Harp of Winds

12 The Drunken Dog

The Drunken Dog, a typical dockside tavern if ever there was one, was the most squalid, insalubrious alehouse in Nexis, Its windows, broken time and again in countless brawls, had been nailed over with a clumsy patchwork of boards, and the taproom stank of smoke and grease and unwashed bodies. The floor was slick underfoot: a vile morass of sawdust, spilled drink—and, more often than not, blood. When the river was low, the air was thick with the noxious stench of dead fish and sewage. The tavern’s situation, down among the wharves and warehouses of the northern riverbank, would have been enough to make a strong man blanch, and a wise man turn hastily away; but even in this, the roughest of areas, the Dog had a bad name—and was proud of it.

Only the desperate dared pass into the shadowy, reeking interior of the Drunken Dog, where the City Guards would rarely venture. Only the lowest of the low—the gangs whose haunt was the darkened alleyway, whose trade was the quick knife-thrust in the back and the chink of gold in a stolen purse. Only the homeless, stinking, red-eyed wrecks whose love of ale had become an addiction. Only the sorry, worn-out whores, pox-ridden, scarred, and too long in the tooth to make an honest living from a better class of client. Only those who had already sunk so low that they had nothing left to lose—and Jarvas.

Jarvas sat in his corner near the ash-choked fireplace, his back to the wall and an unencumbered line between himself and the back door. It was the best spot in the room, within easy sight of the serving hatch to gesture for more of the raw, sour ale, and commanding a vantage over the entire taproom. It was his special place, and no one was prepared to dispute it,

Jarvas took a sip of the vile, cloudy brew from his grease-smeared tankard and grimaced at the taste. It was the sort of stuff, he mused, that was absolutely guaranteed to make a body ill—but that didn’t stop him, or everyone else in the place, from drinking it He was not usually the sort of man to waste his time wondering why he came here when he didn’t have to—he knew his own mind, and was not much given to soul-searching. These days, though, with life in the city gone from bad to worse, and, more significantly, the recent loss of his brother, he was finding himself in an increasingly gloomy and pensive mood. He came here for several reasons. First, because it was safe—-the mercenaries hired by the filthy Magefolk had only tried to come in once, and had regretted their rashness. He came because he could—he was a big man, and while he didn’t go looking for trouble, anyone unwise enough to cross him paid for it sooner or later. People around here tended to respect him, and it was known that Jarvas made a good friend and a merciless enemy. Finally—and it said a lot for him that he would admit such a thing to himself—Jarvas came here because he was lonely.

It made life hard when you were ugly, and big besides. Jarvas avoided mirrors. It seemed that when the Gods had made him, they had been in a hurry, and just picked up any features that lay to hand, with no thought for the result. His body was a gangling, uncoordinated, mismatched selection of parts. His hands and feet were too big for his frame—and that was saying a lot. His chest was too narrow for his broad shoulders and long legs, and as for his face... It was a nightmare. His nose was too long, and his ears stuck out. His pointed chin looked out of balance with his broad forehead and heavy brows. His eyes were a muddy gray-green and, despite his best efforts, his dark, stringy hair always looked unkempt. In short, he was a disaster. Men tended to look on him as a threat, and as for women—forget it! They wouldn’t look twice at him. Given his appearance, it was difficult for Jarvas to make friends—yet friends he had, and it was all due to the greatness of his heart.

Jarvas had his own place, down near the wharves. It consisted of two decrepit warehouses and a disused fueling mill, which adjoined one another on a piece of waste ground that had once held slums, burned down on the Archmage’s order as a potential plague spot in the Great Drought three years ago—just about the time that Jarvas had inherited the property, split between himself and his brother, Harkas.

He had been surprised by the bequest—his family had scraped a living as bargemen with an ancient, leaky craft. He had always discounted tales of a great-uncle, estranged by a family quarrel, who owned property on the riverside. Assuming that it was wishful thinking on the part of his parents, he had given the matter little thought. What sense did it make? No one wanted property along the north side of the river. In the past, perhaps, when the docks had been thriving and prosperous—before the weirs had been built and ships could come all the way upriver from Norberth—it might have been different, but now? Well, things had changed, that was all. Jarvas was already in his late twenties when his uncle had died. He had given up the barge trade by then, and had been earning his living in the city for the better part of a decade, turning his hand to any work that came along. While working as a warehouse foreman for the Head of the Merchants’ Guild, he had managed to scrape up a little education—Vannor believed in learning, and made sure it was available for those of his people who wanted it.

The merchant was a kindly man, despite his awesome reputation, and having been poor himself, he was always keen to help his people get on in the world. He had gone with Jarvas and Harkas to inspect their bequest—and it was well that he had, When Jarvas looked at the abandoned buildings on the charred waste ground, saw the soot-stained walls, the patched, leaking roofs, and the gaping windows like the empty eyes of a corpse, his heart had plummeted. His uncle had not been rich, that was certain—these derelict shells were worthless! Harkas had cursed bitterly, but Vannor had said nothing—simply walked over to the fuelling mill and looked inside, crunching through fallen rubble and moving aside bits of broken beam, his forehead furrowed in thought.

Jarvas smiled at the memory of the great merchant, as he spoke the words that changed the lives of two young men.

“Good, solid stonework—this won’t fall down in a hurry! Beams need replacing—you’ve woodworm there—but what a building! See the thickness of these walls and the sturdy structure—and the warehouses are just the same, I’ll be bound, Lads, it may not look like much now, but I would say you’ve been lucky!” He grinned at Jarvas, whose eyes were round with astonishment,

Harkas, the elder of the brothers, was unimpressed, “What do you mean, sir? How can these old heaps be of any possible use to anyone?” he grumbled.

The twinkle vanished from Vannor’s eyes, and he gave Harkas a very straight look. “Think it through, Harkas. I may be on the Council of Three, but I’m giving away no secrets if I say that this city is going from bad to worse. The drought, and the famine and riots that followed it, should be a lesson to us all. With this place”—he patted the soot-smeared stone—“you’d be safe from anything. Lads, with a bit of hard work you could turn these buildings into a fortress! And burning was the best thing that could happen to this bit of ground. Look! Already it’s starting to bear!” He pointed at the seedling grasses and patches of weed that had been quickened by the recent torrential rain.

“You could fence the land and build a stockade. The Gods know, there’s enough stone lying around from the hovels that were burned, and timber aplenty in the warehouses—those beams will need replacing anyway, so you might as well find a use for the wood! The fuelling mill has a water-supply—water piped straight from the river—and with a bit of work, those old dye vats could be turned into pigsties! With the vegetables you can grow, and some chickens—”

“Just a minute, sir!” Harkas interrupted, “You want us to become farmers? In the middle of the bloody city?!”

“Why not?” Vannor s eyes were dancing. “Do you know how I made my fortune? With vision! I dared to think differently from my fellows, to do things that got me accused of insanity by my family and friends—but, by all the Gods, it worked! Vision, that’s what you need, lads. Imagination!”

“And money!” Harkas snorted, before Jarvas could stop him.

Vannor had grinned, then. “Don’t worry about the money, Harkas—I’ll see you have enough to get started,”

The merchant turned to Jarvas, and clouted him on the shoulder. “You impressed me, lad, while you were working for me, and while it pains me to lose a good foreman, you deserve to make something of your life. Besides, I’m intrigued by the possibilities of this place. Call it an indefinite loan . . .” His face grew thoughtful. “With one condition. This place is too big for you, even with your families—don’t look like that, Jarvas; you’ll find someone someday—and putting it right is more than you can manage on your own.”

Vannor looked at the brothers. “Have you seen how the poor suffer in this city? And their only recourse, if they sink too low, is bonding!” He scowled. “It seems I can’t put an end to it—but maybe there’s a way around it! If the poor had somewhere to go, where they could be safe and supported, until they worked out some kind of a future ...”

Jarvas had leapt on the idea. “Yes, by all the Gods! They could help us grow things, and get the place straight—and do odd jobs in the city so we can buy what we can’t grow ... In those warehouses, there’d be space for dozens of families! Vannor, it’s perfect!”

The pragmatic Harkas had taken more persuading, but eventually, Vannor’s dream had taken shape. The brothers’ seemingly useless bequest had been turned into a fortress, secure, inviolate—a self-contained smallholding within the city walls, with food and shelter, and the promise of a future, A place where there was a welcome for the lost, the homeless, the destitute and the desperate . . .

Jarvas felt his throat tighten with grief. Of the three men who had set that dream in motion, he was the only one left. Vannor had vanished on the Night of the Wraiths-—only to turn up, quite unexpectedly, leading the rebels who were sworn to end the rule of the evil Archmage. Jarvas and his brother had helped as they could with food and such, until the rebel base in the sewers had been attacked by Miathan’s mercenaries, who had replaced the City Guard, Angos, their captain, claimed that the rebels had been wiped out to a man. Certainly their base was gutted and empty—Jarvas had checked.

Following the shock of Varmor’s loss, Harkas had been taken—one of the mysterious “disappearances” that were striking terror into the hearts of the citizens of Nexis. He had been on one of his usual nightly errands, collecting spoiled food, an increasingly scarce commodity in the city nowadays, for his beloved pigs. He had never returned. Those who vanished were taken to the Academy—that much was known—but it was wise not to ask too many questions, Those who had tried, had vanished in their turn.

Thanks to the Mageborn, two good men were lost forever, and only the grieving Jarvas had been left to carry on their work—and how long would it be before the hand of the Archmage stretched out to him? In the meantime, the Dog was one of his recruiting places—as good a one as any. That was why he came here, night after night, to welcome the needy into his own special kingdom.

The Drunken Dog was not the sort of place that Hargorn would normally have chosen—to drink in a rathole like the Dog was simply asking for trouble—but the swordsman was past the point of caring. He’d been working his way down through the town, stopping at every tavern, to pick up information for the rebels on what was happening in the city—and, more importantly, any word that might lead him to Vannor or his missing daughter. Now he was running short of options—and, more importantly, silver with which to pay his way. Vannor’s meager supply of coin had not lasted long. At least this festering cesspit ought to be cheap, the veteran thought, as he stepped inside. The fire and a scattering of feeble rushlights afforded the only illumination, but the fetid gloom of the taproom was a blessing in a way, for shadows hid the unwashed tankards, the cobwebs that festooned the low rafters, the splintered tables, the stained and knife-scarred walls. The smoky dimness also drew a merciful veil over the drinkers—for this was the roughest alehouse on the quayside, and its customers were rougher still.

In the absolute silence that followed his entrance, Hargorn glowered fiercely around at the occupants of the crowded taproom, and fingered the hilt of his sword in what he hoped was a threatening manner. It was usually the best way to forestall any trouble, and as he had expected, the talk started up again very quickly, as everyone suddenly rediscovered an interest in whatever they had been doing.

The soldier suppressed a smile. It never failed, he thought. Why buy trouble? He knew these folk—he’d met their like in every town he had ever seen in his wanderings. They were the scum of the city—dock-hands, porters, and scavengers; beggars, pilferers, and pickpockets; faded, aging whores both male and female. Their squalid lives left them few expectations: the Dog was warmer than the quayside; it was marginally safer than the narrow, unlit alleys where a man’s life was worth a copper or two, and a woman’s virtue, nothing at all. The sour, watered ale was cheap, and the homemade grog—foul-tasting, but with a kick like liquid fire, as Hargorn soon discovered—was cheaper still What more can they ask for? the warrior thought bitterly. What more could anyone want?

What more, indeed? I know what / want, Hargorn thought ruefully. I want to find out what the blazes has happened to Vannor! It had been so many days since they had entered the city and then split up-—at the merchant’s insistence. The veteran had told him over and over that it was a mistake, but Vannor, distraught over his wayward daughter’s disappearance, had refused to listen to a single word of sense. “We can find her far more quickly if we divide our efforts,” he had argued—and finally, when Hargorn had least been expecting it, had slipped away without trace into the labyrinths of the northern docks.

“The bloody fool,” Hargorn muttered to himself as he bought another flagon of cheap brown dishwater from the sour, pinch-faced little runt of a servingman. He would have preferred more of the grog, but ale would last him longer. Once this silver was gone, there would be no more—not in Nexis, at any rate. Word would be out on him now. Once Vannor’s coin had been used up; he had taken service as a private guard for Guildsman Pendral—a fat, tightfisted, money-grabbing little bastard with some very perverted habits, who had been one of the many merchants who had allied himself with Miathan’s cause, in order to screw a quick profit out of the poor suffering folk of the city while there was still a profit to be had.

Hargorn sighed. I make a lousy spy, he thought, Vannor should have sent someone with less of a temper and better sense. Keeping his mouth shut in the face of Pendral’s obscene greed had proved to be more than the warrior could stand, and he had taken to drowning his sorrows more than he ought, given his perilous situation. The last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself—but today, Pendral had paid him off for being drunk while guarding a warehouse, and the insults of that arrogant lump of lard had been more than the veteran could take. Admittedly, it had probably been a mistake to dump the little turd headfirst into that midden, but—For a moment, Hargorn’s black mood was lightened by a grin. By all the Gods, it had been worth it!.

To Tilda, on a raw black winter’s night, the tavern seemed like a dream of comfort. Business, bad since the Archmage had taken control of the city, was slacker than usual tonight, for the filthy weather meant that few folk were out and about. The twisting, narrow streets of Nexis were shrouded in a thick, freezing fog that caught in her throat and set off the hacking cough that had dogged her all winter. Enough was enough, Tilda had decided—why freeze your backside off on a drafty corner for nothing?

On reaching the Drunken Dog the whore paused in the doorway to straighten the dripping hems of her petticoats and fluff out her damp, red-dyed curls. She’d be mad to ply for trade in the Dog—it was Dellie’s patch, and Dellie was a mate—who wouldn’t think twice about flattening her if business was involved. Still, in this trade, it always paid to be prepared. Sometimes, you just became lucky . . . And as an aging streetwalker with a ten-year-old son to support, she needed all the luck she could get.

As soon as she entered, Tilda knew it wasn’t going to be her lucky night after all. Evidently, she had not been the only streetwalker in Nexis to tire of the miserable weather—it looked as though the Dog were playing host to every drab and catamite in town. For a single night, a truce had been declared, and most of the whores were chatting companionably around the tables, making the most of a rare evening’s relaxation. If only it could always be like this, Tilda thought as she exchanged a hard-won coin for a glass of grog. We’re all in the same boat, we should be mates—but she knew better than to waste time on such daft ideas. They all had to live—and competition for customers, even in a city like Nexis, was fierce.

Tilda was forced to squeeze her way to the tables through the tight-packed crowd. In addition to the whores and regulars, a group of bargemen were playing dice near the fire, and she glimpsed a shadowy movement in the darkest corner, and heard the low hum of murmured talk. Tilda looked away quickly, After years on the streets, she could tell when something shady was afoot. If you wanted to survive, you had to know when to turn a blind eye,

The most interesting customer, as far as Tilda could see, was a weatherbeaten, gray-haired man in a heavy soldier’s cloak. He sat alone, blind to everything but his tankard. For a moment, Tilda had hopes—but as she drew near, she saw that his cloak was patched and threadbare, and he was scowling into his ale with an intensity that turned her cold all over. Forget it, she told herself. That kind of trouble, you can do without! Sometimes the soldiers got like that, she knew. All twisted up inside, poor bastards—but after a few drinks, they would take it out on whoever was nearest, and once they started, there was no stopping them. Gods, a friend of hers had been crippled for life by a drunken soldier! No thanks, mate, she thought, and was about to take her grog to a table near the dice players, as far away from the glowering warrior as she could get, when suddenly she saw his face light up in the most mischievous of smiles. How it changed him! Tilda, charmed by that quick, infectious grin, drew nearer to the stranger, her curiosity aroused. Well, it couldn’t hurt just to speak to him, surely? “Sir?” She laid a tentative hand on his arm.

He swung around, with an oath on his lips—then turned away as though she had ceased to exist, and went back to glowering into his beer. He rubbed a hand across his eyes in a gesture so abjectly weary that Tilda’s heart went out to him. Girl, what are you thinking of? She chided herself. You’re as daft as he is! She’d seen grown men crying into their ale before now—it never meant anything. Still, it was worth a try ... “You look like you could use some company,” she said softly. “Won’t I do? Just for tonight?”

This time, the soldier’s expression was wistful. “Ah, lassie!” His voice was slightly slurred with drink. “You’d do all right and more, but . . .” He shrugged, and fishing in the pocket of his leather tunic, brought out a few scant coppers.

“Right now, I couldn’t even stand you an ale!”

“Oh.” Tilda turned away, oddly disappointed and angry at herself for feeling so. Why, it had been years since she’d thought of a man as a person! A living, that was all they were to her, and no more . . . “Tilda, you’re a fool!” she told herself fiercely. “Don’t you dare go soft on me now!” She turned toward the dice players instead, but they had pocketed their winnings and left, while she’d been wasting her time on some penniless stranger! “A pox on all bloody soldiers!” Tilda muttered. Well, she might as well go—she couldn’t afford to buy herself another drink. At that moment the tavern door banged open in a swirl of evil-smelling fog, and a dozen or so of the mercenaries that had replaced the original City Guard came hurtling into the room, followed by an obese, squint-eyed little man in the gold-stitched robes of a merchant. “There he is!” he squeaked, pointing at Tilda’s stranger. “That’s the man who tried to drown me! Arrest the blackguard at once!”

There was a thunderstruck silence in the taproom of the Drunken Dog as Guildsman Pendral gave orders to his troops. At a curt nod from their captain, the guardsmen fanned out to approach the soldier. It reminded Tilda of a hideous scene she had once witnessed in the ramshackle slums, when a pack of street curs had stalked and slain a helpless child. But this was no helpless child. With a steely rasp, the warrior drew his sword as he rose unsteadily to his feet. Tilda noticed, out of the corner of her eye, a general movement toward the tavern’s back door, as the skulkers in the corner sneaked away. The room emptied as if by magic—even the servingman had made himself scarce. The swordsman was plainly outnumbered—and not wanting to share his fate, Tilda thought it wise to make her own escape, while the guards were distracted. Quietly, she slipped out of her chair, and began to creep toward the back door.

She had never intended to look back—but despite her instincts of self-preservation, her eyes were drawn toward the unfolding scene. The guardsmen gathered themselves and rushed forward. Their swords crashed down—to embed themselves in the table in a deluge of ale as the stranger ducked and rolled, taking two of his assailants down in a tangle of arms and legs. Tilda gathered her skirts to run, but a shriek of agony stopped her in her tracks. One of the soldier’s opponents rolled screaming on the floor, a knife in his belly. Tilda gasped, Who was this man? Even drunk, his movements had been almost too quick for her to follow.

He had obviously scared the others. No one wanted to be the first to approach him. The remaining guards merged in a loose semicircle around the stranger, who stood at bay with his back to the serving hatch. “Well?” he taunted them.

“Which one of you bastards wants to be next?”

It was a standoff—the soldier seemed drunk, but after the speed of his reactions, Tilda doubted it. Then she saw the servingman—a flicker of shadowy movement behind the hatch—holding a short sword in his hand. He lurked behind the stranger, prepared to do the guardsmen’s work for them, hoping, no doubt, for a reward. He raised his arm . . .

“Behind you!” Tilda yelled. The stranger dodged barely in time. The sword caught him a glancing blow on the side of the head, and crashed down to knock splinters out of the bar as its intended victim spun away, vanishing from sight as the guards closed in on him. By that time, Tilda had problems of her own. She had done the one thing she had sworn not to do—attracted attention to herself. Hands grabbed her from behind, pulling her arms behind her back.

“Obstruct the City Guard, would you? You’re under arrest, bitch!” The voice was harsh in her ear, followed by a glob of saliva that struck the side of her face, and trickled, warm and slimy, down her cheek. Her arms were wrenched until she cried out with pain—then there was a sudden movement in the corner of her eye and the sound of a fist crunching into bone. The grip on her arms loosened, falling away so abruptly that she staggered—and was caught by another pair of arms, gentle, this time, and supportive. Tilda looked up into the ugliest face she had ever seen. “Jarvas!” she gasped thankfully. Her captor had staggered back, choking, with blood spurting between the fingers of the hands that were clasped across his face.

“That one won’t be hurting any more women for a while!” As he was speaking, Jarvas guided her to a stool in the safety of the corner. Tilda watched, open-mouthed, as he seized a heavy branch from the woodpile by the fire, and waded into the fray.

The stranger was still holding his own—but barely. Blood poured from a head wound, where his left ear had almost been severed, and trickled down his ribs, staining his stout leather jerkin. Though the fight had moved across the room, he was still at bay, with his back to a corner, but the guards—a dozen or so—were closing in on him, and Tilda could see that he was weakening. Already he was glassy-eyed and reeling, and at any moment . . .

Then Jarvas was among the guardsmen wielding his sturdy bough in great, two-handed sweeps. The outermost guards, unaware that this flailing giant was descending on them, simply crumpled beneath the impact of his blows. The others turned, their swords upraised to make short work of this madman who dared accost them with only a branch against their long steel blades. It was a mistake. Seeing help at hand, the stranger seemed to find new strength. With a wild yell, he was on them, fighting like a dervish.

Jarvas was like a man possessed, cracking his bough against arms and faces, dodging sword thrusts, and wreaking havoc among the guards. It looked, against all the odds, as though the mismatched pair were going to pull off a victory between them—when Tilda saw the fat toad of a merchant who had started all this trouble creeping to the door, obviously going for help. The excitement of the fight had gone to Tilda’s head. Without stopping to think, she picked up her stool and crept up behind Pendral, cracking him hard across the back of the head. The flimsy wood splintered on impact, but the fat man went down like a felled tree. Tilda whooped with excitement. Thoroughly roused, she grabbed another stool, and advanced on the remaining guards, waiting until their backs were turned then clouting them.

It was easy—until the guards began to realize that their assailant was not a giant or a warrior, but a small and inexperienced woman. As one, they started to move in on her. Tilda backed away, cold inside with the knowledge that she had bitten off more than she could swallow.

“What in the Gods’ name do you think you’re doing?” A strong arm wrenched her sideways, as a blade came whistling down where she’d been standing. “Get back, you idiot, and keep out of the bloody way!” Jarvas hurled her aside so hard that she fell, and brought his cracked and shortened cudgel crashing down on the wrist of the man who had attacked her. Tilda picked herself up with an oath, rubbing at bruises, grateful for her rescue, but absurdly annoyed that he had been so rough and slighting. I was doing all right until then! she thought angrily. I’ll show him! She looked around for another stool—but the fight was already over. The stranger grinned at Jarvas, over a pile of bodies. “Good fight!” he said—and crumpled.

“Oh bollocks!” Jarvas said. “Can you help me . . . ?” He frowned for a moment, then his face cleared. “Tilda, isn’t it? I’ll have to take him home. It won’t be safe for us on the streets tonight—not once word of this gets out.” He paused, looking down at her. “I’m afraid that also means you, girl—you should have run when you had the chance! Now you’re in this as deep as the rest of us.”

Tilda went cold all over. “I can’t go with you,” she protested, not wanting to accept the greater import of his words.

“What about my son? He needs me—and besides, I’ve got a living to make!”

Jarvas looked at her gravely and shook his head. “Not in Nexis,” he told her. “Not anymore.”