Several of the other patrons stood up as well, though I wasn’t sure why. Clearly, no one was going to contest the actions of a table of drunk Hornmen. Hobbins and Syrie rushed over to the boy. Hobbins grabbed the back of his son’s tunic and hoisted him to his feet. “Up, up with you. Back to the kitchen, boy.”
Scolin had the curly-haired soldier by the elbow and was trying to guide him back down to his seat. Syrie grabbed some mugs off the table and said, “No worries-you won’t be charged for these.”
She started to leave but the curly-haired soldier grabbed her hair and pulled her back, saying, “Whoa there, calfling. We got use for those yet.” Scolin tried to restrain him but the drunken soldier shoved him away and pulled her hair again. She tripped over a chair leg and fell to the ground, mugs of ale overturning in all directions. The drunk soldier kicked her backside and she slid forward in a puddle of ale. “You stupid bitch.” He reared back to kick her again and found a blade next to his throat. Braylar’s.
I’d been so transfixed, I didn’t even see him approach. But Braylar had his long dagger across the soldier’s throat, a full mug of ale in his other hand. Braylar lifted the mug very slowly to his lips, blew some foam onto the floor, and took a long, slow swig, eyes never leaving the Hornman. After he swallowed, Braylar smiled and said, loud enough for the innkeeper to hear, “Your ale tastes like ox piss, Hobbins. Truly it does. And you know what they say of pissy ale, yes? It makes patrons irritable. Of course, if a patron doesn’t like the drink or atmosphere, he’s free to move on. The city has many inns to choose from. Myself, I don’t mind a little pissy ale, makes you appreciate the finer brew. So I’ll stay.” He took another measured swig, licked his lips, and asked the soldier, “How about you? Are you going to ride on, or are you going to stay and enjoy the ale?”
The Hornmen behind curly-hair suddenly appeared more sober than they had all evening, and their hands were one and all wrapped around the hilts of their swords. I glanced at Braylar’s retinue, and they seemed equally poised to spring out of their seats.
As Syrie gathered the mugs and ran off to the kitchen, Mulldoos whispered, “Easy, lads. Let it play out a bit. Nothing rash now.”
Hobbins was there then, nervously wiping his hands on his apron. “It is pissy ale. Can’t deny that. And my daughter, she’s a clumsy cow. But neither’s reason to spill blood. No, no reason at all. Been no blood spilled here in… some time. So why don’t you-”
“Ride or drink?” Braylar put a little more pressure on the dagger. “What’s it to be then?”
There was a long pause. I was sure the Hornmen and Syldoon would clash any moment, and Hobbins would be mopping up blood for days. But in a quiet, croaky voice, the curly-haired soldier said, “Drink.”
Braylar pulled the dagger away and slid it back in the scabbard. “Very good. Hobbins, fetch another tray of ales, yes? These boys seem thirsty yet. I’ll pay for those that spilled and the coming round as well.”
Hobbins mumbled something to himself and started back to the bar. Braylar was walking back to our table when the curly-haired soldier drew his sword and tried to stab him. I thought the captain a dead man for certain, but he must’ve heard the sword clear the scabbard, because he pivoted and spun to his left. The blade slid past him and Braylar swung the mug, a spray of ale trailing behind. It cracked across the drunken soldier’s face, splitting his lip, and from the sounds of it, breaking his nose as well. Then Braylar cracked him in the back of the head, just above his neck. The soldier started to slump forward, and Braylar hit him again on the way down for good measure. The mug broke with a loud crack and the cylinder landed on the man’s back and rolled to the floor.
The other Hornmen had their swords out now, all of them pointing in Braylar’s direction. The retinue were on their feet as well, weapons drawn. Braylar looked at the handle in his hand and called out, “Your mugs are weaker than your ale, innkeeper. I regret I have to pay for either. Still…” He reached into a pouch and tossed a silver coin over his shoulder. “That ought to make amends.”
A soldier with thick ropy hair said, “You just struck a Hornman, dungeater.” He was younger than the rest, but now that the first man was unconscious, clearly the drunkest man standing.
Braylar turned and examined the swords. “A Hornman?” he asked. “Truly? I’m a stranger to these parts-is that some kind of musician?”
“You watch your filthy dungeating tongue, dungeater. I’ll cut it out and… and… I’ll cut it out of your filthy mouth, I will.”
“Bold words when facing a man armed with a mug handle. Are all Hornmen so fearless, or are you one of the elite?”
The boy took a step forward but Scolin put a hand on his shoulder. He gave Braylar a hard look. “What he means to say is, striking a Hornman is a bad idea. Bad as striking at the law itself. Usually, a man strikes a Hornman, we just throw him in the stockade, and if he got no friends, he’ll stay there a good long while. But generosity’s a lean commodity these days. So maybe we hack off the offending limb. Or, we got the time and a good tree, we just hang the dumb bastard until the life stretches out of him. Just not a good idea, striking a Hornman. If you take my meaning. Now, you look like a traveler, maybe you just didn’t notice our surcoats and baldrics. That right, stranger? You just didn’t realize who you was striking? Didn’t see our surcoats? Or our horns hanging on our sides?”
Braylar replied, “No, I didn’t immediately notice your surcoats. What I did see was a drunken lout abusing a cripple and beating a girl. That must not be a hanging offense, or any offense at all, no?”
The ropy-haired soldier said, “Let’s cut him open, Red. Open him cock to nose.”
Braylar fixed him with a stare. “Surely you would find naught but dung, Hornling, but I welcome you to try.”
Scolin, who for mysterious reasons was called Red despite the light locks, looked down at the unconscious soldier. A small puddle of blood was pooling around his head, mixing with the ale. Red Scolin nudged the man with his foot, and he moaned. Red Scolin sighed. “Lunter’s as big an ass as you’ll find when he’s got ale in his belly. Truth is, you done us a favor by shutting him up.” He sheathed his sword and took a step forward. “But you see these surcoats now, stranger, and you’ll mind that tongue of yours, or I’ll have it out and fry it with our morning bacon. You hear?”
Braylar chose his next words carefully. “No doubt it would be finer than anything Hobbins has planned for us, but I’m rather fond of my tongue and would hate to see it in a pan. So I’ll mind myself, particularly when addressing those bearing horns. At least, so long as they aren’t musicians, who are naught but scoundrels.”
Red Scolin laughed, and though the other soldiers didn’t, they reluctantly put their blades away. Braylar slid the mug handle in his belt. “Unarmed and amiable again, you see? In fact, I’d do even more to make amends for my uncouth behavior.” He turned to Hobbins. “Two pitchers for the Hornmen, innkeeper, and one for myself, yes?”
Hobbins looked at Braylar and back to the soldiers. He licked his lips and left to fetch the ale. The other soldiers moved back to their chairs, but the ropy-haired soldier was still peevish. “That it, Red? Lunt’s bleeding like a, like a butchered hog, and all you gonna do is warn him?”
Red Scolin sat back down at the table. “No. I’m going to drink his ale and be glad to hear no more from Lunt tonight. Take him upstairs.”
“The dungeater?”
“Lunter, you ass. Take Lunter upstairs. Clean him up, put him in bed.”
“You ought not to let him go like that.”
Red Scolin asked, smiling, “Lunter?”
Ropy-hair looked confused. “The dungeater, Red. He struck a Hornman. We all saw. Struck him in the face, and in the head. He hit him with his mug, across the face and mug. I mean head. He-”
“Right enough. Struck him with his mug. Right after Lunter tried to stab him.”