By Chance Met (3 page)
collapsed a few paces from Naeth, his face turning an ugly purplish grey as he struggled for breath. Sickened by the sight, Naeth scrambled out from under the table. Getting to his feet, he looked around to see who was still standing.
He caught sight of Reijir Arthanna just as the Herun slammed a foot into a thug’s belly. When the Deir doubled over, the fief-lord grabbed him by the hair and forced his head down even as he brought his knee up to all but smash the scoundrel’s face in. The Deir slumped to the floor as gore began to obscure his features.
Naeth forced down the bile that rose in his throat.
This isn’t the time or place to be
sick
, he told himself.
A ruffian earlier downed by the True Blood named Dan staggered to his feet. Naeth gasped in disbelief when he yanked out a long-bladed knife.
There was an unspoken rule in the south district that one did not use such weapons within the confines of the taverns and bawdy houses—the measure reduced the number of fight-related fatalities in this violence-prone section of Rikara. Flouting it could lead to the lynching of the miscreant concerned.
The mahogany-haired noble shouted a warning as the armed thug rushed Reijir, slashing the knife back and forth in an attempt to slice him up. Reijir lightly skipped back then ducked under a wild swing. Naeth watched in amazement as, in one fluid motion, the Herun came up, twisted out of harm’s way and, grabbing his foe by the hand that wielded the knife, brutally wrenched his arm back. The Deir bellowed as the limb was yanked right out of its socket. He fell to his knees, his arm dangling uselessly at his side.
It was then that Naeth noticed Gardon creeping up behind the Herun, a thick, broken off plank of wood from one of the splintered tables in hand. Naeth did not pause to think but snatched up a tray and dashed toward the pair. He brought the tray down as hard as he could on Gardon’s head just as the latter was about to bash in the Herun’s.
The tray was not heavy, and the blow only stunned Gardon. But he could not help howling upon impact. Reijir whirled to see him clutching the top of his head and turning to lay a murderous glare on Naeth. Reijir grabbed Gardon by the collar and swung him around to face him. Before Gardon could react, Reijir punched him hard. He collapsed in a heap, a frightful swelling on the side of his jaw joining up with his disjointed nose to further disfigure his unlovely face.
Naeth stared down open-mouthed at the gang leader, fright over his brush with violence inducing him to gulp down air in erratic gasps. The sight of Gardon advancing on him with homicidal rage had stripped him of whatever courage had impelled him to come to Reijir’s aid. If the Herun had not helped him in turn…
Naeth bent over, braced his hands on his knees, and willed away the urge to pass out.
When he became aware of his surroundings once more, he realized the fight was over. Gardon and his cronies littered the floor in various degrees of insensibility. One lay dreadfully still. Tovan and Wilfur and the other helpers dragged them one by one to the entrance and tossed them onto the street outside. Camrion’s spouse, Lemael, was righting tables and clearing away the inevitable debris left by a fight. And the patrons who had chosen to wait out the brawl were already settling down once more at the undamaged tables.
It was just another night in the south district.
Naeth straightened and moved to help his fellow workers. He almost caromed off Camrion when the tavern owner hastened to the bluebloods as they did up their tunics.
For Deira who had just engaged in a vicious brawl, they looked remarkably composed and unbelievably neat and untouched. But for their slightly tousled hair, the faint sheen of perspiration on their faces, and the occasional smudge on their clothes, one would have thought they’d done nothing more strenuous than taken a brisk walk down the lengthy main street of the district.
Curious, Naeth followed Camrion and came up behind him in time to hear the Deir embark on a litany of apologies to the nobles.
“My lords, I beg your pardons!” Camrion entreated, his visions of future patronage by these moneyed Deira evaporating into the miasma of vomit and stale alcohol that permeated the room. “I shouldn’t have let Gardon into the Vomare knowing what a hothead he is! But he swore not to make trouble and—Ah, I’m truly sorry!”
The four looked at him in surprise. “Wherefore the apology?” Rys asked. “This wasn’t your doing.”
“Truth be told, we were getting quite bored,” Ash drawled as he drew on his gloves.
“It’s good to know there’s excitement to be had in this establishment after all.”
Camrion stared at them. “Then-then you aren’t angry, my lords?” he stammered.
Fastening his cloak, Reijir Arthanna snorted. “Angry because you couldn’t keep scum out of a south district tavern?”
Looking beyond Camrion, he spotted Naeth. He crooked a finger at Naeth and
motioned to him to approach. Naeth did so with wide eyes and shaking knees.
“My thanks,” Reijir said with a small smile. “You probably saved me from a cracked skull earlier.”
Naeth blushed under the Herun’s surprisingly kindly regard. He had not thought such hard, knowing eyes could also be gentle. “He-he didn’t fight fairly,” he mumbled.
“Sneaking up on you the way he did.”
The nobles laughed.
“There’s no such thing as fairness in a brawl,” Dan pointed out with a grin. “Best you learn that soonest.”
“Y-yes,
Dyhar
,” Naeth stuttered.
He flushed even deeper when Reijir pressed something into his hand, as much undone by the touch of the Herun’s fingers as by the gold piece he found himself holding.
Gold and silver coins were wholly the province of the very rich. Everyone else dealt in bank notes.
Saints!
He had the equivalent of a fortnight’s pay in the palm of his hand.
“Thank you, Your Grace!” he softly exclaimed. “But there’s no need to compensate me for only doing what was right.”
Reijir eyed him curiously. “You didn’t grow up around here, did you?”
Naeth was taken aback. “Er, nay,
Dyhar
.”
“I thought not. Your speech is different.” Reijir’s forehead creased slightly. “It’s much too refined for this section of Rikara.”
“Oh, well, um, my parents were teachers.”
“Ah, that explains some things. But not all. Watch your back, lad,” Reijir cautioned, pointing his chin at Gardon as the semi-conscious ruffian was none too gently ejected from the premises. “Siding with me has likely made you unpopular with that sorry excuse for a Deir.”
With that, he turned away and strode out of the tavern with the others.
Chapter Two
As closing time neared at the Vomare, the cleaning up for the day proceeded apace even if it meant sweeping between the feet of the remaining customers. It was a rare night that the tavern closed without the need to convince folk, sometimes forcefully, to leave the premises.
Naeth mopped the floor to remove all traces of spit and spilled drink and vomit. It was an unpleasant chore on a regular day. Tonight, congealed blood added to the detritus and the smell of it almost turned his stomach. Only the stench of acrid smoke made him feel sicker.
Finishing, he returned to the back room to collect the used dishcloths and soiled rags.
He bundled them together then picked up the pail of murky water in which he had rinsed the mop. Although Camrion had installed a sink and tap for washing the dishes, to clean anything else, the Vomare workers had to use the public spigot down the road two buildings away.
As he made to leave, Lemael abruptly blocked his way. The Deir thrust two large buckets at him. Both were filled with foul-smelling, semi-liquid refuse from the kitchen.
“Here, take care of the slops!” Lemael snapped.
Naeth stiffened at his brusque order. Camrion’s mate had taken an active dislike to him almost from the moment he introduced himself. Naeth had noticed his ire when Camrion reacted with much pleasure upon discovering Naeth was the son of his good friend from way back. He wondered not for the last time whether his
Adda
Jiron had been more than just friends with the tavern owner. That would certainly explain Lemael’s animosity. There was no comparing Camrion’s surly, ungracious spouse with Naeth’s gentle, well-mannered birthing father.
Whatever the reason for Lemael’s resentment, it had likely been further stoked by the windfall of a gold coin Naeth had come by earlier.
As if I asked for it
, Naeth indignantly thought. Maybe a lowborn heathen like Lemael expected to be paid each time he extended his assistance, but Naeth had been taught better and would never deny his help to someone for lack of recompense.
Scowling, he handed the rags and the pail of rinse water to Tovan. Picking up the brimming buckets, he laboriously carried them through the main room.
“Have a care and don’t go spilling them all over!” Lemael shouted after him.
Naeth stifled a curse and the impulse to look back over his shoulder and glare at Lemael. Cheeks reddened with anger and embarrassment, he hastened out the front door, sighing with appreciation at the swirl of a cool autumn breeze. It was only about a sennight ago that last summer’s oppressive heat started to dissipate. Naeth ducked into the alley beside the tavern.
The alley was faintly lit by two dying torches, and Naeth had to watch his step lest he lost his footing on the slimy stone flooring or found himself treading on and likely squashing rotting rodents and other such unmentionables. A deep gutter ran alongside the building and it was into this that he dumped the contents of the buckets.
This can’t even pass for swill
, Naeth thought, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the odor.
No swine in its right mind would come near this rubbish, let alone consume it.
Naeth rubbed his aching neck. It was hard to believe his present circumstances when only little more than two months ago, he’d been safe and happy in the bosom of his
family. Not to mention living in reek-free conditions that did not induce his belly to roil ever so often. A welling of grief threatened to overwhelm him, and he determinedly quelled it. He would mourn his loss later in his tiny room. Now he had work to do. But for a moment, he lost himself in fair memories, letting them wash away some of his frustration and weariness.
The moment passed. With a resigned sigh, he bent to pick up the empty buckets.
Of a sudden, a large hand clapped over his mouth from behind while a meaty arm encircled his torso.
Terrified, Naeth struggled against his assailant, kicking backward and punching what he could of him. When the Deir only grunted and began to haul him deeper into the alley, he resorted to clawing at him. He must have caught him in a sensitive spot because his captor angrily swore and let him go.
Naeth tried to run past the Deir, but the latter managed to catch him by the hem of his jerkin and pull him back. He spun Naeth around and delivered a brutal punch to his belly. Naeth dropped to his knees, gasping from the pain and fighting for breath. The Deir grabbed him under the arms.
He barely mustered a cry for help as he was dragged into the shadows at the end of the alley.
The gloves were much too elegant for an evening in the stews, but Keiran had insisted he wear them if he wanted to show his only brother his gratitude for such a fine gift. Given Keiran’s penchant for giving him luxurious presents, it was not the first time Reijir had expressed his thanks in similar manner. He rolled his eyes as he considered his sibling’s other eccentricities.
Reijir stepped off the pedestrian path to cross the road to the stable where he’d left his steed. An unexpected sound arrested the motion.
It was a feeble cry, and at first, he mistook it for the mewling of a kit lost in the dark alleys to his right. He heard it again.
"Please… don’t…" A pain-wracked, frightened plea.
Laughter drifted his way from the same direction. Malevolent, lecherous laughter.
Reijir headed for the alley whence the voices had emanated. Silent as a cat, he crept up to the dark passageway, alert for any sign of impending danger. The alley turned slightly to the left.
"Nay! Leave me be!" The cry was weak and anguished.
"And who's going to make me?" sneered a harsh and menacing voice.
Reijir peered around the corner.
At the end of the noisome corridor a slight figure huddled against the wall. His jerkin
and shirt were torn, and the crotch of his breeches ripped open. His face and what Reijir could see of his body were bruised and bloodied. He had been savagely beaten by the hulking Deir in filthy clothing who bent over him and roughly yanked his breeches down to his knees.
The ruffian sneeringly laughed again as he tugged at the tie of his victim’s thin drawers. "Well, my pretty," he jeered, "why don't you just relax and enjoy yourself? No one's coming to your rescue!"
Reijir stepped around the corner. "The lad said nay," he snapped.
The Deir whirled in surprise. Reijir’s glare turned black when he recognized Gardon, the gang leader who had dared to accost him inside the Vomare.
He spoke in clipped tones. "Come over here, dungworm,” he ordered, his voice a shade more threatening. “Away from the boy.”
Gardon approached him slowly. Just as he reached Reijir, he suddenly swung his arm at the fief-lord’s torso. Metal glinted in the dim light.
Reijir nimbly evaded Gardon’s assault, smoothly pulling his knife from his belt as he did. Dodging another attempt to gut him, he shoved his blade deep into Gardon’s beefy right shoulder, twisted it hard then yanked it out in one practiced motion. Yowling, Gardon clapped his hand over the ghastly wound. Before he could recover his wits, Reijir dealt him a sharp blow to the chin.