The table exploded again, and even Lloi couldn’t stifle a laugh. When the chance presented itself, I asked what became of Andurva.
Glesswik replied, “The captain’s generosity, that’s what.”
I feared the worst, but Hewspear added, eyes twinkling, “The whoremaster was horrified that one of his girls had taken the life of a Syldoon, however inadvertent. He summoned the bailiff, and was intent on having her hanged.”
“Would have taken a ballista rope,” Mulldoos said. “And that might have broke.”
“True enough. Vendurro sent another soldier back to summon the captain, Mulldoos, and me, and we arrived just a few moments after the bailiff. The flummoxed whoremaster was screaming at Andurva, who, as you might imagine, was weeping, now that she’d been sufficiently roused to discover she was being charged with the murder of her finest patron. But, upon hearing the story, and the condition the pair had been found in, it was clear Rokliss had obviously brought this upon himself. Captain Killcoin assured the whoremaster that Andurva’s life wasn’t required to satisfy us, and would in fact displease us greatly if he insisted. The whoremaster argued she shouldn’t have been so drunk, and accident or no, the death of a Syldoon was on her hands.”
Vendurro amended, “Thighs.”
“Indeed.” Hewspear continued, “We convinced the whoremaster that we wouldn’t hold her nor himself responsible. Once his fear and anger were assuaged, he calmed, but still discharged the poor girl immediately and told her to quit the city. Which she did. The captain paid for her passage by cart to the next closest city, advising her to sleep more lightly.”
“Must have been a big cart,” Glesswik said, “pulled by a lot of oxen.”
Mulldoos raised his mug again and lead the toast. “To Rokliss, then. Dumb whorelicker that he was.”
Everyone else joined even, even Lloi, though with less enthusiasm. “To Rokliss.”
The Syldoon really did seem to have an unhealthy fixation on all things whorish. Their breed of camaraderie was crude, coarse, callous, and whatever other alliterative pejorative I could summon. Cruel? Perhaps. But there was another quality there as well. Or lack of one. There was no preening or pretension at the table. Their rough humor made no excuses for itself.
Most of the patrons I’d penned for were doing their best to elevate themselves, to impress, to solicit the attention of the caste above. And though it was difficult to admit, even to myself, but my own experience was little different-growing up a bastard, I was always conscious of what others thought, and did my best to overcome any prejudice and earn as much approval as possible, especially since my own livelihood depended on me pleasing and placating my benefactors.
The Syldoon couldn’t care less what anyone thought of them, and that was refreshing. If gross.
Perhaps with a patron like the captain, I could focus on events for once, on history unfolding, on something truly significant.
I was thinking on that when I heard some commotion to my right. The curly-haired Hornman who got into a scuffle earlier was banging on a table, yelling, “Gods and devils, man, you think I want to throw my life away for that bastard? And we don’t have to. That’s what I’m telling you. Incompetent, cockless bastard.”
I jumped at the word, though he clearly hadn’t been talking about me.
The Hornman next to him looked around, and realizing his friend was attracting quite a bit of attention, laid his hand on the man’s shoulder to try to quiet him down. The curly-haired soldier slapped it away. “Lay off.” He looked around the inn, eyes red with drink. “You think I give a horse’s shit what any of these bastards think? I don’t. They can rot. The lot of them. The whole lot.”
A woman nearby whispered angrily to one of the men at her table, who promptly shook his head no.
The surly soldier noticed this silent exchange. “Your skinny bitch there got a problem?”
The man ignored the glaring woman. “No, Hornman, no. No one here has a problem.”
“Good. That’s good.” He tapped the hilt of his sword. “That kind of problem only got one kind of solution.”
A tall soldier with wild yellow hair said, “Our friend is drunk, he means no harm. Didn’t mean no offense to the woman nor yourself. Our apologies.”
The curly-haired man turned on his companion. “Apologies? Don’t you apologize for me, Scolin, you whoreson.” He started to rise out of his chair but Hornmen on either side restrained him.
He tried unsuccessfully to pull free. “Off me, you poxy bastards! Nobody tells me when to, who to… when to speak. You hear me? Not you, not no man, and for certain, not no uppity wife of no cuckolded prick like this weasel.” To the woman again, “That your problem, skinny bitch? Not getting enough good cock?” He grabbed his crotch. “That problem I use the other sword for.”
So much for refreshing.
Syrie appeared at their table. “Now then, now then, what’s the problem here? Mugs empty again, that it?”
The curly-haired soldier grabbed a mug off the table and turned it upside down, emptying half a mug of ale onto the floor. Syrie jumped back to avoid the splash as he said, “That’s right, you ugly calf, empty again. Fill it.” One of the other soldiers laughed.
Scolin said, “Don’t pay him no mind, missy. None at all.”
She grabbed her skirts in one hand and knelt down, pulling a rag from her apron. “Not the first time these boards have tasted ale.” Her voice was pleasant enough, but her eyes were narrow and her jaw tight. She finished wiping up what she could and stood up. “Now then, maybe some hot food would help soak up some of this ale, eh? Would you gentlemen be needing some supper then?”
The curly-haired soldier said, “We’ll be needing some more ale to soak up the ale,” and he laughed.
The other soldiers joined him, all but Scolin, who said, “Food would be fine. Another round as well.”
“Short enough.” She turned and headed back to the kitchen. She emerged a short time later, tray laden with steaming food, and her father handed her two fresh mugs of ale. Another boy who I assumed was a brother trailed behind her, and it became immediately clear why he remained out of sight most of the time. All of his features were horribly asymmetrical. The left side of his face was several inches higher than the right; eyebrow, nostril, lips, ear-all horribly aligned. Body as well. Both his left arm and leg were shorter than the right, and he walked with a noticeable hitch.
He stopped by the bar after Syrie, and his father placed four fresh mugs on his tray as well, scowling at him. The brother limped over to the table of soldiers and set their mugs down. All of the soldiers look at him with the same expression I must have worn, one of awe and revulsion. But when the curly-haired soldier saw him, he immediately let out a loud laugh. “Gods and demons, we got a monster serving us. What hobgoblin buggered your mother, boy?”
The poor boy set the bowls and spoons on the table as quickly as he could as Syrie made her way to our table. She heard the mocking but tried to ignore it as she sets our bowls and mugs before us, smile nowhere in sight.
The brother bowed quickly and turned to head back to the kitchen, but the curly-haired soldier stuck a leg out and tripped him. He fell face first, tray sliding across the floor. The soldier jerked out of his chair and stood over him. “Who said you was going anywheres, goblin boy? We were just getting started conversing.”