Tantern, Alverand

Lieutenant Colonel Lott halted in front of the saloon. Some sixth sense was drawing his attention toward the swinging door.

The chatter of drinkers and gamblers could be heard from the middle of the street. And from just outside the doors, the creak and groan of chairs being adjusted. The thud of fists and palms hitting various tabletop surfaces, be it out of excitement or frustration. Lott could hear the whoops and cries of both. The slurred words of men who had begun drinking this morning and would continue to do so into the evening. And Lott was certain he would recognize at least one of them.

No sixth sense about it. He was kidding himself on that count. He'd known from the beginning that this was where he would find the Colonel. He just didn't want to believe it.

One of the two doors swung wide, startling Lott out of his reverie. The exiting patron, a man with a wispy, scraggly beard with just as many grey hairs as dark ones, nodded to Lott, stopping in front of the door. He gave the Lieutenant Colonel a once-over, then said, "You better come get your boy, Mr. Military Man. He's about to clean some fellas out. And you know how well people take to that around here!" He cackled and stepped away, hobbling drunkenly and adjusting the lip of his hat against the angle of the sun.

Lott pressed a palm to his forehead and dragged it down over his face. It was a short moment, one that he allowed himself. It was okay to sulk sometimes. To be frustrated. But not for long. Ten seconds. And then he would walk through that door. He would do his job.

If you'd asked him a couple years ago, he would not have guessed that being a Lieutenant Colonel would require so much babysitting. Then again, he hadn't expected to be stationed in such a backwater town as Tantern, either.

Was my appointment to this position really a promotion, or a demotion? A reward, or a punishment?

Who could say. It was true he'd been accused of being a stickler for the rules in the past. His convictions, and the manner in which he had stuck to them, had made him more enemies than friends in the Federation. But ten seconds of sulk or no, it didn't much matter to Lott. He just cared about doing his job. And the fact that, right now, Colonel Graylock wasn't doing his.

The swinging door, pushed open only a moment ago, was still idling back and forth on its hinge like a pendulum. As the cycle of its sways shortened, the door began to squeak plaintively.

Though Lott was standing the shade cast by the eaves, he could still feel the omnipresent warmth of this Fool's Summer day, riding in waves that would increase into the late afternoon, only petering off once the sun had become a dark orange yolk which briefly hovered above the far hills before descending behind them.

It had been longer than ten seconds.

Lott ran a hand through his short, combed hair, fixing and straightening his look. He tugged on the bottom hems of his grey jacket. He checked the buttons and adjusted his pins. Then, for good measure, he undid the strap securing his Wulther in the holster. With Graylock...you just never know.

Maybe that was the real reason why he was hesitating. No, preparing. Centering himself.

He let out a cough to clear his throat and slid through the swinging doors.

One saloon was much like another. Admittedly, Lott had only ever seen the inside of a small handful of them.

He didn't drink. Alcohol was no friend of any disciplined or forward-thinking person. The entire concept of drunkenness was a betrayal of the mindset which fueled the behavior. Drink dulled the mind and the senses. Impaired coordination. It offered a few idle hours of bliss, allowing people to detach from their problems. Only, the next day, 'lo and behold, the world turned on, and a drinker's problems still presented themselves. Along with--by all reports--a skull-shattering headache you wouldn't be able to shake for the rest of the day, general drowsiness, and irritability. Not including other potential, more extreme outcomes. Vomiting. Complete and total incoherence. Blacking out. Pissing and shitting oneself. These were all things Lott had witnessed happening to off-duty officers who managed to get a bottle in their hands.

An evening of fun for an entire day of misery. Hardly an even trade. A bargain for idiots. And whether he knew it or not, Graylock was one of those idiots.

Shadows melded with dim yellow light in the establishment. There were two small windows, opposite each other at the front and back of the place. An oil lamp hung high on the ceiling in the middle of the room. It shook and swayed, rotating slowly and causing bars of light and dark to migrate back and forth across the walls. The effect was almost dizzying, but no one but Lott seemed to notice or care. The levels of energy in the room ran the gamut from those gesticulating excitedly at the tables and those who appeared to be nodding off at the far edges of the room, distancing themselves from the noise so they could sleep off the alcohol.

Graylock was at the center of the room, seated at one of the packed, circular tables.

Lott had never seen Graylock piss or shit himself. Not yet, anyway. In fact, the Colonel always seemed to hold his liquor remarkably well. Several drinks into a binge, and you would be hard-pressed to see much evidence of his inebriation. He would have the same intrepid stride, tall as he was. There was always a little bit of swagger to his walk, drunk or no. It was in his shoulders. And his words were just as fine and fast as ever, swift and cutting in their precision. Like a blade forged by a master smith, his mind retained its sharpness. He was even still a pretty good shooter under the effects of alcohol. For better or for worse.

As Lott approached the table, Graylock appeared to playing a game of cards while simultaneously debating the economic effects of the recent War Fund Package with one of the men at the table. He was leaning back in his chair a little, peering down at his hand of cards. He had dark, ear-length hair. A few stray locks draped down across the side of his clean-shaven face, even brushing against his prominent nose. His jaw worked, chewing even as he talked. He had a thing for chewing mint and parsley. Seemed to think it helped mask the bad breath liquor gave him. He carried three things with him at all times: his Wulther, an herb for chewing, and a flask.

Right now the leg Graylock's Wulther was holstered to bounced up and down under the table, restless. Drinking seemed to energize the Colonel rather than draining him. The energy pooled, building, with nowhere in particular to go. And that was part of the problem.

"Fancy seeing you here," Lott said to Graylock, without a word--and hardly a thought--to the others at the table.

It wasn't that they were poor. No, in a place like this, they would at least have the option of earning Kaine Company wages, and likely did. It was worse than that. Lott knew their type. They were dirty. They had long hair--most of them--and unkempt beards. Black teeth. Or maybe that was just the tobacco they chewed, hocking brown chunks into nearby spittoons. They didn't seem to care about the rips and tears in the fabric of their clothes.

Lott barely gave the men a second glance. Or maybe he just couldn't bear to look at them for more than a second at a time.

Maybe he was prejudiced. Uncomfortable around people who were not of his ilk. But more than that, he couldn't abide people who only lived for themselves, and to whet their own appetites. They had no families. They weren't respectable members of the community. Not these ones. They were in the saloon at noon on a Shattering Day. If these men hadn't been here at this end of the world, doing easy work for the Kaine Company and pissing away all their pay, they would be robbing trains and waylaying travelers for money and sport somewhere else.

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"Lott," Graylock said, without looking up from his hand. There was no shift in his expression. He was neither shaken or surprised by his arrival.

"I should've known I'd find you here, at the seediest bar in town."

"Lott, you should know by now. I'm always in the last place you look," Graylock said, smiling a little at the corner of his mouth. Still hadn't looked Lott in the eye. He placed a card face down on the table. "You can join us if you'd like. We'd be more than happy to make some room for you."

"As tempting as I find the offer," Lott said, "One of us has to keep the proverbial ship from running aground while the other is off gallivanting and avoiding their duties."

"Nonsense," Graylock said, his smirk growing. "Place practically runs itself. Also...gallivanting?" He and the rest of the players grabbed the cards they'd placed and turned them face up. He let out a hearty, "Hah!"

One of the other players shook his head, frustrated. Another leaned back, sulking.

Graylock leaned forward, snatching a pile of Federation bills in the center of the table and stuffing them in the inner breast pocket of his jacket.

"Gambling? Really?" Lott said.

"How do you think I pay for all those books, cigars, and fine liquor?" Graylock said. "Besides, it's not gambling if I'm good at it."

"Or if you're cheating," one of the players said. He looked to be in his mid to late twenties. Wore a round, black hat, and had a brown banana tucked under his roughly bearded chin. His eyes were brown, flecked with green. And they were bloodshot. His brows were furrowed with tension. Every part of his body language contrasted sharply with Graylock's relaxed, easy posture.

Graylock's eyes flashed. "There may be some luck to the game, but you're gonna need more than that to beat me. Some skill wouldn't hurt. Not to mention a smidge of intelligence."

Almost every other player at the table rolled their eyes at this. One of them waved to the barkeep for a new round of drinks.

Bloodshot hadn't moved. "Are you calling me an idiot?"

Graylock shrugged. "Idiot is a bit of a strong word. I will say this; I spent the last ten minutes trying to explain the concept of inflation--because you kept asking--and I'm pretty sure you still don't understand."

"Maybe I don't understand it," Bloodshot said. "But neither do you. It's a bunch of make-believe horseshit. It might sound impressive to some people, but not to me."

"I take it back," Graylock said. "I take it all back. I suppose I must be content to wonder what a man of your intellectual stature is doing out here, in a place like this, covered in miner's dust."

"I do as I please," Bloodshot said. Then, quieter, "I kill anyone who tries to stop me. That's all that matters. I'm not the Federation's stuffed uniform."

For a brief moment, Lott was certain there was something dangerous in Graylock's eye. A whorl of dark, like the flash of a wriggling eel in a riverbed. But then his face relaxed again, and there was another smile. "I'm all style and no substance. You got me, there."

"You're ornamental, is what you are," the bloodshot man said. "Like your military base west of town. And that ridiculous gun on your hip. No one needs an army in Tantern. And no one needs a pistol that big."

"Uh oh," Graylock said, leaning back in his seat, his smile continuing to grow. His way of stopping himself from laughing at his own imminent joke. "Feeling bad about the size of your own pistol?"

Lott stood frozen a pace away from Graylock. Afraid to rock a boat that might capsize at any second now. He noticed that Graylock's hand had drifted down toward his holstered Wulther. Not touching it, but closer than it had been before. Palm resting on his upper thigh. Fingers twitching a little.

"I'm a damn good shooter," Bloodshot said, ignoring the euphemism. "That's what counts. And I'd bet three months of my wages I'm better than you."

So there it was. A ploy to get his money back. It seemed Bloodshot was a better shooter than a card player. Or at least, he believed he was.

If the ploy was obvious to Graylock, he didn't show it. Or, more likely, he didn't care. "I'm the best shot in this room drunk," Graylock said. "And twice as good sober."

Lott cringed. Graylock had willingly taken the bait. There might as well have been a giant barb jutting from his cheek.

Bloodshot leaned forward, wrists on the table. "I don't believe it. I think you make your men do your shooting for you. And I bet you haven't even had to do that much in some time."

Graylock was still smiling. There was a slight, almost imperceptible shake of the head. "How much did you say you'd wager, again?"

"Why don't we just make it the winnings you just pulled off the table," Bloodshot said. "No need to go robbing you blind."

"You're a transparent one," Graylock said.

"But you'll play me for it?"

"I have your word that if I win, you'll double my winnings?"

A nod.

"Colonel," Lott said. "We don't have time for this." What he really meant was that it didn't befit a man of his station to involve himself in such behavior. But at that point it would be too little too late, wouldn't it?

"Nonsense," Graylock said. "It'll be but a few minutes. When's the last time you made two hundred dollars in five minutes?"

This elicited some groans from the men seated at the table. Those that hadn't realized just how much had been in the pot. They had been caught up in the game, caught up in the booze. One more round. One more round. One more round. Buy in, and pay out. Much like the game's losses, they would be feeling the cost of the booze soon enough, in their heads--and maybe even guts--as well as their wallets.

One of the men stood, pushing his chair back with a screech of scraping, varnished wood. "I'm gonna go home. Tell my woman I got mugged."

There was some laughter at that, and more motion as someone else rose from the table.

"Really, boys?" Graylock said, turning about. "The day has just begun."

"I still have to go to the Shattering Day service," one of them said, slipping on his duster and putting on his hat. "I should try to sleep some of this booze off, if I know what's good for me." He patted Graylock on the shoulder from behind on his way to the door.

"One more thing," Bloodshot said. "You said you're a better shot than me. Drunk."

"I am drunk," Graylock said. "I'm always drunk."

A statement that was quite nearly true.

Bloodshot shook his head. "You've been taking small sips the past couple hours. Sobering up so you could cheat, while the rest of us kept drinking."

Graylock cocked his head. "You're the one who's been taking it easy with his drink. This here," he tapped his cup, "Is a hundred proof. Do you know what that means?"

"I know that I'm not gonna let you cheat me again. Down the hatch."

Graylock sighed, peering down at his mug. It was half full.

"Don't do it," Lott said. "Surely you're not that stupid. You're not trying to kill yourself." There was a letter burning a hole in Lott's breast pocket. He'd intended to deliver it. But with the way things were going, he might was well toss it in the trash with the half-burnt cigars.

"Maybe I am," Graylock said. "And wouldn't this one appreciate it if I did." He cocked his head at the bloodshot man. "What was your name, again?"

"If I tell you," Bloodshot said, "Do I have to shake your hand?"

"For two hundred dollars?" Graylock said. "It had better be a spit-shake."

The bloodshot man sighed. "Elias."

"No surname?" Graylock said, rolling his drink a little in the glass.

"Not one that I've ever known," Elias said.

Graylock nodded. "Fair enough. What are your terms?"

"Break a tarn," Elias said. "Best two out of three. And no Shattercryst."

Ridiculous. Only a cryst-user could do such a thing. Or perhaps some kind of traveling showman, someone who had practiced such a feat thousands of times over. There was no practical use to being able to shoot the outer edge of a coin while it was in the air. It would be a crap shoot.

"Fine." Graylock didn't stop to contemplate. He set down his glass, hocked into the palm of his hand, and reached across the table. "I accept your terms. Lieutenant Colonel Lott here is witness to our agreement."

"I see you've found a way to drag me into this," Lott said, holding up a hand so he didn't have to look at the saliva dripping across Graylock's palm.

"What can I say," Graylock said. "You're like my guardian angel. If you don't look after me, who will?"

Lott frowned. If the Colonel truly had a guardian angel, its work was cut out for it.

Despite Lott's issues with Graylock, he had a great deal of respect for him and his accomplishments. He was a brilliant man, with a lot of battles under his belt, walking a path paved by mounds and mounds of dead bodies. A scarred man. A man who had paid a toll to be the leader the Federation had needed him to be. Despite all this--or perhaps because of it--Lott was afraid that someday, very soon, he would not find the Colonel in a seedy bar, or reading books in his office, but in a ditch up the north road. Face down in the dirt, the neck of a bottle in one hand, held tight in a dead grip. But Lott didn't like to think about that.

Elias spat into his own hand and took Graylock's.

They shook. Two quick, efficient shakes. Then they both held, as if waiting to see if the other would try to pull away early. Then they each released at the same time.

"Here goes, then," Graylock said, taking his glass.

"Graylock," Lott said. "Don't--"

He'd already knocked the glass back. One gulp. Two. And then he slammed the cup back down onto the table.

He stood. "Let's do it, then."

Elias nodded. He stood, the feet of his chair squeaking on the floor. He dropped a few bills on the table, and led Graylock toward the back door of the saloon.

Graylock waved to Lott. "C'mon. You're gonna want to see this."

"You don't know how wrong you are," Lott said. But he followed all the same.