These were the ones that most interested him.
He had tried not to be so interested, of course. He had tried to tell himself it was no concern of his who consorted with whom. But as he sat inside his own home at night, with his loving family, a secret fire consumed him. He found his hands bunching into fists at inappropriate times, found images of bloodshed slipping into his head when he didn’t want them. Pressure built up in him until thought he would explode.
This night, he made an excuse and went to the elven market. There he waited. Watched.
Hunted.
Finally, he saw what he sought.
A human man had made a couple of small purchases. A small bag of nuts, a leather belt. Things he could easily have purchased anywhere in the city. The watching man saw that the other man hardly looked at the merchandise as he moved from stall to stall; he studied the elves themselves, particularly the females. Every now and then he leaned over a table of goods and spoke a couple of quiet words to a merchant. Most times he was rebuffed, but once or twice an elf’s gaze would flicker over to a corner of the market, the one nearest the city’s Resevoir Gate.
The man strolled back that way, keeping his prey in his sights. The other man, the one being watched, wore a heavy cloak with a yellow-and-black krama on his head. He looked well to do, but not familiar. His belly was round, his legs short, giving his gait a waddling appearance. He had a thin mustache and a beard that grew in a straight line, from his lower lip down to mid-throat.
At that rear corner, a few elf females were gathered. Their clothing revealed more than it hid. The man in yellow approached one of them, her full breasts spilling out of a low-cut top, long legs barely contained by a skirt with slits up both sides. Her hair was long and light colored, glinting in the indirect light of the nearest lantern. She was a full elf, tall and powerfully muscled, and she loomed over the stout man in yellow. But after exchanging a few words, the man passed a silver coin to her, tand he two linked arms and walked away from the market and down a dark side street.
The man knew where they were going. That way there were brothels and fleshpots galore, as well as inns where rooms were rarely rented for more than an hour at a stretch, and a plethora of abandoned buildings—some occupied by squatters, thieves, and other unsavory types—but many of which stood empty day and night. The two could have their assignation in any one of those, sparing both human and elf the necessity of taking the other home.
Although he knew it meant taking his eyes off his subjects, the man raced one street over, to the west, and then walked at a brisk pace to the north. He meant to come in above the couple, to intercept them before they had a chance to find their preferred spot.
As he walked, his sandaled feet almost silent on the nighttime street, he fingered the scabbard at his waist, and he knew that the time had come to relieve the pressure building inside him before he did something he would regret.…
V
Summoned
Ruhm emptied his flagon and banged it down onto the rough wooden surface of the table. He let out a long, loud belch, and the others gathered around broke into hysterical laughter.
“It almost sounded like you were trying to say something,” Kenif said.
“He was!” replied Torus. “He was telling us everything he’s ever learned!”
“I’ll drink to that!” Glitch said, and he tipped his flagon back.
Kenif’s laughter got even more fevered at that, to the point that he rested his head on his left arm, which was folded on the tabletop, and banged the wood with his fist. Other revelers at nearby tables looked over at them.
“Guys, can we keep it down a little?” Aric asked. He had been buying the ale, so he thought he was entitled to make such a request.
Gitch, whose laugh sounded like a series of ascending whoops, managed to control himself momentarily. “They’re all here to have some fun,” he said. “Just like we are. What’s the problem if they think we’re having more than them?”
Aric was sorry he had brought it up, but since he had he felt obliged to explain himself. “We don’t know why some of them are here,” he said. “I just hate to call unnecessary attention to ourselves. What if there’s someone here just watching for some drunks to snatch and hand over to the templars as new slaves?”
It wasn’t hard for someone Ruhm’s size to catch a barmaid’s eye, even in the crowded tavern, and he was accepting a new flagon of ale as he said, “Aric hates attention. Especially when he’s got a full purse.”
“Shh!” Aric had been parceling out ceramic bits, pieces of coin broken down into smaller denominations, little by little to keep the ale flowing—and meat, too, aprig chops grilled over open flame. The grill was outside on a patio, but smoke billowed in through the open door, scented with the juices of the meat that dripped down onto the wood. This blended with the odors of sweat and spilled ale to create a kind of fragrant fog that hung over the packed room.
The Barrel and Blade’s walls were sandstone. At some point in the distant past, a customer had jammed a bone dagger into the wall, burying it almost to the hilt. Others had taken up the implied challenge, then more, until there were thousands, if not tens of thousands, of knives of all varieties protruding from the tavern’s walls. Every now and then someone yanked one out to settle a fight, but the regulars knew that violated the spirit of the thing, and besides, hardly anyone on Athas went out without at least one knife somewhere on their person.
Otherwise, the place had little to recommend it. The tables were rough-hewn planks mounted on three posts, and most were neither stable nor even. When a few people crowded around one, sitting on rough, mismatched stools and stumps, they had to be careful about where their mugs of ale were placed on the table, else someone lifting one mug could jar the tabletop enough to send the others to the floor.
Aric glanced around at the clientele, a mixture of every race one typically saw in Nibenay: humans, muls, goliaths, dwarves, and more. Not many other half-elves or elves, though. The drinkers were merchants, thieves, craftspeople, all free citizens and most from the commoner classes. The Barrel and Blade was not a place noble folk went.
“That’s right,” Aric said after a moment. “I don’t like it under any circumstances, but especially when I’m flush.” He waved a hand at his companions, three humans and a goliath. “Ruhm here can’t help attracting some notice, but you guys are all humans. You don’t know what it’s like to be a half-elf. Humans don’t trust you, elves don’t trust you, everyone thinks you’re aligned with the other side and would as soon slit your throat as say hello. Templars look for any excuse to enslave you. Attention? You might as well arm me with a twig and toss me into the pit against Yeves the Undefeated.”
“Surely the events in Tyr—” Torus began.
Aric cut him off with a scoffing noise. “Kalak’s overthrow makes no difference in that regard. And I’m not just talking about here in Nibenay. Look, Athas is a dangerous world, we all know that. It’s more dangerous for some of us than for others, that’s all I’m saying. Always has been, always will be. The only smart thing to do is to keep your head down and hope danger walks on by.”
“But if Tyr changes, and the other city-states follow,” Torus said, “then maybe the world will become a safer place. Don’t you think?” He lowered his voice. He was a cobbler’s apprentice, and had been for so long that Aric wondered if he just wasn’t good enough to strike out on his own, or if he lacked the ambition to do so. “I mean, if the power of the sorcerer-kings is limited, then free people will take more responsibility upon themselves, and free people have less reason to hate than those in perpetual bondage.”