The tavernkeeper stopped. He knew that voice. Even worse, he knew what the voice wanted. Fear knifed him in the ribs, and he took a cautious step backwards. Oh, for Hate’s sake! Why did he have to show up tonight! “Everybody’s gone,” Roye stammered, his mouth dry and hot. “Just cleanin’ up, Tsyrke – why don’t you come back in a few hours...”
“Roye,” the voice warned. “Open the door.”
The owner of the Foxtale dropped the plates on the nearest table. Limping forward, he unlatched the door and pulled it open, fighting against the wind. The sudden chill from the sea cut into his skin and made his teeth chatter. It was Tsyrke Phollen, the sea captain who had taken a liking to Ticastasy. One of the richest men in Ilvaren – and one of the most dangerous.
I should have closed up an hour ago, Roye thought angrily. If I’d been in bed, he wouldn’t have found me here. Ban those two! Ban them to Pitan!
The musty smell of the ocean clung to the man’s clothes and armor. Roye did not think it strange at all that he wore a long hauberk under his thick salt-stained tunic. A man with his reputation was a target for thieves and worse. Tsyrke had a tousle of sandy brown hair that was cropped short like most Shorelanders preferred. The hauberk clinked and rattled as he entered the Foxtale, swinging the door shut behind him. A tattered red cape hung lop-sided down his back, discolored by soot and blood stains. Deep brown eyes glanced over the empty tables and rested at last on Roye. His wind-burned face was hard and showed the faint tug of a frown. He was not happy. Roye’s mind raced for a way to start the conversation.
Tsyrke Phollen stole the chance. “Just be quick, Roye,” he said. “She’s not at home. She’s not in the back. She’s not anywhere in Sol that I could tell. Now where is she?”
“W..who? Oh, ‘Stasy – yes, she’s not in the back...”
Tsyrke scanned the bar, eyeing a keg with hunger in his eyes. “I don’t have much time. Where is she?”
“Would you...like something to drink?” Without waiting for the answer, Roye hurried to the bar and dribbled two cups of Spider Ale. “Come have a sit and let’s talk – you been sailing long? How is your ship?”
The thud of Tsyrke’s boots came across the planked floor and the callused hand closed around the mug. His thumb rubbed across the rim for a moment before he took a deep swallow and savored it. Raising his angry eyes to the tavernkeeper, he said softly, “You don’t care about my ship. You don’t care about me. But you’d better start speaking the truth, Roye – or by Achrolese, I’ll beat it out of you! If she went off with another man, you’d best hurry and tell me.”
Roye saw the huge broadsword strapped to the man’s back and swallowed a few gulps of the ale to steady himself. He didn’t know for certain where Ticastasy had gone, but he thought he had enough of an idea to get Tsyrke out of his tavern.
“Don’t jump to conclusions. She left just the other night, after a huge scrape your brother started in here. The damage alone cost me nearly a hundred Aralonian pieces. And since he’s your brother, I was thinking that…”
The man’s eyes narrowed with contempt. “Secrist came here? Already? Sons of fire, he never arrives in time. He was supposed to be here tomorrow.” He gave Roye a hard look. “I’m not paying you a single piece until I know more. Now where would Ticastasy go? You know she has no family left and no place to stay but here. Who did she go with? The Drugaen?”
“I think so, but I can’t be sure...it’s Hate’s own truth. I swear, she left that night. I think they both went with that Sleepwalker, I don’t know…”
Roye grunted as Tsyrke grabbed his shirt and hauled him up on the counter top. “What in blazes are you talking about?” he thundered. “A Sleepwalker was here?”
Roye winced and panicked. “Calm down, now! Calm down! He wore all black, like I’ve heard they do. Even ‘Stasy thought he was a Sleepwalker.” He tried to shrug but couldn’t in his position. “He started coming to Sol ‘bout the same time you left on your last run.”
Tsyrke released him and he collapsed on the counter. He gripped the ale mug so tightly that Roye was certain it would shatter. “His name?”
Waving his hand, the tavernkeeper said, “Oh, Tsyrke, how was I supposed to remember? She always got to know the folks...” Tsyrke grabbed the fistful of Roye’s shirt again and jerked him closer. “Oh Hate, Tsyrke! Calm down, now. Jamin? Jorim? Something like that. How should I know who he really is? Only ‘Stasy could tell you for sure, and she’s not here.”
Tsyrke shook his head, unclenching the cloth shirt. He stared at the counter top, his fists balled up tightly and he breathed out slowly. “And you think she went with him? You suggest she went away with this Sleepwalker?”