"Them?" the barkeeper said, polishing a glass and looking at the two men. "They got fired, and they're not happy about it. Wouldn't have pegged them for whiners, but you never know." He set the glass down and wiped the bar down with the rag. "Didn't you hear about the murder at Hatfield's? Man got his throat cut while those two were supposed to be guarding him. It's a three-day wonder. You want a beer, or what?"
Tiphaine nodded, and the man took a mug down and filled it from the wooden barrel as she grabbed a handful of pretzels from an orange plastic bowl on the bar. He slid the chipped mug over to her and she sipped; it was passable, and coolish if not cold. The two men were definitely Harry and Dave, looking sullen. There was a fair crowd in, and some of them were listening to the two of them holding forth.
"-not even any severance pay, and our rent due next week. And Dave here is getting married this spring. It wasn't our fault. How are we supposed to keep a roof over our heads?"
"There's this thing called saving, and some of us do it every payday," a stevedore said, getting a general laugh. "Anyway, even this time of year you can get something, work on a salvage crew in Albany, whatever. It may not pay as well as what you had, but you blew that off, didn't you?"
Tiphaine leaned an elbow on the bar, standing with one foot on the brass rail. Her hair was up under a woolen cap, which was believable enough, since even with a woodstove the place wasn't what you'd call hot. Lady Sandra's traveling gear had included a selection of contacts to turn her eyes an unremarkable brown. With a little artfully applied padding under her clothing and subtle differences in stance and walk it was unlikely anyone would connect her with the Association's consulate.
"I heard those loonies who live in the woods and think they're some sort of fairies cut that guy's throat," she said aloud. "The hired swords, the Rangers. Knocked you guys out and just killed him, like that-" She snapped her fingers. "Hell of a thing you should get the boot because Hatfield's weirdo friends like killing people. And collecting their heads. I heard they've got boxes full of heads, right here in town."
That got the conversation going again; of course, unless you were on the road, the main reason for coming to a tavern rather than staying at home of an evening was to schmooze and gossip. The noise level went up as the pro-Dunedain, anti-Dunedain and the more numerous who-the-hell-are-they-anyway factions started exchanging ill-informed opinions, louder and louder. More people were coming in, too, as the sun went down.
Eventually she used the noise and crowding to sidle over to where Harry and Dave were sitting in a booth along the back wall. They were still nursing their first beers, and the waitress had been giving them the hairy eyeball as space got more scarce and time passed.
"Mind if I join you?" she said. "Wendy Madigan's my name."
They looked at her, surprised, but shook her hand and gave their names. When the waitress came around again she looked at Tiphaine with raised brows. "Another for me," she said. "And get my friends here a shot of vodka each, with beer chasers. What've you got to eat?"
"Fish stew, or mutton and barley," she said. "Bread and fixings come with it. Five cents all up. Or you can have a side of French fries for an extra penny."
"I'll have the fish stew," Tiphaine said; it smelled all right, and the price was modest enough to suit her cover. "You guys? It's on me."
"Sure," Dave said; he looked to be the brighter of the two. "And you're doing this 'cause you like our faces or something?"
"Nah, I need the town news," she said easily. "My folks and I work in a dairy, a little place near Philomath, up Woods Creek, and they sent me in with a wagonload of butter on the railway. Everyone'll want the latest when I get home."
The two men looked at each other. Then they began to talk.
This could be an opportunity, she thought, as they took turns to pour out their grievances while she spooned up the fish stew: which wasn't bad, with chunks of white chum salmon, onions, carrots and potato; the bread was good, if a little rougher than the white variety the Lord Protector's court ate.
Trouble is, I'm not entirely convinced. Something not quite right. A little too smooth.
These two were too coherent and sure of what they were about. Most people told a story with a lot of umms and aaahs and disagreements, even if they'd seen the same thing-especially if they had. Nothing was more unreliable than human memory, and when she went in after Sir Jason she'd shot these two full of enough babble-juice to confuse a Dominican.
Their story is too much like a story. They're not bewildered enough at what happened to them. Smells wrong.
"You guys going to testify at the hearings?" she asked, when they'd run down.
"Ummm: I don't know," Dave said. "Hatfield's got a lot of pull with the Economics Faculty. Might screw up our chances of getting another job."
Hmmm. A perfect opportunity to bribe them to badmouth Hatfield and the Dunedain, possibly too perfect. Decision firmed. They're bait. Someone's keeping an eye on them, most likely, which means they're keeping an eye on me.
"Well, I hope things turn out all right for you two," Tiphaine said. "I hate to see the high-and-mighties putting the boot into a couple of working men."
She left an extravagant nickel tip for the waitress and went back to the washrooms, sitting in a stall thinking hard until the room was empty save for her. Then she opened the window at the rear; it was a tight fit, being small and high up on the wall, but she hopped up on a sink, wiggled through and came to her feet in the alley. Something scuttled away from her:
"Ms. Rutherton," a voice said.
Eilir watched the Association warrior come out of her crouch after a quick, flickering examination of her surroundings. High, blank walls on two sides; Al-leyne and Astrid at one end of the alley, John Hordle and her at the other.
Tiphaine smiled and pulled off her knit cap. "You can't possibly hold me prisoner," she pointed out. "And disposing of my body in a walled city: not easy. So I'll walk out to the street now, and if you try to stop me: why, I'll start to scream. People are odd in Corvallis; if you scream, they run towards you instead of away."
"We don't plan to kill or capture you," Alleyne said. His mouth was slightly pinched-he didn't like this part. "We're here to offer you something you want very badly, in return for telling the truth to the Faculty Senate."
She laughed at him. "What exactly do you have that I could want?"
Eilir felt John Hordle shift beside her. She took time out to nudge his ankle; this was no time to improvise.
"Me," Astrid said, standing forward a little. "My oath to meet you with any weapon you choose, in the wilderness, right after the Faculty Senate finishes its meeting."
Eilir could see a flush wash up Rutherton's neck and face, and her nostrils flared. "You mean that?" she said, tilting her head to one side. Then: "Yes, you do. And I suppose your boyfriend there would be waiting to kill me, after I won?"
"No," Alleyne said. "The deal includes two horses, a hundred and sixty rose nobles, and free passage to wherever you please, so long as it isn't Bearkiller or Mackenzie land."
"Corvallis," she said. "Or there's always the Yakima towns, or Boise: "
Astrid shook her head. "That's all moot, because I'll kill you," she said. "But you'd have the satisfaction of trying."
Tiphaine Rutherton closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and smiled a hungry smile. "Agreed. Knives, fought estrappado," she said, and turned on her heel. Astrid and Alleyne had to turn sharply as she pushed between them without another word.
I have a bad feeling about this, Eilir thought. And not just because the Association fighter had specified a knife duel with left wrists tied together. Quite bad.