Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm (5 page)

Bolverkr surveyed the coils of memory composing Harriman’s mind, now fully opened to him. Quietly, without further preamble, he set to his task.

Cruel as death, and hungry as the grave.

—James Thomson
The Seasons. Winter

The tavernmaster of Kveldemar hurled wood, glossed with ice, onto the hearth fire. It struck with a hiss, and smoke swirled through the common room, shredded to lace by beer-stained tables. Taziar Medakan blinked, trying to clear the mist from his eyes. His three companions seemed content to sit, sharing wine-loosened conversation, but restlessness drove Taziar until he fidgeted like a child during a priest’s belabored liturgy. His darting, blue eyes missed nothing. He watched the tavernmaster whisk across the room, pausing to collect bowls from a recently vacated table. Flipping a dirty rag across its surface, the tavernmaster ducked around the bar with the efficiency of a man accustomed to tending customers alone. Not a single movement was wasted.

Taziar turned his attention to the only other patrons; a giggling couple huddled in the farthest corner, their chairs touching as they shared bowls of ale and silent kisses. Larson launched into a tale about two-man sailboats and a red-water lake, just as the outer door creaked open. Evening light streamed through the gap, glazing the eddying smoke. A middle-aged man stepped across the threshold. Dark-haired and clean-shaven, he seemed a welcome change from Norway’s endless sea of blonds. Blinded by the glare, the stranger squinted, sidling around a chair. His soiled, leather tunic scraped against Taziar’s seat with a high-pitched sheeting sound. A broadsword balanced in a scabbard at his waist, its trappings time-worn like a weapon which had been passed down by at least one generation. Depressions pocked its surface where jewels had once been set in fine adornment.

Taziar had long ago abandoned petty thievery, but boredom drove him to accept the challenge. With practiced dexterity, he flicked his fingers into the stranger’s pocket. Rewarded by the frayed tickle of purse strings and a rush of exhilaration, he pulled his prize free. A subtle gesture masked the movement of placing it into a lap fold of his cloak. Taziar’s gaze never left his companions. He saw no glimmer of horror or recognition on their faces, no indication that anyone had observed his heist. Apparently oblivious, the stranger marched deeper into the common room and took a seat at a table before the bar. The tavernmaster wandered over to attend to his new patron.

Taziar frowned in consideration. The stranger’s money held no interest for him; having developed more than enough skill to supply necessities for his friends, he had lost all respect for gold. Only the thrill remained, and much of his enjoyment would, in this case, come from devising a clever plan to return the purse to its owner. Taziar regarded his companions. Larson’s words had passed him, unheard. Patiently, Taziar waited until his friend finished. Taking a cue from Silme’s and Astryd’s laughter, Taziar chuckled and then claimed the conversation. “Allerum, do you see that man over there?” He inclined his head slightly.

Larson nodded without looking. Aside from the engrossed couple, the tavernmaster, and themselves, there was only one man in the barroom. “Sure. What about him?”

Taziar raked a perpetually sliding comma of hair from his eyes. “When I was a child, my friends and I used to play a game where we’d guess how much money some stranger was carrying.”

“Yeah?” Larson met Taziar’s gaze with mistrust. “Sounds pretty seedy. What’s it got to do with that man?”

Taziar clasped his hands behind his head. “I’ll bet you our bar tab I can guess how much he has within ...” Unobtrusively, he massaged coins through the fabric of the stranger’s purse. Some felt thinner, more defined than Scandinavian monies, unmistakably southern coinage. Having discovered familiar territory, Taziar suppressed a smile. “... within three coppers.”

Larson’s eyes narrowed until his thin brows nearly met. He shot a glance at the stranger. “From here?”

Taziar turned his head as if studying the common room. Ice melted, the hearth fire blazed, now drafting its smoke up the chimney. “Why not? I can see him well enough.”

Still, Larson hesitated. Though accustomed to idle barroom boasts, he was also all too familiar with Taziar’s love of impossible challenges. “All right,” he said at length. “Make it within one copper, and I’ll handle every beer between here and Forste-Mar.”

Taziar stroked his chin with mock seriousness. “Agreed.” He studied the olive-skinned stranger in the firelight. The man ate with methodical disinterest, occasionally pausing to look toward the door. “Hmmm. I’d say ...” Taziar paused dramatically, defining coins with callused fingertips. “Four gold, seven silver, two copper. And the gold’ll be barony ducats.”

“Ducats?” Larson’s gaze probed Silme and Astryd before settling on Taziar.

“Cullinsberg money.” Under the table, Taziar hooked Astryd’s ankle conspiratorially with booted toes. “The man looks like a Southerner to me.”

Astryd answered Taziar’s touch with a questioning hand on his knee.

Larson shrugged. “Very impressive. What do we do now? Ask the man?” He play-acted, catching Taziar’s sleeve and yanking repeatedly on the fabric. “Excuse me, Mac. Excuse me. My friend and I have a bet going. You see, he thinks you’ve got four gold, seven silver, and three copper ...”

“Two copper,” Taziar corrected. “And that won’t be necessary.” He retrieved the purse and tossed it casually to the tabletop.

Larson made a strangled noise of surprise, masking it with a guileless slam of his hand over the purse that drew every eye in the tavern. Silme clapped a hand to her mouth, transforming a laugh into a snort. Astryd’s fingers gouged warningly into Taziar’s leg.

Apparently, Larson’s crooked arm adequately covered the stranger’s property. Within seconds, the tavernmaster and his other patrons returned to their business, but Taziar knew the matter was far from closed. Relishing his companion’s consternation, Taziar drained his mug to the dregs.

Larson’s voice dropped to a grating whisper. “You ignorant son of a bitch.”

“Son of what?” Taziar repeated with mock incredulity. When angered, Larson had an amusing habit of slipping into a language he called English.

“Jerk,” Larson muttered, though this word held no more meaning to Taziar than the one before. “You cheated.”

“Cheated.” Taziar smirked. “You mean there were rules?”

“Damn you!” Larson raised a fist to emphasize his point. He tensed to pound the table. Then, glancing surreptitiously around the barroom, he lowered it gently to his wine bowl instead. “You get insulted when I call you a thief, then you pull something stupid like this! We don’t need more trouble than ...”

Taziar interrupted. “I’m no thief,” he insisted.

“Then why did you take this?” Larson lowered his eyes momentarily to indicate the purse still tucked beneath his palm.

“Sport.” Taziar shrugged, his single word more question than statement.

“Sport!” Larson’s voice rose a full tone. “Let me get this straight. We capture a god in the form of a wolf and battle a dragon the size of Chicag—” He caught himself. “— Norway. As an encore, we face off with a Dragonrank Master holding a bolt action rifle. You’re still limping from a bullet wound, for god’s sake! Forgive me if you find my life bland, but isn’t that enough excitement for you?”

“That was more than a month ago.” Taziar’s voice sounded soft as a whisper in the wake of Larson’s tirade.

Larson passed a long moment in silence before responding. “You’re insane, aren’t you?”

Taziar grinned wickedly.

The women exchanged glances across the table. Silme’s lips twitched into a smile, and she bit her cheeks to hide her amusement.

“You think this is funny, don’t you?” Larson’s tone made it plain he did not share his companions’ glee. “And even you may think it’s funny.” He jabbed a thumb at Silme who wore an unconvincing expression of bemused denial. “But shortly, that man over there is going to try to pay for his meal. He’ll find his money missing; and, if he’s half as smart as a chimpanzee, he’ll look here first.”

“A chimp and Z?” Astryd repeated, but Larson silenced her with an exasperated wave.

“I doubt he’s got an attorney. In your lawless world of barbarians, he’ll talk with his sword. You’re too damned small to bother with.” Larson glared at Taziar. “So, I’m going to die because you’re crazy. Or perhaps, my dying is your idea of sport. Well, forget it.” Larson leaped to his feet. “I’m giving it back.”

Before Larson could take a step, Taziar hooked his sleeve with a finger. Mimicking the elf’s Bronx accent, he tugged at the fabric, reviving Larson’s earlier play-acted scenario. “Excuse me, Mac. Excuse me. Your purse just happened to fall out of your pocket. I’d like to return it.”

Larson hesitated. “What the hell am I doing?” He retook his seat and jammed the pouch into Taziar’s hand. “You’re the one who wanted sport. You took it. You put it back.”

Taziar rose and bowed with mock servility. “Yes, my lord. At once.” He twisted toward the stranger’s table, and, despite his facetious reply, he examined the man with more than frivolous interest. The tavern contained too few patrons to hide the antics of one. But the inherent danger of Larson’s dare made it even more attractive to Taziar, who had intended nothing different.

A hand tapped Taziar’s shoulder. He whirled to face Larson. The elf’s features bore an expression of somber concentration. “If you get caught, and he kills you before we can stop him, I just want you to know one thing.”

Taziar nodded in acknowledgment, the possibility a particularly unpleasant consequence but one he could not afford to dismiss. “What’s that?”

“I told you so.”

Taziar snorted. “Jerk,” he replied, borrowing Larson’s insult. He shook the knotted lock of hair from his eyes and turned back to study the common room. No object passed his scrutiny unnoticed. Two tables, each with four chairs, stood between the stranger’s seat and his own, the narrow lane they formed comfortably passable. Beyond the man, a table sat in the opposite corner from the door. Beside it, at a diagonal to the stranger, a cracked, oak table occupied a space beside the one with the engrossed couple near the hearth. Someone had crammed six chairs around the flawed table, though its area was constructed to support only four. The corner of one chair partially blocked the walkway, its legs jammed crookedly against its neighbors.

Taziar feigned a yawn. He stretched luxuriously, splaying callused fingers to work loose a cramp. Not wishing to draw attention by pausing overlong, he trotted farther into the barroom. Skirting the dark-haired stranger, he seized an extra chair from the overcrowded table and spun it toward the couple. His action knocked the misplaced chair further askew. Still standing, he leaned across the back of his seat and spoke to the boy in strident, congenial tones. “Ketil! Ketil Arnsson. I thought it was you.” Framing a knowing smile, he tipped his chin subtly toward the girl. “Does your mother know you’re here? And what are you doing this far from home?”

Startled, the youth released his partner’s hand. “But—but I’m not ...”

Taziar interrupted before he could finish. “How’s the apprenticeship going? I saw your father yesterday, and he said ...”