Calistin followed the sound of a creaking sign through the gloom, to a sagging wooden tavern. The sign itself had cracked and peeled from wear. Once, it had clearly borne a design, but only bits of paint remained, including the Common letters "T", "V", and "N". Smoke curled from the chimney. Glad for a chance to rest and eat, Calistin tripped the latch.
The door swung open to reveal a cozy interior filled with nine round tables, a rickety wooden bar with stools, and an assortment of men. Two young barmaids wove through the crowd, and a barkeep stood behind the counter tapping the contents of various barrels into bowls and mugs. When he found no open tables, Calistin flopped onto a stool in front of the bar and studied the other customers.
The men ranged in age from older teens to gray-bearded elders. Most had leathered faces and callused hands, and their hair colors ranged from Bearnian dark to sandy blond or grizzled white. Many ate from coarsely hammered plates and drank from lopsided bowls. The odors of roasted meat, bread, and tubers perfumed the air.
The barkeep, a fat, bearded man with freckled arms, approached Calistin and swiped a dirty rag across the place the Renshai had chosen. It looked no cleaner when he finished, and the rag left a sticky film. Leaning forward, he smiled patronizingly. "So, boy. What can I do for you today?"
Calistin took an immediate dislike to the barkeep who spoke the Western tongue in the weird, high-pitched singsong people usually reserved for animals and infants. "You can get me some food and a mug of ale."
"Ale?" The barkeep's lids rose over eyes recessed like a pig's. He laughed wildly, as if responding to some unspoken joke.
Deadly serious, Calistin watched the barkeep's antics with waning patience.
Finally, the barkeep explained. "Aren't you a bit young for ale, son?"
Calistin gritted his teeth, fighting a rising wash of temper. "First, I'm not your son. Second, I'm a man and perfectly capable of determining when I'm hungry and thirsty. And, third, I wasn't aware ale had an age requirement."
The barkeep stopped laughing. His massive elbows dropped to the counter in front of Calistin, and he leaned in. His breath reeked of alcohol and rotting teeth. "I find that children don't handle their liquor well, and they often don't have money to pay for what they're asking for."
Enraged by the insult, Calistin did not even consider the fact that the man had a point. He carried no coinage. He never had to worry about paying; no matter where he went, no matter what he wanted, someone always jumped in to cover him. In a blink, the barkeep lay on the floor, a sword at his throat in the hands of an angry Renshai. "Just get me a plate of food and a gods-be-damned mug of ale." In the same tight-lipped, lethal tone, Calistin added, "Please."
The barkeep lay in stunned silence, his eyes round as coins.
It all happened so quickly, so quietly, that the conversations continued unabated. Calistin withdrew and sheathed his sword in a single motion, utterly unruffled. In contrast, the barkeep scuttled from the floor and ran to his casks, shaking uncontrollably.
Calistin surveyed the crowd again, studying the men with an expert eye. Within moments, one of the barmaids sidled over to him, placing down a plate containing a greasy chicken leg, a pile of whipped tubers, and a handful of crusty brown bread. She placed a mug beside him, turning her back to the barkeep. "Listen, honey," she purred. "The food's all right, 'cause I served up that; but I ain't vouching for the ale. Oscore's been known to spit in the bowl of anyone he don't like, and I'm bettin' he might've pissed in your'n."
"Thanks for the warning." Calistin looked past her to the other men in the tavern. "Do you happen to know if any of them is considered a decent swordsman?" He selected the one most suitable, a well-muscled tall man with a long oval, clean-shaven face. "Maybe him in the reddish cloak?"
The barmaid followed Calistin's gaze, then laughed. "That's Burnold, the blacksmith. A wizard with a hammer, but he wouldn't hit a mule if it kicked over his forge and set his house on fire. He can make a decent weapon, but he'd never use one."
Calistin grunted. "Too bad. He's built for war."
The barmaid giggled, looked at Calistin's somber expression, and stopped immediately. "Sorry 'bout that. I thought you was joking."
Calistin shoveled a handful of tubers into his mouth. They tasted bland but filling, and he found himself gulping down another before he could consider his manners. For the moment, his gut ruled his head. "I don't joke," Calistin announced around the mouthful.
"Oh, I'm so sorry." The barmaid reacted as if he said he had lost a body part. "I love laughing. It just feels… good."
Calistin shrugged. His brothers exchanged silly comments all the time, but he never found the humor in them. "So," he reminded. "Your best warrior?"
"Oh." The barmaid swept a glance over the patrons. "You're in luck. He's still here." She inclined her head to a table in the farthest corner near the fireplace. "Karruno's the big one in black."
Calistin followed her motion to a bulky man swathed in a well-laundered black cloak. Nearly middle-aged, he had a rugged face that might have looked handsome if not for a jagged scar running the length of his left cheek. Unlike the blacksmith, he wore a sword in his waistband and a dagger thrust through as well. He sat back in his chair, only a mug in front of him, and his two companions cradled their own drinks as well.
Knowing how swiftly a challenge can become a brawl, Calistin examined all three of the men while he bolted the bread. The one she called Karruno had the mannerisms and dress of a fighting man, though his subtler movements and the draw of his muscles told Calistin otherwise. His abilities, whatever they might be, came solely of practice. He lacked the proper depth of sinew, the perfect placement of muscular origins and insertions that would make him a natural-born warrior. Calistin knew that a good teacher and experience could make a world of difference, but a man without the inherent advantages of build could never truly become the best.
Finished with the tubers and bread, Calistin looked at his ale. "This is no good?"
She wrinkled her nose. "I wouldn't drink it."
Calistin rose, mug in one hand, chicken leg in the other. "Can you get me one that is?"
The barmaid shook her head slightly. "Oscore handles all the drinks." She considered. "I could get you some water, if you're just thirsty."
Calistin remained standing. "None of that reused bathwater. As clean as you can find, please."
"I'll see what I can do, honey," she said as she headed around the bar.
Calistin tore through the chicken leg with his teeth, dropped the bone on his plate, then headed across the room toward Karruno. As he walked, he licked grease and mashed tubers from his fingers, then wiped them on britches only just beginning to dry from the rain.
Ignoring the curious stares that followed him across the barroom, Calistin approached Karruno. Without waiting for a break in the conversation, he announced, "Karruno, I challenge you to a fight."
Karruno stopped speaking and looked up. "Are you talking to me, boy?"
"Man," Calistin corrected.
"What?"
"I'm a man."
The three Westerners glanced at one another, condescending smiles pasted on their faces.
"Very well," Karruno said through his wicked grin. "Are you talking to me, young man?"
"Yes," Calistin confirmed, still clutching his ale. "You are Karruno, the best swordsman in these parts?"
The companion to Karruno's left, a tall, heavyset man with a short, graying beard spoke next. "That's him. Expert soldier when he's not slopping pigs or slaughtering chickens."
Karruno punched his companion in the arm before turning his attention back to Calistin. "What do you want, little stranger? Can't you see we're busy talking?"
Accustomed to immediate and absolute consideration, Calistin found these men irritatingly dense. "I told you. I want to fight you."