Tyrant’s Blood

‘But I do,’ Freath said, scowling.

‘Then the sooner I go, the easier on your troubled mind.’

‘Kirin, I—’

‘Don’t. There’s nothing more to say. We both know what we have to do and you know why I have to leave. I will make contact again and I won’t leave it too long, either—that’s a promise.’

‘Find him for me, Kirin.’

‘And you find his brother,’ Kirin replied.

Freath nodded. ‘An aegis would be helpful.’

Kirin grinned. ‘I’ll see what I can rustle up.’

‘How will you take care of yourself? You know…’ Freath didn’t want to be obvious but he could see Kirin understood all the same.

‘I’ve been lucky this past decade; you haven’t asked much of me. We both know it will get worse if I practise. But that’s my decision on when and how to use my skills and you’re not to worry over my health.’

Freath sighed. ‘Well, I’ll just sit here and comfort myself with that thought,’ he replied, unable to fully disguise his bitterness. ‘Be safe. I shall miss you.’

Kirin stood, then surprised Freath by leaning down and hugging his old friend. ‘I’ll see you soon enough, I promise.’

All Freath could do was nod. He wasn’t used to being touched in such an intimate way; in fact, the last person who had hugged him had been his lovely Genrie. And she was dead within hours. He felt the familiar bile rise but forced it back as he lifted a hand in farewell to Kirin, who had turned at the inn’s doorway for one last sad smile in his direction. Freath watched a huge man step across the inn’s threshold, pushing past Kirin, his size forcing one of the Vested’s shoulders to swing backwards. Freath saw his friend shake his head at the poor manners and then he was gone. The big man moved deeper into the inn and although Freath’s gaze absently followed him, he was more focused on how the inn had filled since he and Kirin had come downstairs. Suddenly he was aware of the noise of men drinking, the voices of serving girls laughing and teasing their patrons gently as they set down food. He heard the clatter and bustle from the kitchen and the clank of pitchers of ale and mugs of spiced dinch. He decided to free up his table, now that the debris of his meal was being cleared. He watched as the woman worked with quiet dexterity, piling up plates and mugs on a large tray.

‘Thank you,’ he said and she looked up at him with surprise. She must not be used to such politeness, Freath thought, removing himself from the dining area to a corner of the main part of the inn. A shelf was set at chest height right around the room’s main chamber, accompanied by high stools for anyone who wanted to perch with a drink, though most men just leaned their elbows against the shelf. It was still relatively early so no one was rowdy. The patrons looked to be mainly travellers on their way through the town so none of these people would be looking for trouble. Instead, they seemed keen on swapping tales of the pass, or conditions in the mountains or news from the other cities and provinces.

Compasses! That’s what Loethar called Barronel, Garamond, Cremond and all the other once proud realms of the Set. He scowled into his ale and as he settled back into the dark nook his eyes fell on the huge man who had entered as Kirin was leaving. What an enormous specimen he was. He had to be a bodyguard at that size and yet he seemed very relaxed, not at all unfamiliar with the surrounds. Freath watched how the man took in everyone with his loud remarks and equally loud jests. No one seemed to mind his brashness. Freath noticed how the man’s brightly burning personality seemed to attract other men like moths to a flame. Soon enough a large group of them were clanking mugs of ale and laughing uproariously together.

The man sitting next to Freath, also alone, ordered an ale and as the girl arrived with his mug, she glanced at Freath enquiringly. ‘Another, please,’ Freath agreed. He didn’t want more ale but he needed an excuse to remain a bit longer. He knew if he went upstairs he’d feel Kirin’s absence too keenly and besides, it had been a very long time since he’d shared life among ordinary people. He was enjoying the anonymity and the relief of not having to watch his every move, every word, as he did in and around the palace. But, he reminded himself, he needed to stay alert. His reason for being here remained clandestine and with a very real purpose—he must not slip into the mindset that he was on some sort of holiday.

The girl arrived with a pitcher of ale and a mug. ‘I thought yours looked a bit stale, sir.’

‘That’s very good of you,’ Freath replied, accepting the fresh mug as the darkly golden liquid fizzed into its depths, releasing a musty smell.

‘There you go,’ she said, beaming, and moved on.

As Freath half-smiled back at her, he caught the gaze of the fellow next to him. ‘Your health!’ he said politely.

‘And yours,’ the man replied, grinning before he took a draught of his ale.

Freath noticed his barbarian escorts enter the inn. The Green looked around until they saw Freath. Freath nodded, subtly dismissing them, then returned his gaze to his new companion who had turned his back to the door. ‘Are you local?’ he asked. Without Kirin’s company he would look every inch the dour city dweller if he didn’t try and fit in. What’s more, he could use some company, even if it was small talk with a complete stranger.

The man shook his head. ‘But I like this town. I pass through it for work.’

‘Oh yes, and what line of work are you in?’

‘A merchant.’

‘Ah, it seems everyone here but myself is a merchant of sorts,’ Freath commented.

‘And you, sir?’

‘I am a scribe from the city,’ he lied. ‘On my way through the north offering my services to a number of the wealthy families.’

The man scratched at his beard. ‘You have very clean fingertips for a man of ink.’

Freath forced a smile. ‘Sand and vinegar, with a dash of almond oil, make a wonderful cleaner. I bleach my fingers in pure lemon juice each day. As you can see, it makes a difference.’ Where he found the capacity to lie so convincingly or compile such credible-sounding nonsense was beyond him. His mother would turn in her grave. She would turn, anyway, to know the danger he had been living through these past anni, he thought sourly.

‘Impressive,’ the man said, staring at his own grubby hands. ‘I mention it only because I work with a lot of linen dyes. These fingers were orange a few days ago. Now they’re just fading to brown.’

Freath tapped his nose. ‘Sand and vinegar.’

The man raised his cup again and grinned. ‘I’ll remember that. Look out, it seems we have a contest on our hands,’ he said, nodding towards the main counter.

Freath looked over and right enough the huge man was taking bets; coins were exchanging hands rapidly. He glanced at his companion. ‘What’s funny?’

‘I’ve seen this big fellow before. He never wins but still he plays.’

‘Plays what?’

‘Arrows.’

‘Arrows?’

The man turned to stare at Freath as though he were simple. ‘You don’t know the game Arrows?’

He’d just made an error. Freath fumbled to correct himself. ‘Er, well, I’ve spent the past few years working for the Drosteans. It hasn’t reached that far east yet.’

His companion’s nod suggested his excuse was plausible. ‘It was begun here in the north. Watch. See over on the bar, that pot of arrowheads?’

‘They’re not full size.’

‘No, that’s right. Deliberately shortened with a sleeker point.’

Freath frowned. ‘Why?’

‘To throw them.’

‘At what?’ Freath asked, intrigued.

His new friend pointed again, this time at a man who was rolling out a wine barrel. He pushed it against the rough stone wall on its side so one end faced into the main room. ‘The target is the bottom of the wine barrel.’

‘He has to hit that circle painted on it, I see,’ Freath said, fascinated.

His companion grinned. ‘Except he never does. I’ve seen him now a couple of times. He loses badly. I hope he bets against himself.’

‘It can’t be that hard, surely?’ Freath wondered. ‘I’m sure even I could do it.’