“Northmen. Daltrice had better watch them closely, or they’ll drink up his entire cellar in one night.” Necht sniggered at his own wit.
Avarilous gave a perfunctory chuckle. “And that group?” He gestured at a long table near the fountain at the center of the courtyard. A fine spray came from somewhere in its center, and rivulets of silver ran down the figure of a coiling python in its midst.
Necht smoothed out the lines in his face and looked properly serious. “Those are the trade delegates from Konigheim and Doegan. They’ve been here almost six months, negotiating a pact.”
The merchant stared thoughtfully at the crowd. His eyes traveled slowly across the courtyard, pausing once at the sight of a stout back and dark hair hanging greasily over a rumpled collar. Necht followed his gaze, started, and began to speak, but the merchant’s hand on his arm stilled him. “All right,” Avarilous murmured to Necht, “Be careful… and remember what I asked of you.”
White teeth flashed in Necht’s dark face. “Yes, sir. Don’t worry.” And he was gone.
Avarilous cautiously edged his way closer to the bar, behind which stood the fat landlord contentedly surveying the anarchic scene before him. At the merchant’s sharp rap on the counter, he glanced around, smiled unctuously, and slid across a tankard drawn from a barrel of the ale Avarilous himself had brought to the inn.
A balcony ran around the four sides of the courtyard. Vines hung down from its banisters. Avarilous, admiring the lush greenery, was startled to see within the foliage the undulating forms of serpents sliding smoothly over the soft leaves. He shuddered involuntarily, then remembered the special regard in which the people of the Free Cities of Parsanic held snakes. It was even rumored that somewhere in the kingdom, in a cold underground room kept secret from all but a chosen few were evil men with hooded eyes and shaven scalps. These priests of Talona sat amid wriggling mounds of serpents and, as the snakes wove beneath their ragged robes, spoke prophecies in hissing voices that were not their own. Avarilous glanced at the python statue in the sparkling fountain and shivered once more.
Beneath the balcony, he spotted a seat at a table set in the shadows, away from the torchlight that illumined the courtyard. The table was already inhabited by two men who looked up in irritation as Avarilous joined them.
“This table’s occupied, friend,” snapped one, a tall, grim-looking man with a scar disfiguring his cheek.
Avarilous smiled ingratiatingly. “Surely you’ll not begrudge me a place to sit in peace? I’ve been traveling the whole day, and I long for an entertaining evening away from the dusty road.”
The men looked at each other for a moment; then the blond one shrugged. A colorful scarf slanted over his forehead, concealing one eye and giving him a rakish, careless appearance. “Suit yourself,” he growled ungraciously, turning back to his drink.
Avarilous pulled up a chair and slowly lowered his aching body into it. Before his bottom touched the well-worn seat, though, there was a crash. The chair spun away and the merchant fell sprawling on the floor. The scarred man who had kicked away the chair at the last minute gave a shout of laughter. “Next time, Ulgarthan scum, don’t presume to sit at the same table with Tharkarmen.” He gestured toward a dark nook nearby. “Get over in the corner and slurp your swill there, out of my sight.”
Avarilous’s shoulders tensed for a moment; then he shrugged, rose, and with as much dignity as he could muster, made his way to the place indicated. Tharkar natives sitting nearby, who had witnessed the incident with amusement, turned back to their drinks.
The merchant relaxed, leaning his chair against the wall, and observed the scene. After a time he drew a small pipe from within the recesses of his cloak and lit it.
The two men who had humiliated him drank steadily. Every now and then, one would rise and go to the bar for a fresh round of ales. They spoke little, but Avarilous overheard enough to learn that the tall, scar-faced man was named Kreelan, while his companion, shorter and blond, was Spielt.
From where he sat, Avarilous had plenty of leisure for observation. The crowd appeared at first to be a typical gathering of sailors, soldiers, and rogues from the Utter East. As he watched, though, he became increasingly aware of a subtly different dynamic in the courtyard, a tension that seemed to grow quietly among the various groups.
Avarilous’s attention was gradually drawn to the boisterous group of well-dressed men gathered at the table near the fountain. It was a large party, and their penetrating voices rose above the clamor.
“Slaver scum! Traders in human flesh. The men of Konigheim! Who knows from what port they’ll draw slaves next. Citizens of Tharkar, look to your children!”
“Fool of a Doeganer! We of the Mighty Kingdom of Konigheim, Beacon of the Utter East, Favored of the Five Kingdoms, take slaves only from the kingdoms we conquer. And yours will be next, unless I miss my guess. The fish-people at last caught in a net.” The speaker chuckled heavily and belched. “We’ve all seen the neck gills you Doeganers sport. What’s next for you? Will you grow fins? A kingdom of codfish? We’ll serve you up in a lemon sauce. Or perhaps you’d prefer to be fried in batter!” He roared with laughter at his own poor wit, as his companions sycophantically echoed him. Avarilous noted with interest the patch of wrinkled skin in the middle of his forehead, a patch surrounded by a multitude of complicated designs executed in dark ink.
Near the center of the table a man rose, evidently with some authority. As he spoke, the men at the table fell grudgingly silent.
“Now then, citizens! Peace among us all! Put aside those differences that divide us, and together, united as one powerful force, we can confront the fiendish enemy, while improving our mutual wealth and power!” The speaker lifted his glass. “A toast! A toast to our success in these negotiations. Neither shall be the loser in the pact we conclude.”
There was an embarrassed scraping of chairs, and both sides in the dispute halfheartedly lifted their glasses in assent. Once again, talk at the table sank into the general babble of inn voices.
Avarilous listened with apparent indifference to this dispute and its conclusion. The men at his table seemed at first equally unaware of it. But as he observed them closely, the merchant saw that this was not so.
As Kreelan went to the bar he spoke a word in passing to one of the Doeganers. As Spielt, a colorful scarf slanting over his forehead so that it concealed one eye, passed near the delegation he seemed to stumble and murmur something to the Konigheimers. The men at the large table drew together in a tighter circle, their voices hushed, suspicious looks passing between them like summer lightning.
Avanlous watched this with growing interest, waiting for the spark that would set off open conflict. It was not long in coming.
Kreelan leaned his chair back and stretched. As he did so, Avarilous saw him, with a flick of his wrist, toss a small rock, so accurately that it upset a full tankard of ale on the Konigheimers’ side of the table. A hulking, dark-haired Konigheimer with the white skin and tall build of the Ffolk, instantly leaped to his feet with a curse. He turned angrily to one of the Doeganers sitting across from him.
“Clumsy fool! Watch what you’re about!”
“Slaver dog!”-the Doegarier was on his feet now-”The curse of the mage-king upon you!”
Rather than reply, the slaver picked up his chair and bashed it across his opponent’s head. Other denizens of the tavern sprang up, and the brawl was on.
Avarilous slid further into his nook, avoiding flying furniture and bits of broken glass. To his right he could see his table companions watching the battle with evident satisfaction. The conflict was conducted with broken chairs and tables. Fists flew. Bottles crashed. The smell of spilled ale was overwhelming. Then, as one fighter staggered back into the dark nook in which Avarilous was standing, the merchant was plucked forth and swept into the midst of the battle.