"I assure you, we were not trying to steal anything," Maq spoke up clearly, ignoring the pirates' drunken laughter. "I am Maquesta Kar-Thon and this is Hvel Gamon, from the Perechon. We came to buy some chatterwort from you."
Mention of a commercial transaction immediately calmed down Renson, for that was who the man behind the bar introduced himself as. He peered closely at them with his good eye, obviously sizing them up. After half a minute, the innkeeper blew out whatever was lit inside the small pots and beckoned Maq and Hvel forward.
They both held back. Then Maquesta finally stretched her arms out toward the bar. Nothing. She moved forward slowly, repeating the motion with her arm, Hvel following her cautiously. Renson cackled.
"Don't worry, don't worry. Just a little illusion I create with some of my herbs-invisible smoke wall. Keeps those with grasping hands and big thirsts from helping themselves to the tap. The herbs have stopped smoldering, see? You'll be all right. I'll start them up again when we're finished. Can't trust everyone." Here Renson nodded his head toward the pirates, who had resumed their drinking. "Otherwise I'd never get any shut-eye."
Resting her forearms on the bar, Maq saw that a narrow cot covered with a dirty blanket was set up behind it. Renson had stowed his axe in an easy-to-reach cubbyhole and stuck his sword into his waistband, freeing his hands to tie a ragged gray patch over his empty eye socket. "Now what was it you said you wanted to buy?" he inquired once he had the patch in place, rubbing his hands together and taking on the air of an unctuous merchant.
"Chatterwort, about five drams' worth."
Renson's expression soured somewhat at the meagerness of Maq's intended purchase. "I'll have to check my storeroom. I should be able to help you." With that Renson lifted a trapdoor located in the cramped floor space behind the bar, and dropped out of sight.
Maq felt Hvel, standing next to her with his back to the bar and his eyes on the pirates, tense up. She turned to see one of the trio, a tall, muscular redhead, approaching them. He held his and his friends' empty ale mugs in one hand. Maq watched him. He moved gracefully, though he'd obviously been drinking for a while. Only a certain heaviness in his eyelids betrayed the amount of ale he must have consumed. She glanced down at Hvel, who nodded almost imperceptibly. They both knew that a drunken sailor, in a port as wild as Lacynos, needed careful handling.
The redhead set his mugs on the bar for refilling and looked at Maq appreciatively.
"Greetings and good morning. Fletch's the name. Me and my comrades sail with the Bloodhawk. Maybe you've heard of her?"
Maq nodded. A pirate ship with a reputation for speed and ruthlessness.
Fletch swayed slightly, grinning at her. "Why don't you dump your pudgy little friend here and join us? I promise we'll show you a good time." He winked at her and banged one of the mugs against the top of the bar. "What do you say?"
Maq looked over and saw the two seated pirates leering at her. She smiled sweetly at Fletch.
"I'm sure you'd try your best, but I don't really enjoy wrestling. Anyway, my little friend here is terribly ill. I'm buying medicine for him now, and I have to take him back to the ship before he collapses. I hope he's not contagious."
Hvel, who except for a pair of bloodshot eyes exuded sturdy good health, stood placidly beside Maquesta. Fletch stared at him suspiciously.
"Don't get too close," Maq warned, stepping between Fletch and her companion. "I would feel just awful if you caught it, too. So I'll decline your invitation. I'm really very sorry. Maybe we can do it another time." She continued smiling at the pirate.
Too drunk to know he was being insulted and lied to, Fletch took a step backward. "Barkeep! More ale!" he shouted in the general direction of the trapdoor. After a few minutes in absorbed contemplation of his empty mugs, the pirate seemed to forget his earlier conversational gambit. He moved on to another subject.
"You're from the Perechon, you say?"
Maq nodded again, still smiling.
"Someone on your ship must be happy, very happy-" He paused for emphasis. "And rich." He winked at Maquesta.
What was this fool talking about? Maq wondered. Not wanting to reveal too much curiosity, either to the drunken sailor or to Hvel, who like the rest of the crew had no inkling of Melas's failed betting strategy, she reacted guardedly.
"No one's happy. We lost" Maq stopped and took a breath, finding it difficult to say out loud. "We lost the race."
"Yes," Fletch wagged a finger in Maq's direction. "Too bad you weren't sailing with the Bloodhawk. We never lose once we set our caps for something. Why once, two years ago…"
Maq, eager to hear more about the harbor race, steered Fletch back to the subject at hand. "Yes, I heard about that. Remarkable. And it was someone from the Bloodhawk's crew who was pleased about the outcome of yesterday's race?" she asked innocently.
"Not the Bloodhawk, the Pere… Perek…" Fletch gave up. "Your ship. I heard about it at the betting master's, over at the Breakers. Now that's a place where a fellow can at least get served a drink," he said loudly, looking around vaguely for Renson. Maq tugged at his sleeve. Fletch stared at her uncomprehendingly.
"The Perechon?" she prompted.
Fletch frowned, then perked up. "Right. Someone from the crew bet on the winning ship and came in to the Breakers to collect his winnings. Little guy. Bowlegged. Very happy. And rich."
He peered with renewed interest at Hvel, who had moved some distance down the bar after Maq's impromptu diagnosis of his condition, and consequently had not picked up much of the conversation. "Is everyone on the Perechon little?" Fletch asked.
Disconcerted by the pirate's description of the winner as someone closely resembling Averon, Maq was unable to make any response. With relief, she saw Renson's head pop up out of the cellar. Fletch's attention immediately shifted. "Barkeep!" he bellowed.
Maquesta joined Hvel at the far end of the bar, where they waited for Renson to serve the pirates before selling them the chatterwort.
"That sailor was quite a bit drunker than he looked," Hvel observed. "What was all that about one of us betting against the Perechon? Did I hear that right? And then he called me short?"
Maq managed to compose herself. "His mind was so fogged by drink, he didn't know what he was talking about. That story changed about ten times in the course of our five-minute conversation."
Hvel chuckled, returning his attention to a plate of sweet rolls on one of the shelves behind the bar. "Short. Hmpf!"
"Here's your chatterwort." Renson laid the herb wrapped in a twist of paper on the bar. "That will be twelve steels."
"Twelve!" Maq reacted indignantly, commencing the ritual of bargaining. Years of making ends meet on the Perechon had made Maquesta a very adept bargainer. In this instance, preoccupied by what she had just heard, Maq went through the process by rote and was not at her best. Nonetheless, she still achieved a significant reduction in Renson's asking price.
"And how much for one of those stale rolls back there?" Maq added. Hvel brightened. After a minute more of haggling, he had one of the sticky buns in his hands. Maq counted out the coins, and they turned to leave. But after a couple steps, she stopped.
"You go ahead, Hvel. I forgot to ask Renson something Lendle wanted me to find out about brewing the chatterwort. No use you standing through all the directions. I'll meet you back at the dock. This shouldn't take more than an hour."