“I don’t know,” Roye said, sinking his face into his hands. “I swear to you by the king’s crown, I don’t know anything more. They both left me. The Drugaen and her. Like a privy stall in a high wind!”
Tsyrke pushed away from the counter, looking once more at the cup of Spider Ale before him. He started to reach for it and then closed his hand. “You can’t even remember the man’s name. Blustering idiot. Do you know where they went – where they were headed? You don’t remember anything at all? Why did Secrist start a fight?”
Roye shook his head. “It’s ruined me. There was a knight…”
Tsyrke bowed his head and muttered a dark oath. “No wonder there was a fight.” He rubbed his forehead. “Secrist would attack a knight from Owen Draw on sight. Ban it, ban it, ban it.”
Roye suddenly remembered. “Oh, and there were Shae here too! Never paid for their drinks either, the rooks. There were four of ‘em – no! The four came looking for this young one. There were five! He sat over there and slipped out when the fighting started. I don’t remember it very well.”
“You were probably hiding under a table,” Tsyrke said acidly.
“But then the Sleepwalker came in at the end and took the boy away, and ‘Stasy and Flent went with him I think. They were all huddled up in that corner over there, talking at that table.” He lifted his head and pointed.
Roye blinked with surprise. There was a man in black robes sitting at the table that had been empty all night. His bowels turned to ice. “Who in Achrolese’s name are…?” His voice snipped off mutely and he stood frozen.
Tsyrke straightened and turned. He peered into the dark corner of the tavern. “Mage,” he said simply. The Sorian met him in the center of the tavern where the center beam looked as if an axe had gone to work on it.
The Sorian’s voice was soft. “There was enough blood spilled here to tell a great many stories. They’re going to Landmoor.”
Nodding, Tsyrke went to the door and pulled the crossbar up. He tugged the door open. A gust of wind careened into the tavern, tossing Roye’s hair wildly, but he stared at empty space. They stepped back into the mist-shrouded city and passed over a snoring drunk lying in the street.
When the door shut behind them, Roye awoke suddenly from the daze, startled. He slowly lifted his head, blinking. His eyes went from the booth in the corner to the front door rattling with the wind. Scratching his throat vigorously, he thought a moment. “Who was I talking…?”
He wiped his mouth and started shuffling across the floor. He dropped the crossbar into its cradle, securing the door, and rubbed his scalp. “Could have sworn I’d locked it already,” he muttered to himself, taking a swallow from Tsyrke’s half-sipped cup.
*
It was a searing pain inside his heart, growing more unbearable with each step. She was gone from Sol – beyond the reach of his protection. She was heading towards the most dangerous region of the kingdom. He swore softly to himself, cursing the winds that had blown against the sails. He was late. Too late.
Glass lanterns hooked on tall iron poles lit the misty cobblestone street. The quavering howl of a sewer mutt echoed from an alley across the way. The air smelled like an old wharf – a familiar, comforting scent to a man who had spent nearly his whole life at sea. The sound of Tsyrke’s boots scraped on the gritty stone before thumping on the soft wet wood of the docks. “How long have you been waiting for me?” he asked the Sorian.
“Stop a moment, my friend. You need to steel yourself for what’s ahead. The cravings will be strong tonight.”
Tsyrke nodded and stopped, leaning back on a dockpost. He wanted a drink so badly he could hardly think. He rubbed his eyes, trying to banish the images of Ticastasy’s smiles. He was tempted to yank out his sword and try splitting the dockpost.
“I was surprised when I did not find you here already, Commander. Bad weather? The fog?”
Tsyrke shook his head. Mage was trying to help. Trying to focus him on his responsibility. He was the Commander of the Shoreland Regiment, not an Ilvaren sea captain. Focus on the title. Always focus. “The business in Harper Ket delayed me. I bought the homestead in Ishtol.”
“A place for the girl?” Mage asked with a voice void of judgment.
Tsyrke knew he could hide nothing from the Sorian. It wasn’t possible. Yet the green-eyed old man still asked questions – even ones he knew the answers to. They were as different as a breeze and a gale, but something had always kept them blowing in the same direction.
“Did you pester my grandfather with questions about his women?”