By design, your typical pub is both welcoming and warm, especially on the outside, which usually looks inviting and pleasant. That’s kind of how taverns are supposed to operate if they want to remain in business. They brim with pleasant conversations, good drinks, warm hearths, and engaging staff.

The Crooked Hat Inn was not a typical pub. In fact, it was just about as opposite as a tavern could be to one.

It was, in short, an impoverished, leaning hovel as reliant on wooden stilts as a one-legged man was on a walking stick. Its windows were cracked, smashed, or boarded up. The paint on its walls was peeling and dirty. The wood that composed most of the building was rotted. There was also a sign as crooked as the building’s namesake.

In honesty, to Holsley, the whole thing looked like it might tumble over with the slightest breeze, and he was deeply surprised it already hadn’t, but, like the patronage that frequented this kind of establishment, it was hardy, rugged, and relentlessly stubborn.

He had been staring at it from around the street corner, watching the thuggish patrons coming and going, slowly building the courage to approach.

Holsley did so after an agonising few minutes, but his hand hesitated on the corroded wood of the door. The nerves were building now, really building. Eggs had been laid in his stomach, which would soon become caterpillars, which would quickly become butterflies. He became suddenly aware of how damned stupid this idea was.

What in the name of good was he doing?

He couldn’t gamble. He wasn’t smart with cards or dice. It would just have to be luck, he reasoned. That thing he had always relied on. Dan used to say that he had been born lucky because his birthday marked the calendar’s last day: the twenty-eighth of Adle. It was stupid luck, though, only available when the bad luck had run its course.

He had to go in there. If he didn’t, Roland’s death was a guarantee. There was no way he could live with that, so he swallowed his nerves and stepped inside.

The young bard immediately regretted this decision.

Dozens of strangers in dark clothes sat around tables drinking, gambling, and having both a bad and good time in equal measure. In the slight stretch it took for Holsley to cross from door to bar, two fights had broken out over accusations of cheating on both sides of the sizeable front room. They smashed tables, broke stools, and were urged to keep fighting as other strangers made bets on the outcome.

Holsley stumbled into the counter half-distracted and was only snapped away from the revelry by the loud grunt of the bartender. He turned, raised his eyes up high, then a little higher, and squeaked. The man wasn’t a man at all — he was a boulder. A crudely cut statue brought to life. It leered down at him while scrubbing new stains onto the countertop with a dirtied rag.

‘You sure you belong here, boy?’

Boy!?

‘Uh, I’m looking for Fox Matthews.’ Holsley gulped and hoped the motion hadn’t been audible enough for all to hear. He could feel the eyes on his back from across the room. ‘I heard that he, uh, frequents this…place?’

‘Aye, he does.’ Even the barman’s voice was rocky. It reminded Holsley of an avalanche in how the words rolled down his ears. ‘You can find Old Fox in the back room, but he ain’t one that likes getting disturbed for no reason.’

‘Good job I’ve got a reason, then.’ Holsley gulped again.

‘Now, what yer drinking?’ The boulder gestured to the chalkboard behind him. In most taverns, it would be overflowing with descriptions of different ales, lagers, and cocktails. Fascinating mixtures and tantalising tastes from across the world. In the Crooked Hat Inn, however, it simply said, in big, bold words, ‘BEER.’

‘The beer sounds good,’ replied Holsley.

The rocky barman eyed him up and down, then sighed. ‘What species are you? Can’t tell?’

‘Human.’

‘You sixteen?’

‘Uh, yes.’

The barman grunted.

Of course, Holsley had just lied, although he reckoned the barman either knew or didn’t care. He was surprised to hear him ask at all. There was a minimum drinking age in Tressa, like most places in the world, but it was all dependent on your species. As Holsey was human, he knew he needed to be sixteen to drink. Half-elves also had to be that age. Gnomes had to be twenty-five, regular elves had to be fifty, and dwarves had to be eighty-seven.

An ale was thrown in front of Holsley, its frothy head spilling onto the bar. About five seconds after it hit the counter, a half-orc hiked up to the young bard and placed an overly large arm about his shoulders. The young bard tried first to ignore the stench of liquor, which gummed up his nostrils, then tried to ignore the sleeve of tattoos on this half-orc’s arm, which depicted mostly skulls and fire.

Holsley strained to escape the unwelcome huddle, but the arm held him firm.

‘I think you’re in the wrong place, little boy.’

‘Maybe I am.’ His heart was racing, but he knew he had to fight through the tension. It would be worse if he didn’t. Holsley had to fit in, and he had to find the proper banter. This was a hive of scum and villainy, and if he looked out of place, he’d be thrown out of the place. ‘I was told this was an establishment all the decent gamblers bet in, but I see I might be mistaken.’

‘Funny.’ The half-orc didn’t even crack a smile. ‘Here to gamble, then? Got your big boy allowance, did ya?’ Three copper peasants for some sweets?’

Everyone within earshot was eagerly watching the encounter unfold. Most of them, Holsley thought, were probably placing bets under the table about what would happen in the next few seconds. For a moment, he wondered what odds he was getting. If it was up to him, beating the half-orc barehanded would be a million-to-one at the very least.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

‘Yup, and I’m ready to lose it,’ Holsley replied, feigning confidence. ‘You know what, though. Suddenly, I’m not very thirsty. Why don’t you have a drink on me, friend?’

‘You’re a quick one, boy.’

The thick green skin of the half-orc’s arm receded from around his shoulders. It went for his ale and hefted it up from the countertop. ‘What should I call you in case the undertaker comes knocking?’

‘Holsley.’ He had no idea why he gave his own name.

‘Thanks for the drink, Holsley.’

The half-orc returned to his table with a smile. Stifled titters from the rest of the table’s occupants made Holsley feel like a bit of a fool. Well, more than a bit of. They were smiling and glancing over at him, so there was no mistaking what they were giggling at. The half-orc merely gave him a nod and then turned his back on him forever.

‘Another drink?’ The barman leaned over the bar.

‘No, thanks.’

Holsley moved away from the group and towards the closest door. Stepping through it, he was immediately faced with a set of wooden stairs leading upwards into the higher parts of the inn — most likely where the guest bedrooms were. Once he was alone, in this curious space between the rooms, he let out a held breath. It took him a few moments to compose himself.

Once he was settled again and in the right mind, he puffed out his chest and sauntered into the next adjoining room.

***

To say the tavern was full of the kinds of people you don’t want to encounter in a dark alley was an understatement. It was a thug’s tea party, and the invitations told people to turn up looking ugly, tough, and sprawling for a fight. Suit and tie optional. There wasn’t one table he passed by that didn’t eye him up suspiciously.

He didn’t belong here, and they knew it. He knew it. Holsley was a weedy teen amongst this backdrop of seasoned rogues. Not to mention, he was also carrying the redrose lute on his back — an impressive, finely crafted instrument that anyone could tell was worth a small fortune. He attracted attention here like a noble who had just spent their wealth in the gold chain store.

The ground floor of the Crooked Hat Inn went mostly around in circles, except for some connecting rooms that must’ve been for more private parties. Holsley counted three main rooms before he found himself back at the beginning again, with the bar present in every room.

He counted the ways to escape. There were windows, but each of them looked bloated in the frame and hard to open. There was also a kitchen off to the side, which might have an exit into the alleys. Upstairs might be a safe bet if the front door got blocked. He didn’t like his chances of crossing an inn full of roguish strangers in a hurry. The only advantage he had was that he could fit comfortably underneath the tables.

It just meant he’d have to be careful not to upset anyone.

Holsley eventually found Fox entirely by accident. He had happened to glance over at one of the private rooms as a bartender drifted out with an empty tray. Through the gap in the door, he spied the, well, fox-like humanoid sitting at the head of a table. Even the quick glimpse told Holsley he was a bit of a character. Ostentatiously dressed and wearing the copyrighted grin of a Cheshire cat.

Roland had said he’d be obvious and had not been lying.

With a surge of courage that was minutes in the making, Holsley pushed through the doors like he owned the room on the other side. A table revealed itself to him, and positioned comfortably around it was an eclectic group of characters from various species. Species which included, but were not limited to, an elf, a tenderfoot, a human, a dwarf, and a werefox.

Holsley had expected them to react. Perhaps question what he was doing there or whether he’d wandered in through the wrong door. Not one turned their heads to notice him. So, Holsley took up the only empty seat and sat quietly, stomach aching, while the others continued to gamble as if he wasn’t there.

He watched and listened carefully. Suddenly, they were arguing about who had won the last hand. The elf, a lithe and pale figure whose style looked more at home in an oil painting, gathered his meagre coins in anger and stormed out of the room. A silence replaced him. Each of the table’s occupants looked to one other in turn, then shrugged and recovered their dice.

‘Who are you?’ Fox leered across the table at Holsley. ‘This is a private game.’

‘Uh, me?’ Holsley had been so enraptured in the scene that he’d momentarily forgotten what he was doing here. ‘Sorry, uh, my grandma’s dying, and I’m trying to leave Tressa.’ He shook his head. ‘I mean, I heard this was the place to gamble. I’m, uh, looking to lighten my purse if you’re interested in, uh, heavy-ing yours?’

Holsley placed his leather pouch of pilfered goblin coins on the table to cement his seat. Or, more accurately, what was left of it. The slight jingle of the metallic coins meeting one another inside the bag was perhaps a little more diminished than he would’ve liked. Tressa had been quite costly so far.

‘Who told you this was the place to gamble?’ Fox squared his eyes. All Holsley could focus on was how intoxicating his voice was. It was like angels had poured liquid butter down the back of his throat, and, once again, he was caught off guard.

‘Oh, uh, good question.’ Holsley clicked his tongue. ‘Very good question.’

Fox waited expectantly for the answer. The entire table was leering at him now. Holsley’s first instinct was to lie, but he didn’t know enough about Fox to come up with something believable. So, instead, he said the first and only name that came to his mind.

‘Roland Darrow.’

Fox’s eyes swelled. Just for a moment. Long enough for Holsley to notice and realise, thankfully, that he had said something right. The cunning sod grinned and licked his black gums with a pointed tongue.

‘Now there’s a name worth putting down on the table,’ he said. ‘You’re welcome to join us…’

‘Holsley,’ Holsley continued after a few awkward moments of silence.

‘Just Holsley?’ said Fox. ‘Well, any friend of Roland’s is a friend of mine. I should warn you, however, that you can only join if you enjoy losing your money.’

‘One of my favourite pastimes, actually.’ Holsley beamed. ‘I go out every weekend and try to lose all the money in my pocket. I’m getting pretty good at it.’

‘You can join in the next game,’ said Fox seriously. ‘We’re almost done here.’

The group continued a round of Towers — a game of chance that Holsley had learned the basics of just over an hour ago. At least he could witness the game in action with some seasoned players, he thought. They were each engrossed in their little corners of the table, hiding their dice below a flat palm and questioning each other relentlessly except Fox. That’s because, Holsley guessed, he already knew he had won this round.

Holsley’s eyes roved over Fox as they played for signs of his prize. The ring wasn’t overly large, quite easy to miss at first glance, but it was there on his furry index finger. A piece of jewellery that bore an uncanny resemblance to a cat’s face — that had to be it. If Holsley were to have a chance at freeing his friend from the gallows, he couldn’t leave without that ring.

With nothing else to do, he watched the game and reminded himself of the rules. Each gambler rolled six dice and would call out a number that their dice allegedly added up to. One would say ‘twenty-five’, another would say ‘eighteen’, and so on.

As Holsley understood, the person with the highest total at the end of the round would win. The twist was, though, that a player could lie.

They could spout a number, and it would be up to the other players to call them dishonest. If they were proved dishonest, they would have to give up a die and stack it on a tower in the middle. If they were proven truthful, the accuser had to give up a die instead. If at any point the tower fell, the player whose dice were highest on it was out of the game.

You kept going until you ran out of dice or knocked over the tower. The last person left was the one who kept the entire pot, and you could keep adding to the bet at the end of each round.

‘It’s time to come in.’ Fox rapped a hand on the table to get Holsley’s attention. ‘I hope you have a steady hand, bard.’