The journey along the steep sided valley lasted most of the morning.
The ground climbed as their course followed the tumbling river, the going easy, leaving the rotten walls of Gearlynn far behind. There was little activity along the trail; a few goatherds tending the flocks that supply Gearlynn with its fine wools for trade watched their progress from a distance, and folk stepped from the occasional homestead as they passed to wave them by.
By Duskwatch, the caravan, its crew cheerful despite the squall of bitterly cold rain and glad to be seeing the day’s end, had reached the far head of the valley where the pastures were dotted with wooded dales. Here the folk traded as trappers and timbermen, commerce centred on the small, yet well-defended hamlet of Cadan, and as the caravan rounded a rocky outcrop at a crook in the river, Cadan’s palisade walls loomed out of the gloaming.
The crew gave a cheer, and with the light of the day diminishing, they pushed on and when the last wagon passed through the heavy gates, they swung closed. The guard at the entrance slid a massive timber beam into place, securing the hamlet for the night, and the caravan pulled into the centre, circling the well.
“Into the barn with the wagons, boys,” cried the quartermaster, Biisay. “Leave “em loaded but level beamed; and nothing dropped or spilled. It’s all been tallied, and the Boss will have any man’s arm off at the elbow who breaks one of those jars,” he warned.
“What about the Muskies,” called the lead driver, keeping tight rein on his team as they snorted and stamped, impatient for food.
“In the barn too.”
“Righto, mate.”
“You know what needs to be done, boys, so get to it; Muskies in first, rubbed down and tended too; there’ll be fodder in the back. Then the wagons as they’ll leave; last in, first out.”
“Who’s first out then?”
Biisay turned in his seat to the wagon behind. “Well, it ain’t going to be you is it, Nilak?”
“Oh, how’s that?”
“When was the last time you were first up, and sober?”
Nilak shrugged, his bushy eyebrows waggling almost independent of his face as he did so. “Fair point, but if I was, would I be first on the trail tomorrow?”
Biisay turned fully. “You want it then; to break the trail proper?” he asked, over the creak of wheels and squelch of boots through the mud and snow.
“I do, or at least, I want this one,” he said, his manner straight-faced and earnest.
Biisay surveyed the others moving toward the barn, hurrying to unharness their Muskies and steady the long, single axle wagons, ready for marshalling in the barn. He watched as Zigor jumped down from his wagon to greet the two Sabrosi, the three men walking off towards one of the smaller buildings nearby, shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing like old friends, the Ker-Baecodán Naguali shadowing them like an old dog, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders.
Biisay nodded. “You wake sober at Daywatch and the lead is yours,” he said, turning back to Nilak, ‘don’t, and its back-marker the rest of the way,”
“Fair enough,” replied Nilak with a broken grin. “I’ll be there.”
“Better had, else Zigor’ll be asking why we’re late leaving, and I’ll have to tell ‘im straight.”
“I won’t let you down, Biisay, nor him.”
“You’re in last then,” conceded Biisay as he turned back to the growing melee of men, beasts and wheels, all crowding to get into the barn and get the day finished, and most importantly of all, not be last at the table. “Oi! Mind the fucking door!” he yelled as a wagon lurched forward and hit the barn door with a resounding crunch.
Someone laughed close by, and Biisay looked down. Ximo stood beside the wheel, his bag and weapons in hand, his lord standing off to the right, a scowl on his Doriànni features as he watched the caravan break for the night.
“Is it always like this?” asked Ximo, his voice pitched just above the noise of the caravan uncoupling its component parts, the whole being herded through the doors of the great barn.
Biisay shook his head. “Only for the first few days, after that they get — Ortzi! Pay a mind to that wagon there!” His face swung down again, though his rueful gaze was still on the barn doors, “They’re not a team yet…not used to each other’s ways yet; give them another couple of days and they’ll be fine — bloody hells! Ortzi! What did I say? Mind that fucking wagon!”
“Where are we staying?” asked Ximo.
Biisay threw a gesture over his shoulder, “The Axe and Chair, but I’d hurry if I were you; the guard are likely to take the best at this rate.”
Ximo followed the gesture. Sure enough, there were the guards, their task for the moment complete now the caravan was secure behind the walls, and left to their own devices. They appeared to be making for the large building opposite the barn, its trade sign above the door painted with a long-handled axe propped against a chair.
“Thanks for the warning. I’ll see you later maybe; get the dice out, yes?”
Biisay shrugged. “Sure,” he said, “if you want to lose your coin, I’m happy to take it.”
“Sounds like a challenge,” replied Ximo, but his reply was lost beneath an ill-tempered bellow from Bissay’s lead Musky.
He turned away, gave the watching Néit a nod, and they made for the Axe and Chair, slipping through the tight space of the now rapidly darkening square, the increasing chaos of lurching wagons, surly Muskies and increasingly impatient crew. Ximo put his hand to the inn door, pushed hard and stepped in behind the last of the guard, eyes wide at the sight, the glorious aroma of a dozen different dishes assailing his cold-numbed nostrils.
To Ximo, the Axe and Chair’s interior was a sight of welcome comfort after the months of squalor in the Butchers and the Rat, and indeed after the rolling cold of the snow-covered dales it was near-bliss; tables, chairs, a blazing fire pit running almost the entire length, dry timber floors throughout, and a long table at the end on which was laid a feast worthy of song, the Bloodbeards already gathered greedily at its side, hands reaching over arms to grab at the choices dishes. To his left stood a chimney breast with a small fire cracking merrily away and he wasted no time in dumping his bag noisily onto the table at the fireplace as Néit joined him, unbuckling his fur. He hung it on the back of one of the chairs, unbuckled his sword belt, laid the weapon across the table, glanced over at the bar, and summoned a plain looking barmaid with an imperious point-and-hook of a single, long finger.
She hurried out from behind the bar, practically falling over her own skirt in her haste as Néit dragged a stool over to his chair, sat down heavily, swung his feet up on the stool, sat back, closed his eyes and completely ignored the flustered maid.
“My lord, please forgive me, we didn’t know Zigor and ‘is boys was travelling with a Fae, I mean, a Doriànni lord, like,” pleaded the girl, her tone frantic with worry. “If we’d known you was coming we’d ‘av made up the room; ain’t been slept in since summer though, might not be fit. Maybe, that is — if you don’t mind — we can get a meal, and make sure the room is ready, before….” Her voice failed her and she hid her trembling hands in the folds of her stained dress.
“Just bring us the best food you have in store,” said Ximo, “and two jugs of last season’s mead and you might not piss him off further.”
The girl turned to Ximo, hands clasped together in thanks, “Course, right away, and don’t worry, lord…” she said, turning back to the now recumbent noble, “the room’ll be ready for you, the Foe take me if it ain’t!” and she hurried off behind the bar, into the noisy kitchen beyond.
Ximo watched her go and turned back to Néit. “I’ll never get tired of seeing the effect you have on the backwater folk; makes everything so much easier,” he said.
Néit looked round and smiled, completely without humour, “She better be quick, when the bloody crew turn up there’ll be nothing left.”
“l reckon they’ve the crew well in hand by the look of things; must have known we were turning up well before,” he said, pointing towards the other end of the room, the guard crowded in front of the bench covered with platters, flat breads and steaming pots of stew or soup. “I think this could be a good night,” he added, rubbing his hands with delight until the door crashed open, making him flinch.
The first of the crew burst noisily into the inn: wet, covered in mud, and happy to be in the warmth most went for the bench, still cold and wet but too hungry to care, filling the gaps between the last few guard still piling food onto their platters. Others went to the low stable-like sleeping pens arrayed against the long wall and dumped their various belongings, a wise few pulling stools over to the fire pit, claiming them with a hat or cloak, perhaps hoping to keep the best spots to themselves for the rest of the night.
Néit shook his head, took out his pipe, and settled back to ignoring what was going on at the far end as best he could, waiting for his own to arrive, booted feet before the flames.
Before long, the clamour for food and drink subsided, the crew and guard gathered around the long fire pit or sat at the tables, hardly a word uttered between them as they tucked into the steaming bowls of the spiced stew laid on for them. Almost to a man, Huwan or Zaindari, they used great wedges of dark bread as though they were ladles, spooning out lumps of hot meat or vegetables, chomping off great chunks of gravy sodden crust, juices dribbling through their bearded chins, dripping onto the straw scattered across the hard floor, the quiet punctuated only by the occasional murmur of approval and belch of thanks, a testament to the quality of the food, and whilst the kitchen bustled with activity, in the main hall, it was heads down all round.
With their bellies filled on hot stew, and the blazing fire warming their bodies, many of the men stripped off their wet hides and kicked off their mud-caked boots. Others stood for second helpings, more bread, ripe cheeses, and barn-dried apples, whilst a few pushed back from the fire and tried to find a little more comfort around their tables. Conversation began to bubble up, amid satisfied belly-belches, warm-fire yawns and the occasional cold-nosed sniff.
A short, sturdy framed man entered the low hall from behind the kitchen curtain carrying a large wooden tray full of mugs of ale and placed it carefully on the bar, closely followed by three girls carrying similar burdens.
“Right lads!” called Biisay, walking over to the bar, “the first round is on the Boss!”
All heads looked up as Biisay took up one of the mugs, holding it aloft like a burning brand. “The rest you pay for yourselves, lads, so make the most of it, as there ain’t no more “til we reach Dinasdúr!” and he put the mug to his lips.
“Neck it!” called Nilak.
“Aye,” said Dalan. “Down it!”
“Go on, down in one!” joined another of the crew, and the rest started to a slow gently clapping their hands in unison.
Biisay waved them down, nodded, and took a great gulp, followed by another.
“Down, down, down, down,” chanted the crew.
“Drown, drown, drown!” called one with laughter in his voice.
“Choke, choke, choke!” hollered another, trying to put Biisay off.
But Biisay did not spill a drop as the mug went from tipped down, through level, to tipped up, and he took a final breathe swig, upending the mug over his mouth for the last dregs, slammed it onto the bar and gave out a huge belch of victory. The inn erupted into a raucous cheer, and the crew rushed forward, grabbing mugs of ale and, following Biisay's example, began throwing back ale with a zest only the physically weary appreciate, and, amidst a staccato clatter of mugs and calls for more, the night’s entertainment began; three, noticeably more mature, women swept in from behind the curtain to join the three serving girls already on show, and together they came out into the room, flowing through the hall of tired men like a spring tide over dry rocks, greeted with a great deal of shouts and whistles –playing their audience like professionals — which after all, it seemed to Ximo, they were. The three young girls mingled amongst the mixed crew, going from table to table, cajoling those that needed it into a little more life, whilst the older, more experienced women, chose their places for the evening, gliding straight towards their chosen marks; one of those being the table by the chimney.
“My lord,” said the woman, her eyes averted to one side, as was proper when addressing a noble for the first time, “if it please you, I offer my…expertise.” She looked at him from beneath her kohl-blackened lashes and smiled, teeth stained dark red, and one missing altogether.
Néit snatched out, taking hold of her chin, turning her face from one side to the other, looking over her body as if he were inspecting livestock. She was probably not much older than he was in truth, but a hard life had taken its toll and she had, it appeared, passed her prime long ago.
“I don’t think so,” he said, dismissing her proposal with a flick of his hand.
She stepped back, momentarily shamed by his dismissal, and flashed a worried glance over her shoulder, hoping that none of the other women had seen.
Ximo leaned forward and took her hand, turning to Néit as he did so, “My lord, if you’re done with me for the day, I’ll gladly take this lady up on her generous offer? I fancy one last night of distraction, you know, before we enter into Old Man Daebh’s domain?”
The woman looked back to the lord, sliding her arm around Ximo’s waist with a sly smile.
“Very well,” said Néit, “however, no doubt we leave early tomorrow and I’ll not carry your duties for the day if you’re too drunk to look at the light of dawn with nothing less than a pleasant smile.”
“Of course…though, by the look of it, I think we won’t be leaving that early,” Ximo said, looking over at the mêlée around the fire.
The crew were already on their second, or in some cases third ale, and one of the younger women, stripped to the waist, had a mug of warm ale to her mouth, drinking great drafts of the stuff, though Ximo noticed, most of it seemed to be running between her breasts, eager men cheering her on.
Néit shrugged, “You might be right, but that doesn’t mean you get the chance to dishonour our contract with Zigor before we’ve even started.”
“No, of course not,” he assured Néit, “I’ll be there nice and bright, don’t you worry.”
He stood up, and with a nod of thanks to Néit, took the woman by the hand and led her into one of the bowers as Néit drained his mug and caught the attention of the barman, who hurried over.
“Is my room ready yet?”
“Yes, lord, the fire has been set and there’s fresh felt on the bed.”
“Good, lead on…and bring my bag.”
“Of course, lord.”
“And send a bottle of mead, with bread and some cheeses.”
“Ah yes, a good choice my lord, and thank you,” said the barman with great relief.
Ximo’s dishevelled mop popped up from behind the low timber wall that made up the sleeping bower and he peered out across the drinking hall. The fire was banked up high in the pit, the blaze fierce; throwing out so much heat, he could feel it on his face. Clothes hung from the rafters and the crew and guard were sitting around the pit, driven back a little by the intense heat, faces flushed. It was probably the warmest that many of them had been in months. Some were settled in for a night of serious gambling, others telling old tales of young lives, or old names renewed once again in a fresh telling. He could hear moans of pleasure, feigned or otherwise from some of the other bowers, along with the occasional giggle, so it was obvious the local girls were taking whatever they could from the situation.
Good for them, he thought.
He turned back to the naked figure lying behind him. She was looking back at him with a measured and very confident expression. She shifted around, pulled up her right leg, and almost absently let her raised knee fall away, exposing herself to him.
“So lover, do you want some more?” she murmured.
He dropped on all fours so that he was right above her; the warmth of her body radiating out towards him and ran a calloused finger slowly over the flaccid nipple of her left breast, and lightly down across the flesh of her ample belly. She did not even blink. He lowered himself down until their bodies were just touching, gently nudged her face to one side with the tip of his nose, and put his lips to her ear.
“Got better things to do,” he whispered.
She shrieked with sudden rage and brought a knee up sharply between his legs. He threw himself backwards as she twisted her body, furiously kicking out with both legs flailing madly. She only just missed his head and he fell back against the wall laughing.
“Easy now, I meant no harm!” he said smiling broadly as he grabbed his breeches and boots. “There’s a game by the fire. Thought I’d get back what you just cost me, that’s all.”
She leapt to her feet, and Ximo ducked to one side as she swung a hand at his head, picked up his belt and pouch and sidestepped smartly out of the bower. A cheer went up from the men around the fire and he gave a theatrical bow.
“Ya cheeky bastard!” screamed the offended woman, landing a well-placed foot on Ximo’s backside that sent him flying.
An even louder cheer went up, followed by laughter all round. The naked woman picked up her dress, threw back her long dark hair, stepped over Ximo, lying sprawled across the floor, and strode towards the bar with as much dignity as she could muster.
She did not get very far.
Lechog leapt to his feet. “Not so quick, little woman,” he growled, taking her around the waist with a tree thick arm.
“Get off me ‘ya big — ”
But her protest was cut short. Lechog threw her easily over his shoulder, slapped her hard on the cheek of her backside, and strode past Ximo to the now empty bower, her shrieks of protest echoing across the hall, most of those around the fire giving the big Zaindari another cheer as he dropped her onto the furs. He pulled down his buckskins, stepped over her, hands on hips, and thrust his groin forward, a wicked grin on his face, there was a sharp intake of breath from behind the low wall and all her protest died completely as a hesitant hand slowly reached up out of the shadows, slipped up between his legs, took hold of him, and with a sudden eagerness, pulled the big man down into the darkened bower.
“Like a ring-led bullock,” mocked Mika as Lechog disappeared from view.
“Heifer more like,” countered Nilak. “She’ll be milking him made. He’ll be an empty udder in moments, he laughed, forming a loose fist and making pumping actions with it, “She’ll milk him dry and put him out to pasture before his coins cold.”
Someone snorted like a rutting Musky, others followed suit, and suddenly, the entire hall was echoing with moans, snorts, grunting sounds, and a lot of laughter.
Ximo dusted himself down, pulling on his breeches and his boots, and sat down at an empty table by the pit fire, the laughter subsiding. He dragged over a couple of stools, took out his best dice, dropped all five into an empty cup, shook them noisily, and slammed the cup, upended onto the table, lifted the cup, looked up from the dice, and scanned the still smiling faces around the fire.
“Any one feel like dice?” he asked to no one in particular.
Six flushed faces turned, each with the same knowing, vaguely sly expression brought about from the confidence large quantities of good mead or strong ale give.
This is turning out to be a great night, thought Ximo, as he scooped the dice back up, rattled them once for effect, and slammed the cup back onto the table. He lifted the rim just enough to see the throw, put it back down and dropped a copper coin in the centre of table.
“Seven threes,” he announced, his face completely expressionless as the other players gathered round the table, took out their own sets, drained their cups and dropped the bone cubes into them.
Six dice-filled cups were shaken with relish, each player with his own particular flourish, blown kiss or secret whisper to the contents of his cup. Six cups slammed to the table top and six sets of dice rattled to a muffled stop beneath them. Six more various copper coins were tossed at the centre of the table, and the player to Ximo’s right peered beneath the rim of his cup, looked up at his fellow players, and leered at them with an evil grin.
“Twelve threes!” he declared without the merest hint of deceit.
Bugger me, thought Ximo as he leant forward, this might not be so great after all.
Biisay scanned the faces of the two remaining players sat around the table. He had easily seen past the weak attempts of the others to hide the truth, and most of the money wagered since they had first started the game had found its way into his purse. Now the only players left were the new boy Ximo, and Nilak. He knew Nilak well and there was usually a way to see past the big man’s bushy brows, but it was late, and they had all been drinking since just after dark, all that is but Nilak. The pot of coin now at the centre of the table was worth well over a month’s wages; there were only three players left; the total number of dice in play had dropped to nine, the claims against them far more cautious. Biisay still had four dice in play, Ximo three, but Nilak, despite being sober, or perhaps because of it, only had two, and it was Nilak’s claim.
“Three two’s,” he muttered darkly into his beard.
Biisay’s eyes flicked to Ximo, staring at his own downturned mug. He saw Ximo flick a glance at Nilak’s mug, then his face, and back to his own mug again, face ruddy with drink and the heat from the fire. He looked up into Biisay’s wondering gaze.
“Three four’s,” he offered.
Biisay nodded. Liar is played in every tavern and inn across the Domain, and Biisay reckoned he had played in most, in his time. He was a Gearlynn, through and through, proud of his home, despite its decline, but unlike many of his breed, years of travel and adventure had given him a more open-minded view on life. From the Great Lakes, high in the western reaches of the Zaindari nations, to Pendabhon on the shores of the Wash, and even far off Adelanti, he had met more folk of breed and creed than almost anyone else he knew. He saw past the trappings of birth and race, looked hard at the man before him; took him for what he was, not what he appeared; and it made him very good at his job, and very good at Liar.
“Four four’s,” replied Biisay, straight back to Nilak, already knowing that Nilak would up the wager.
Sure enough, Nilak slid a copper coin slowly across the table, into the edge of the pot.
“Six fours,” said Nilak with an evil smile aimed at Ximo.
Ximo scratched at his beard, glanced at Biisay, then the pot, and tossed in a cut bit. It landed with the familiar dink of cheap coin.
“Seven…four’s?” he mumbled.
“Liar!” cried Nilak triumphantly.
Ximo shrugged admittance and they revealed their throws. Amongst the scattered bits of crust and drops of gravy sat three groups of differing die showing the score: six fours, a five and two twos in total.
Biisay laughed. With only nine dice in play, Ximo’s claim had been risky — revealing he had only one four in play clearly showed the young lad was either greedy, or reckless. The quartermaster took a sip of the ale he had been drinking for the past Watch, just to wet his lips mind, and studied Ximo closely over the rim. On the face of it, he seemed to be simply what he claimed, servant to a Doriànni lord. Admittedly, the lord Kerdhu was undoubtedly Clannless, but a lord even so, and entitled to a Sabrosi bodyguard or two — that was common enough. But this Ximo was no warrior and the deeper Biisay looked, the less he saw mercenary the more he saw…something else. He wore the un-dyed beard of the Asqueri, just as Biisay, Nilak and the rest of the Huwan crew did, and he had more chat than a market-barker, but this lad was no trader. He weren’t no farmer either, he had that town way about him — but his accent wasn’t Gearlynn….
Ximo picked out one of his remaining dice, dropped it back in his pouch, and pulled closed the drawstrings.
Something there, thought Biisay, as Ximo sat back in his chair and looked around the hall.
“You still in boy?” asked Nilak.
Biisay followed Ximo’s gaze.
The hall was a mess. The tables were covered in pots and plates, jugs and cups, spilt ale and leftover food. Some of the tables had men passed out on them, some under them, and theirs’s the only table still with drinkers at it. Two of the old hands were sitting silently by the fire pit, looking into the flames, sipping at the large jugs they still held, and over by the bar, Lechog and Mika seemed to be in earnest discussion with one of the Sabrosi guards. The rest had long since retired.
“Yeah, I’m still in, old man,” goaded Ximo.
Biisay looked back to the table. Ximo was eyes on him, unblinking, a slight smile turning his mouth, fingers tapping on the table.
“Well, it’s you’re bet,” said Biisay bravely, “We’re just waitin’ on you.”
Ximo flicked a coin into the centre with a black stained fingernail, and as the others followed suit, he scooped up the dice, gave them a gentle shake next to his ear, as if he could hear how they would fall, and slammed the cup onto the table.