collector’s pouch.  One of their tricks is to get you out in the
middle of the river, then threaten to dump you and all your possessions into
the drink if you won’t ‘donate’ a little to help them out.  You could probably
get to shore except your possessions would be gone downstream forever.”

That astonished Marik.  “Then why use them at all?  We
could have crossed on foot ourselves.”

“One, I like to be dry.  Two, if you try crossing
without hiring them, they’re likely to cause trouble.”

“Don’t the highwayguards take them to task?  That
sounds like outright banditry.”

Harlan snorted.  “What can they do?  Rivermen protect
each other and you can’t arrest everyone in the kingdom.  There aren’t enough
jail cells.”

“Yet,” chimed in Chatham.  Harlan glared at him.

Maddock explained, “They’ll prosecute the more
outrageous acts, if there is enough evidence or witnesses.  Otherwise, they
look the other way.”

“Such as?” asked Marik.

“If you’re a woman, you don’t want to cross alone. 
Use your imagination,” said Harlan.

Marik could and decided not to think about it any
longer.  Once, several women in Tattersfield had been raped by a bandit gang
who had caught them out in the hills.  The bandits had later been hunted down
by the guardsmen and hung.  That did nothing to ease the fears of the women in
question, who still refused to go outside the town alone anymore.  Those
women’s hysterical images, as they were ushered back into town by the miller
who discovered them, always resurfaced in his mind whenever talk like this
arose.  As a result, he held a low opinion regarding men who forced their
attentions on unwilling women.

He opened his mouth to share this bit of his past with
his new friends when Chatham crowed, “Look how exhausted the poor sun is! 
Tired from its long an’ never-ending wanderings o’ the azure fields above, it seeks
its own hearth an’ home.  I, for one, wish to follow its example!  Let’s move!”

*        *        *        *        *

With the brilliant orange sun slipping behind the
horizon, with the dust from the road catching in their throats, the travelers
arrived at a large road inn.  Its sight surprised Marik; he was beginning to
feel accustomed to the sensation.  Here they walked along the Southern Road of
Galemar with no towns or villages in sight, and suddenly a massive building
appeared from nowhere.  And to add a new degree of confusion, enough noise
drifted through the doors to make one think it housed an entire garrison of
crows.

Maddock had taken on a tutorial role in Marik’s life,
which the younger man both appreciated and felt embarrassed by.  The older road
veteran did not wait for the untraveled youth to ask.  “There are a handful of
small settlements only a few minutes walk away around these hills.  This place
attracts the locals as well as being the last stop before the ford.  During
storms, travelers from the east generally wait here until the ford is
reopened.”

“Not to mention,” Chatham’s gleeful voice added,
“being one o’ the rare places in this benighted kingdom you can call
fun!
 
This is one o’ the few stops I look forward to, my stalwart friends.”

“What happened to the ‘rules o’ the road’, you
chattering magpie?”  Only two days with Chatham had already started to make
Marik less careful of the edge he put on his words.  Tired from the long
candlemarks of walking, the temper which had been on a constant boil for months
in Tattersfield flared.  “Isn’t it warm enough to camp outside?”

“Rules were made to be broken!  Especially in the
vicinity o’ the world renowned ‘Randy Unicorn’!  Known for leagues for its
thoughtful treatment o’ road weary, upstanding citizens it is.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“You never heard o’ rivermen either.  Besides, we need
to stop by taverns an’ inns now an’ again to catch up on news o’ the wider
world beyond, or at least on news o’ the road ahead.  So come now,
lad-o
! 
It’s time to broaden your education o’ the finer things in life!”  With that,
he strode off leaving everyone behind.

Harlan sighed and trudged after him, shaking his
head.  Marik followed as well, noticing a sign as he walked closer.  A large
wooden knight’s shield hung from a post extending over the doorway.  On it
could be seen a carving featuring an exaggeratedly endowed horse with a horn
protruding from its head.  He imagined it was a unicorn from tales he’d heard,
except this was a grayish looking specimen.  Weren’t they supposed to be
white?  As he drew closer, he saw that, in fact, it probably had been white
once.  Weather and time had stripped most of the paint off.  Underneath the
rearing hooves were letters which, in all likelihood, spelled out the inn’s
name.  Since he had never wasted time learning to read, he had no way to tell.

There was and additional floor above the sign and a
dozen windows stretching the building’s length.  At the far end, a low gate
interrupted the stone wall, leading to a stable area.  All in all, its sheer
size made it look like a prosperous building, despite the deteriorating sign.

After Chatham’s exuberant extolling of the virtues of
this particular inn, Marik expected a grand foyer when he entered through the
front doors.  Instead, a scene remarkably similar to the one whenever he
visited Puarri’s Tavern greeted him.  A small area with a table for weapons
filled the space behind the door.  Several pegs for cloaks lined the short
wall.

Past the entry, a staircase led to the building’s
higher level.  To the right was a large common room with several tables and a
long bar countertop, behind which several ale kegs rested in various states of
readiness.  Doors to the kitchen swung open from kicks by platter-laden serving
girls.  A massive stone fireplace filled most of the far wall.  Well, no, not
the far wall after all since it crossed only half the room.  A matching large
area could be seen beyond it. 
Probably a second common room,
Marik
assumed. 
On the Southern Road like this, they must need the extra dining
area for all the travelers.

Inside the common room doors stood two huge men, one
to either side.  They were even bigger and bulkier than the rivermen, who
themselves were the largest men Marik had ever seen.  None of the bulk appeared
to be fat.  When they glanced around the room, they observed all without
seeming interested in any particular part. 
They must be peacekeepers
employed by the owner.

Chatham had already landed a table near the
fireplace.  An impressive accomplishment considering that every other table was
already occupied.  Were they fellow travelers or locals?  Since none wore
weapons or packs, he could not tell.  Marik started to leave his own blade near
the door when Maddock put a hand on his arm and pointed to Harlan.  The latter spoke
quietly with a half-bald man in a dirty apron.  Harlan held Chatham’s blade and
pack, Marik noticed.

Harlan had secured lodging for the night.  They found
the room assigned to them on the second floor.  The travelers left their gear
in the room and secured the iron lock outside the door with the key the owner
gave Harlan, then rejoined Chatham, who started downing his second tankard.

Chatham ignored Harlan’s surly looks.  Marik wondered
what in the world kept them together as traveling companions.  For the sake of
conversation, he commented, “I was expecting something grander.”

“Hah!  You just wait another mark until full dark. 
An’ Hanson said a pair o’ minstrels are staying an’ promised to perform later. 
Since he’s spotting them a room in exchange for services, it should be more
than a brief song or two.”

“That’s what so wonderful about this place?”

“As I said, we wait a while longer!  You
are
an
impatient fellow, aren’t you?”

Marik refused to rise to Chatham’s baiting.  A round
of tankards for the group arrived.  They were served by a woman in a bodice cut
low enough to show off the fact she was nearly as well endowed as the unicorn
on the inn’s sign, if not in the same manner.  She must have known Chatham
since he put his arm around her waist, assaulting her with his flamboyant wit. 
Laughing, she untangled herself with a smoothness revealing long practice in
the maneuver and carried on with her chores.

Chatham glanced at Marik before adding, “But upon
deeper consideration, perhaps you’re not ready to appreciate the charms o’ this
elegant establishment.  What do you think?  Hmm?”

“I think I’ll turn in after dinner.  I’m still not
used to walking all day.”

“A cleaver misdirection!  Very well, we’ll leave it at
that.  But dinner is still a bit off in the future.  While we wait, let’s see
if we can win our meal!”  He rose from the table and tugged at Marik’s arm.

Harlan’s scowl intensified, a feat that impressed
Marik.  “I said I’m not taking paying this time.  I meant it!”

“Fear not, mother hen!  Your words have found a home
in my heart.”

Harlan’s thoughts on that matter were obvious, yet he
let it drop.  Chatham led Marik around the corner into the second common area. 
As Marik had suspected, there were other tables, though this room turned out to
be no mere reflection of the first.  Noise assaulted him here twice as loudly
as across the wall.  He could feel his heart beating within his chest from the
vibrant noise.  A crowd several times that in the first common room had crammed
into the back.  The pair wound and dodged their way across to the kitchen wall
where the people were thickest.

While Marik futilely attempted to shift position from
where he was wedged between men, Chatham said, “Watch here, young son.  Here’s
an opportunity for fun an’ profit unlike any I’ve found elsewhere in the wide
open world beyond.”

Marik felt tired of always asking questions.  He
wanted to figure this situation out himself.  On the floor was an area marked
out in red paint like a long corridor.  The people had lined along the length
of this marked area and reminded Marik of the few times in Tattersfield when an
important personage would visit.  Everyone in town lined the main road, but
would never cross the arbitrary line that separated them from the carriage they
had come to see.  This resulted in a human wall.  A similar phenomenon played
out here.  In this case, rather than watching an impressive carriage role past,
they were watching a man throw things.

Apparently the red lines were marked on the floor to
keep people from blocking the thrower from his target.  A green line marked
this end of the aisle as the thrower’s position.  At the aisle’s far end,
roughly twenty feet away, stood a strange structure.  Marik thought it to be a
wine rack at first, which held a multitude of bottles in a honeycomb.  That was
both right and wrong, he realized.  What he saw must be a custom-made rack
because it held a variety of different sized pots tilted on their side so their
mouths opened toward the thrower.  This rack had been built in such a way that
the mouths were snug against the others.  Each pot mouth was a different size,
from as big as Marik’s palm to one slightly larger than his thumbnail.  Most
pots were a muddy brown but a few yellows were scattered around, as well as
reds.  Three passes of his wandering gaze finally brought his attention to the
one in the very center, being the smallest in the lot.  It was a bright,
silvery gray color.  He could find no others so it must be the only one.

The rack stretched six feet wide and from two feet off
the floor to the ceiling.  On both sides, wooden panels came out from the wall,
forming a stall with a short, foot-tall panel across the front.  It looked like
a booth found at fairs or festivals.

A third well-muscled man stood by another kitchen
door, keeping his eye on the crowd.  Next to him sat a sour looking man who
kept his eye on the thrower.

The crowd’s din escalated while the thrower prepared
his next toss.  He stood on the green line and turned so his shoulder faced the
booth.  His arm stretched above his head, gesturing toward the skies, his index
and middle fingers pointing while the other fingers were closed in a fist.  It
took Marik a moment to recognize the object between his fingers as a copper
coin.

After holding the pose for a moment, the man took one
step forward in a parrying stance.  His right leg bent in a crouch while his
left extended in a straight line behind him.  He curled the arm holding the
coin across his chest and suddenly flung it toward the booth.  Marik almost missed
it, as quickly as the man had flung the coin, and barely glimpsed it hit the
lip of one pot, bounce against the wooden booth wall, then fall to the floor. 
Many spectators laughed, taunting the man.  He shook his head at their teasing.

The next man who wanted a turn quickly hustled the
first off the line.  He also missed, then the man after him managed to land his
coin in a brown pot.  Several calls and taunts and mixed cheers greeted this
accomplishment along the lines of, “See that Philo?  At least he can make it
in!”

Marik thought most of the details were clear to him so
he asked Chatham for the particulars.  He responded, “First off, my young
inquisitor, you see how all the throwers are throwing the same way?  That’s the
one rule for playing.  You always have to throw with only those two fingers or
Clyyde over there disqualifies the throw!  He can be a real blighter, but Forrt
there next to him keeps us from discussing the finer points o’ fair play for
very long.  Any coin landing outside the booth can be reclaimed by us poverty
stricken hopefuls, but anything landing inside goes into Hanson’s fat pouches. 
No disputes allowed unless you’ve a talent for discussing matters with Forrt’s
longstick there.  Land your coin in one o’ those ten yellow pots an’ win ten
times the coin you threw.  One o’ the five reds gets you twenty-five o’ what
you threw, an’ that gray one in the middle will land you a hundred!  Think on
that a moment!  Landing a copper in there gets you a whole silver from Hanson’s
grubby paws!”