Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
“Thank you,” she says with an exaggerated curtsy.
“Those aren’t cheap,” Mr. Lewis mutters.
Sallae Mae holds the flute high as she sits herself up on the bar. “Neither am I.”
I’ve seen this parlor trick before—well, we all have, but the men like to watch her take a deep breath and I don’t care about her respiration—so as she clears her throat, I take advantage of the crowd settling. Pushing my bucket over to where those drunken departures spilled several tankards, I flop my dirty mop on the floorboards. Over on the bar, Sallae Mae opens her mouth and projects a high note at the glass. The tone pierces like a knife into the ear, and she goes even higher and louder. Higher. Louder. Higher—
The glass shatters with a spray that shimmers in the lantern light.
The gasps and cheers are loud and prolonged, as if she’d lifted a plow horse up over her shoulder. Sallae Mae is delighted with the attention and stays right where she is, holding the slender stem while she fluffs her hair—
The front entrance opens.
What comes inside sucks all the sound and air out of the pub.
The man of war stands over six lengths high, at least. His heavily muscled upper body is clad in a drape of corroded mesh and a padded black leather surcoat, and his thick legs are wrapped in black leather as well. He has a dirk at his hip, a dagger upon his opposite thigh, and over his shoulder, the thick handle of a broadsword is within ready reach.
Nobody moves, not even Sallae Mae to slip off the bar.
He takes a single step forward and shuts the cold out with a clap. His hair is long and black, a braid on both sides keeping it out of his face. He’s clean-shaven, his jaw square and pronounced, his nose straight as an arrow. I’m careful not to meet his eyes directly, but my peripheral vision tells me that one has been lost to battle, a scar slashing down through his brow and continuing to his temple, an opaque whiteness staring out into the world. The injury does nothing to diminish the power and authority of him, however—or the sexual charge that rolls off him like lightning.
He possesses … a brutal beauty.
And the working women clearly recognize the virility of him. All around at the tables, they plume in a way that has nothing to do with their profession. The men, on the other hand, don’t seem to be breathing at all.
Mr. Lewis loops his suspenders, which have been hanging loose, up onto his shoulders. His voice is tense as he says, “Well, what d’ya want, then.”
Like he’s very much done with that door opening up to bad surprises tonight.
The warrior scans the pub slowly, and the drunks shift in their seats, making me think of a restless herd aware that a hungry predator has entered the grazing pasture.
As we all wait for the man to speak, I wager that most are thinking what I am: No royal insignia. So he’s a mercenary looking for somebody, and when he finds them? There’s going to be bloodshed.
“A room,” he says in a low, resonant voice. “And some food.”
Five
The Dream of Horses.
“Take it to him. G’on then.”
At the bar, the tender’s command to me is impatient and he shoves a tin plate in my direction. There’s a wedge of bread, a hunk of cheese, and a roasted turkey leg on it. All of the food is cold, having been prepared over day in the kitchen by the cook and myself. I’m surprised the tender isn’t delivering. He hates dealing with combustibles, but Mr. Lewis doesn’t want me near the eat or drink because of the Pox. I only deal with empties.
Glancing over at the mercenary, I don’t want to go near the man, either. He’s dampened the establishment like a fierce winter storm, dropping the temperature, causing us all to hunker down into ourselves. The pub has emptied out, most of the drunks stumbling off out of self-preservation, the women banished upstairs by Mr. Lewis.
Much to their disappointment.
Our employer is planted at a nearby table with two shepherds and a farmer, and he’s listening in on me and the tender while his suspicious stare stays locked on the mercenary. When he nods impatiently in the man’s direction, and then glares at me, I know I have no choice. Not that I’ve ever really had one.
“Yes, sir.”
I dry my hands on my cloak. They shake as I take the plate, and the already hushed voices get quieter as I begin the trek through the tables. No doubt the men want to see what gets eaten. Me or the food.
The mercenary has finished his tankard. It sits at his elbow, empty. As I approach, I feel his stare on me and I become the mead, something he drinks in. I keep my eyes on his hands, noting the healed scratches, the calluses. He’s missing the first sections of both pinkies, and I wonder how he lost them. I picture him captured, someone with a blade threatening him.