A great window, its small glass pieces held in place by a fretwork of lead, adorned the western wall. Through it, sunlight poured into the interior. The ceiling, meanwhile, was high enough to accommodate a mezzanine floor, and off the balcony there were many doors to the residents’ accommodation.
The tavern had changed little since his youth, but Conlan noticed that some of the plain glass pieces in the huge window had been replaced with coloured ones, so that the opposite wall and the bar itself were illuminated with rainbow spots of shimmering colour.
Martius approached the bar, his stride confident. The general made no effort to hide his presence. But somehow this served to enhance his anonymity, and no one turned to look in his direction.
Their quarry stood at a large circular table to the right of the main entrance, in the far corner of the building. They had their backs to the bar and appeared to be conversing with several others who sat, largely obscured from view.
Outnumbered two to one at least. Conlan shook his head. He loosened his sword in its scabbard as subtly as he could. Life with Felix Martius was turning out to be interesting, if a little unpredictable.
They reached the bar and Martius lay his hands on the smooth oak surface. A portly barman with a long, drooping moustache moved to stand before him.
“What can I get ya?” the barman asked.
“A flagon of mead and five cups should do the trick,” Martius replied with a broad smile.
The barman turned and busied himself collecting the order.
Martius said, “I see nine so far,” his tone light and conversational.
Conlan nodded. “Me too. The four we followed and five at the table.”
“There may be more, sir,” said Darcus, his voice so deep that it was almost lost in the background chatter that echoed to the rafters. Market day looked to be very lucrative for the inn on the green.
“Maybe so, Darcus, my old friend. Most pressingly though,” Martius turned to his servant and raised an eyebrow, “you did bring some money out, I hope?”
Is that self-mockery or just a hangover from his aristocratic roots? Conlan couldn’t begin to imagine the level of privilege that meant a man didn’t need to carry money. He is still one of them, no matter how enlightened, he reminded himself. Could a man ever really leave behind the traditional prejudices of his class and upbringing? Or is that just a reflection of your own prejudice?
Darcus grinned and revealed huge, crooked teeth. He reached into a purse at his waist and produced a small silver coin. “This should be enough, sir.”
Martius took the coin. “Thank you, Darcus. I knew I could rely on you!”
Is he enjoying himself? It struck Conlan as absurd, but Martius showed no sign of stress and, from the beginning of the chase, had become positively jovial. It’s like he thrives on danger.
Martius gripped the coin between his forefinger and thumb. “Do you think we have enough to buy another flagon?” he asked Conlan. “I am a little out of touch on these things I am afraid.”
A silver penny is enough to buy at least five flagons of mead. Conlan took a moment, and then swallowed his first reply. “I believe so, sir.”
Martius nodded. “Good.”
The barkeep returned with a large clay flagon and five goblets. “Will that be all, sir?” He turned his head to one side as if studying Martius for a moment.
“Yes, but…” Martius leaned across the bar, his manner conspiratorial, “you see the table in the far corner there?” He pointed back over his shoulder. “Do you know any of them?”
The barkeep’s head turned from Martius to the table and back again. “Aye, I know them, General Martius. Same as I know you.”
Martius rocked back from the bar. It was a subtle move, but enough that it might give him traction if he needed it.
I knew he’d be recognised. Conlan took a small step forward.
“And how is it that you know me?” Martius’s tone remained calm.
The barman lifted his sleeve. A legion tattoo adorned his bicep. “I served with you against the hill tribes, sir. We fought together on the front line at Vindum.”
Martius’s shoulders dropped slightly. He leaned forward again, raised a hand and clapped the barman on the shoulder. “Good to see you, brother… Now tell me, what do you know of those men?”
“That’s Jhan Guttel and his gang. They’re a bunch of lowlife scum, but they pays for their drink, so…” The barman shrugged.
Conlan turned towards the table. With a name like Jhan, the leader had to be at least part Farisian. Sure enough, a dark-skinned man with a black beard sat between four others. It wasn’t unusual for foreigners to frequent Adarna, especially Farisians. Guttel was about as nondescript as they came, his skin tone the only indication he might not be local.
“Would you do me a favour, brother?” Martius enquired of the barman.
“Name it, General.”
Martius leaned forward and whispered something to the man.
Conlan strained to listen but could not hear the exchange.
“… and keep the change.” Martius winked conspiratorially at the barman, then turned to face Conlan and the others.
“They haven’t spotted us yet,” Darcus reported to his master.
“What are you planning to do?” Conlan asked. Since leaving the Hole, or maybe since Sothlind, his life seemed to have spun out of control. He stroked the round brass pommel of his sword, drawing reassurance from the promise of protection it offered.
Martius grinned. “Grab your drinks and follow me.” His expression became stern for a moment. “No one is to draw steel unless they draw first. We do not want to cause a scene.” Holding a tankard in one hand and the half-empty flagon in the other, he set off towards the table.
Conlan followed. He didn’t know what else to do. Instinctively, he stuck close to the general. This won’t end well. A small part of him, nonetheless, had to know what Jhan Guttel and his men were up to.
The men at the table, engrossed in conversation, did not notice as Martius and the others approached.
Martius reached the table and thumped his flagon of mead down in the centre.
The men at the table all looked up at Martius. Shock registered quickly as they realised who it was that had disturbed their talk.
Jhan Guttel shot to his feet, horror painted clear on his face. “But…” he spluttered.
Within seconds, all nine men were standing.
By all the gods, I hope he knows what he’s doing.
Martius held both hands up, palms outward, and stepped back from the table. “Gentlemen, please. There is no need to stand for me. We are all friends here, really. I just want to talk.”
The men all turned to their leader. Guttel seemed to inspire loyalty, if nothing else. Some of them reached their hands under cloaks and tunics.
A wave of crimson fury spread up Guttel’s neck and covered his face. However, he remained silent.
“Now… Jhan Guttel, isn’t it?” Martius smiled pleasantly. “I just want to have a chat. Please, don’t do anything rash. Do you mind if I call you Jhan? You are Farisian, if I am not mistaken?”
Guttel moved slowly around the table until he faced Martius. He left a good distance — more than a full arm span — between them. Guttel’s men spread out either side of him, hemming Martius and the others into the corner of the room.
He fears our swords. Guttel’s men did not appear heavily armed and Conlan doubted that they would have much hope against trained, albeit mostly retired, legionaries.
As if reading Conlan’s thoughts, Guttel turned to one of his men and whispered a command. The man nodded and ran to the exit.
“What do you want?” Guttel asked in perfect Adarnan.