“But the dungeater, he drew blade first, he-”
“Enough. I gave an order, soldier. Get him upstairs, now, or maybe it’ll be you seeing the inside of a stockade, you hear me?”
Ropy-hair gave Braylar a hateful look before bending down and sliding his hands under Lunter’s armpits. “Give me a hand here, Looris.”
Another soldier started to rise, but Red Scolin replied, “Just you, Barlin. Don’t forget to clean him up, neither. Basin’s by the bed. I want to see it full o’ red when we come up later. No blood on Lunter, no blood on the bed. You got that? Clean him good before you come back down. Go.”
Barlin cursed. He hefted Lunter up, almost slipping in the puddle of blood, grunting with exertion. “Lunter… you sack of guts… nothing but a…” but the rest of his declaration was unintelligible. Barlin slung the larger man over his shoulders. He wobbled as he walked, from the ale and the weight, and he tottered dangerously up the stairs, swearing the entire time. I expected the two to come rolling back down at any moment in a wild tangle of limbs-but somehow he completed his task and disappeared down the hallway.
The conversation resumed in the room, hushed at first, but gradually regaining its boisterous volume. Ale makes for short memories.
Braylar nodded to Red Scolin and returned to our table. Mulldoos laughed. “Got a real special way with people, you do, Cap. Should have been an emissary, diplomat maybe.”
“We all have talents.”
Syrie brought a pitcher and new mug and filled it for Braylar.
When she finished, he lifted it to his lips and drained it top to bottom. He tapped the brim and she filled it again. “We try to keep him in back, my brother. Easier that way. For everyone, but especially him. He doesn’t like it when people stare, and people are always staring. Likes it less when people abuse him, and they do that often enough as well.” She sets the pitcher down. “So what I’m saying, trying to say, is thank you. For stepping in like you did. You didn’t need to. We would have handled it. Always do. But thank you, just the same.”
Braylar drained most of the rest of his mug and wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. “Sweet, sweet Syrie, I’d happily break a thousand mugs over a thousand skulls if only to see you smile again.”
And with that she did. “Now, they’ll be no more of that, you can have the smile for free. I got enough to clean up without worrying about no thousand mugs and thousand skulls. But I thank you kindly just the same. For the rescue and the compliment. Now, I’ll be back straight away with your food.”
Vendurro said, “Cap, I got to say, if I’d have known that’s what you meant by discretion, that would have clarified things right quick. See, I had a whole different idea in mind.”
Syrie arrived with our food a few moments later. “And will you be needing anything else this evening?”
“One more pitcher, Sweet Syrie,” Braylar said. “Perhaps a tumble or two in your bed. Nothing more.”
Syrie laughed. “The ale you shall have, but I won’t be tumbled so easy.”
“No? Pity. I suppose I’ll have to settle for the smiles alone then. And the ale. Please, please, don’t forget the ale.”
She laughed again and spun off with her platter to the next table. I couldn’t help wondering how many times my mother had been propositioned like that. Or more to the point, how many times she had rebuffed someone when she had.
The other Syldoon continued their talk, mostly of seductions or failed attempts, and Lloi stood up to go.
Mulldoos said, “Not leaving now, are you, dog? We’d all love to hear of the maids you’ve stuck your filthy nubs into.”
Lloi replied, “Betting you would. Only difference is, mine would be true whereas yours are all drunken lies swelled up like a cow bladder.”
“You got a mouth like a rasp and a cunt full of nettles. Even that fat sow Andurva knew enough to talk sweet once in a while. Guessing that silk house rued the day they paid for you.”
I wondered what he meant when Lloi started walked around the table toward Mulldoos, taking her time. I watched her hand, afraid it might drift to her blade, but it stayed clear. She laid her good hand on Mulldoos’s shoulder and leaned down, mouth close to his ear. “You nailed it true. I should be sweet as honey, especially to them that show such kindness like yourself. Starting now. Let’s say we go up to your room, you and me, and I file the rasp down some, give that massive cock of yours a good tongue bath? Or-”
Mulldoos knocked her hand off his shoulder and glared at her, but she continued undaunted, “Maybe prune the nettles some and drop my slippery nest down on your horsedick, show you what a good little-”
He shouted, “Enough!” And when some of the other patrons looked at the commotion, he quieted, if a little, “Enough. By the gods, you’re a filthy beast. Go to barn with the rest of them. Leave the men to their drink.”
“And bloated boasts. You’re welcome to them.” She nodded to Braylar and headed out the door.
The rest of the Syldoon struggled not to laugh, and ultimately failed. Vendurro spit out, “Could have had yourself a free one there, Mulldoos.” That set the table to near hysterics.
Mulldoos nodded in exaggerated fashion, clearly not amused at all. “That’s right, you whoresons, that’s right. Have your fun.” He took a huge swig of ale and turned to Braylar. “I swear to Truth, Cap, you didn’t need her so awful bad…”
He left the thought unfinished, but Hewspear didn’t. “You’d take her for your very own?”
That set off another raucous round of laughter.
“Leper lesions, the whole stinking lot of you.” Mulldoos slammed his mug on the table.
With the latest potential bloodshed diverted, I finally settled in to eat.
After we finished our meals, Syrie collected our plates and dropped off more ale, and before I knew it, my mug was again empty and in need of refilling. Unaccustomed to drinking at a soldier’s pace, my head was truly beginning to swim. I excused myself and returned to the room.
I woke several hours later. My bladder was full and my head was pounding, so I suspected one or both being the cause of my rousing. But then I realized I heard a muffled laugh and low voices. Disoriented, and my head still clouded from the ale, I thought for a moment it must have been one of the patrons in the next room. But when I heard the voices again, I realized they were coming from within my room. Braylar and a woman. A giggling woman. They spoke again, but low and soft, and I couldn’t make out the words.
Without a window the room was near pitch, and I couldn’t see anything either. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want them to know I was awake, but wondered if the woman knew I was in the room. It occurred to me she must have, for the entire inn saw that Braylar and I were sharing the room. I doubted a patron had arrived in the middle of the night, and doubted even more that even if she had she would’ve immediately made her way into a strange man’s bed. Presuming then that it was a woman already in the inn, I began to wonder who it could be when the answer struck me like cold water. Syrie.
Would my mother have cared about a man being in the room? Probably not. Why should Syrie have been different?
I felt my cheeks grow hot and wondered how I could excuse myself. Perhaps I should have simply cleared my throat and gotten up with a blanket, heading downstairs to join the others on the common floor. That would’ve been awkward, but so was staying put. Deprived of all sight and now fully alert with my anxiety, I heard the rest of the noises with an almost inhuman clarity. And really wished I hadn’t.
There were some soft sounds and movement-what I assumed was them slipping out of whatever remained of their clothing-and a giggle from who I was certain then must have been Syrie. There was a sharp wooden sound-the slats of the bed adjusting to the weight shifting above them-followed by another giggle. Braylar said something, though, trying as hard as I could despite my paralyzed embarrassment, I couldn’t discern individual words. I heard nothing for some time, save my own breathing mixed with theirs, and while much of me hoped they’d fallen asleep, I’m shamed beyond my ability to express that there was a part of me that yearned to hear more. I tried to comfort myself by thinking that it was a common enough human curiosity, nothing more-a fascination with what people do in the dark when they’re alone (or believe they aren’t being spied on)-but I wasn’t certain I believed that.