“You would rather the ladies dressed in rags? Showed tits and arses through threadbare holes for every punter to see?”
“No, but…something less… colourful would have been appropriate.” He lowered his voice, eyes narrowing. “Couldn’t you have bought some cotton shirts and trews? We’ll be travelling in the snow later; what good are silk dresses then?”
“I have purchased a few normal items, and fur-lined cloaks, Kell, even for you; although I’ll wager you’ll be as grateful as a rutting dog after a savage castration. Listen, these were all the merchant had. What was I supposed to do? Let them come here with knife rips in their shirts? For I know what would have been the more suspicious.”
“Hmph,” muttered Kell, slumping to a stool.
Saark turned, and winked at the girls. Kat covered her mouth, and giggled. “Anyway,” said Saark, twirling his wrists to allow puffed cotton to flower. “Don’t you like my noble attire, good sir? I find it serves when attracting the attention of sophisticated ladies.”
“Saark, you’re a buffoon, a clown, a macaroni and a peacock! I thought we were travelling to King Leanoric carrying urgent news? Instead, you strut about like a dog with three dicks.”
“We are,” snapped Saark, “but we can at least have a little fun along the way! Life is shit, Kell, and you have to grasp every moment, every jewel. You go out back and eat with the pigs from their slop-trough if you like; me and the ladies, we are going to dine on meat and sup fine wines.”
“No drink,” said Kell.
“Why not?”
“We may have to leave fast.”
“Bah! You are a killjoy, a grump and a…a damn killjoy! We will drink, the ladies are my guests, and if you have any sense, man, you’ll at least have an ale. You look like a horse danced on your face. Admittedly, it improves your savage and ugly looks, but it must hurt a little, surely? A whisky would do no harm, against the pain of injury and winter chill.”
“An ale, then,” conceded Kell.
The server arrived, a young woman, slightly overlarge and with rosy cheeks. Saark ordered the finest food on the menu-gammon, with eggs and garnished potatoes. He also ordered a flagon of wine, and two whiskies.
Kell muttered something unheard.
They talked, and Kell surveyed the room. They had attracted a certain amount of attention with their fancy clothes, and the act of Saark buying the inn’s population a drink. He was showing he had perhaps a little too much money; they were certainly marked as strangers to the Falls.
Little happened before the food arrived. When plates were delivered, Saark expressed his delight and tucked in heartily, knife and fork cutting and rising like a man possessed. The girls ate more sparingly, as befitted their new image as ladies, and Kell sat, picking like a buzzard worrying a corpse, despite his hunger, one eye on the crowd and the door, wondering uneasily at the back of his mind if the albino army was marching south. And if they were, how far had they traversed across the Great North Road? Did Leanoric know of the invasion of Falanor? Did he have intelligence as to the taking of Jalder? Surely he must know…but only if somebody had escaped the massacre, and managed to get word to him.
Uneasily, Kell ate his eggs and gammon, allowing juices from the meat to run down his throat. Kell always ate slowly, always savoured his food; there had been times in his life when he could not afford such luxuries. Indeed, times in his life when there was no food to be had, camping in high caves in windy passes, the snow building outside, no way of making a fire, no food in his pack…but worst of all, there had been times far too miserable and brutal to recollect, times running through dark streets, the only light from fires consuming buildings as citizens cowered indoors screaming flames consuming flesh hot fat running over stone steps and into gutters; charging through streets, blood smeared flesh gleaming in the light of the burning city, axe in hands and blades covered in gore and glory in his mind violence in his soul and dancing along a blade of madness as the Days of Blood consumed him…
Kell snapped out of it. Saark was looking at him. Nienna and Kat were looking at him. He frowned. “What?”
“I said,” repeated Saark, rolling his eyes, “are you going to drink that whisky, or stare at it all night?”
Remembering his vision, Kell took the whisky. It was amber, a good half tumbler full-these tiny outpost villages always provided generous measures-and he could see his face distorted in the reflection. He knocked it back in one, then closed his eyes, as if savouring the moment; in reality, he was dreading the moment, for he knew deep down in his heart and deep down in his soul that when the whisky took him, consumed him, he could and would become a very, very bad man…
But not any more, right? He grinned weakly. Those days were dead and gone. Buried, like the burned corpses, the mutilated women, the hacked up pigs…
“Order another,” he said, slapping the glass on the oak planks.
“That’s my boy!” cheered Saark. He eyed Kell’s plate. “Are you going to eat those potatoes?”
“No. Suddenly, I don’t feel hungry.” He wanted to add, the minute I begin drinking I cannot eat, for all that I want is more whisky. But he did not. Saark reached over and speared a potato, gobbling it down.
“Can’t be wasting good food,” he said, grinning through mash. “There’s village idiots in Falanor starving!”
“You’ve eaten enough to feed a platoon,” said Kell.
Saark pouted. “I’m a growing lad! Need to keep up my strength for tonight, right?”
“Why?” said Kell, as his second whisky arrived. “What’s happening tonight?”
“Oh, you know,” said Saark, stealing a second unwanted potato. “I feel like a hermit, locked up for a whole month! It’s been days since I had a good time. I’m a hedonist at heart, you realise.”
“What’s a hedonist?” asked Kat.
“A skunk’s arsehole,” said Kell.
“Funny,” snapped Saark, raising his glass. “Here’s to getting out of Jalder alive.”
Kell lowered his glass. “I don’t need to toast that. It’s the past. What we should think about is the future.”
“No problem,” grinned Saark. “Well, let’s toast these fine young ravishing women beside us. They are the future!”
Warily, Kell toasted, and Nienna and Kat drank their own glasses of port. Nienna, who had never before experienced alcohol, felt her senses spin. The room was a pond of swimming colours, and warbled sounds and fluctuating smells. Suddenly, her belly flipped, felt queasy, but she fought the sensation for her mind was filled with liquid honey, and Saark was looking surprisingly handsome, now she really thought about it, he was tall and dashing, witty and charming, and when his eyes fell on Nienna she felt her heartbeat quicken and her legs go weak at the knees. She glanced over at Kat, but Kat’s topaz eyes were fixed on Saark.
One of the innkeeper’s daughters arrived. “You ordered hot water for a bath, sir?” she enquired.
Kell nodded, and stood, feeling the whisky bite him. Damn, he thought. I should never have drunk it so fast! But then, two little whiskies couldn’t hurt him, could they? He was a big man, an experienced man, and Saark-damn his fancy ways-was right. It was a miracle they were alive. They deserved at least some normality…
He nodded to Saark. “I need this bath. Don’t get in any trouble when I’m away.”
“You’re right, you do need the bath,” agreed Saark. “And don’t worry about a thing. I’ll look after the ladies. We were considering dessert; some kind of sugared sponge cake, covered in cream. How about it, ladies?”
Kat nodded, licking lips in anticipation. It was rare she got such a treat.
Kell followed the innkeeper’s daughter across the crowded room, aware that eyes were on him, curious but somehow…disconcerting. He hated being any centre of attention; the gods only knew, it had happened enough in his life. Usually during combat.
Halting by the stairs, he called the girl back, and checking to see Saark and Nienna weren’t watching, told her to bring a bottle of whisky to the bathing room.