Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (9 page)

 
          
Cold
and damp were instantly replaced by heat and the heady reek of liquor.
Calandryll blinked, an owl caught in the flare of the hunter's torch, and
peered, no less owlishly, about. Rough wooden tables were scattered across a
floor spread with sawdust, that stained with spillage. Men sat there, tankards
and cups before them, answering his examination with varying degrees of
interest, a few women among them, their interest more obvious, more predatory.
The ceiling was low, hung with lanterns that he stooped to avoid, their light
augmented by the lowering flames of the logs burning in a wide stone hearth.
The remnants of a calf roasted on a spit, listlessly turned by a child in
threadbare shirt and tom breeks, his feet bare and dirty. To the right was a
long table, behind it a fat, bald man in a greasy apron, behind him tapped
barrels and shelved flagons, tankards and mugs hung like trophies from wooden
pegs.

 
          
“Master?"
Watery eyes took in Calandryll's finery. "What's your pleasure?"

 
          
"Wine.
Strong wine."

 
          
"I
have a vintage from the Alda Valley that'll please your palate." The
innkeeper produced a dusty bottle, a goblet of cheap glass that he polished
briefly on a soiled cloth. "Try that, young master."

 
          
Calandryll
sipped. The wine was, indeed, strong. He emptied the goblet and nodded, taking
the bottle. There were tables enough empty that he found a place close to the
fire, near a low doorway that led into the bowels of the tavern.

 
          
"Would
you eat, master?"

 
          
He
shook his head, waving a dismissal, and the fat man returned to his desultory
polishing of the bar. Calandryll filled his goblet and stared around.

 
          
The
other drinkers were mostly seamen, he thought, from the cut of their clothes
and the heavy rings that decorated their ears. Many wore swords, all daggers;
several were clearly drunk. There were a few mercenaries, no doubt in the
employ of local merchants, dressed in protective leather, long blades strapped
to their sides or ung across their backs. The women had the look of doxies,
their gowns cut to reveal breasts bound high, cheap jewelry glittering about
their throats and on their fingers. They studied Calandryll with professional
eyes. He smiled at nothing and drank, refilled the goblet and drank again. He
could not help comparing the women with Nadama, so he drank some more to chive
away that hurtful memory.

 
          
In
a while the flagon was empty and he called for another. slumping in his chair
with outflung feet as the fat man brought the bottle.

 
          
"It's
to your liking, master?"

 
          
"It's
to my liking. It's a most excellent wine. My compliments on your cellar."

 
          
His
voice was thick and he chuckled at the sound, at his joke. The innkeeper beamed
obsequiously and left him. Calandryll sank lower in his chair, grinning,
oblivious of the wine that stained his shirtfront, grateful for the dulling of
the pain.

 
          
He
emptied half the second flagon and forgot that he was drunk. A torpor that was
almost pleasant weighted his limbs, the goblet heavy in his hand as he raised
it, the fire warm at his side. He stared around with bleary eyes and a
slack-mouthed smile, the other occupants blurred shapes, their conversation a
distant ground swell. When he set the goblet down it tilted, falling on its
side, spilling wine like bright blood across the cracked surface of the table.
He studied it, watching the redness spread and begin to drip to the floor, over
his outthrust legs. He chuckled, then sniffed and began to weep, becoming
immediately angry with himself so that he lurched straighter in his chair,
wiping a careless sleeve over his face.

 
          
He
set his goblet upright and filled it once more, his movements cautiously
exaggerated, pleased at the success of the maneuver. As he raised the smeared
glass he saw a shape disengage from a group about a nearby table and move
toward him, coalescing as it approached into the form of a woman.

 
          
She
was more than a few years older than he, with hennaed hair and vermilion lips,
eyes accentuated with kohl, the lashes like spikes. Her gown was cut low and
waisted high, bright yellow, cinched with a wide corset of black leather. She
leaned toward him, affording a clearer view of her breasts, and his nostrils
flared at the waft of cheap perfume and sweat that drifted from her. She
smiled, exposing stained teeth.

 
          
"You
drink alone. You're too handsome to drink alone."

 
          
Calandryll
blinked, resolving the three images that wavered before him into a single, more
comprehensible form, and replied forlornly, "Nadama doesn't think
so."

 
          
The
woman took this as an invitation and settled herself in a chair to his left.

 
          
"Then
Nadama is foolish. My name is Lara."

 
          
He
said, "Lara," thickly, turning to peer at her through the wine-fog
misting his vision.

 
          
He
saw that she held a glass and filled it. She swallowed and smiled some more.

 
          
"Nadama
was your sweetheart?"

 
          
"I
love her," he answered solemnly, "but she is to wed my brother."

 
          
"Then
you'd best forget her," Lara advised. "Shall I help you forget
her?"

 
          
Calandryll
frowned, enunciating his reply with difficulty.

 
          
"I
don't think I can."

 
          
"Oh,
you can," Lara declared. "Come with me and you'll forget every woman
you've ever had."

 
          
His
frown deepened and he said, "I haven't had any others. I haven't even had
Nadama."

 
          
Shrill
laughter rang in his ears and she leaned closer, a hand on his thigh. "A
virgin? Are you really a virgin?"

 
          
He
felt his honor was somehow questioned, but he could only answer,
"Yes."

 
          
"Well
then," Lara shifted her chair until her breasts pressed against his arm,
her hand stroking his leg, higher, her mouth close to his cheek, "it's
time you became a man. Come with me."

 
          
"Where?"
he asked.

 
          
Lara
tossed her head in the direction of the door. "There are rooms back there.
Old Thorson asks only fifty decima for the night; and I ask but a single
var."

 
          
Calandryll
turned toward her, then away as breath redolent of stale wine and decay
assailed his nostrils. Dimly it occurred to him that he carried no money,-
slightly less dimly that he felt no wish to bed this blowsy doxy.

 
          
"Thank
you," he said primly, "but no."

 
          
"Don't
be shy." A hand brushed his hair, another his crotch. "I'll show you
what to do."

 
          
"I
know what to do," he said.

 
          
"Then
come," urged Lara, taking his free hand. "We'll bring your bottle
with us and I'll give you a night you'll not forget. You'll remember me long
after you've forgotten Nadama."

 
          
A
rush of panic filled him and he tugged his hand from her grasp, shaking his
head: "No!"

 
          
Lara's
stroking became more insistent. "Don't be shy," she repeated,
"Come with me."

 
          
He
swallowed a mouthful of wine, feeling himself respond to her touch despite the
distaste he felt. Lara chuckled and said, "If it's the money, then I'll
bed you for half a var. Because you're a virgin."

 
          
"It's
not the money," he said, regretting it as he saw her smile fade,
"Well, it is."

 
          
"Half
a var?" Her tongue licked briefly over her lips. "A young noble like
you surely has half a var."

 
          
"No."
Calandryll smiled apologetically. "I don't have any money."

 
          
"What?"

 
          
Her
hand quit its stroking as she sat back, upright, dark-ringed eyes widening in
outrage.

 
          
"I
don't have any money," he said. "Not with me."

 
          
"Cheapskate!"
Lara's voice was strident, attracting the attention of the other drinkers.
"Who d'you think you are? You come here, drinking, and you've no money?
Dera rot your manhood! Do you nobles think you can come down here and lord it
over us honest folk?"

 
          
The
tavern keeper, Thorson, appeared at the table, his moon face apprehensive.

 
          
"What's
the trouble? I don't want the watchmen in here—I run an honest tavern."

 
          
"Honest?
You talk about honest?" Lara was on her feet now, arms akimbo, face
flushed. "Ask him about honest! What's he had? Two flagons of that Aldan
and no coin to pay with!"

 
          
Thorson
seemed tom between fear of offending Calandryll and fear of losing his profit.
Nervously he asked, "Is this true, master?"

 
          
Calandryll
nodded. "I fear so. But I have this ring."

 
          
He
began to fumble with the signet, but Thorson shook his head after glancing at
the thing. "That's no use to me." The honorific
master
was
gone now. "I take that and the watchmen'll be asking questions. It's
strictly coin here."

 
          
"Tomorrow,"
Calandryll offered, nervous now, seeing others join the innkeeper, an ominous
semicircle about his table, "I can bring you coin tomorrow."

 
          
Thorson
shook a ponderous head. Lara snorted cynical laughter.

 
          
"You
believe that, Thorson, and you'll believe anything. This bastard'll cheat you
and laugh about it tomorrow."

 
          
"You
have no coin at all?" asked Thorson.

 
          
"None."
Calandryll heard the onlookers mutter angrily and felt his apprehension grow.
His head began to ache. He attempted a placatory, wary, smile and said, "I
can pay you tomorrow. I promise."

 
          
"Nobles'
promises are like wind," sneered Lara. "They blow away."

 
          
"Yes,"
agreed a voice from the crowd, "it's coin you demand from us, and coin you
should demand from him."

 
          
"I
am," snapped Thorson, "and he hasn't got any."

 
          
"He
says," returned another voice, scornfully "but I'll wager he's got a
purse on him somewhere."

 
          
"Search
him," advised another. "Strip him down and search him."

 
          
"I
don't!" Calandryll shouted, frightened now. "I swear it. In Dera's
name! I'll pay tomorrow."

 
          
"Bugger
Dera," said someone else. "This bastard comes down here lording it
over us in his finery and looks to cheat honest folk. He needs a lesson."

 
          
"I
don't want the watchmen in here," Thorson warned.

 
          
"Who
needs the watchmen?" asked a voice. "We'll teach him a lesson
ourselves."

           
Calandryll rose,
pushing back his chair. It hit the wall and he felt his knees falter. His head
pounded. "Please,” he said, "I swear I'll pay you tomorrow. I'll
bring money