Falf cursed. These idiots. Didn't they know how to start a riot?
He and Kent, one of the Players, were sitting in a smoke-filled alehouse called The Kraken, deep in the heart of River Street. A band of laborers and ruffians huddled around them at a wide circular oak table. Kent was speaking in hushed tones.
Whispers! Falf knew how to whip these men into action. He'd stand square in the street, transform into a Dragon, and burn a few houses down. That'd get their attention. Call them to arms, send them marching to the Palace. A little fear of fire would squeeze some juice into their step.
A serving wench glided past Falf, balancing a platter of ales on one slender arm. Falf seized one and drained it. He wasn't much a man for drink, but he was bored.
He leaned closer to the table and heard Kent speak.
"Cut them off at the head, that's what I say." The little Player punctuated his words with a stab of his eating knife, spearing chunks of meat from his board. "The bastards are weak."
"So you say," spat out a big man across from Kent. He wore a stitched ruler on his sleeve, the mark of a carpenter. "And easy to say here. But out there," he jerked a hand missing a finger, "you face swords and arrows."
"Haven't we got blades?" asked Kent. "Haven't we been stockpiling weapons? Go ask Urble for a peek at our cache." Kent waved his knife at the barkeep.
The carpenter folded his arms across his chest. "So what? You can give a man a hammer. But unless he knows how to use it, he's likely to batter his own thumb into meat."
"I can use a blade," said a small dark man at the end of the table. He spoke softly.
"We know the kind of knife-work you do, Fen," spat out the carpenter. "In the dark."
"Listen," said Kent, stopping the brewing argument. "The Guards are afraid. You've seen 'em marching down the street of late. Always looking behind their backs. Why, just last week, two of 'em got brained with stones thrown not six ale-houses from here," said Kent.
"Yeah, and then a squad of ten came sweeping through River afterwards," said the carpenter. "Threw ten men in the stocks."
"But they're out now," Kent pushed back. "And ready to fight."
The carpenter shook his head. "Time ain't right."
Falf was disgusted. This wasn't going anywhere. It was time he took a hand. He leaned forward and waved his tankard of ale at the group. "Time isn't right? Listen, you bunch of—"
A firm hand gripped Falf's shoulder and pulled him back, causing him to spill the ale on his lap. Falf sprung up and turned around in anger, gripping his tankard, ready to brain the fool who had laid hands on him. But he paused when he saw it was another of their conspirators, a wiry Player named Nunn.
"What do you think—" Falf snarled.
"Let's talk over here, shall we?" The Player smiled but pulled Falf away from the table with a sure, strong hand.
"You spilled my drink," Falf glowered at the much smaller man in a corner of the alehouse. "You'll pay for that."
The Player smiled. "My sincerest apologies, sir."
"Sire," Falf hissed.
"Ah. Yes. May I suggest, though, that in this place we keep our names informal. Until the time is ripe."
"The time is ripe now!" Falf growled, his voice rising.
A few drinkers turned their way. Nunn winked in their direction and patted Falf on the shoulder: a friend who'd drunk a few too many.
YOU ARE READING
The Stoneweaver
FantasyTalents are now banned in Darem. For Skarn that means an end to his prosperous life as a Talented stoneweaver. Under the new law, he can barely keep his family fed. But when he uses his Talent to save lives, he is cast into the Dungeon: a black pit...