“I didn’t pass out,” he said slowly, concentrating on his diction. “I took a bad step.”
Teron leaned against one wall, his arms crossed. “Your legs weren’t moving,” he countered.
Praxle sighed deeply. “Tea, Jeffers, very strong.”
Jeffers nodded, and left the room to procure the tea. He shut the door quietly behind him.
Praxle turned around slowly, swiveling on the rotating stool on which he sat, then leaned back against the table. “I don’t understand you, monk,” he slurred.
“How so?”
“That wench wanted your touch,” said the gnome. “The string of her blouse got looser and looser as the evening went on.”
“It was hot in there. She was working.”
“She was offering a lot more than drinks every time she came to our table and leaned over,” snarled the gnome, venting all his physical discomfort into the utterance.
Teron looked down, trying to forget her touch on his arm, the look in her eyes.
“Are you truly that blind?” asked Praxle, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “If you spent half the energy on pleasure that you do on exercising and causing yourself pain—”
“Pain is the mortar of my life,” said Teron. “I could not build myself without it.”
“That,” slurred Praxle, “may be the wisest thing you’ve said yet, monk.”
Teron looked up. “My name is Teron.”
“But why do I even bother? I’m trying to show you there’s more to life than abusing yourself and meditating on your navel, and what kind of gratitude do I receive?”
“Use my name.”
“Be quiet, monk. I don’t feel well at all.”
Teron strode over and planted his hands on each side of Praxle, penning him in against the table. “You call Jeffers by name. He’s your servant. I’m your partner. Show me the same respect.”
Praxle’s momentary surprise gave way to an inebriated smirk. He guffawed, then broke into a near-hysterical drunk laugh. He slid off the stool to the floor. “Oh, monk,” he said, rolling onto his back, “He’s not named Jeffers. He’s just … my Jeffers. That’s what he is. He’s … I think he’s the third one I’ve had. All my Jefferses … ses.”
Teron stood and took a step back. “What?”
Just then the door opened, and Jeffers stepped in with a teapot, “May I enquire as to what you gentlemen find so amusing?”
“Oh, look,” said Praxle, giggling. “My dear Jeffers is back with the tea.”
“I seen them, yes’m,” said Squints, a tremor in his voice. “There’s no doubting it.” The old man hated being away from his familiar kitchen and his cleavers, more so hated being here, way out of his element. He fidgeted with his hat, turning it in circles and trying to make out some semblance of shape in the darkened recess of the private booth. The Coal Scuttle was known as a place of discretion even at noontide; in the wee hours of the morning its darkness was all but impenetrable.
“What, exactly, did you see?” asked a voice from the darkest shadows.
The old man scratched at the scarred eyelid that hung over his empty socket. “I work at the Phiarlander. I saw a little gnome, all gussied up, take the stage and sing a bit. Then he passed out, on account of being very drunk, I do believe. A half-orc carried him out. And behind them walked a human, too. I’d wager gold to gonads that he were a monk type. He had muscles that moved like … like there was weasels under his skin.”
“Muscles do not make a monk.”
“Yes’m,” replied the old man, “but Kelcie, she’s one of the girls that works the tables, er, not like a whore or anything, you understand, the Phiarlander is classier than that, but she brings drinks and food and other needy things, she said the monk guy was all flustered and such that she talked to him, like he ain’t never been with a woman or anything.”
“I see.” The Shadow Fox leaned forward, her face concealed by a large, drooping hood. The old man could only see the point of her jaw; the rest was concealed by shadows or black material. It was hard to tell which. “Anything else?” she asked.
“No, that’s all I done saw.” The old man stared at the shrouded figure. The Fox didn’t move. At last the man couldn’t withstand the silence any more and stammered, “I thought you were wanting to know, is all. I came right as soon as I’d finished up the cleaning.”
He looked around for some support, but no one else in the Coal Scuttle was paying him any mind. He started crumpling his hat and twisting it.
The Fox reached forth with one gloved hand and placed a gold coin on the table with a clack. “You did well to bring this to me,” she said. The glove retreated, and soon a second galifar clinked onto the first. “Very well,” she said. And then, as she reached out and deposited a third coin on the table, she added, “Three enemies. Three rewards. Thank you.”
The man hesitantly reached for the coins, then snatched them up as avarice overcame timidity. He clutched his fist to his chest, feeling the beautiful weight of a month’s wages. “Welcome, kind lady,” he said, his voice trembling with fear and relief. “It weren’t nothing.” He tittered. “Nothing at all.” So saying, he backed halfway across the floor, turned, and made a brisk escape into the night street.
He didn’t notice that one of the other patrons tapped thrice on one of the taverns windows just as he exited.
Praxle rolled a string of vowels from his mouth in one last incoherent attempt to communicate as Jeffers shoveled him into bed. He continued to babble for a few moments, his slack jaw pushed to the side due to the angle at which his face rested on the pillow, but in a short few moments the droning voice was replaced by snoring.
Teron lay on the floor, his head propped up against the wall. Flotsam sat on his chest, paws tucked in contentedly beneath him, and purred loudly.
“That was … educational,” said Teron.
Jeffers, seating himself at the table with a quill and papers, raised his hands helplessly. “The pot did not contain tea, I’m afraid. I find that on evenings such as this, a mild narcotic makes for a simpler existence.”
Teron snorted with amusement. Flotsam opened one eye in annoyance at the disturbance.
“So why do you stay with him?” asked Teron.
“I am a bondservant. I sold myself to his service as butler and bodyguard for a period of ten years. He paid my family quite well for my time.”
“Is that who you write letters to?”
“Indeed, I keep them abreast of our adventures. They mean the world to me.” Jeffers tapped his lips with the quill for a few moments then set it down and walked over to sit at the edge of the bed nearest Teron. Teron glanced up out of the corner of his eye and noticed the half-orc’s posture was perfect.
“If I may be so bold as to enquire, good Teron,” asked Jeffers, “there seemed to be some tension between you and my master with regard to the young woman at the guesthouse this evening. What, precisely, was the source of the problem?”
Teron considered for a moment, then decided to answer. “I think you, as a bondservant, would understand.” He gently ushered his gray cat off his chest, and sat up, legs folded, hands on his knees. “I swore a vow when I joined the monastery. I dedicated my life to Dol Arrah. In a sense, I married her that day.”
“Dot Arrah?” echoed Jeffers. “She seems a trifle unusual a choice for a deity of warrior monks. Please take no offense, but the goddess of honor and light does not mesh well with the impressive acts of puissance that I have witnessed you undertake.”
Teron nodded his head to the side in concession, “True, but Dol Arrah is also the goddess of sacrifice. That aspect is the centerpiece for my … my school. It’s an ancient path, one that hadn’t been seen for a long time. I shouldn’t say any more on the subject.”