Tempi and I dropped off our list of supplies with the elderly woman who ran the store. Four large loaves of trail bread, a half-pound of butter, quarterpound of salt, flour, dried apple, sausages, a side of bacon, a sack of turnips, six eggs, two buttons, feathers for refletching Marten’s hunting arrows, bootlaces, soap, and a new whetstone to replace one Dedan had broken. All told, it would come to eight silver bits from the Maer’s rapidly thinning purse.
Tempi and I made our way over to the inn for lunch, knowing it would be an hour or two before our order was ready. Surprisingly, I could hear noise from the taproom from across the street. Places like this were usually busy in the evening when travelers stopped for the night, not in the middle of the day when everyone was in the fields or on the road.
The room quieted when we opened the door. At first I hoped the customers were glad to see a musician, then I saw their eyes were all for Tempi in his tight mercenary reds.
There were fifteen or twenty people idling in the taproom. Some hunched at the bar, others clustered around tables. It wasn’t so crowded we couldn’t find a table to sit, but it did take a couple minutes before the single harassed-looking serving girl came to our table.
“What’ll it be then?” she asked, brushing a sweaty strand of hair away from her face. “We’ve got pea soup with bacon in, and a bread pudding.”
“Sounds lovely,” I said. “Can we get some apples and cheese too?”
“Drink?”
“Soft cider for me,” I said.
“Beer,” Tempi said, then made a gesture with two fingers on the tabletop. “Small whiskey. Good whiskey.”
She nodded. “I’ll need to see your money.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You’ve had trouble lately?”
She sighed and rolled her eyes.
I handed her three halfpennies, and she hurried off. By then I was sure I wasn’t imagining it: the men in the room were giving Tempi dark looks.
I turned to a man at the table next to us, quietly eating his bowl of soup. “Is this a market day or something?”
He looked at me like I was an idiot, and I saw he had a bruise going purple on his jaw. “There’s no market day in Crosson. There’s no market.”
“I came through here a while back and things were quiet. What’s everyone doing here?”
“Same thing as always,” he said. “Looking for work. Crosson is the last stop before the Eld gets good and thick. A smart caravan’ll pick up an extra guard or two.” He took a drink. “But too many folk been gettin’ feathered off in the trees lately. Caravans aren’t coming through so often.”
I looked around the room. They weren’t wearing any armor, but now that I was looking I could see the marks of mercenary life on most of them. They were rougher looking than ordinary townsfolk. More scars, more broken noses, more knives, more swagger.
The man dropped his spoon into his empty bowl and got to his feet. “You can have the place for all I care,” he said, “I’ve been here six days and only seen four wagons come through. Besides, only an idiot would head north as a pay-a-day.”
He picked up a large pack and slipped it over his shoulders. “And with all the folk gone missing, only an idiot would take on extra help in a place like this. I’ll tell you this for free, half of these reeking bastards would probably cut your throat the first night on the road.”
A broad-shouldered man with a wild black beard let loose a mocking laugh from where he stood at the bar. “Just because yeh can’t roll dice dinna make me a criminal, souee,” he said with a thick northern accent. “Yeh say sommat like that agin and I’ll give’e twice as much as yeh got last night. Plus intrest.”
The fellow I’d been talking to made a gesture you didn’t have to be Adem to understand and headed out the door. The bearded man laughed.
Our drinks showed up just then. Tempi drank off half his whiskey in a single swallow and let out a long, satisfied sigh, slouching down in his seat. I sipped my cider. I’d been hoping to play for an hour or two in exchange for our meal. But I wasn’t fool enough to play to a room composed entirely of frustrated mercenaries.
I could have done it, mind you. In an hour, I could have them laughing and singing. In two hours I could have them crying into their beer and apologizing to the serving girl. But not for the price of a meal. Not unless I had no better options. This room reeked of trouble. It was a fight waiting to happen. No trouper worth his salt could fail to recognize that.
The broad-shouldered man picked up a wooden mug and sauntered with theatrical casualness over to our table where he pulled out a chair for himself. He smiled a wide, insincere smile through his thick black beard and stuck his hand out in Tempi’s direction. “Hullo there,” he said loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear. “M’ name’s Tam. Yussef?”
Tempi reached out and shook, his own hand looking small and pale gripped in the other man’s huge hairy one. “Tempi.”
Tam grinned at him. “And what’re yeh doin’ in town?”
“We’re just passing through,” I said. “We met up on the road and he was nice enough to walk with me.”
Tam looked me up and down dismissively. “I wan’t talkin’ to you, boy,” he growled. “Mind yer betters.”
Tempi remained silent, watching the big man with the same placid, attentive expression he always wore. I watched his left hand come up to his ear in a gesture I didn’t recognize.
Tam took a drink, watching Tempi all the while. When he lowered his mug, the dark hair around his mouth was wet, and he wiped his forearm across his face to dry it. “I’ve always wonnert,” he said, loud enough for it to carry through the whole room. “Yeh Adem. How much does one of yeh fancy lads make?”
Tempi turned to look at me, his head tilted slightly to one side. I realized he probably couldn’t understand the man’s thick accent.
“He wants to know how much money you earn,” I explained.
Tempi made a wavering motion with one hand. “Complicated.”
Tam leaned over the table. “Wha if yeh were hired to guard a caravan? How much would’ee charge a day?”
“Two jots.” Tempi shrugged. “Three.”
Tam gave a showy laugh, loud enough that I could smell his breath. I’d expected it to stink, but it didn’t. It smelled like cider, sweet with mulling spices. “Yeh hear that boys?” He shouted over his shoulder. “Three jots a day. And he canna hardly talk!”
Most everyone was already watching and listening, and this piece of information brought a low, irritated murmur from the room.
Tam turned back to the table. “Most of us get penny a day, when we get work at all. I get two, ’cause I’m good with horses and can lift up the back of a wagon if I need to.” He rolled his broad shoulders. “Are yeh worth twenny men in a fight?”
I don’t know how much of it Tempi understood, but he seemed to follow the last question fairly well. “Twenty?” he looked around appraisingly. “No. Four.” He wavered his spread hand back and forth uncertainly. “Five.”
This did nothing to improve the atmosphere in the room. Tam shook his head in exaggerated bemusement. “Even if I believed yeh for a second,” he said, “that means yeh should make four or five pennies a day. Not twenny. Wh—”
I put on my most ingratiating smile and leaned into the conversation. “Listen, I—”
Tam’s mug knocked hard against the tabletop, sending a splash of cider leaping up into the air. He gave me a dangerous look that didn’t hold any of the false playfulness he’d been showing Tempi. “Boy,” he said. “Yeh innerupt me again, and I’ll knock yer teeth right out.” He said it without any particular emphasis, as if he were letting me know that if I jumped into the river, I was bound to get wet.
Tam turned back to Tempi. “What makes you think you’re worth three jots a day?”
“Who buys me, buys this.” Tempi held up his hand. “And this.” He pointed to the hilt of his sword. “And this.” He tapped a leather strap that bound his distinctive Adem reds tightly to his
chest.
The big man slapped the table hard with the flat of his hand. “So tha’s the secret!” he said. “I need to get me a red shirt!” This brought a chuckle from the room.
Tempi shook his head. “No.”
Tam leaned forward, and flicked at one of the straps near Tempi’s shoulder with a thick finger. “Are yeh saying I’m not good enough to wear a fancy red shirt like yours?” He flicked the strap again.
Tempi nodded easily. “Yes. You are not good enough.”
Tam grinned madly. “What if I said yer mother was a whore?”
The room grew quiet. Tempi turned to look at me. Curiosity. “What is whore?”
Unsurprisingly, that hadn’t been one of the words we had shared over the last span of days. For half a moment I considered lying, but there was no way I could manage it. “He says your mother is a person men pay money to have sex with.”
Tempi turned back to the mercenary and nodded graciously. “You are very kind. I thank you.”
Tam’s expression darkened, as if he suspected he was being mocked. “Yeh coward. For a bent penny I’d give yeh such a kickin’ you’d be wearing your pecker backwards.”
Tempi turned to me again. “I do not understand this man,” he said. “Is he attempting to buy sex with me? Or does he wish to fight?”
Laughter roared through the room, and Tam’s face grew red as blood under his beard.
“I’m pretty sure he wants to fight,” I said, trying to keep from laughing myself.
“Ah,” Tempi said. “Why does he not say? Why all of this . . .” He flicked his fingers back and forth and gave me a quizzical look.
“Pauncing around?” I suggested. Tempi’s confidence was having a relaxing effect on me, and I wasn’t above getting a little dig of my own in. After seeing how easily the Adem had dealt with Dedan, I was looking forward to seeing him thump some of the arrogance out of this horse’s ass.
Tempi looked back toward the big man. “If you wish to fight, now stop pauncing around.” The Adem made a broad gesture to the rest of the room. “Go find others to fight with you. Bring enough women to feel safe. Good?” My brief moment of relaxation evaporated as Tempi turned back to me, exasperation thick in his voice. “You people are always talk.”
Tam stomped back to the table where his friends sat throwing dice. “Arright now. Yeh heard him. The little gripshit says he’s worth four of us, so let’s show him the sort of damage four of us can do. Brenden, Ven, Jane, you in?”
A bald man and a tall woman came to their feet, smiling. But the third waved his hand dismissively. “I’m too drunk to fight proper, Tam. But that’s not half as drunk as I’d need to be to go up against a bloodshirt. They’s bastards in a fight. I’s seen it.”
I was no stranger to bar fights. You’d think they’d be rare in a place like the University, but liquor is the great leveler. After six or seven solid drinks, there is very little difference between a miller on the outs with his wife and a young alchemist who’s done poorly on his exams. They’re both equally eager to skin their knuckles on someone else’s teeth.
Even the Eolian, genteel as it was, saw its share of scuffles. If you stayed late enough you had a decent chance of seeing two of the embroidered nobility slapping away at each other.
My point is, when you’re a musician you see a lot of fights. Some people go to the bars to drink. Some go to play dice. Some folk go looking for a fight, and others go hoping to watch a fight.
Folk don’t get hurt as much as you’d expect. Bruises and split lips are usually the worst of it. If you’re unlucky you might lose a tooth or break an arm, but there’s a vast difference between a friendly bar fight and a back-alley koshing. A bar fight has rules and a host of unofficial judges standing around to enforce them. If things start to get vicious spectators are quick to leap in and break things up, because that’s what you’d want someone to do for you.
There are exceptions, of course. Accidents happen, and I knew all too well from my time at the Medica how easy it was to sprain a wrist or dislocate a finger. Those might be minor injuries to a cattle drover or an innkeeper, but to me, with so much of my livelihood relying on my clever hands, the thought of a broken thumb was terrifying.
My stomach knotted as I watched Tempi take another swallow of whiskey and get to his feet. The problem was that we were strangers here. If things got ugly, could I count on the irritated mercenaries to step in and put a stop to things? Three against one was nothing close to a fair fight, and if it got ugly it would get ugly fast.
Tempi took a mouthful of beer and looked at me calmly. “Watch my back,” he said, then turned to walk to where the other mercenaries stood.
For a moment I was simply impressed by his good use of Aturan. Since I’d known him, he’d gone from practically mute to using idiomatic speech. But that pride quickly faded as I tried to think of something I could do to stop the fight if things got out of control.
I couldn’t think of a blessed thing. I hadn’t seen this coming, and I had no clever tricks up my sleeve. For lack of any better options, I drew my knife out of its sheath and held it out of sight below the level of the table. The last thing I’d want to do is stab someone, but I could at least menace them with it and buy us enough time to get out the door.
Tempi gave the three mercenaries an appraising look. Tam was inches taller than he, with shoulders like an ox. There was a bald fellow with a scarred face and a wicked grin. Last was the blonde woman who stood a full hand taller than Tempi.
“There is only one woman,” Tempi said, looking Tam in the eye. “Is enough? You may bring one more.”
The female mercenary bristled. “You swaggercock,” she spat. “I’ll show you what a woman can do in a fight.”
Tempi nodded politely.
His continuing lack of concern began to relax me. I had heard the stories, of course, a single Adem mercenary defeating a dozen regular soldiers. Could Tempi really fight off these three at the same time? He certainly seemed to think so. . . .
Tempi looked at them. “This is my first fight of this sort. How does begin?”
My palm started to sweat where I gripped the knife.
Tam stepped up so their chests were only inches apart. He loomed over Tempi. “We’ll start by whipping you bloody. Then we’ll give you a kicking. Then we’ll come round and do it agin to make sure we didn’t miss anything.” As he said the last, he slammed his forehead down into Tempi’s face.
My breath caught in my chest, and before I could get it back, the fight was over.
When the bearded mercenary snapped his head forward, I had expected to see Tempi reel backward, nose broken and gushing blood. But Tam was the one who staggered backward, howling and clutching at his face, blood spurting from beneath his hands.
Tempi stepped forward, got his hand on the back of the big man’s neck, and spun him effortlessly into the ground where he landed in a messy tangle of arms and legs.
Without a hint of hesitation, Tempi turned and kicked the blonde woman squarely in the hip, making her stagger. While she was reeling, Tempi punched her sharply in the side of the head, and she folded bonelessly to the ground.
That’s when the bald man stepped in, arms spread like a wrestler. Quick as a snake, he got one hand on Tempi’s shoulder and the other on his neck.
I honestly can’t say what happened next. There was a flurry of movement, and Tempi was left gripping the man’s wrist and shoulder. The bald man snarled and struggled. But Tempi simply twisted the man’s arm until he was bent over, staring at the floor. Then Tempi kicked the man’s leg out from under him, sending him tumbling to the ground.
All in less time than it takes to tell it. If I hadn’t been so stunned, I would have burst into applause.
Tam and the woman lay with the dead stillness of those deeply unconscious. But the bald man snarled something and began to make his way unsteadily back to his feet. Tempi stepped close, struck him in the head with casual precision, then watched the man slump limply to the
ground.
It was, I thought idly, the most polite punch I’d ever seen. It was the careful blow of a skilled carpenter pounding a nail: hard enough to drive it fully home, but not so hard as to bruise the wood around it.
The room was very quiet in the aftermath. Then the tall man who had refused to fight raised his mug in salute, spilling a little. “Good on you!” he said loudly to Tempi, laughing. “Nobody will think less of you if you show Tam a bit of your boot while he’s down there. Lord knows he’s done it enough in his day.”
Tempi looked down as if considering it, then shook his head and walked quietly back to our table. All eyes were still watching him, but the looks weren’t nearly as dark as before.
Tempi came back to the table. “Did you watch my back?”
I looked up at him blankly, then nodded.
“What did you see?”
Only then did I understand what he really meant. “Your back was very straight.”
Approval. “Your back is not straight.” He held up a flat hand, tilted to one side. “That is why you stumble in the Ketan. It is . . .” Looking down, he trailed off, having noticed my knife half-concealed in my tatty cloak. He frowned. Actually frowned with his face. It was the first time I’d seen him do it, and it was amazingly intimidating.
“We will speak on this later,” he said. At his side, he gestured: Vast disapproval.
Feeling more chastised than if I’d spent an hour on the horns, I ducked my head and put the knife away.
We had been walking quietly for hours, our packs heavy with supplies, when Tempi finally spoke. “There is a thing I must teach you.” Serious.
“I am always glad to learn,” I said, making the gesture I hoped meant earnest.
Tempi walked to the side of the road, set down his heavy pack, and sat on the grass. “We must speak of the Lethani.”