Aranthar was dying. His attempt at a swallow produced nothing but a rasping cough, and his throat was drier than the ashlands. Hammer blows thudded on his temples with every sluggish beat of his heart, while the room spun drukenly as if malicious faespawn had lifted his bed and were spinning it like a top.
The ancient bed creaked as he swung trembling legs over the side. It helped with the dizziness, but the sudden motion knocked the pile of blankets aside and exposed him to painfully cold air. His skin pimpled into gooseflesh, even under all the clothing he’d worn.
Two pairs of breeches, three shirts and a thick jacket did nothing to halt the chattering of his teeth. His booted feet thumped against the coarse wooden floor, and he rubbed blearily at his eyes as he squinted at the dimness. What time was it? Glancing through the slats in the wooden shutters didn’t help. It only revealed the ever present grey he’d grown accustomed to since coming to this twice cursed city.
The faint din drifting through the floor gave some clue. The Rusty Spigot didn’t pick up until four bells after noon, which meant it was probably close to sunset judging from the raucous laughter and thankfully muffled singing that more resembled a cat being tortured than any song he knew. That would be Lilah.
The cloud of mist that accompanied each breath triggered a surge of irritation. Only in a place like Lowtown would you see your breath inside a room. Stewards, but he was tired of winter. How many more weeks until the weather became bearable?
The narrow bed gave a thankful groan as he staggered to his feet. Lurching towards the lopsided nightstand took him across the length of the tiny room. What had happened to his sense of balance? It had been there the night before, but must have fled somewhere between the last six cups of mulled wine. He envied it, because he wished he could flee this awful place as well.
The reflection in the warped bronze mirror atop the nightstand was depressing. Dark hair spilled down his shoulders in a tangled mass. His beard needed trimming a week past and more resembled a briar patch than anything else. Normally clear blue eyes had gone cloudy and pale. Even the forest green tunic he’d slept in bore a large scarlet stain across the chest. Wine most likely. He hoped so anyway.
A brief debate over washing up ended with a glance at the wash basin. One look at the layer of ice coating the thin wooden bowl made the thought of being dirty a lot more palatable. Besides, in a neighborhood like this being clean and tidy drew attention and that was the last thing he wanted.
<Coin purse>
His balance didn’t improve as he stumbled towards the door and jerked it open. He’d spent time on imperial rakers, though certainly not by choice. Lurching down the hall wasn’t much different than picking his way across a deck, though it was certainly drier. He was just starting to congratulate himself when he reached a major obstacle.
The stairwell eyed him boldly, daring him to take that first step. The stairs were both steep and well worn, the natural foe of anyone with the balance problems he currently faced. This would be the most challenging part of his journey to the common room, but he knew he was equal to the task. Aran leaned heavily on the oaken banister affixed to the wall. He allowed the polished oak to guide him down the creaking steps. Many heartbeats later he emerged into the dimly lit common room of the Rusty Spigot.
The place wasn’t exactly claustrophic, but it was definitely too crowded for his tastes. It had just enough room for a dozen oval tables big enough to seat six men if they were comfortable rubbing elbows. Rough faced men bundled in furs or leathers crowded the tables closest to the soot streaked fireplace. The blaze provided more warmth than light, leaving much of the room shrouded in shadow. It offered an anonymity most of the patrons preferred.
A thin slip of a girl pranced atop a table pushed into a corner near the fireplace. Her thin cotton dress provided little protection against the cold, especially since it was cut low enough that her breasts nearly spilled out. Her reedy off key voice competed with the howling wind, losing for the most part. Not than anyone minded. Lilah was there to be gawked at, not listened to.
She gave him a wide smile and bent low enough for him to get a very good look at more than ample cleavage as he exited the stairwell. She’d shared his bed twice in the last week, though he was positive he wasn’t’ the only man around to claim that honor.
Two dozen suspicious gazes settled on him as he exited the stairwell and staggered towards the bar. A few even fingered the knives at their belts, and even those who didn’t were armed of course. Only a fool would come into a place like this without the ability to defend himself.
Aran had a similar dagger belted at his own waist, though he was much more comfortable with a sword. He’d left his blade in his room for two reasons. No one in this neighborhood could afford one, so it would have drawn attention. Even if it hadn’t it wouldn’t be much use in a crowd this size. Close quarters called for knife work, and pulling a sword in a place like this was an invitation to a quick death.
“What’ll ya have?” the bald man behind the bar called over the din. He wore a much stained jerkin that struggled to contain his bulk, and kept one hand firmly wrapped around the leather wrapped butt of the club he kept belted around his waist. Aran couldn’t recall the man’s name, which was sad as he’d been staying her a week.
“Nectar. In a clean mug this time,” Aran called back as he settled atop one of the three legged barstools. The thing groaned as if he weighed as much as the innkeeper. Something poked him through the leather covering, but he ignored it. None of the other stools would be in better shape.
The innkeeper gave a non-committal grunt in response. He plucked an opaque bottle with a fluted neck from the shelf behind him and worked the cork loose with his thumbnail before pouring a steady stream of amber into a wooden mug he grabbed from somewhere under the counter.
“I’ll see your coin first,” He slid the mug to Aran, but kept a firm grip on it. His tone was neutral, but the cast of his beady eyes was definitely disapproving.
“I’ve been staying here a week,” Aran sighed as he fished a small bronze coin from the washed leather purse belted at his side. “You’d think I’d have earned a measure of trust by now.”
“I’ll tell you what,” the innkeeper raised a bushy eyebrow and fixed him with a beady eye. If anything his tone became even more dry. “You start shitting gold marks and I’ll start trusting you. Until then, I’ll see the color of your coin before you drink.”
“Fair enough,” Aran slapped the coin down on the bar and slid it across the whorled oak with one finger. “What sort of slop are you serving today?”
“Same slop as everyone else,” the innkeeper grumbled. He released the mug and snatched the coin up between two sausage fingers. “Gruel with a bit of pork in it. It’s two more bits if you want a bowl.”
“Do you charge extra for the weevils?” Aran snapped. His headache was getting the better of him, and he regretted the words as soon as he’d uttered them. No need to antagonize the man. He was supposed to be making friends here.
The innkeeper’s eyes narrowed, but he relaxed as Aran fished out another pair of bronze and slid them across the counter. Food was one more thing he detested about Olivantia, or the lack of it anyways. His native Hasra hadn’t experienced a famine in living memory, but it seemed to be a way of life in this backwards little country. Even more so in Lowtown.
The two bronze disappeared as quickly as the first, and the innkeeper ducked through a whitewashed door set behind the bar. Or it had been white at one point anyway. Now it was more of a grey marred by streaks of soot, and layers of fingerprints from where the innkeeper had pushed it open.
Aran turned his attention to the mug of nectar as the door swung closed. The thin tin was dented, but it did appear clean at least. Even if it hadn’t been he’d likely still have drank from it. The honeyed mead was the only thing in this place that didn’t taste like piss, though he wouldn’t call it good either. He savored a mouthful and felt immediate relief from the hangover.
“You’re full of it Barker. No ones stupid enough to be killin knights this close to the Grand Temple. Even if they was they ain’t gonna advertise it so anyone can hear. The knights don’t take kindly to seein their own hurt. That’s a bad kinda trouble. The lethal kind,” a voice boomed. Aran shifted in his seat and turned his gaze in their direction. This was exactly the sort of thing he’d been hoping to overhear.
Four men were clustered around the table nearest the fire, and the speaker was shaking a leather dice cup between sooty hands. He had a thick bristly beard that fell to the middle of his chest, and his smile revealed more gaps than teeth. Like his companions he was swathed under layers of dirty brown cloth that was all the people in this neighborhood could afford.
“I’m telling you it’s the truth,” a weasel faced man growled around a corn stem pipe as the first speaker let the dice rattle onto the table. “My cousin had it from a reliable source that there’s a woman takin credit. Claimed she’s done for a half dozen men in the last month alone. Why do you think we ain’t seen any of those bastards around lately? The Dawn are afraid to come down here.”
“They’d best not,” interjected a third man, this one with his back to Aran. All he could make out was a ratskin cap and a jacket that was more patches than cloth. “Those bastards ain’t done nothin for us, and if I see one in this bar they’d best be ready for a fight. Their kind ain’t wanted here.”
The sentiment towards the Knights of the Dawn wasn’t new. He’d heard much the same in the seedy inns he’d frequented over the month he’d been in the city of Reverian. People lived in squalor, and they blamed the very visible knights for their predicament. Nor was Aranthar sure they were wrong, though he doubted any of these louts would be brave enough to challenge a knight regardless of the bravado.
What was new was the mention of someone offing knights. He’d been looking into the disappearances for over a month, and this was the first he’d heard about who might be responsible. It might prove to be no more than a rumor, but he had to be sure.
Aran downed the rest of his mead and rose shakily to his feet. He wove through the tightly packed tables until he reached the one closest to the fire. It took the men a moment to notice his presence, and when they did their faces hardened with suspicion.
“What do you want?” the man with the beard barked. One hand was wrapped firmly around the hilt of his knife, while the other tugged at a yellow scarf tied around a too ample neck. If it was covering a scar it meant the man had likely survived a hanging at some point.
“I’m looking to share a drink and lose some coin,” Aran put on his best grin and patted the purse at his belt. Men like these never trusted strangers, but the prospect of coin went a long way towards allaying their suspicious natures.
“Your welcome until your coin runs out,” grinned the gap toothed man with the yellow scarf. He nodded at the last empty seat and Aran dropped into it.
The innkeeper had just emerged from the kitchen carrying the bowl of gruel Aran had ordered, so he raised a hand and flagged the man down. The innkeeper waded through the narrow space between tables with all the grace of an ox, finally stopping to deposit the bowl in front of Aran.
“You might have told me you was gonna move,” the man’s eyebrows drew together in obvious disapproval. “You need anything else?”
“Yes actually,” Aran smiled pleasantly and fished a silver mark from his purse. He slid it across the table at the innkeeper. “Bring us some as much nectar as that will buy and mugs for everyone.”
“Should cover a pitcher or two,” the innkeeper’s eyes widened and his lips twitched into something resembling a smile. “I’ll see to it straight away.”
“Mighty generous of you,” the bearded man gave a gap toothed smile as the innkeeper hurried away. “I like you already. You got a name?”
“Call me Aran,” he shot back with a smile. He noticed the man didn’t remove his hand from the hilt of his knife despite his friendly words. “So what about you lot? Got names?”
“I’m Danny,” the man with the scarf replied. “This here’s Garber and the quiet one is Bill.” He nodded at the man in the ratskin cap who favored Aran with a shallow nod before going back to staring at the table.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt when I came up,” Aran said. He knew he was taking a risk bringing it up this soon, but hopefully his sudden generosity might cover his transparent attempt to get information. “I heard someone say something about the knights who’ve disappeared. We’re better off without the bastards.”
”That’s what I was just saying,” Bill looked up and met his gaze. He had a scar under his right eye that gave him a sinister look. “They talk about their laws, but they don’t do nothin to protect us. They can’t feed us neither. All they do is lord over us and keep the food for themselves. Even their horses eat better than we do.”
“Well they ain’t gonna be doin it for much longer,” Garber broke in with a conspiratorial tone. “The way I hear it someone’s finally doin something about it. They say she’s responsible for all the knights that come up missin, and that any that show their faces in Lowtown are gonna end up floatin down the Rhyne.”
A frigid gust rustled cloaks and elicited curses as the door creaked open. Aran turned to see a loan figure bundled in a golden cloak coated in snow. A knight’s cloak. Of all the bloody times a knight could walk in, it had to be now? Maybe his new companions hadn’t noticed. A quick survey of their faces dashed that hope. All three had turned to eye the newcomer with obvious dislike, and none seemed interested in talking anymore.
The knight lowered the hood of the cloak, drawing gasps and more than one sharp whistle of appreciation. The newcomer was a young woman of no more than twenty, which was highly unusual among the Dawn. What’s more she was breathtaking, so much so that every man in the bar was staring. She had the type of effortless beauty that required no make up or preparation, and she seemed completely unaware of it.
The woman’s face was a perfect oval of crème, framed by a river of copper dangling to her waist. More than ample curves were concealed under the snowy tabard with golden trim worn by knights of her order. Her lips were full and pouty, but the most striking feature was her eyes. Twin flecks of emerald swept the room as her hand rested on the hilt of a long sword belted at her side.
“Well she’s looker, but she don’t belong here.” Bill grumbled. He caught Davy’s gaze and Aran didn’t like the lust filled look that passed between them.
“Might be we need to teach her a lesson,” Davy’s grin was filled with malice. “No one here’s gonna stop us if we show her a little hospitality. What do you say boys?”
Aran didn’t have a chance to answer, because the woman strode purposefully through the crowd in their direction. Her gaze locked on his as she navigated the crowd. Chairs scraped as other patrons hurried to get out of her way. The crowd was uniformly hostile, but no one wanted to be the first to attract her attention.
“Aranthar Von Hauppen,” the women called out in a high clear voice as she approached. She reached into her hilt and withdrew a folded parchment which she extended to him. “I’ve been sent by the Lord Commander to offer service in your search.”
He could have kicked her. Weeks of hunting all wasted because of one hasty sentence on her part. Assuming he survived what was about to happen he made a mental note to offer her the rough side of his tongue, though truth be told he was mostly just interested in offering her any side of his tongue.
“You’re a bloody knight?” Bill shrieked as he surged from his chair. The knife at his belt leapt into his hand and his face twisted with rage. “You were pumpin us for information, is that it? All those things you said was lies. You’re one of em. It ain’t bad enough that you ruin our lives, now you’re spyin on us? I thought you was all about honor.”
Aran ignored the man and turned to face the woman. He fixed her with his most annoyed stare and made his tone as dry as the Ashlands, “Thanks Kid. I hope you brought friends, because this is about to get really ugly.”
