Honor-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book III ]

13

"You aren't from these parts," the stranger said.

"Perhaps not," Uachi said.

"Everyone knows the Arcborn pay before they're served, when they're served at all." With a knowing smirk, he cocked his head at Uachi. "You stink of foreigner's folly."

Uachi should have known the insults and ill treatment of his kind would not stop at the northern Narrian border. He measured the stranger with a glance, trying to determine if this man meant him ill will, too. Finding nothing but dry amusement in his face, Uachi snorted. "And they treat foreigners unkindly here, do they?"

"More unkindly than most of their own."

"If a knock to the jaw is the welcome they reserve for their own kind, then, I'll be careful indeed." Uachi nodded at the stranger's face.

The red-head shifted his jaw to the left and to the right, as if reminding himself of the bruise. "Better men fight with their minds," he said in a sullen undertone.

"Oh, aye," said Uachi. "I'll be sure to remember that next time I'm in a brawl. Stab him with a witty remark before he stabs me with his dagger. Sound advice." He looked up as the serving woman came back to the table. She dropped a plate of steaming pork and a frothing mug of ale in front of him, showing little interest in keeping the food and drink their containers, and Uachi frowned as a splash of ale wet the sleeve of his tunic.

Before he could give her a piece of his mind, she snapped, "You? More?"

She was addressing the other man. He gave her a smile and said, in a smooth tone dripping with vinegar, "No, my sweet lady. I have had more than enough of your gracious service."

The woman's brows drew together in a scowl. "Faelán bál," she muttered, turning away.

"She makes your name sound like a curse," Uachi observed around a mouthful of steaming pork. It was too hot to eat, but he was too hungry to wait.

The man was glowering after the woman. At Uachi's words, he spat on the floor at the side of the table. "That's because it is a curse, not my name," he said. He turned is attention to Uachi with a dark look. "You really must be a foreigner."

"We established that. Try to keep up." Uachi lifted his mug and took a swig, then wiped his lips on his forearm. He had not known Narr had its own language; what the serving woman had said certainly did not sound like Penruan. Perhaps it was a dialect, a word from Low Penruan, which he knew was spoken in some regions of Narr. "What's it mean, then?"

"Faerie pig."

Uachi paused with another forkful of meat halfway to his mouth. He looked at the stranger, trying to determine if this was a joke, but the man looked serious. "Faerie...pig?"

"I'd rather you called me Diarmán," he said. He raised his mug to Uachi with a bitter smirk, tapped one finger against his left cheek, and winked at Uachi. "To the lowest among men."

Frowning, Uachi reached for his own mug. He raised it. He took a healthy swallow, catching Diarmán's eye as he did. Their gazes locked for an instant, and then broke. The two men lapsed into silence as Uachi applied himself to his meal, mulling over the childish insult. Faerie pig?

Whatever happened to good old "bastard," "horse's arse," or the ever-useful "whoreson?" And what had this man done to deserve to be insulted, he wondered? He obviously wasn't Arcborn, so he hadn't been born to ignominy.

Uachi did not wish to make himself known to everyone present, but despite their salty exchange, he felt a certain camaraderie with this man, an apparent outcast like himself. He lowered his voice and said, "I'm Uachi."