“Well now,” she went on, dumping the chop onto Myron’s plate so roughly and off center that it nearly flipped over. “I remember there were patrols combing the streets for him. They was angry too, shouting that they was gonna hang him, only they never found ole Degan. Turns out that a press-gang near the docks caught him that very night. They didn’t know who he was. They just needed hands for a ship and hauled him off to sea. Like I said, the man is charmed.
“Okay, so this next part I know from reliable folk. Some years later, the ship he was on was attacked by pirates. They done killed the whole crew but somehow ole Degan survived. Who knows how he done it? He probably convinced them pirates he knew where a treasure was buried er sumptin. Anywho, he gets away. Some folks say a storm wrecked the pirate ship, and again he’s the lone survivor. That seems a mite bit lucky for anyone, but for Degan it doesn’t seem so strange. So he ends up in Delgos and gets into trouble again. He’s back to his old tricks, this time stealing from the merchant families at the border villages. He’s going to be executed for sure this time, but then he spins his greatest tale.
“He says he was only taking the money to finance his dream of freeing the common man from the boot of the aristocracy. Can you believe it? Degan Gaunt, a man of the people? Well, that kinda talk plays real well down that way. Those folks on the peninsula hate the monarchies. They swallow it and, what do you know, not only do they let him go—they give him money for his cause! Well, this just tickles Degan, as you could imagine, and he decides to keep the thing going. He travels all over, giving speeches and getting donations. I heard him once when he was preaching his spiel in Colnora. He was actually pretty good at it—all shouts for liberty and freedom, banging his fist on a podium and working up a sweat. Then a’course he passes the hat. But then—” She stopped talking as she struggled to free a troublesome lamb chop from the rest.
“But then?” Alric asked.
“Oh, sorry,” she said. “Somehow he goes from being this traveling sideshow to actually running an army—and a successful one at that! That’s just strange. It’s one thing to be—”
The crowd outside the door began clapping, and a moment later the door to the dining room opened and Degan stepped inside. He had a disapproving sneer on his face.
“You started serving without me?”
No one answered and the cook puckered her lips, continuing to dish out the meal in silence. Degan took a seat and waited impatiently for his plate. Everyone stared at him until he glared back, irritated. “What?”
“This is very good.” Wyatt spoke up, pointing to the lamb on his plate.
“Thank you,” the cook replied.
“If it is, it will be the first time this place has served anything eatable,” Gaunt muttered. “Hurry up, woman!”
The cook, who stood behind him, made a see what I mean? face and dropped a chop on his plate.
“What time will you folks be getting up?” the cook asked. “You’ll be wanting breakfast, won’t you?”
“We’ll be leaving early,” Arista said. She caught a look from her brother. “Isn’t that right, Alric?” she added.
“Yes, yes, ah—dawn, I should think,” he said. “Breakfast should be before that. Something hot, I hope.”
“Seeing the business you’re bringing him, old Ayers would pay to poach venison if you wanted it. Course he ain’t gonna be too pleased you’re leaving tomorrow. I’m sure he’s hoping you’ll be here a week at least.”
“We’re in a hurry,” Arista explained.
Bella looked as if she might say more when the common room door opened again. “Bella, quit bugging them. I don’t pay you to chatter. I have orders for food. I need five stews and a plowman’s meal.”
“All right, all right!” she bellowed back. She turned to the diners and, with an awkward curtsy, rushed off to the kitchen.
The room was dark except for the moonlight that entered through the window and the glow of hot coals in the fireplace. Outside, the wind blew snow against the building. Royce could hear the muffled sounds of voices rising through the floorboards as everyone ate dinner. The shift of furniture, the clink of glasses—he had heard it all before.
Royce’s eyes focused on the street corner outside. He could see the start of the alley between Ingersol’s Leather Shop and a silversmith. It was right there—on that very corner, that exact spot.
“That’s where I came from.” Royce spoke to the empty room, his words condensing on the window’s glass, making a tiny fog.
He remembered nights like this—cold, windy nights when it was hard to get to sleep. Most nights he had slept in a barrel packed with straw, but when it was really cold—the kind of cold that killed—he had climbed into barns and squeezed between sheep and cattle. Doing so was dangerous. Farmers listened to their animals, and if they found intruders, they assumed they were stealing.
Royce had been only eight, maybe ten years old. He had been freezing, his feet and hands numb, his cheeks burning. It was late and he had crawled into the stable on Legends Avenue. The rear stall was blocked off into a makeshift manger for four sheep. They lay curled up as one big wooly bed, their sides rising and falling like breathing pillows. Royce carefully crawled into the middle, feeling their body heat and the soft wool. They bleated at his intrusion, but given the size of the stall, they suffered his presence. In just a few minutes he fell asleep.
He woke to a farmer with a pitchfork. The farmer jabbed and nearly got Royce in the stomach. Royce rolled, taking the tongs in his shoulder. He screamed and scattered the sheep, which bounced off the walls. In the confusion, Royce escaped into the snow. The hour was late. It was still dark, and blood ran down his arm. He had not yet discovered the sewers and had no place to go. He returned to the barrel on the corner and climbed in, pulling as much straw over him as he could.
Royce remembered hearing “Ladies of Engenall” played on a fiddle from inside the Gnome. He listened to them all night: people singing, laughing, clinking glasses—all warm, safe, and happy while outside he shivered and cried. His shoulder screamed in pain. The rags he wore hardened as the blood froze. Then it started to snow. He felt the flakes on his face and thought he would die that night. He was so certain that he prayed, and that was the first and last time he had ever asked the gods for help. The memory was so vivid he could almost smell the straw. He recalled lying there shivering, his eyes shut tight as he had whispered aloud to Novron, asking to be saved. He pleaded, reminding the god that he was only a child—a boy—only he knew that was a lie. He was not a boy—boys were human.
Royce was not human—not entirely. He was a mir, a half-breed, a mongrel.
He knew Novron would not help him. Novron and his father, Maribor, were the gods of men. Why would they listen to the words of an elf, a hated cur whose own parents had thrown him away as trash? Still, he begged for his life anyway. Because he did not look like an elf, the young Royce reasoned that maybe Novron would not notice.
Right down there, on that corner, Royce had begged to live.