The drink had definitely gotten to him. He tried to spot Karkober returning with his food, but all he saw was that the crowd had gotten bigger. People were obviously leaving work and gathering for some early evening drink and company. Covington surveyed them analytically and appreciated what he saw.
There were handsome men in richly ornamented costumes, but their faces did not betray the ignorant arrogance of fops. These were serious people who honestly believed that the in-depth study of magic could overcome any obstacle and solve any problem. Covington suddenly felt a pang moving from his empty stomach to his heavy heart. How could he even have toyed with the idea of trying to maintain an impersonation of Darlington Blade, of all people?
He looked down at his simple clothing. A cloak does not a hero make, he realized. What was he, really? A glorified messenger from the armpit of the Nath, that’s all. At least his mouth was securely fastened to his brain, and he felt certain he could outtalk anyone in this room, but Mystra help him if it went any further than that
Besides, if they had any sense, they could easily do what he had done with Lymwichsimply refuse to play along. They wouldn’t even bother rising to his challenge. They would refuse to get defensive, and he would be dismissed and forgotten before he could even utter his first “Oh, yeah?” This was not Merrickarta. This was Lallor, where only the finest and most favored resided. No place for the likes of Pryce Covington… only the great Darlington Blade.
Covington struck the table with his fist. “By thunder!” he said, then looked around quickly. No one had paid the least heed. Well, if he wasn’t going to be able to be Darlington Blade for long, then he at least was going to take advantage of it in the short term. He tore his eyes away from the gentlemen in favor of the opposite sex.
He smiled wistfully, expertly guessing at the professions of the ladies he saw by the way they dressed and carried themselves. There were grooms, dressed in form-fitting riding costumes. There were jewelers, with tasteful but extensive displays of their wares on earlobes, arms, fingers, necks, waists, ankles, and even noses. There were weavers, wearing the finest gowns they could design. And there were many more, but there was only one person Covington couldn’t assign a vocation to.
Not only was she the most impressive woman in the place, but there was a strength about her that the others couldn’t match.
Her neck was long and fine. Her hair was even longer and shone from across the tavern like the dark red and black embers of a deep fire. Her hair was bound by brown leather laces, as was her light brown bodice.
Much to his pleasure, although he could not say why, her shirt was the same color as his, although hers was open at the neck in a deep, narrow V. Her full, loosely gathered skirt was a deep maroon and appeared neither summer-light nor winter-heavy. Her boots were also brown, with a copper and silver flash at the heel and toes.
For reasons Covington couldn’t begin to fathom, she sat alone, even though her face had the classic beauty of a master artist’s painting: Large eyes of an unknowable depth and color; straight, long nose; and full lips, the lower being the most full and lush Covington could remember having seen. It made her look as if she were always ready to burst into song… or be kissed.
Now, this is a woman worthy of Darlington Blade! he thought And far be it for the lowly Pryce Covington to keep Blade from her. With his meal still nowhere in sight, he rose as steadily as possible, then began the long walk across the restaurant. His passing created a wave effect, as other diners noticed his cloak and became aware that the famous, though never seen, Darlington Blade was among them.
Soon he stood before her table, drinking in her exceptional profile, as she elegantly sipped rich wine from an impressive goblet. Neither seemed aware that every other eye in the place was on them.
Pryce reached up for a hat he finally remembered he wasn’t wearing. In midmotion, he tried to change the action into a sort of sophisticated, ornate salute and continued on into an elegant bow. But instead of any of the usual opening lines a person of her class and quality no doubt was accustomed to, he said, “We cannot see our own faces.”
It took her completely by surprise, but she said nothing, just turned the light of her exquisite eyes on him. He continued, only slightly daunted.
“It explains why we exist,” he boldly said to those eyes, more beautiful than any eyes he had thus far seen in Lallor. “We exist for each otherto see each other’s faces. Therefore no person should remain alone when another can see his face.”
Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. For a moment, he was afraid he would have to explain the concept further, but he knew it would lead to desperate embarrassment.
“Please,” he said, stepping closer. “Forgive my impertinence. I have just arrived in your” he thought back to how the greeter at the gate had put it”your humble community. Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Blade… Darlington Blade.” He finished the statement with a baroque bow, half-expecting the people in the restaurant to break out in applause.
He looked up just in time to catch the full contents of her wine goblet directly in his face.
Pryce Covington was blinking when he heard the loud clink of the goblet on the table, and he opened his eyes to see the angry young woman looking hurriedly around the table, as if she were looking for something to hit him with. When she didn’t spot anything suitable, she jumped to her feet, nearly knocking over her chair. Then she stared at him, furious, with both fists clenched. Finally she spoke.
“You’re Darlington Blade?” she seethed. “You’re Darlington Blade?” Then she turned and stormed out of the tavern.
Pryce didn’t move until he saw some activity out the corner of his eye. A number of diners had risen from their tables, with expressions ranging from shocked to affronted, even vengeful. How dare she hurl chablis in the face of the great Darlington Blade! Several of them started for the door.
His face still dripping wine, Pryce quickly slipped in front of the angry diners and held out both arms to keep them from going after the woman and forcing her to apologize. When they had redirected their attention from the door to him, he licked his lips and chin.
“Amusing little vintage,” he commented. “Azzo! Is it Halagard Prime?”
“Halarahh Golden,” the proprietor immediately corrected him, realizing that Blade was trying to defuse the situation. “Good guess, though.”
“Ah,” said Pryce, licking the remaining wine from his lips. “Free, nonetheless.” He and Schreders laughed, and, Zalathorm bless them, most of the rest of the diners joined in.
The laughter subsided as Pryce spotted Karkober and approached the bar, motioning for the waitress to put his dinner on the bar near the proprietor. He leaned over the plate, his arms folded on the bar edge, to look into the knowing face of Azzo Schreders. “Dearlyn Ambersong,” was all the barman said.
“Ah,” Pryce said, using Azzo’s proffered damp cloth to clean the rest of his face. “Geerling’s…?”
“Daughter.”
“Ah.” Covington said again, sitting down.
“Her mother’s name was Lynn,” Azzo explained solemnly. “Died in childbirth, sad to say. Father named her.” Azzo looked distantly off toward the door. “Spitting image of her mother,” he mused. “Her mother’s temper, too.” He took the crockery and cutlery the waitress had retrieved from Dearlyn’s table and arranged it in front of Pryce.
“You all right, Darling?” Karkober inquired of Pryce solicitously. She leaned over provocatively before Azzo motioned her away with his head. She looked at him with resentment, but she went anyway.
Pryce ruminated at the bartender. “Doesn’t like me, apparently… Dearlyn, I mean.”