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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

It was S’ythreni who responded, quicker than thought. “Use that hand to entertain yourself—as must be your common practice,” she spat at the brute. “That is, if you’re up to it.” Laughter and hoots met her sally. The big fellow’s face became very red.

An especially well-attired man stepped from out of the mass of them, scanning for the source of the retort. His orange sleeves were like flutters of late-sun rays as he gestured toward S’ythreni with both hands and cried, “Ah hah, I thought so! A tree-bugger, as I live and breathe! Oh, there’s sport to be had here, men!”

She nodded at his bright sleeves. “What Nadians call sport, most people call murder—you womb-souring beast.”

The man turned a surprised gape into a histrionically shocked “Oh, my! Such a mouth on the fairy-eared free-martin! I think she needs a lesson in manners, don’t you all agree?” He glanced to either side and started forward. At a nod from the bigger man, the other ten began to fan out to either side.

Ahearn leaned his head close to S’ythreni’s, which was jutting forward like a stooping falcon’s. He felt her breath fast and hot on his cheek as he whispered, “You land the first blow and there will be a massacre. Of every one of us.”

“Can’t happen unless they draw weapons,” she muttered back. “And if they do that—”

“Oh, this just keeps getting better!” the leader exclaimed, pointing past S’ythreni. She and Ahearn turned to follow the shift in his attention.

The young Davyaran had stood, rising above the crates that had obscured him and his Taruildorean friend. “You shall not lay a hand on the aeosti,” he said calmly, walking as if he meant to interpose himself between S’ythreni and the dozen rough men approaching.

Ah, fer the love of gold ’n garters—Ahearn raised his hands, one thrust forward to hold back the mob, the other behind to stop the Davyaran. “Let’s all stop right where we are.”

“Piss off,” said the big man. “You—!”

He was waved to silence by the leader, who spoke with such cool contemptuousness that it actually helped Ahearn check his temper. “Perhaps you are not aware, barbarian, but this is a pub. That’s short for ‘public house.’ So we walk where we please and say what we like.” He continued his approach, the widening rank of his men close behind him. “And as a Loyalist sozh in the service of Great Sazha Kohejh of Davyara-Nadia, I am pleased to call the fop hiding behind your skirts a traitor. To both his nation and his kind.”

Before the Davyaran could make reply or Ahearn could intervene, S’ythreni leaned even further forward, fury seething out along with her retort. “It’s said that Loyalist nobles aspire to be as the Great Sazha. So I presume that you are as great a liar and murderer as he is?”

The sozh’s big sergeant started forward. “You man-bitch! I’ll tear your—!”

A young, unsteady voice interrupted. “S’rrah! Have yooo no-shame? Sush deplobba—diplora—debloro… Sush terrible language addressed to a lady!”

“Well, is she a… a she, then?” the angry sergeant roared.

He was stopped by the leader’s left hand on his chest. “By the gods of Serdarong himself,” he breathed, pointing with his right. “That voice, that accent: is that a young Dunarran? In his cups?”

Cerven swayed upright again. “Jus’ one cup. I think.” He shook his head. “But notta Dunar’n.”

“You damn well sound like one!” the big man growled, scanning the group before him as if trying to choose which he should attack first.

“Thaz nice you to say, but I’m nawtha Dunurn.” Cerven gestured over his shoulder at Varcaxtan. “He is.”

Ahearn closed his eyes. Bollocks.

The leader seemed ready to dance for joy as he studied Varcaxtan. “My, oh my! We have an actual Dooonarran among us!” He bowed. “So honored. Back to conquer and ruin us again?”

Ahearn sighed, rose from his chair. There’s the old Ballashan pride, as thick and wounded as ever.

Varcaxtan simply stared at the leader’s orange sleeves.

The big man stepped toward him. “Ye’re a smug, unwalled coward, you are!”

Varcaxtan shook his head and began moving… away. “Say what you will, you’ll have no trouble from me. If I give offense, I shall retire.”

“Do that, yeh arrogant bastard of an arrogant race!”

Varcaxtan had reached the smaller gate reserved for those exiting the rope-pub. He lifted the cymbal used to request permission to leave, glanced at Ahearn and the others, and tilted his head toward the double-stranded gate-rope.

Before anyone could move to follow the Dunarran’s lead, the sergeant roared, “Oi, you left something behind, lick-spittle!”

Varcaxtan turned, raised an eyebrow.

“See, you’ve forgotten your young sweet cheeks!” the large man exclaimed, gesturing to Cerven, who was head down on the table. “You wouldn’t want to waste all the coin you spent, getting him good and drunk. Betcha can’t sleep without at least one go at ’im!”

“Or three!” shouted a Vardan.

From twenty feet away, Ahearn could hear Varcaxtan’s teeth grind sharply. But he did not move.

The leader picked up where his sergeant had left off. “What? Not enough excitement for you?” He jutted his chin at Umkhira. “Well, bring the darger bitch with you, then. She’s man enough to bugger both of you, I wager!”

Ahearn had to reach out to restrain Umkhira, who yelled defiance at the whole crowd. “I am not ‘dark get,’ imbecile! I am ur zhog, a Lightstrider.” Their answer was laughter and one cry of “Oi! Look! It talks!”

Varcaxtan, however, had taken his hand from the gate-rope. His voice was sharp. “I told you I’d leave. Is that not enough?”

“It’ll be enough when you leave the whole sodding world, you amoral bastard!” the leader yelled, his sardonic courtliness stripping away in an eyeblink.

The dragon stood; several of the roughs had to tilt their necks to look up at him. “Amoral,” it chuckled. “That’s really quite amusing… especially coming from you.”

Instead of retreating, the leader stepped closer, looked up from the level of the dragon’s collarbone. “I don’t care how big you are, you prissy barbarian.” His smile became savored contempt as he studied the carefully groomed body from head to foot. He ended by poking a finger against the immense chest. “Heh. No amount of cat-house perfume will keep mites from breeding in your dirty fur or crabs away from your putrid bollocks—assuming you have any!”

The dragon stared at the finger jammed against its sternum, then looked the leader full in the face. “Always sexual innuendo with your breed. How banal.” It glanced at Ahearn over the man’s head. “I forgot to mention that I noticed a strange omission in this establishment’s truce rules.”

“What’s that?”

“Although we were required to forswear weapons, we did not promise to refrain from fighting.”

“By damn, you’re right!” Ahearn turned to the leader of their antagonists. “Did you know that?”

“Know what?”

“That we’re allowed to do this.” Ahearn’s fist—thrown straight from the shoulder—cracked into the man’s chin. Senseless, he went backward and crashed to the planks underfoot.

A lot of ducking and punching followed. Unlike melees with weapons, Ahearn found brawls difficult to keep track of. Too many people, moving too fast, getting too close—and none of the occasional pauses as two opponents with lethal weapons sized each other up for an opening that was optimal for their own weapon and minimized the threat from their opponent’s.

The Davyaran was in the fray almost immediately, his distinctive fighting style allowing him to stand off two adversaries—until a third joined in and they mobbed him. With a banshee screech, S’ythreni was on their backs, landing sharp, savage strikes to undefended kidneys. Umkhira cleared the table in a leap, got snagged in midair by the big sergeant, who threw her over his shoulder—or meant to: she hung on and dragged him with her. The two of them sprawling awkwardly across the widest stretch of the rope-pub’s planks.

Three attackers clustered around the dragon, which should have been the end of them all. But what little tutoring Ahearn provided him was on how to fight with weapons, not hands and feet. Consequently, R’aonsun usually missed, but when he landed a blow, there was a good chance that the person hit was not getting up soon. If at all.

Using the dragon’s body to block his own flank, Elweyr had tucked in behind Varcaxtan. As the Dunarran made his way steadily through defenders—he seemed the best trained for this kind of fight—the thaumancer was clearly doing something to the older man’s opponents. Irregularly mistaking each other for the enemy, they only realized their confusion at the last possible instant—which was usually when Varcaxtan landed a heavy blow to one or the other’s head.

Ahearn intercepted a man in local garb who, without warning, leaped up from a table toward S’ythreni’s back: whether planted there by the leader or simply another bigot with similar hatreds, there was no knowing. And no need to: he didn’t see Ahearn angling toward him until the swordsman’s fist thudded into his gut. His wind blew out in a single, sharp hoot and he fell aside.

Ahearn turned to help S’ythreni, who was trying to fight off the men who’d flattened the Davyaran. Ahearn closed on one of his intended targets—and watched him topple forward, senseless—revealing the Taruildorean behind him, wielding a small iron mug with a family crest.

The fight was clearly turning in their favor and Ahearn was ready to call for the remaining attackers to yield when the dragon let out a surprised cry and backed up, blood spattering the planks as he retreated. “Knife!” shouted Varcaxtan.

Ahearn, wondering how the Dunarran could see the cause so quickly and surely among the flashing limbs and twisting bodies, swerved toward the rear flank of the dragon’s attackers. One of whom heard him coming and swung around, slashing with a short, broad knife as he did. Ahearn leaped back, began to circle—and blinked when an airborne body slammed into his opponent’s.

Whether it was the number of the attackers who were down or nursing injuries at that particular moment, or the display of furious urzhen strength that had sent one of them crashing into another, the remaining attackers broke and made for the exit—but discovered it held against them by the rope-pub’s staff. And Umkhira was standing nearby, ready to keep them penned in. They dashed for the rope “walls”—but few managed to duck under or leap over them; the feet of patrons tripped them as they ran, and the proprietor’s enforcers were on them in a moment. Near the bar, a loud cymbal began crashing; an instant later, a high-pitched clangor of militia bells began answering from every point of the compass that did not border on water.

With the exception of Umkhira, the rest converged on the dragon, who still had a knife stuck in his somewhat heavy midriff. “I appear to be wounded,” the big being observed as if he were remarking on a jar of spilled milk.

“I’d say so!” Ahearn exclaimed. Turning to the gathering crowd, he cried, “Is there a physician close at hand? Ship’s physicker?”

“Calm yourself,” the dragon muttered. “It is not a serious injury.”

“No,” Elweyr muttered as he pulled away the last of the dragon’s shirt and inspected the wounds, “it’s two serious injuries. One lateral slash and one puncture which is still bleeding heavily. I can’t see if the blade broke off in you, or—”

“Allow me to assist,” the dragon said, and before anyone foresaw what it meant to do, he yanked out the knife.

Ahearn and his company gasped, as did the crowd beyond them.

“Be still!” it commanded. “It was merely obstructing the ministrations of my half-skilled friend.” He grinned down at Elweyr.

Who growled up at him. “Hope you’re happy with yourself. Look at the blood pouring out of you now. I’ll need to find a way to sew you up.”

“Tosh. You are making a ridiculous fuss.”

Varcaxtan had come to stand nearby. “Lie down, Dra—er, R’aonsun.”

“What? You, too? This is nonsense. I’m perfectly fit as I am.”

“No,” Ahearn insisted, “you’re bleeding like a stuck pig!”

“I am?” The dragon seemed genuinely interested. “Do pigs bleed more rapidly than other farm animals? I never noticed… and I’ve had many opportunities to do so.”

“Gods and gophers, will you please shut up?”

“And hold still,” muttered Elweyr. “I’m going to have to sear this wound closed.”

“You are being ridiculous, all of you. I feel no pain at the point of injury. I am certain it is merely a flesh wound. Accordingly, I shall now—” The dragon’s eyes wavered, then rolled back into its head. It fell face first to the planking.

Elweyr sighed. “Will someone—well, will a few of you roll him over so I can get that bleeding stopped?”

It ultimately took four people—Ahearn, Varcaxtan, and two large men from the crowd—to get the dragon’s avatar on its back so that Elweyr could bring his limited medical skills to bear on the injuries.

Once the deeper wound had been staunched and seared closed, Elweyr leaned back and mopped sweat from his brow.

“So, it seems to have been a bit more than a flesh wound,” Ahearn commented drily.

“Well, it was more like a fat wound. Which is why he couldn’t feel it: still too much blubber on the belly, even since the drag—shite!—since R’aonsun changed his habits.” Elweyr shook his head, muttered. “And I keep forgetting to call him—”

Ahearn murmured. “I know. We call R’aonsun ‘it,’ but the rest of the world expects, ‘he.’ Can’t keep that up.”

Elweyr nodded. “Remind me never to come anywhere near this cursed part of the world again.”

“Hmmph!” snorted S’ythreni. “This general ‘part of the world’ is where you first met me.”

Elweyr’s glance was baleful. “Do you really think I, or anyone else, would confuse Eslêntecrë with this part of the world?” the mantic muttered as he poured a vial of sharp-smelling liquid into the much shallower slash across the dragon’s belly.

S’ythreni rolled her eyes. “How wonderfully facile you are. Particularly for a human.” She straightened up from her crouch. “Well, this was very diverting, but let’s be on our way.”

The Taruildorean raised his iron tankard to point at the rope-pub’s proprietor, who had wormed his way to the front rank of the crowd surrounding the fallen combatants. “I reck that he wishes words on that matter.”

Ahearn turned to face the sharp-eyed pub-keep, discovered that three of his employees—two men and a very heavily built woman—had naked daggers resting against various unprotected parts of Umkhira’s body. Including, most significantly, her neck. “Let her go,” Ahearn muttered. “She did nothing other than defend herself.”

“Might be so, but I saw clear enough who threw the first punch.” The man’s eyes crinkled in a cruel smile as he kept them on Ahearn’s. “Also, it seems that some mancery was at play during the scuffle.” He produced a periapt from just below the neckline of his tunic; it was glowing faintly. “Can’t say by whom, or what it was, but it surely didn’t come from this lot.” He jutted his chin at their fallen attackers.

“It was me,” Elweyr said loudly, “and it was a means of warding against their attacks, not mounting one of my own.” Which was arguably true, but the opposite case could be made also—assuming there was a detailed inquiry into exactly what kind of thaumate he’d brought forth.

The proprietor shook his head. “Can’t know it was as you say.”

“Can’t know it wasn’t, either!” S’ythreni objected.

The proprietor’s smile became even more predatory. “Yes, but the law is clear. You lot started this brawl, and so I am within my rights to choose to hold you responsible for damages caused by either side.”

“I saw it all,” called a firm, and familiar, woman’s voice, “and the ones still standing did not start the combat.” The speaker rose from the other side of the central U-shaped bar, opposite where the attackers had been gathered. It was Captain Firinne of the Swiftsure.

“You’re blind, you unwall—Dunarran. We all saw it plain as day! This brute of a man hit Nawdgat right in the face.”

“On the chin, actually,” corrected Ahearn.

Elweyr’s swift elbow almost broke a rib. “You’re not helping.”

“That was not the first threatening contact.”

“Eh?” said the proprietor. Almost half of the crowd made similarly confused noises.

Firinne pointed to the still senseless leader. “He was the first to lay a hard hand on another.” She pointed at the dragon’s chest. “He not only jabbed the big barbarian but did not withdraw his touch. That is a dare, in your laws: the person or side insulted may consider it a challenge. A fitting response is allowed.”

Murmurs of surprised assent rose from the crowd.

“Who are you to recite our laws to us?” the owner asked, feigned outrage layered atop obvious worry that her words were influencing the crowd. “You’ve no place in this debate, you unwal—you Dunarran!”

“Do I not?” Firinne’s voice and gaze were very calm.

“You are not of T’Oridrea,” said one of the gate guards. “You have no standing.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps you should look closer.” She turned back the broad lapel of her leather deck-coat. A large sky-blue bead was revealed, surmounted by a smaller one that gleamed like a mixture of cat’s-eye and gold.

The crowd fell immediately and completely silent.

“How… how did you get that?” the guard asked as the owner approached.

“Some years back, a Vardan merchantman was run aground by pirates. We happened upon the few remaining survivors, one of whom was from a noble family: a fellow named Marregyel.”

The owner looked as though he might vomit as his guard asked in a hushed voice, “Do you mean Udjho Marregyel? The youngest son of our Great Sazha?”

“The same,” Firinne said with a small nod. “Now, may my words be heard?”

The owner nodded miserably, but pointed at Ahearn. “Your words are heard, but they do not change that he wears no bead! None of them do! They have almost no rights—!”

“Truly?” Firinne interrupted, looking around at the crowd. “Do you assert that half of the people here present—travelers from other lands—also have no rights?”

The proprietor chewed his lip and looked away, clearly angry with himself over the misstep; foreigners enjoyed a set of basic protections while in T’Oridrea, particularly its ports. Whether a product of extreme desperation—or stupidity—he’d made a hasty claim that half his clientele would quickly deduce as being patently false. “Still,” he shouted, “who is going to pay for the damage?” He pointed at Ahearn. “That fellow was the first to attack, and he was not provoked!”

“Not so! My friend was, er, insulted and I made a fitting response! Besides, your rules say nothing against fighting. Just truce-bonding our weapons.”

“You know what they meant, though!”

“Not so,” Elweyr countered loudly. “As you said, we are foreigners here.”

“That doesn’t mean you have the right to ignore the laws!”

“We didn’t. We agreed to and obeyed the ones you read to us. If there are other meanings in them, then how are we to know that?”

“But… the damages!” The proprietor looked around miserably, as if the rope-pub was a smoking ruin. Ahearn couldn’t see any damage other than a few chairs and tables. “They must pay!”

“They cannot.”

“But they are responsible.”

“I am not speaking of whether they are responsible or not. I simply point out that they are not the ones who have the value whereby restitution will be made.”

The owner’s voice lost the hint of whining, became all business. “So, you have coin to replace the losses?”

“I do not need to.” Firinne gestured toward Ahearn and the others. “But they will, as soon as the matter of the attack is settled.” When both the owner and Ahearn fixed hard stares upon her, she waved to the defeated attackers. “By right of triumph—again, your laws—they are entitled to the possessions of the defeated.”

That sparked a mix of mutters, where the words “only by challenge” vied with “accused as a traitor” seemed to be neatly mixed.

But the proprietor wasn’t satisfied. “Perhaps so, but I wasn’t in the fight.” He pointed at Ahearn. “He and his lot are the only ones with rights.”

Ahearn raised an eyebrow. “Captain, are you suggesting, eh, that we riffle through the pockets of the, uh, challengers we defeated?”

“Well,” she said soberly, “judging from their drinks, they seemed well supplied with coin. And their gear is not wanting in value.”

Ahearn tilted his head, considering.

The dragon started awake, saw the swordsman. “Where… what is happening?”

“I’m cogitatin’, thank you very much.” He turned to the owner. “I suspect we could come to a reasonable arrangement if—”

“Do you think I’d haggle with you for a piece of those spoils, taken from my customers?”

“No,” Ahearn said slowly, “I’d never think of doing such a thing.” He measured the other’s response. “I’d never put an honest man such as yerself in such a troublesome position. But I would take it as favor if you would set your lads and lasses about collecting their valuables for us.” Ahearn waved at his company. “My lot are weary and nursing wounds.” By the time he finished saying it, the job was half done.

In the end, there was a reasonable amount of coin, and several weapons with inlays of silver and semiprecious stones: not a king’s ransom, but perhaps the bribe price of a lesser prince.

“Now,” said Ahearn as the leader groaned faintly behind him, “I’d be happy to make our rightful gains a gift to you, a means of paying for the damages.” Ahearn frowned sadly. “But I suppose, seeing as it all came from your friends—”

The proprietor came forward quickly, reaching for the valuables. “They are customers, not friends.”

“Ah, well, but still, inasmuch as they’re regular customers of yours, you’d not want to—”

“They’re just customers. Only been here twice. Trouble both times.” He no longer even glanced at Ahearn; his stare of glee and avarice was fixed upon the rich haul. “Still,” he muttered as he gathered it upon a wooden salver, “they might be angry that you’ve emptied their pockets and scabbards. Best you be away before they are fully roused and matters become… er, unnecessarily complicated.”

“Ah, that’s wise, very wise. But before we do—”

The owner turned sharply, his face wary and worried. “Yes?”

“Well, there’s also the matter of two others who might have some small claim to a share of those spoils.”

The proprietor’s neck snapped straight, as if he were a startled badger. “Who?”

“Well, these two behind me.” Ahearn indicated the Davyaran and the Taruildorean, while glancing toward Firinne. Who nodded with a faint smile.

The Davyaran waved a thin palm and did not glance at the wealth. “I only fought to defend the aeosti’s honor from boors. Their possessions, as their affairs, are as nothing to me.”

The Taruildorean chewed the side of his mouth with obvious regret. “Not as if me an’ mine couldn’t put that to use, but I want none of their goods. Didn’t earn it, and they’re like to come after my clan if I touch it.”

Firinne walked forward toward them, threading her way through the slowly stirring bigots. “Then allow me to show my appreciation of your role in this affair of honor. You of Davyara, I understand you approached my purser seeking passage earlier today?”

He nodded. “Alas, he informed me that your ship does not take paying passengers, that it is fully upon Consentium business.”

“That is true. It does not solicit paying passengers.” She smiled. “However, we are pleased to provide berths for friends of our friends.” Before he could sputter his thanks, she turned her gaze upon the Taruildorean. “Uplander, what brings you to this port so far away and so different from”—she glanced at his hide shawl—“the tracts of the Murhawen clans?”

He started in surprise, offered a shallow bow. “The Dunarran lady has the reck of a shawl’s threads and knots. It will be known among us. I was here to ship cargo to relatives in Uershael. Hoped to work with this young rake”—he poked the smiling Davyaran in the bicep—“to combine coin enow to send him and it on their ways.” Seeing Firinne about to speak, he took a short step closer. “But, Lady Captain, I wudno have ye thinking me cargo is a mercy sent to answer family needs. It’s aught but goods we mean to sell for profit.”

“And it is all the better for you and them if I carry it to Uershael, by way of thanks, is it not?”

He bowed very low. “Lady, ye’ve a friend among the ridges of the Shyarshaos Uplands, and others will know your name.” He leaned closer with a conspiratorial wink. “Doesn’t hurt that, of old, ye Dunarrans have Connyl in ye, either. Blood knows blood, eh, Captain?”

“We have always counted Taruildor as a fast friend in this region,” Firinne answered warmly, but neither embraced nor acknowledged the fellow’s allusion to ancient ethnic overlap. “But unless you all wish to answer yet another challenge, I suggest we leave. Quickly.”

“Do!” the proprietor shouted after them as the staff opened the “gate” and, followed by the curious eyes of the crowd, they marched, rather than walked, briskly toward the Swiftsure.


“And now,” Firinne said, turning to Varcaxtan when their gear was aboard and the great cabin’s door was shut behind them, “are you ready to tell me the truth?”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” the older Dunarran answered, his face as innocent as his voice was mild.

She crossed her arms. “You may spare both of us the dance of careful words. I’m well aware of your ‘situation’ back home. I also learned since first meeting you on these docks, that you’ve been asking up and down them for hulls bound toward Eslêntecrë.”

Ahearn leaned in. “He wanted to spare you, er, complications when next you tie up at a Dunarran wharf.”

“Did he, now?” She seemed to lean her head back to release carefully stifled laughter. When Varcaxtan stared at her, she shook her head with a sardonic chuckle. “I appreciate that consideration, Subpretor Varcaxtan, but things back home have moved well past that point.” His look changed to one of alarm, even as she glanced at Ahearn. “How soon do you wish to leave?”

“Not to seem hasty, Captain, but yesterday would suit us just fine.”


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