Churn nodded and followed her through the crowd as Hoyt wandered over to the bar, smiling at several patrons and nodding to the bartender. He didn’t want to draw attention by asking for Alen by name, but if their search turned up nothing he knew he’d have to. Most people were drinking beer, but there were a few wine drinkers; Hoyt admired the heavy ceramic goblets they were using.
From an antechamber off the room came the aroma of gansel stew, venison steaks and roasting potatoes. Hoyt’s stomach groaned a sotto voce complaint; he decided they would eat here, whether they found Alen or not. He completed a circuit of the bar, but there was no sign of his old friend. He paused momentarily to watch three venison steaks being laid in a pan; the cook poured a generous quantity of red wine over each and Hoyt’s stomach growled again.
His mouth watering, he looked around for Churn and Hannah. When he spotted them they were near the other end of the room, moving between tables searching for the old man with the soft paunch and the white hair. Hoyt was heading towards them when he spied an empty space on one of the benches; he hustled to claim it before anyone else got there. As he sat down, more patrons rose to leave.
He caught Churn’s attention and signed, ‘Come over here; let’s eat.’ The giant took Hannah gently by the upper arm and began steering her towards the benches while Hoyt moved to the bar and called above the din of the tavern, ‘Bartender!’
A gangly young man with an unsightly skin condition scurried over and asked in a gruff basso, ‘What do you want?’ Hoyt was taken aback at the incongruity of such a booming, resonant voice from such a spindly body. For a moment he was speechless.
‘Come on, speak up. I haven’t got all day to stand around here waiting for you,’ the barman muttered.
Hoyt shook himself. ‘Three beers, three steaks, three bowls of gansel stew, one loaf of bread, the hottest you can find above the hearth, and one dancing girl, preferably younger than two hundred Twinmoons.’
The barman scowled. For a moment Hoyt wondered if the pox marks across the boy’s forehead could be connected to outline a map of the Pragan south coast. ‘For women, you need to see Regon,’ he boy said, gesturing towards a well-dressed patron sitting behind a corner table and speaking with two scantily clad young women. Hoyt estimated their age at just over one hundred and ten Twinmoons, far too young for that sort of work.
‘No thanks, I was just kidding,’ he said. ‘Just the food, thanks.’ He tried to manoeuvre himself onto the bench without kicking anyone: he needed to find Alen and he needed a hot meal – the last thing he wanted to do was get into a bar fight. He cast the bartender a friendly smile and adjusted his position on the bench. Shifting, his foot came down on something soft, a bag of laundry, maybe.
He bent down and peered beneath the seat. The bag of clothes was actually a man, passed out, dead drunk – or maybe even just dead. He looked as if he’d been down there for several avens. He was soaking wet, stinking of beer, with shards of gansel bones caught in his matted hair. He appeared to have fallen asleep in a puddle of vomit.
Hoyt’s stomach churned at the image of this foul-smelling old grettan first crawling under the bench for some rest, then throwing up, and finally passing out. ‘I do not envy you, my friend,’ he said to the inert heap, ‘you are going to feel like you’ve been pissed on by a demon when you wake.
‘But now, be a good fellow, will you? Bend your knees so I can sit down here without stepping on you all day.’ The man did not comply and for a moment, Hoyt thought perhaps the inebriated stranger really was dead.
‘Come on,’ he tried again. ‘Just a little now… bend your knees.’ This time the drunk obliged, rolling slightly to one side, and Hoyt gently nudged the legs out of his way. The corpse-like figure opened his eyes for a moment, peered out at a spot at the far end of the universe and then closed them again with a delicate flutter.
Hoyt shuddered. He looked long and hard into the man’s ghostly features and grimaced. He had found Alen Jasper of Middle Fork.
His heart sank. ‘Alen, oh rutting dogs, she is going to be furious.’ Churn and Hannah were making their way across the crowded room, eager for a hot meal.
‘Think, Hoyt, think,’ he commanded himself, then called for the bartender’s help.
‘What now?’ the boy said sullenly.
Hoyt tossed him a thin silver coin and watched as the homely splotched face split into a narrow grin. ‘Keep the change, and-’ he pointed under the bench, ‘and keep him here.’
Surprised anyone would be interested in the drunk, the bartender shrugged. ‘He’s not going anywhere. He hasn’t for quite some time.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s been in here every day-’
‘How long?’ Hoyt interrupted. Churn and Hannah were nearly there; if the foreign woman were not to lose all hope he had to act quickly.
‘Oh, I’d say about ten or eleven Twinmoons now. I’m surprised he’s not dead yet.’
Bleeding whores. Hoyt turned and unobtrusively signed to Churn, ‘We need to leave, now.’
‘Why?’ Churn recognised the need for stealth and Hannah did not notice the two men communicating.
‘Later. Just go.’
Hannah smiled and took one of Hoyt’s hands, as if touching him would make it easier to hear above the tavern’s din. ‘This place isn’t so bad once you get used to it,’ she said, agreeably. ‘It’s a bit smoky, but we can wait a while if you think he’ll be along later. Should we eat? It actually smells quite good.’
‘No,’ Hoyt said quickly, ‘no, I know a better place down the street.’ That was an out-and-out lie, and Hoyt started praying to the gods of the Northern Forest that there was a reputable inn with hearty food within a short distance. Surely the gods owed him something.
‘I let the bartender know we needed to find Alen and he’ll keep an eye out for us.’ Gripping her hand, he turned Hannah back towards the stairs. ‘Let’s take a walk, find a room for the night and then eat someplace a bit less smoky.’
Hannah, still none the wiser, smiled. ‘That sounds great. Let’s go.’ Mounting the stairs, she added, ‘You know, I’m beginning to feel more confident about my chances of getting home. I hope we find him tonight. I don’t think I could sleep knowing he’s somewhere close by.’
Hoyt gave a half-nod, half-shake of his head and muttered under his breath, ‘If you only knew!’
Steven woke screaming as the bones in his lower leg were set. The morning sun was blinding and he could barely make out the blurry features of the dark Samaritan lashing his leg between two heavy pine branches. He lashed out involuntarily, but only one arm responded; pain exploded from his shoulder as he struck his anonymous nurse a solid blow. His lungs ablaze with the fire of a smouldering Eldarni hell, Steven screamed again before passing out from the pain.
Later, he was bathed entirely in white. No discernable line marked the delineation between earth and sky. Steven was moving slowly through a perfect ivory world. It was neither cold nor warm, and there was no scent, no fresh air, no colours. Squinting against the iridescent brilliance, he felt dizzy, and vomited across his chest. Sickened by the sudden foul stench corrupting this pure world, he attempted to move his head to one side, but discovered he was immobile, trapped in a chalky white dream. Unable to escape his own wretchedness, he vomited again, choking out a barely audible cry.
The blurry stranger appeared, more a dark intrusion among his bleached surroundings than an actual person. The silent caregiver wiped Steven’s tunic clean with a length of cloth and forced a wineskin filled with cold water into his mouth. Steven managed a swallow before the stranger spun away into the distance and the dark edges of unconsciousness swallowed him once more.