Chapter 20: Rested

In the morning, Tybalt woke from his sleep with a splitting headache. The facts of the previous night escape his immediate memory, making him concerned about what exactly happened. He knew that he and Stanimir made a circuit of some of the seedier drinking holes of the Carrion Hill and spread rumours that the city militia tried to enact a coop on the Council. The Commander tried to make himself rule the city, but the revolt was put down by Zoltan and GoldenFlax alongside the brave men who wanted to stop tyranny from taking power.

At least that was the story in the first bar.

Every place they hit, they had one or two beers. A few snacks as well, but Tybalt couldn’t recall what he had eaten. He just consumed what was placed in front of him and drank every glass that found itself in his hand.

Tybalt lifted his body from the comfortable bed. He blinked for a few moments, until he realized he was in the hotel that he had first met Stanimir at. The guard must have navigated them to his little slice of paradise. As Tybalt stumbled out of bed, his mind still swimming with booze, he felt a nausea overcome him. He ran to the washroom, only find Stanimir sprawled upon the floor. The man had spent his night on the tile floor.

Tybalt stepped over his body and took the water basin to regurgitate into. Once done, he wiped his mouth and stumbled back to bed. He threw himself into the sheets. The warm air pressed into the room through the drafty windows. The sun illuminated the unadorned room with a few scattered rays.

Gentle drumming knocks hit the door. Tybalt spun his body from its encampment of straw pillows toward the door. He watched as a thin old lady entered with a pewter pitcher and a few pewter cups.

“Oh, you are awake. Good.” She placed the vessels on the table and poured water into one of the cups. She brought it to Tybalt, nearly kneeling before him as he brought the cup to his lips. Tybalt let the cool water refresh his dry throat. His mouth remained filled with the nasty taste of last night’s misadventure. The water came as a restorative.

“Would you like more?” the old woman asked.

Tybalt assent and received a glass into his hand. As he drank, the woman went into the washroom and stirred Stanimir awake. Stanimir groaned in his own groggy haze. Gently, she led him to bed and placed him beside Tybalt. In the same manner, she gave him a pewter cup full of clean water.

“I’ll clean up the washroom and I’ll be back with breakfast.”

Neither man responded to her words.

Tybalt tossed his head over his pillow.

“Who’s that.”

Stanimir just groaned.

“Who?”

“Desdemona.”

“Huh.” Tybalt adjusted himself in the bed. A ray of light caught him in the eye. He lifted his hand before his face, casting a shadow over his eyes. Thin rays filtered through his fingers.

“You know. The lady.” Stanimir pulled more of the bed blanket over his body, leaving Tybalt with less.

“What lady?” Tybalt asked, feeling more awake. The water had given him an ounce of wakefulness to bring him back into conscious existence.

“The one from jail. You got her to leave.” Stanimir took a pillow and pressed it over his face. He no longer wanted to talk to his bedmate.

Desdemona returned to the room with a clean bucket and wash basin. She approached the bed and took the pewter cups back to the table. She exited once more only to return with a platter of toast, boiled eggs, and a few slices of strawberries. She also had a bowl of boiled spinach with an iron fork jammed into the sludgy mixture of dark green.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked deferentially.

“You’re too kind,” Tybalt said. He rose from the bed and tripped a little in the sheets. Desdemona swiftly reached to his aid and tried to lift the much heavier man. “Thank you.” Tybalt touched his head.

“Take a seat, please.” Desdemona pulled a chair for Tybalt to sit on, as she portioned out the rations onto a small cracked ceramic plate. She scooped a bunch of the spinach sludge onto a piece of toast. “This will make you feel better. Shall I feed you?”

“What? No, that’s fine.” Tybalt leaned over the table, his elbows propping his arms and head up. His face stared over the mixture of food in front of him. He was enticed by all of it in equal measures to revulsion. “I don’t think I can have any of this.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“Oh dear! What’s wrong? What can I get you. I can get you something else.” Desdemona started to look about herself frantically. All she wished was to make this man happy. After all, he had saved her from the dankness of the Carrian Hill Penintentury.

Tybalt waved his hand about. “It’s all fine. I just feel sick.”

“Oh,” she said, dropping her head toward her hands. “Well, I think the egg would be best.” She removed the shells from one of the hard-boiled eggs and salted it slightly. She presented the glossy white of the egg to him as though it were a precious pearl of gigantic proportions.

Tybalt took the gifted egg respectfully. He didn’t really have the appetite for it, but he didn’t want to seem rude. The woman doted upon him with a level of uncomfortable acquiescence.

“Thanks,” he said, biting into the soft white flesh of the egg. He could feel his stomach churn at the promise of more food, but he ate it all and felt a little better for it. He took another egg and even managed a piece of the toast.

As he ate, Desdemona kept staring at him.

“Do you mind?”

“Oh.” Desdemona jumped in her seat with a start. “Sorry.” She turned her gaze toward her hands. She squeezed her hands together, watching the blue veins in the back of her hands pulse a little. She lost herself in thinking about how her hands used to look in her youth. Now, her skin had thinned and strength had left them.

Tybalt sighed.

“It’s okay. I’m just not used to… this.” He gestured to her platter. “You’re too kind to me.”

“Oh, not at all. Not nice enough. You’ve really done much for me. I owe you. I owe you. I was rattling at death’s door. God knows I deserved death. I deserved to die in that rotting cell, but you saved me.”

“I didn’t.”

“But you did. You did! You do not know how kind you were to me. Whatever you think you’ve done in your past, it doesn’t matter. I’ve done worse, so much worse. Your kindness saved me. The evil that you do falls behind you. No more. It must be forgiven with the kindness you’ve shown me.”

Tybalt’s skin began to crawl. He didn’t like the prattle of this woman. It made raw the thoughts and feelings that hid deep within the shadows of his mind.

Luckily, Stanimir arose from the bed. The bedsheets covered his body as though he were a man of antiquity.

“Why do you talk so loudly?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Desdemona said. She hopped from her chair and presented it to Stanimir to sit down in it. She poured another glass of water for him and began to peel an egg for him.

“Isn’t she so annoying,” Stanimir said, lifting the cup to his lips. “You really know how to pick them.”

“Hey, now. Desdemona has been nothing but wonderful,” Tybalt snapped.

“Oh, thank you. Thank you.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t have to deal with her over the last day. I had her holed up here and tried to get people in the hotel to look after her. She looks innocent, but she’s far from it.”

“She’s right there!”

“Yeah, I know.” Stanimir took a bite of the hard-boiled egg that Desdemona handed to him.

“Treat her with respect,” Tybalt said.

“Oh, it’s okay, sir. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay. You’re a jerk.” Tybalt said pointedly at Stanimir.

“Me?” Stanimir laughed with a mouthful of egg. Cooked yoke flew from his mouth and onto his lap. “Buddy, do you not own mirrors where you’re from? You’re the most hot-headed, impulsive, egotistical person I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Nah, I don’t. But you’re in the top ten, at least. Your still in the running though. The men in second, third, and sixth are all dead. I also have no clue where number eight is currently living.” Stanimir picked up a glob of spinach and dropped it into his mouth.

“You actually have a top ten?”

Stanimir smiled. Spinach clung to his teeth.

“So, number nine, what are your plans for the day?”

“I’m going to go look for someone.” Tybalt took another bite of his toast, finishing it.

“Why don’t you take it easy for once? Zoltan’s probably revelling in his victory and won’t need any heavy-hands for a few days. At least, until the election is done. Then, the blood.” Stanimir wrapped himself more tightly in the bedsheets.

Tybalt didn’t respond to his words. He was a man of action. Words only held you back, convince you not to act. Rarely, did words spur a man to action. They only conjured the emotions that made him act. Instead, he moved through his morning routine and a few stretches, as every action was a little more arduous this morning. He omitted his real morning exercise, but it was enough to get his blood pumping and his mind a little lighter from the alcohol. When he found his clothing, they were neatly folding on an end table in the corner and his boots neatly placed together beneath them.

“Did you clean my clothing?”

“Oh, yes, sir.” Desdemona stammered. “Is that okay?”

“It’s more than okay. That’s excellent.” Tybalt took his time slipping on the fresh clothing over his body. Although his body retained the filth of the previous day, only removing a little with the water from the basin Desdemona filled, wearing the new clothes felt like rejuvenation. He felt lighter, younger, stronger with the crispness of his clothing, even if it was still a little damp.

Tybalt slipped on his socks and admired the cleanliness of his boots. Never had he seen them sparkle like that. Not even Odvarr kept his equipment in such a fine level of polish. He arose from the side of the bed, and equipped himself with holsters and weapons. He adjusted the baldric across his chest. Despite a little fuzziness from last night’s alcohol, he felt like a completely new person.

Stanimir finished his breakfast, watching Tybalt change for his day.

“You’re really going out there?”

“I am.” Tybalt approached Desdemona, who had been standing by the breakfast table. He squared himself to her. Her eyes flittered to his knees, but refused to look any higher. She watched as his hands reached out and grabbed her hands. “Thank you so much for what you’ve done for me, for us.”

Desdemona looked in his eyes. They grew watery with some secret remorse. In a complete breach of her personal protocol, she threw her arms around him and hugged Tybalt tightly. Tears streamed from her face and soaked Tybalt’s shirt at the chest. She slowly peeled herself from his embrace. She looked at him, her wrinkles, long marked with sorrow, struggled to produce happiness. She took her frail hand and ran it down Tybalt’s face. His stubble had grown into a very slight beard. Her fingers moved from his ear down to his jaw. She began to cry again, running to the bathroom to hide herself in her sadness.

Stanimir sent him an unknowing glance. He rose from his chair, still delicate draped in bedding, and shook Tybalt’s hand.

“Good luck with your search,” he said. “But don’t be an idiot.”