Dere hated horses, loathed the beasts. Their backs were as uncomfortable as steel. They always tried to buck him off. They were too loyal for his liking, something suspicious about that, and the worst part was everyone else loved the things. No, that wasn’t true, the worst part about horses was the smell, a horrible acrid thing, especially in the rain. That was another thing Dere hated, the rain. Nothing in the world succeeded so wholly in ruining a perfectly good day. Besides, rain was Afre’s thing, and they had never gotten along.
By sheer coincidence, Dere currently sat astride a horse in the heart of an ongoing storm. The rain had soaked through his clothes and the horse’s smell had begun its assault on his nostrils. “How far until we get there.” He, Arlette, and Florian were heading North to Coln. They had travelled for a week already, and Dere had fallen into a foul mood. Their next stop on the trek North was the small village of Farrow, another unremarkable hamlet for Dere to enjoy more foul food and drink.
“You’re such a child.” Arlette responded. She was not in a much better mood than him but showed it, and said it, much less.
“I’m far older than you.”
“If you are, which I doubt, then you certainly don’t act like it.”
“We’re close.” Said Florian, entering the conversation before they engaged in another of their hour-long bickering sessions.
Dere rolled his eyes. “You said we were close an hour ago.”
“We were close an hour ago.” Florian was the only one of the three who wasn’t in a particularly bad mood. If only because his natural state was a bad mood. “We’re closer now.”
Groaning, Dere went back to staring downward at the saddle, not even bothering to guide the horse. Silence encompassed the group once more as the horses brought them up a shallow hill. Upon reaching the crest, Dere spotted distant lights below. “Told you.” Florian remarked with just a little too much self-assuredness for Dere’s liking.
Dere glanced over his horse’s head at the town of Farrow below. It was even smaller and more ramshackle than the others with barely enough buildings to qualify as a village. “Great, I'm so delighted.”
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He and Florian dropped their meager possessions off in the room, the largest the inn had. Arlette had taken possession of the only other remaining room, so Florian and Dere split this one. Normally, Dere would have filled Arlette’s ears with a chorus of complaints and arguments, but he lacked the energy to do even that. He shook as much water off his clothes as he could manage then walked towards the door. “Drinks, Florian?”
“Gladly.” Florian, who had been staring out the second-story window, followed Dere out the door. Together, they went down to the first floor where some of the townsfolk and a few other travelers had gathered for drinks. It was the usual crowd: farmers, one or two guards, some travelling merchants, and three tougher looking fellows who Dere thought might be mercenaries in between jobs. All in all, not the best drinking companions.
Dere pointedly ignored the lot of them and headed to the counter. A matronly woman in her early forties manned the bar. She gave Dere and Florian the smallest smile courtesy allowed. “What can I get you boys?”
Dere looked at the options and sighed. “Two flasks of beer, please. The best you have.”
“That’ll be six coppers.” So cheap, too cheap. It meant it was probably swill. Florian handed the coins over and the woman poured two mugs from a cask underneath the counter. Dere picked up his mug and sniffed at it. He fought the urge to recoil at the stench. The novelty of mortal appetite had left him, and his usual pickiness had returned. Not so long ago he was drinking the finest wine of the Immortals, one glass of which could fetch enough coin to purchase this entire sad excuse of a town. Now he was drinking something that smelled suspiciously similar to horse piss. Dere let out another sigh, no use dwelling on the past.
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They claimed a table in the far corner of the room, near the fire, and sat in the wooden seats. Dere’s body, sore from the ride and not yet fully healed from the events of a week ago, complained as he did. Even Florian groaned when he sat. They each sipped their beers at the same time and simultaneously recoiled. Nevertheless, the drinks had alcohol, so they kept sipping.
“Chances Arlette joins us?” Florian asked, mild grin on his normally grumpy face.
“Us, alcohol, and the splendid company of all these fine people,” Dere gestured around the room. “I can’t think of anything she’s less likely to do.” Florian snorted, and Dere, even through his foul mood, smiled.
“Can you imagine a drunk Arlette? That would be a sight.” Florian muttered while taking another sip.
“As hilarious as that idea sounds, I doubt it would be much fun in actuality. She’d probably be insufferable.”
“I think she’d actually try to strangle you.”
“Try? She’d succeed.”
Florian’s laugh filled up the sordid room. It was one of the few things about the man that reminded Dere of Sylvian. For most of the time Dere had known him, Florian drifted between various states of grumpiness, but every once in a while he’d brighten up a little and one could spot a trace of his old liege’s influence. It was one of the reasons Dere liked the man.
For another half hour or so they sat in that corner table and downed pints of the awful beer. As their inebriation increased their foul mood receded. Dere was almost having a good time. Florian was almost in a good mood. Then, Dere overheard something. The three men he’d earlier pegged as mercenaries had been idly conversing about opportunities for employment. Dere caught bits and pieces of what they said throughout the night, none of it interested him. They mentioned many of the usual things: guard work, bullying people for local landowners, enforcement. They seemed as uninterested in the work as Dere was in their conversation, but then, they mentioned something else.
“I need work, man.” Said the tallest of the three whose face bore a nasty scar running down his neck. “Not for coppers either. None of the usual bullshit. I need silver in my pocket. Maybe even some gold.”
“And I want to marry a princess. Neither is going to happen.” Muttered a grizzled older man who sported something of a potbelly.
“The new king’s offering work, Davel, or something like that.” The third one spoke up. He was the shortest of the three and looked like he was distantly related to a rat. “Needs help bringing down Maurius, ol’ Sir Stick up his Ass. Good money I hear.”
“No. You’ve heard the same stories I’ve heard.” The fat one interjected. “I’m not getting within twenty miles of those monsters. No way I’m throwing myself in with his lot.”
Rat man shook his head. “You’ll have to sooner or later. The Kingdom’s his. Ilu only knows what’s going on with the other Highlords.” He looked around suspiciously then muttered to his companions under his breath. “Plus, I heard from one of my pals in Randas’ host that they’ve rounded up the Queen.”
Dere, who had been trying not to zone out of the mostly boring conversation about Duval, suddenly perked up. Across from him he saw Florian do the same.
“No way. When?”
“Few days ago, apparently. She was fleeing to Coln with Lucroy. Rumor is they killed him and grabbed her.”
The tall one sat back in his chair and rubbed his patchy facial hair. “What a mess. None of our business, though. Davel, or Devel, or whoever is bad news. I’m telling you. Best keep away.” He leaned forward and moved on. “Anyway, you see that dame who walked in here…” He stopped abruptly. Florian had scooted back his chair and approached the table. Dere watched him from his seat, pretty sure he knew where this was going.
Florian stood over the three men. They looked at him, confusion clear in their eyes.
Rat man confronted him. “What do you want?”
Florian looked down at the man’s sneering rodent-like face. “Tell me everything you know about what happened to the Queen.”
The man looked at the others then back at Florian. “Why would I do that?”
“Because I told you to.”
“Who do you think you…” Before he could finish the sentence, Florian’s fist flew straight into his ugly face.