Page 108 of Sword & Shadow
Deckard gave a cursory glance at the space, counting seven customers, the musician, and the barkeep. He drew back his hood as he moved to the bar and took a seat. The barkeep, a stout woman with blonde braids and a stained apron, stepped closer. “What’ll yeh have?” she asked in a husky Waulden cadence.
Assuming his fake accent, Deckard gave her a teasing grin. “What’ve you got?”
She returned the smile, adopting a more sultry stance. “Ale,” she said. “Blonde, brown, or red?”
“Brown,” Deckard said.
“Red,” Ethenn mumbled, attempting to cover his Ephrian inflection.
The woman went about her service, giving Deckard a wink as she set a large tankard in front of him. He tipped her generously to keep up the ruse.
Two men at the back of the tavern waved for the barkeep’s attention, and she drifted away.
Ethenn tapped the handle of his tankard worriedly. “Are you sure we should drink?” he asked quietly.
“Drink or not,” Deckard replied under his breath in his normal tone. “I’m not leaving without her.”
Ethenn sighed, lifting his ale. “It’s the leaving part I’m worried about.”
Laughter from a group at the center of the room caught Deckard’s attention. He kept his eyes forward, avoiding notice.He hated to place his back to the room but settled for listening as the men spoke.
“I dunno, Trover,” one man said with a slight slur. “You seemed to enjoy that second hit more than the average blighter.”
A grunt sounded, presumably from Trover. “It felt a’right,” he said, voice like the rusty sign out front. “Was’n so much bringing that hilt down on her lovely brow as it was the feel of her body pressed ag’nst me. Never felt a woman so lean and supple.”
Ethenn choked on his ale.
Deckard clenched his jaw, focusing on the words and not the anger rising within him. He had no way to know if these men were discussing Evylin. But to speak of any woman like that... Deckard’s knuckles grew white on his tankard’s handle.
The barkeep returned, checking on them before stepping into the back. The two other patrons she’d attended rose and clomped through the tavern, the bell above the door clattering as they exited.
After the door shut, the voices of the remaining five patrons spoke up more clearly. “Forty gold,” another man said with a chuckle. “Can yeh imagine forty gold for them two? That’s more than I’ve seen in my lifetime.”
“It ain’t like yer gettin’ much of it, Arn,” said a nasal voice, its tone grating against his broken words. “Far-ty gold divided by the eighteen of us. That’s only...” The man fell silent, and Deckard imagined him counting the math on his fingers.
“That’s nineteen of us, Fourd,” the first man corrected.
“Ah, now I’ve gotta start over,” Fourd lamented.
A new voice joined the group, smoother and more authoritative than the rest. “Two gold a piece,” he said. “Give or take a bit.”
“Who’ll be takin’, and who’ll be givin’?” Trover asked.
“That’s for me to decide, isn’t it?” the leader replied.
The other four men fell silent.
Deckard forced himself to drink, pretending that he wasn’t engrossed in the conversation. The bitter yeast tasted flat. He had confirmation now. Evylin was somewhere in this building, struck twice by this Trover and likely bound. His mind began to torture him with images of all the dark ways they might have harmed her in the past few hours.
A heat rose under his skin.
“Yeh know,” said the first man. “Twenty for that tasty morsel seems short, by my reckoning.”
“Aye, I’d say ’tis, Maurd,” Arn agreed with another wheezy chuckle. “Quite a bit short.”
Maurd let out a long, suggestive sigh. “I think she oughta be...oh, at least a hundred for that fine face.”
“’Nother hundred fer tha’ fine ass too.”
