A big tavern overlooked the broad, curved stern. It was a noisy place filled with the sounds of dice, clanging beer steins, and revelry.
Teamsters and wagoners were readily recognized. They wore leather jerkins, heavy boots, and had money to burn. Every bar girl in the tavern instantly looked the teamsters up and down then began to circle their prey like sharks homing in upon the scent of blood.
At one of the tables, a waitress carefully snipped a gambler’s purse free from his belt. The Justicar felt a flash of raw hostilitybut judged that the thieves were only stealing from other thieves. Justice was being served-none of this was his affair. Seeing his glowering, all-knowingstare, the waitress backed hastily away and whispered in the ear of a man behind the bar.
The barkeep tugged at his nose and waved one hand at the Justicar. “Hey, soldier! Care to set down your pack and sword?”
“No.”
The Justicar scanned the tables. Some teamsters were being sped upstairs by some of the girls, but most were clustering about a table where men played a game of cards. As he tried to read the pattern of the crowd, the Justicar felt the bartender stalking over to his side.
“Soldier? Most folk find it better to leave their weapons atthe bar.”
“Go away.”
“Is that a magic sword?” The bartender seemed to sniff like aweasel as he ran his eyes along the skull-pommeled blade. “If it is, we can takereal good care of it for you.”
The weapon was intensely sharp, enchanted, and cared for by a man who knew the value of his tools. Turning, the Justicar slowly pushed the bartender away only to have the tavern bouncer suddenly appear on the scene.
The bouncer growled, then saw a kindred hostility in the Justicar. They met each other’s eyes in cold silence, each measuring the othercarefully. The two men nodded at one another, then both turned aside to go back to their own affairs. Escaping with his life from between the two heavy-set, grim men, the barkeep scuttled quickly back to the shelter of his bottles, jugs, and jars.
A pert blonde waitress made it her business to perch on a table at the Justicar’s side. She cocked her head and nudged at the man’s blackscabbard with her toe.
“Hey stranger! So what do you do? Ranger? Soldier?”
The Justicar settled his pack on the deck. “It isn’timportant.”
“Do you dance, soldier?”
“I don’t.” The Justicar found himself a place at the cardtable and wiped clean a chair. “Never learned.”
“I can teach you. It’s cozy!” The girl gave a winsome smile.“Why don’t I just keep you company?”
Growling like a surly wolf, the Justicar settled in his chair. “I hate company.”
“Don’t you want to be friendly?”
“No.”
The woman finally took the hint. She sniffed and stalked haughtily away, leaving the Justicar alone. From inside his backpack, a happy Cinders tickled his thoughts into the Justicar’s mind.
Girlie smells nice!
“Well a sniff is all we get. Now keep your nostrils open.”
Sitting beside him and shuffling cards, Polk clucked his tongue and fixed the Justicar with a disappointed eye.
“Son, you have to learn to lighten up. That’s the mark of areal hero. Devil-may-care, full of life! They take adventure in their stride.”
“Shut up. Deal the cards.”
The Justicar had only a small purse of gold left-a purse hekept in a badger-skin sporran at the front of his belt. Its proximity to his wedding tackle made it far too sensitive a place for any cutpurse, but until he finished his commission, the Justicar’s sum total of wealth stood at sevennobles, a poor sum to last a game of cards. He watched one round of the card game, then concocted a set of self-made rules that minimized financial risk. He wanted to nurse his funds and watch the tables so that he could listen to the talk. Cinders’ ears would have been helpful, but the hell hound skin was anextremely recognizable mark. Instead, the Justicar kept his backpack underneath his feet with the hound’s nose just peeking out into the air.
Ringed about the table were a dozen assorted teamsters, wagoners, and riverfolk. A fur trapper with a whole fox skin serving as a collar for his coat gave the Justicar a sharp nudge in the armored ribs.
“Hey, baldie! Are you betting?”
“I’m betting.” The Justicar advanced the minimum bet. “Dealme two.”
There were no women at hand. They would wait to see who was winning before making their moves. Hunched about the table, the gamblers made a fast and friendly game.
There was enough money at hand to make the ale flow freely, and Polk had a cavernous thirst. The man found time between beer steins to play a wickedly lucky game. Wearing a moustache of foam, he whooped as he laid down a winning hand and hammered at the table with glee.
The Justicar watched his own money disappearing and slowly supped his beer.
“Polk, you play well. You play this in a lot of places?”
“A hundred towns and a hundred trails with a hundred girls inevery one of ’em, son!” The teamster raked in the pot, then gleefully tossedcoins to the waitress and ordered a round of ale for the whole table. “I’m ateamster, son! A merchant adventurer, explorer, hunter, scout! We’re heroes oneand all!”
The blonde waitress returned with drinks-pointedly thudding amug beside the Justicar in an attempt to spill his beer. She retreated and kept her distance from the entire table as though convinced the Justicar was the carrier of some unsightly disease.
Much as it annoyed him, the Justicar’s mission required himto make conversation. Clandestinely changing his mug with the man next to him, the Justicar watched Polk drain his stein.
“So it’s a good life? You can’t go that far that often.”
“Well I do the borderlands, son. That’s where the money is!”The teamster dealt cards with a speedy skill. “Heroes! When we head out dayafter tomorrow, there’s folk going to be cheering our arrival with tears intheir eyes.”
Excellent. His mouth was spreading the news. Arranging his cards, the Justicar silently assessed the crowds. A new man had come over and silently joined the game while a shifty-eyed foreigner had leaned back in his chair at a table nearby.
“Cinders?”
Feet smell bad! Magic girlie-girl smells good. Spicy! The hell houndseemed relatively happy in confinement. Prey found? “No.”
Burn now?
“No.” Although Cinders echoed only in the Justicar’smind, the Justicar had to whisper in reply, and he had attracted attention. He hastily tripled his usual bet, then remembered too late that he was almost at the bottom of his funds. “Damn!”
“Never blame the cards, son! A good workman never curses histools.” Polk dealt extra cards all around-unwittingly giving the Justicar awinning hand. With an ironic snort at himself, the Justicar scratched his shaven head and laid down the cards. He gathered in a good ten nobles, gaining a hard glare of irritation from the trapper with his mangy-collared coat. Summoning the grumbling waitress, the Justicar arranged for a platter of hot sausages and mustard for the table.
Happily ensconced with sausages to his left and beer to his right, Polk somehow managed to both fill his mouth, drink beer, and keep a firm grip on his cards.
“That’s the way, son. Spend it while you have it. No pointcounting your coins when you’re freezing your butt off on the Rift Wastes.”
Wonderful. The Rift Wastes were a very specific stretch of countryside. Polk was well on the way to blowing his secret destination. Casting his eyes surreptitiously across the table, the Justicar carefully assessed the other players, looking for a single change in breathing or a twitch of the eyes that might provide him with a clue. He rubbed his nose and used the move to cover another whisper to his backpack down below.
“Cinders?”
Magic girlie-girl smells nice!