Day 32, 6:30 PM
“Most men and women will grow up to love their servitude and will never dream of revolution.”
— Aldous Huxley
Varren, the innkeeper, mentioned several joints where old veterans gathered, suggesting they were the best places to look for information about our fictional father. He was a veteran himself, but claimed he hated seeing others.
“Poking a wound until it festers seems like a recipe for misery.”
I’m not sure whether he was trying to explain himself or just warning us about what we are about to do. Whatever his intention, I got the impression he was honest with us, and he had the air of a man wishing a couple kids well while pitying them.
“Thanks for everything.” I wave Varren goodbye as Manuella and I leave his tavern.
“You boys take care.” He smiles and waves, yet he still looks like he’s angry with us.
Such a strange face.
“The gate guard is a no-no,” I whisper to Manuella after closing the door. “You wanna try the places Varren listed?”
“What is it with you and people?” she hisses. “I would have sat still, eaten my meal and drank my beer, hoping he does not kick me out, and you joked about a fellow veteran missing half his hand. What if they were cousins?”
I shrug. “I can see it when I look at them. And it’s obvious Varren hates Najel.”
“People sometimes hate their cousins, but they do not tolerate others spitting on them.”
She seems angry.
“Why are you angry?”
“I am not angry,” she shouts, then covers her mouth.
“I am confused.” She continues in a more normal tone, straightening her tunic. “I do not understand how you do the things that you do.”
“No one you know could ever keep up with me?” I ask, and she stares blankly.
“What?” She doesn’t get it.
“Never mind. Look, I am better than an average Joe in every way. I am strong, agile, intelligent, you are intelligent too, by the way, I am charismatic and I can read people. That’s who I am. I’m a great guy.”
“You killed yourself brutally, and left me in the forest to fend for myself,” she mumbles.
“We’ve been through that already. Only an extraordinary guy could ever do that, and neither of us currently wants to prove me right. You’re still—” Blunt starts, and I choke it, gritting my teeth.
“Distrusting,” I continue, still keeping my voice low. “But at least, you are no longer looking at me like a little retard. We are at your desired destination, you have a bunch of money, you have plans, and yet you are still with me. You either have some feelings for me, or you wish to use me, which is fine. I’m a patient man, I can wait.”
“You are insane,” she mumbles, but not in a bad way.
Aren’t we all? It’s just a matter of how many people share our insane perspective.
“I am,” I flaunt my uniqueness, “any sane man would have used his money, energy, and immortality in a more rewarding manner. And you are speaking more honestly, thank you.”
She nods. “I am starting to believe that you can read minds and that by staying silent I make myself look stupid.”
I chuckle and shake my head. “I can’t do anything remotely similar, but I’ve spent so much time with you, you’re like an open book.”
Maybe I could read minds if I increased my wisdom, charisma, and intellect enough?
“What about the fisherman, and the blacksmith, and the tavern-keeper?”
“Lucky guesses.” I flash a grin, but she’s not amused. “Seriously, if I knew more, I would tell you. I already told you everything I’m aware of. I’m good at bargaining and unarmed combat, I can sense when someone is attacking me, and I can ride. That’s it. I’ve never ridden an animal before, but I know I can do it.”
She nods. We tested danger sense with my eyes closed. It took a while to talk her into seriously trying to stab me while I’m blindfolded, but after dodging her attack once, it became an exercise.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
Funny thing, the capsized raft didn’t trigger it, neither did her attempts to prick me with a needle, nor any other instance when I injured myself.
“We got sidetracked. You wanna try the places Varren mentioned?” I repeat the question, which led to her outburst.
“Yes,” she answers, regaining her calm, and we head for The Rickety Stool.
As soon as I open the door, the stench of horse-piss-quality beer hits me. The Rickety Stool is cheap compared to taverns we visited so far. Instead of benches, small stools surround the tables. The tables are shorter, uncomfortable, and the place is packed.
I spot three men with peg legs and one with an empty eye socket, even before I finish swinging the door open. In the movies, when a new person walks into a tavern, everyone looks at them and there’s silence. They are too drunk for that in this joint. A few people do eye us as we enter, but the whirlpool of surrounding conversations draws them back in, and drowns their suspicious nature.
What now? There’s no place to sit, not unless we squeeze with the sweaty, smelly men swarming the tables.
What if there are no chairs? I wonder, and scan the room again, realizing some patrons really aren’t using chairs. For the lack of rickety stools, some squat, others sit on crates, floor, and even on thicker firewood logs.
“Do you want to speak?” I ask, and Manuella nods.
“Excuse me, we are looking for information about our father. He went to war ten years ago, and we know he served under a man called Ralleen.” She asks the crowd at the nearest table just like that, no spiel, no making friends, she fires the question straight, I’m stunned by her bluntness, and I wonder about the nature of BSD abilities.
“Old Kal got himself hanged and thrown to the dogs,” a one-legged man answers, staring into his mug of inferior beer. “The king’s men offered him to change sides, saying our castle fell. He didn’t believe them, and refused. When we got word of Duke’s death, we surrendered, but they hanged Kal, and a few other captains for being traitors. They spared the rest of us.”
That works? I can’t believe it did.
“What’s your pa’s name?” the veteran asks.
“Tolin,” Manuella gives the region’s most common name, and the veteran frowns.
“I know a lot of Tolins. What did he look like?”
“Um. Big. Like me now, I guess. Blonde hair. He had a really bushy beard.”
The vet shakes his head and looks around his table, but his drinking buddies mimic his gesture, none looking towards us.
“Don’t know him. Ask around. Maybe someone knows something.”
We mile about, Manuella asking questions. Most tables have several disabled men sitting at them, but one table drew my attention even before we reached it. The customers are all squatting around it, their bodies firm like stone, not shaking in the least in their air-chairs. All eight of them are healthy, and while one is an ear short, they aren’t missing any important body parts.
And most importantly, they are giving off an extremely negative vibe.
Hostile, angry, annoyed?
I can’t put my finger on it. I want to tell Manuella to stop as she heads for them, but I think it would be suspicious if we just turned around and left.
She opens her mouth to speak, but a solid man speaks in a gruff voice, “There was no blonde Tolin in our company. Move along.”
“You served under captain Ralleen?” Manuella asks, and I catch the surprise and excitement seeping into her voice before she starts whispering. “I heard captain Ralleen was a fierce man, brave and loyal to a fault, his men giants—”
“Shut up,” the man growls. “Captain’s dead. They made him dance on the gallows, and we all watched it. They didn’t even let us bury him and threw his body to the dogs, saying traitors deserved no graves. He was the most loyal man I’ve ever met, and they hanged him for treason.”
His voice shakes as he speaks, but he’s keeping his hisses quiet. With all the din, even I’m straining my ears to hear him.
He’s afraid someone will hear him.
“Your old man didn’t serve with us. Whoever told you that lied to you. Now, leave.”
“Wait,” Manuella whispers. “Please, I have to know something.”
“What?” another man asks. His hair is black, and a nasty old scar splits his beard in two.
“Do you regret it? If you had to go through all that again, would you?”
Wrong question. Too soon, too unfamiliar.
My heart thumps stronger than it did a moment ago. Blood rushes to my head and my pupils widen. One of the eight, one who hasn’t said a word yet jumps, holding his mug, splashing beer, his other hand clenched into a fist.
I grab the back of Manuella’s tunic and yank her back towards me as another man rockets from his squat. The first one has a face like a demon, smashing his mug and splashing beer where Manuella stood a moment ago, while the other one is looking towards me.
Ah, great. You just had to start a classic tavern brawl.
My heart pounds again, pumping what feels like a pint of blood in one go. My ears hiss, and I push Manuella behind me. The one aiming for me swings his fist; my cheek stings, but the strike doesn’t connect, since I have already grabbed his wrist.
My body moves on its own, and my other hand grabs his tunic below his armpit. I spin, taking him with me, and slam him into the confused one holding an empty mug.
They crash into each other, then tumble down, smashing the table into planks and splinters.
“Out, now,” I shout in the suddenly silent tavern, watching the other six jump up.
What do you guys do for a living? Split rocks?
Manuella runs for the door, and I notice only one of the six is going towards me, the rest are checking on their friends.
“Look, man, I’m not looking for trouble.”
I expect a flash of phantom pain, but nothing happens.
“That was a cruel joke to play. Asking questions like that,” he speaks rather than attacking, but the mix of sorrow and anger in his voice packs a punch all on its own. “We’ve seen our share of horrors. Nobody should see them, but we’ve left them behind and found our place in the world, making an honest living. Why would we abandon it? Why are you picking at old wounds?”
He chokes while speaking, his voice close to tears of a man who had seen more than he should’ve, more than anyone should.