“Our nights in town aren’t always so active.” Jabez said, stripping the meat from a chicken leg with his teeth. Grease ran down his chin and through his beard, but he didn’t seem to mind. Chewing thoughtfully, he pointed the bone at Corwin. “Do you remember our last tavern brawl?”
“Haddonfield.” Corwin said around a mouthful of bread, sodden with a thick brown gravy.
“That’s right! You were chatting up that Baedani lass and her suitor didn’t take kindly to it.”
Corwin took a swig from a mug of ale and wiped his mouth on his tunic sleeve. “He was only a suitor because he was the only unmarried man in the village that she wasn’t related to. I merely told her that there were other villages and some of them weren’t too far from Haddonfield, that she had options.”
Jabez laughed. “Then he hit you with a chair!”
Chuckling, Corwin took another drink. “Wasn’t much of a fight. Just a few punches thrown.”
“That lad took down the angry suitor and four of his best mates and never even spilled his ale.” Jabez beamed, proudly. The dwarf threw back the remains of his ale and raised the mug above his head, signaling the barmaids that he needed a refill. Corwin and Jabez had been eating, drinking, telling tales, and singing along with the tavern musicians for almost three hours. The dwarf was flushed and his eyes glassy. Corwin wasn’t far behind, though he maintained a more sedate demeanor in contrast to his Master’s exuberance.
Vash had sampled the ale. It was the dark, bitter stuff that the dwarves loved. It sat heavy on the stomach and packed quite a kick. Jabez mentioned it was mixed with Gamlaender, a dwarvish spirit, and rare find south of Tonuraak. Vash carefully nursed his cups, knowing that this was likely some sort of bonding thing that Jabez was trying to do.
“They mostly gave up after I knocked down Britta’s suitor.” Corwin waved off the praise from Jabez.
Of course Corwin would remember her name. Vash thought, not only did the man have the swarthy good looks of Elani westerners, he was the type of man who was earnestly interested in any woman he pursued. He didn’t bed them and forget them, the way so many mercenaries and adventurers did. I wonder if that’s because he’s still hung up on Kat Tolman?
“You’re too modest, boy,” Jabez argued as a barmaid refilled Jabez’s mug. He caught the girl’s gaze and pointed at Corwin. “That young man is one of the best warriors I’ve ever trained. A natural fighter.”
She gave Jabez an indulgent smile and glanced over at Corwin, who shrugged modestly.
“And that one.” Jabez pointed to Vash, his expression contemplative. “That one I’ve got a good feeling about. He held his own, and that’s rare for both an elf and a thief.”
The barmaid laughed and looked at Vash. Recognition dawned in her eyes and her smile vanished. Her gaze held a mix of fear and distrust, but she swiftly replaced it with a pleasant smile.
A fleeting moment, but Vash knew that look. She’d likely known someone who tangled with the Eth Mitaan, maybe a Last Son or a Barge Brother. They were the groups that the Masked Ones clashed with most often. The barmaid gave them a forced smile and hurried off to server other tables.
Jabez frowned, watching her go. “That a common reaction?”
“Around here?” Vash asked. “Pretty common.”
“Then we’d best not dally.” Jabez’s drunken cheer falling away and the gruff master Wayfarer returning. “The sooner we get out of the city, the better, since you seem to have so many friends here.”
“I didn’t walk into a bar and knock the drink out of a Red Cap’s hand.” Vash admonished. “I told you I had enemies, and you walked me right up to one of them.”
“Sorry about that.” Jabez said, awkwardly. “Sometimes folk exaggerate, get dramatic, y’know.”
“I don’t.” Vash said. “Not about something like that.”
“Noted.” Jabez said, then quaffed his ale in a series of long gulps. He slammed the mug down on the table, rattling the plates and cutlery, then let out a loud belch. “Hooo, I needed that. Let’s head back to the Weary Wayfarer, one last night in a proper bed before we hit the road.”
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“That’d be a change, since I’m on the floor.” Vash pushed back his plate and made ready to depart.
“Not tonight, boy,” Jabez said. “Couple Guild rooms opened up at the Weary Wayfarer. Each of us can have our own room.”
“Isn’t that expensive?” Vash got to his feet and eyed Jabez and Corwin as they wobbled slightly where they stood. “I thought we were short on coin.”
“My credit’s still good in this town.” Jabez scoffed. “At least for tonight, anyway.”
Jabez took a confident stride towards the tavern door and tangled himself in his own chair. After a few hops and more than a few curses both in the Common Tongue and in Hakhdahr, the dwarvish language, Jabez straightened himself out and headed confidently—if unsteadily—towards the door.
“The Guild subsidizes a lot of rooms and meals on Traveler’s Row.” Corwin said, as Jabez passed out of earshot. “So taverns like this look the other way when a Wayfarer doesn’t have the coin to pay for bed for the night, or a meal. Trust me, if we had to pay standard rates, we’d be sleeping under a bridge somewhere.”
Corwin tossed a few silver coins onto the table as they left and gave their barmaid a friendly wave. Vash noticed she waved back at Corwin, but avoided looking at him entirely.
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The room at the Weary Wayfarer was more of a closet than a room. It fit only a cot, a washstand with a basin, and a small shelf for a candle. Vash didn’t care. For the first time in days, he could close the door and not have anyone watching him. He sighed in relief, resting his pack on the floor by the bed, and taking a seat on the narrow cot. The thin mattress, which felt stuffed with rushes, would be comfortable enough.
I’ve slept on worse. He reminded himself.
Vash unbuckled his belt and hung it on one of the wall hooks within reach of the bed. Next he stripped his armor, frowning at the punctures in the leather. He needed to repair that soon, but not tonight. Right now he felt tired down to his very soul. All he wanted to do was crawl into bed, douse the light and forget about everything for a few hours.
He glanced over at the candle on the shelf. Above it was a small window. Too small to fit his shoulders through.
Not a handy escape route then. Vash thought.
Something flickered past the window.
Vash blinked and quickly dropped into a crouch beside the bed. He slid sideways away from the window, reaching for his dagger and pinching out the candle.
Darkness enveloped the room, save for the moonlight casting an eerie glow on the fogged window glass. Vash waited, crouched in the corner, dagger held in a ready position. He fixedly stared at the window, searching for any movement or changes in the light. His eyes adjusted quickly to the shadows. His elven blood granted him superior night vision, but adjusting from candlelight to moonlight still required time.
He stayed crouched for a few dozen heartbeats, body tense and ready to react. Vash started to feel a bit silly, like he’d overreacted to something ordinary. Maybe a pigeon had flown past and through the cloudy glass he hadn’t recognized the shape.
Or that ale hit me harder than I thought.
A faint pulse of mana brought him back to full focus. Someone close had used a Talent. Very close.
Vash slowed his breathing and allowed his awareness to sink into his Core. He felt the emptiness within. No Talents until his Core refilled itself, but his connection to the weave of mana would give him insight into his surroundings.
Clearing his mind, Vash pushed his awareness out into the room through his Core. He could feel the motes of magic around him, the ebb and flow of mana through the world. Energy flowed around him in a gentle swirl, buffeting around the room, against the walls, along the cot, dipping into the water jug to take on an elemental tint. An empty spot remained, like a hole in the weave, with mana flowing around it.
A Shadowmeld? Vash thought. He waited, concentrating on the empty area. After a dozen heartbeats, he felt a flicker, a pulse of mana. Someone was pushing mana into their Talent to keep it going. The pulse came from the corner, the empty spot.
Vash lunged forward, hand outstretched to grab whoever was hiding in the corner, dagger primed for a sudden attack.
The pulse of mana became stronger, and Vash felt it flow around him. His fingers brushed the edge of a cloak or tunic. He closed them quickly, trying to get a grip on his opponent, but the cloth slithered out of his grasp. Vash turned mid-lunge, pivoting on one foot to bring his dagger around. A hand closed around his wrist, expertly twisting the knife away.
Vash felt his hand go numb. The dagger clattered to the floor, and he fell to his knees as the hand kept twisting, locking wrist, elbow, and shoulder. He grunted in pain, trying to get some slack on the hold so he could escape.
The mana in the room rippled, and the shadows fell away from his opponent. A slender figure in black leathers, a hood covered their head, and within the hood was a silver-white wooden mask. The face was angular, stylized. Stag’s horns carved into the forehead on either side of a pair of crescent moons, one large and one small.
“You are never more vulnerable than in your own bedchamber.” A melodic voice said from beneath the mask. “I thought I taught you better than this, Sparrow.”
Vash’s heart leaped at the sound of that voice. “Iona?”
With her free hand, the figure reached up and pushed back her mask and hood. Beneath was a part-elvish woman with a pale, angular face. She had a short bob of black hair that she kept tied back and away from her face. Dark, sapphire eyes that looked black in the moonlight glittered down at him. Her mouth was a thin, tight line of concentration, which after a moment quirked into a devilish smile. “You didn’t think we’d completely abandoned you, did you?”