The wooden cup the one-eyed innkeeper smashed on the roughly cut table had most probably never been washed, but it didn't disturb the traveller the slightest bit. On the contrary, he raised the cup to his mouth - the candlelight playfully twinkled on the abbit-steel holster of his dagger under his dusty travel cloak – and emptied it before the innkeeper could count to three, returning it and nodding for a refill. The beer disappearing in his dry throat like the scarce raindrop in the ever-thirsty sand of the Taba el-Ibara was lukewarm and bitter, but he didn't mind.
Having not had a drop of water in his mouth for two days - he emptied his water sac when the last sand storm cut him away from the rest of the jaad slave caravan - the beer quenched his worst thirst and he, satisfied, wiped his mouth against the back of his right hand. Suppressing the urge to burp, he let a faint smile wander on his badly burnt face and his features relaxed a little. Only his eyes, restless, piercing blue eyes didn't stop for a moment as they scanned the interior of the inn for anything suspicious. At this time of the year, the dry season, two days without water in the heat of the Taba el-Ibara could easily kill even the most tough nomads, but the traveller survived somehow; having been in quite a few tough situations in his restless life, he knew quite a few tricks how to stay alive when everyone else would give up.
Silver clanked on the table - the innkeeper hungrily grabbed the few Abasisian coins before their dance ended on the tabletop – and slid the second cup of beer before the traveller. This time, the beer was cold with a thick layer of foam; he must have gone down the cellar to broach another cask, the one he kept for more important guests than his usual patrons: pirates, Hessians, travelling bards, the odd freelance poison-maker. The cold drink smoothened the traveller's throat and he took his time with this one, drinking it in small gulps and enjoying each drop of it with his eyes closed.
His senses felt the inn-keeper still standing beside him and he, eyes still closed, probed his voice. “Can I get something to eat in your establishment?” It was hoarse for being unused for the past few thirsty days – not that the traveller was a big talker anyway – but, to his surprise, the innkeeper nodded approvingly, perfectly understanding the curt question. Of course, the stranger spoke the flowery language of the jaad perfectly, just like the harsh, mystical language of the far Western Crane, the livid speech of the temperamental Gorvik on the East of Ynev, even the sophisticated and unnecessarily complex language of Pyarron with its 28 verb tenses that had been existing only in histories, fairy-tales and bards' songs ever since the Big Burning, but then... he was a master of survival and blending in.
The jaad suddenly became all attention. He smelt money on the stranger; he knew if he was playing his game well he could earn a week's turnover on this one single visitor. He allowed a huge smile form on his broad, tanned face as he bowed deep before the foreigner with the piercing blue eyes.
“If your lordship wishes so, I can serve you a whole tasty roasted chicked with sweet potatoes and two more beers for a golden Abasisian ducate.” The mock sweetness and friendliness was dripping from his voice, not that the traveller was expecting anything else from a jaad. The fire burning in his blue eyes died out and he smiled back at the innkeeper – his smile, however, honest and thankful, even though he sensed that the other man was trying to rip him off.
“Done deal, my friend,” his voice restored completely, thanks to the fine beer, “if you throw in a room for a night for a second piece of gold.”
The jaad, at first, wanted to trade for two gold pieces, after all, trading was in his blood, in the blood of his fathers and forefathers, but something in the dreamy gaze of the traveller warned him that this was neither the time nor the place to make his fortune. Instead, he admissively bowed his head again, but this time less respectfully. “I will prepare my best room for you, Sir, while you will be eating,” he murmured. “But only if you pay in advance,” he continued mentally.
The foreigner smiled, flashing his perfect teeth, as if he were reading the other man's thought – he was, in fact, doing exactly that, these last couple of minutes - and reached under his travel robe. When he pulled his hand back, two huge golden coins twinkled on his palm in the faint candlelight. The innkeeper started to salivate at the sight of the small fortune and was just about to reach for the coins, but the palm suddenly closed into a fist. “I want my chicken hot and crisp, the potato not too mushy, and the beer from the second cask, not the first one, my friend.”
The glance the innkeeper cast at him was far from friendly, the smile on the jaad's face, however, a perfect mask. “I will personally see to it, your lordship,” he bowed for a last time, and the traveller finally took pity on him, opening his fist into a palm again. Letting the coins glide through his fingers and settle on the roughly carved table, he indifferently turned away from the jaad indicating that bargaining was over. The jaad had enough self control to reach slowly for the money – a quick movement could be easily misunderstood for an attack on this part of Ynev and punished with a swift movement of a knife or sword bringing more or less painful death – and left the table, taking three steps backwards and only then turning his back to the esteemed guest.
The third beer, ice cold and foamy like the previous one, came from the hands of a young waitress clothed into a simple dress sweeping the floor around her ankles; the lack of the jaad shawl on her head clearly indicating her tender age, her purity still not spoiled by monthly female troubles. There was something off about her skin, even though deeply tanned by the relentless Southern sun of the Taba el-Ibara, and when she bowed over the table to place the cup before the guest, Geor dar Khordak finally understood what made his internal alarm bells rinkle. As the simple dress slid down on her shoulder – not the well-practiced, seductive movements of a courtisane, simply a small wardrobe malfunction – china white skin flashed in front of the man's eyes. To deepen his disbelief even further, two forget-me-not-colored eyes smiled at him from under her straw-coloured, somewhat unkempt, shoulder-length hair crowning her head.
A pureblood Pyarronian in this dog-hole! Stop talking nonsense, Sleuth, Pyarron has been burnt to ashes six hundred years ago and its people fed to wolves, condors and the unimaginable horrors coming from beyond the faraway Cranian hills!
Slightly confused, Geor chose the best tactics. Smiling back at the young girl, he reached out with his hand and gently arranged the dress on the girl's shoulder.
“What's your name?”
The young girl broadly smiled at the traveller. “Ascyra, mylord.” A Pyarronian name, again. Geor's senses gave off another, slightly louder warning signal.
“A beautiful name indeed,” he nodded, making a small gesture with his fingers as if he were playing a quick arpeggio on the strings of a harp. When he opened his hand again, a silver coin lay there, in the middle of his palm. “Thank you for the beer.” With a barely perceptible second gesture, the coin slid over the wood, right under the girl's palm she laid on the table.
Not giving a sign of what had happened, the girl lazily removed her hand from the table, her fingers repeating the same dance in the air. When they stopped, there rested not one, but two coins on her palm and Geor approvingly inclined his head, amusing himself at the expert display of the widely known trick. Given, the girl was very young and the trick involved some magic, but the instinctively performed movements only approved his theory. The Pyarronians used to be well-known – and widely feared – for their magical capabilities equalled only by the people of the Thirteen, and this innocent creature had magic in her genes.
“Thank you, mylord. Should you be in need of anything: more beer, some wine perhaps to forget, or some company for the night, just call me.” While speaking grammatically perfect jaad, the accent of the girl was strong; she hadn't lived here long enough yet to get rid of it. A recent import by one of the many slave caravans from the coasts of the Stormy Sea, something that made it worthwile to take the risk of crossing the very depths of the Taba el-Ibara. But then, it was expensive import and Geor silently asked himself the question how many gold pieces the jaad must have paid for this valuable ware and, more importantly, which practices enabled this seemingly unrich man to afford himself such an expensive slave.
She raised her eyes, until now interlocked with his and Geor understood at once their intermezzo was having at least one spectator, most probably the girl's master standing somewhere behind his back. His lips barely moving, he answered in a low voice. “Another beer would most probably do justice to this beautiful evening, of your other offers I'm no so sure.”
So, this is the way how the jaad makes himself a living. He wants to sell me the virginity of this poor child for a golden ducate. Not going to happen, effendi.
A sudden shadow flashed over her face upon hearing his refusal and, for a moment, Geor could swear, a frightened look appeared in her eyes.
He will punish her for not being able to seduce me and make me pay for her services. He abruptly made up his mind. “I collect legends from far lands, writing them down to save them from getting lost for the generations to come. Maybe you can tell me some legends of the Taba el-Ibara tonight.” Or Pyarron. “I will pay for your time.” Even if I won't touch you with a finger, you – and your master – will get your gold.
“Your lordship is handsome. But I sense pain in your eyes.”
What do you know about pain, real pain, oh child? What do you know about being on the run for thirty-three straight years, first from the hunters of the Thirteen watching my every movement from the topmost level of the Tower, then from the lapdogs of the Twins' Clan in Toron, seeping out from their underground holes as a horde of ants destroying everything on their way? What do you know about the pain upon seeing the very person you loved with all of your heart brutally murdered, her throat slit in her sleep, your name written on the white silk of her nightgown in her blood?
It was the very day he started hating his own name with pure, undiluted hatred, when he died inside; when the fire once fuelling his own will to live was put out forever.
“I'm just tired, Ascyra, that's all. I haven't slept nor eaten for 48 hours.” This was even true, but admitting one's weaknesses in certain situations could easily cost one's life. Geor, however, sensed no threat from the girl; her astral self seemed like a joyful pink soap bubble, her mental projection resembling a careless mocking-bird singing its first song at the dawn of a new day. Although the girl must have seen, survived things that should have never come across the path of such an innocent being, they still didn't manage to spoil her childish innocence and, except the Thirteen, Geor feared no one, even if he'd already met quite a few fighters with skills equal to or even surplussing his.
“I will see to your chicken at once, mylord.” The somewhat ashamed flush on Ascyra's tanned face was clearly visible, even in the faint candlelight. “I can't even imagine what you must be thinking about our establishment where hungry guests are kept hungry for the sake of a casual conversation. If you please forgive me.”
Holy Gol, Gol-Radja and Amhe-Ramun! Who IS this girl, weaving her words like a poet or diplomat, sprouting Pyarronian genes and using magic at her age?
He didn't have too much time to contemplate about this riddle. Hardly had she pronounced her last word when the innkeeper returned with a huge copper tray boasting a mountain of steaming food. Placing the tray in front of the stranger, he bowed for the umpteenth time before him and, with an almost imperceptible movement of his head signalling his slave to leave him alone, disappeared again.
Although Geor was hungry, he went easy on the chicken and on his empty stomach. Carving out a leg, he slowly ate it, enjoying the crunchy-baked skin, the well-seasoned, pink meat, every now and then picking a chunk of boiled sweet potato with his knife.
Quenching his first hunger, he finished his beer and relaxed back into his chair. By this time, the inn was already full; darkness fell an hour ago and only whose who dared to tempt fate were walking the narrow, unlit streets of the town where every day was not a day to live, rather a day to survive. Those wishing to prolong their pitiful existence for this night sought shelter somewhere inside, within walls, under roofs.
A few mercenaries of the Black Scorpio clan – the most feared assassins on this continent – played dice at the long table closest to the entrance, their loudly placed bets accompanied with even louder cusswords and roaring laughter when one of them got lucky. Two jaads, rich merchants, judging by their expensive clothes, sat at a somewhat more secluded table, their guards indifferently scanning the inn's interior, their back turned to the table their masters were occupying. Geor's table was in the corner, a few yards away from the closest bodyguard; from the man's body language he understood at once this one was ready to kill, although by no means a proper match to Geor's decades of experience in fighting and killing. Way too much killing, and mostly unnecessary ones.
Sadly shaking his head, Geor carved out the second leg, but his appetite was already gone. He ate the leg nevertheless, only to replenish his energy; he seriously doubted Fate would be kind enough to grant him his peace of mind for more than a few hours.
When the entrance door broke off its hinges, it didn't even surprise him. Why do I always have to be right?