“We’re closed, mate,” said a man behind the bar. “After curfew.” Another man rose from the end of the bar, his head bumping among the low rafters. He was fully seven feet tall, and his sallow yellowish skin identified him as having ogrish parentage. He clenched a pair of warty, ham-sized fists and growled.
“Plus, the dragon’s about,” the first man added.
Cael merely stared at the two for a moment, then shut the door with his staff. The common room was small, having only a few tables and booths, but at most of these sat wretched-looking men in various stages of debauchery. Not a few snored with heads sunk onto folded arms. The place was remarkably quiet. It seemed most of the patrons were content to wallow in their private miseries.
“Closed. Right,” the elf snorted, but there was no mirth in his laugh. He struggled to an empty corner booth and, leaning his staff against the wall, lowered his bundle onto one of the benches and shoved it into the corner. He then squeezed in beside the bundle and gently pushed aside the wet blankets in which it was wrapped. A face, dusky but drawn, with sunken cheeks and a bluish tinge about the lips, appeared from the folds.
The innkeeper shrugged, and the ogre resumed his seat.
A barmaid approached Cael’s booth. “Brandy,” he barked, as he chafed Alynthia’s cold hands between his own. “And a dry blanket, if you have one.”
Soon, the brandy was brought, and a new blanket was wrapped around Alynthia’s shoulders. The barmaid stood by, watching him try to warm his companion.
“She’s pretty. What happened to her?” the girl asked. “Did she fall overboard?”
“That’s right,” Cael said, while pouring a little of the warm liquor between Alynthia’s lips. She coughed and stirred, blinked, then grasped the cup held to her lips and tilted it back. Brandy flowed in runnels down her cheeks as she gulped the fierce liquid.
“Are you a sailor?” the barmaid asked.
“I’ve sailed the sea, if that’s what you mean.”
Alynthia set the cup down and leaned over the table. Her back heaved as she wretched up more seawater. Cael hovered over her tenderly.
“Is she your woman?” the barmaid asked.
“You ask too many questions, girl,” Cael said.
“Because if she isn’t…”
“How old are you?” Cael asked.
“I’ve seen nineteen summers,” the girl boasted.
“I am old enough to be your grandfather,” he said as he pushed back the wet tangle of his hair, revealing one pointed elven ear. The girl gasped.
“Go and fetch some more brandy and hot food if you have it,” he commanded.
“I couldn’t eat,” Alynthia groaned.
The girl squeaked a quick “Yes sir!” and dashed away.
“How do you feel?” Cael asked as Alynthia sat up, somewhat recovered. Her lips still bore a bluish tinge. She shivered with cold.
“Like a netted codfish,” she joked feebly. Her teeth chattered.
“More brandy will fix that,” Cael said as he turned to look for the barmaid. The girl hurried from the kitchen, bearing a jug and two steaming bowls. She slid these onto the table and turned to go. Cael grabbed the hem of her dress.
“Thank you,” he said to the girl.
She blushed and performed a small curtsey, then hurried away.
Alynthia shook her head bemusedly, then turned to the food. She sniffed at it, then groaned and leaned back. “I really don’t think I could,” she complained.
Cael poured them each a brimming cup of warm brandy. “Drink this,” he said, pushing it into her hands. She drank it down in quick sips, and by the time the cup was empty, her chattering and shivering had ceased. She set the cup on the table for Cael to pour more, then sniffed at the stew.
Cael lifted the heavy crockery jug, then set it down with a gasp of pain. He clutched his right shoulder.
“What’s wrong?” Alynthia asked.
“It’s nothing,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Nothing, my eye. Let me see.” She pushed his hands aside and peeled back his wet tunic to expose his shoulder. What she found there made her start back and gasp.
“It’s only a scratch,” the elf said as he eyed the gash in his shoulder. A little blood trickled between the ragged white edges of the wound.
“A scratch!” she exclaimed as she gingerly examined it. “Why, it goes right down to the bone. You are lucky it didn’t slice the artery. How did it happen?”
“An Ergothian she-shark, I’d say,” Cael said.
“I… I did this?” Alynthia asked incredulously.
“Aye, my captain,” the elf answered. “When you thought I was a lacedon dragging you to your watery grave.”
“Oh, Cael, I’m sorry,” she cried. “And you saved me after that!”
“I thought it was your corpse I was hauling ashore,” the elf whispered. “I’m sure we’re both taken for dead. The dragon breathed a bolt of lightning into the water above us. You should have seen all the dead fish. There’ll be a glut in the market tomorrow morning.”
“This wound needs stitching,” Alynthia said, trying to change the subject.
“We’ll not find a sawbones at this hour,” Cael said. “Best wait until morning. Then we’ll find Claret and leave the city.”
“Leave the city?” Alynthia asked.
“There’s nothing else to be done. Your husband is in league with the Knights. He plans to betray the Guild to them, just as he must have done four years ago.”
“I don’t believe it,” Alynthia muttered. “It seems like a dream, a horrible dream.”
“Believe it, young lady,” said a gravely voice from the next booth. A wizened head, wrinkled as a dried apricot and of nearly the same hue, appeared over the top of the partition. A surly gray beard grew in patches along his sunken cheeks, and one eye was covered in a milky white sheath that oozed a thick tear. But the other eyed glittered at them.
“You believe your young friend, Alynthia Krath-Mal. He sees your husband for what he is!” the old man cackled.
“Do I know you?” Alynthia haughtily asked, but there was a note of uncertainty in her voice. A troubled shadow darkened her eyes.
“Aye, you know me,” the old man said as his head ducked away. A moment later, a lathe-thin old sea dog, dressed in an oiled otterskin coat and bending over a cane carved from a whale’s bone, slid onto the bench opposite them. He smiled a huge toothless grin that set his good eye sparkling with mirth. He then pointed at Cael’s cup. The elf slid the brandy across to the old man, a curious expression on his face.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t seem to recall…” Alynthia slowly said, her words trailing off as the old man reached across the table and set something in front of her. When he pulled his hand away, Alynthia’s lips began to tremble.
A tiny dragon made of intricately folded paper stood on the dinted table before her.
“Knodsen?” she cried.
“Aye, my pretty. It’s Old Knodsen,” the ancient sailor said, a tear springing out from his good eye.
Suddenly, Alynthia was across the table, embracing the old man and sobbing pitifully. A few people lifted their heads and stared, but most ignored them. Cael shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how to react.
Slowly, the old man extricated himself from her arms and pushed her back to her seat. Cael wrapped the blanket close around her shoulders and pressed a brandy into her hands. She gulped at it, not looking at the elf. The old man sipped his, then eyed the bowls of stew. Cael nodded and pushed one of the bowls closer.
“I’m sorry, but I see you two are old friends,” Cael began as he rose to leave. Alynthia grabbed his arm and pulled him down again.
Without looking at him, she said, “When I was a little girl, voyaging on my stepfather’s ships, Old Knodsen here was the dearest friend a girl ever had.” She picked up the little paper dragon and clutched it to her chest. “He used to make these paper animals and leave them all over the ship for me to find. It was a wonderful game. He watched over me. Old Knodsen was father, brother, and playmate to me.”