Nightlord: Orb (95 page)

As I said, not my idea of a quality establishment.  On the other hand, it was a six-piece band and quite a good one.  Mary liked the place.  We found seats near the stage and did all the usual things—clapped along, sang with the crowd on refrains, and so on.

Okay, yes.  I did enjoy it.  I admit it.

A little later, there came a crash and clatter, followed by much laughter.  A quick glance showed a tray, scattered mugs, pieces of mugs, and a badly-dampened man in the baron’s colors, rubbing his head while chuckling at the horrified teenaged serving-boy.  The knight was good about it; he even picked up a couple of the mugs.  Another knight chanted and waved his hands for several moments, a spell to dry his dampened fellow.

I noticed, because of my own beard, the fuzzy status of the room.  The obviously military or guard types were clean-shaven.  Maybe it was regulation.  The civilians seemed divided about evenly on the facial hair front, wearing either longer beards or none at all.

On the other hand, watching the crowd also showed me less pleasant things.  One of the serving-girls—Eight years old?  Nine?  Ten, and small for her age?—was also on mug-gathering duty.  She kept steering her course around a table full of city guards.  When she got too close, I saw why.  They kept harassing her.

I won’t go into specifics.  I prefer not to think about it.  All I’ll say about it is this: If it had been Tianna, nine years ago, I would have not only let her incinerate them, but let Firebrand race her to see who could carbonize bone first.  I admit I may be a bit unreasonable about grown men being too touchy-feely with children.  Sue me.

Nobody else seemed to notice.  Well, other guardsmen noticed, but paid no attention.  The knights didn’t seem to see it, or deliberately chose not to see it.  The owner or manager or whatever, he saw it, but he said nothing.  Maybe it was a case of public versus private.  It’s one thing to joke about, another thing to follow through. She might be harassed, but was otherwise perfectly safe.  Maybe. Something like that.  It might be a cultural thing I never heard of.  I don’t get out much to touch base with the man on the street.

I still didn’t like it.  If Rendal was still Commander of the City Guard for Mochara and Karvalen, he and I were going to have words.

I glanced Mary’s way.  She was enjoying the music with the intense delight of the tourist.  Well, that was fair.  I didn’t want to spoil our outing, so I signaled the girl and she came over.  After a bit of negotiation, I gave her one of the hexagonal gold coins we salvaged from the amateur archaeologists.  It was probably about what the guards’ table could manage to drink in one night.  She ran it back to the manager.  He took the coin, eyed me, nodded, and sent her back.

We now had a personal waiter.  My objective was fulfilled: she didn’t have to go anywhere near the guardsmen.  A nice compromise, I thought.  Problem solved without violence and without disrupting our date.  Perfect.

For all of ten minutes.

The shadow loomed over me and resolved into a guard.

“Hey, skinny.  What’s the idea of stealing our pretty little servant?”

“Renting,” I corrected.

“Whatever.  We miss her over at our table.”

I rubbed my temples.  Mary glanced at the guard, then at me.

“Is this guy bothering you?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Is it legal to kill him?”

“Doubt it.”

“But can I get away with it?”

“Too many witnesses,” I pointed out.

“Hey!” protested the subject of our debate, “is this bitch really threatening to kill me?”  His disbelief was plain.

“No, I’m asking if I can get away with it.  If I were threatening you, you would be sitting in a puddle of your own urine and crying.”  To me she added, “Why is he trying to be intimidating?”

“I hired us a personal waitress while we’re here.  He wants her.”

“The kid?”

“Yes.”

“You and children,” she sighed.  “Fine.  But we’re going to dinner when you’re done here.”

“Yes, dear.”

I stood up, smiling, teeth hidden behind my lips.

“My good man,” I began, and he hit me.  He crossed my jaw with a left and put his right into my gut, low, just in the sweet spot between the belly button and the groin.  They were really good hits and I felt them.  When I bent over from the body shot, he smacked my head down on the table and grabbed my left wrist.  The musicians quit about then and several people let out whoops of enthusiasm—dinner and a show!

He had my left arm out and twisted, locked in place.  It was a nice hold, I have to admit.  Painful, too, all the way from wrist to shoulder.  I don’t think he was trying to break anything, but on mortal flesh and bone it would have been close.  I think he was annoyed with me.  The way he ground my nose and cheek into the rough-hewn tabletop with his other hand was another clue.  I wasn’t sure at if he drew blood by scraping my face on the rough wood.  It felt like it.

How ironic is that?  I really do need more self-defense classes.  Either that, or I need to be even more paranoid than I already am.

“Now you listen up you pompous shit,” he growled.  “You don’t come in here and throw money around just to get your way, see?  We don’t like you rich folk slumming it and sneering down your noses, pretending to be better than us.  You take your mouthy little woman and whimper your ass out the door before I kick it into the street.”

Several options went through my head while lancing pains went through my arm and shoulder.  I think I would have probably gone with the idea of doing as he said and avoiding further trouble, except for one thing:  The frightened look on the little girl’s face.  In retrospect, it might have been from the violence in close proximity, not a fear of what would happen afterward.  I suppose I should have thought of that, but I’m not at my best with my face squashed against old beer and splinters.

I stomped on one of his feet.  Night or day, I still weigh about three times what you’d expect—and I’m disproportionally strong for someone with that kind of muscle density.  Something in his foot made a snapping sort of crunching noise.  He let go of me, hopping backward and howling, and I pushed him.  He toppled backward and collapsed in a heap.

The rest of his table came for me, three men, more than ready to brawl.  The two in the lead came in high, trying to grab me, throw me down, pin me.  They were thinking of me as a human being to be subdued.

I’m tall and thin; I don’t look strong enough to absorb the charge of two medium-to-large men, much less half-shove, half-throw them anywhere.  They came toward me, side-by-side.  I brought my hands up in front of myself, between them, and swept my fists to either side.  I took one of them in the shoulder, the other in the head.  Both of them were surprised to be hit so hard.  I remembered to follow through, continuing the motion, and they wound up going more sideways than forward.  They crashed into tables and other people, much to the amusement of the rest of the crowd.  In the background, I heard the proprietor wailing about no fighting.

The last man came in low while the other two were departing.  He got me around the waist in a tackle; I went down heavily.  He landed on top, left arm around my waist, and tried for my groin with his right fist.  I raised one leg and blocked with my thigh.  He twisted and punched but couldn’t get a good angle; he also couldn’t get his arm out from underneath me.  He settled for hitting me in the guts, slightly below the belt line, the same spot the other guy already tenderized,
wham-wham-wham!

Oh, I wanted to crush his face!  Instead, I grabbed the back of his head and pulled his face into view; I didn’t give him much of a choice, unless he wanted to rip his own scalp off in resisting.  I hit him with a left, straight in, broke his nose, and stunned him.  A quick arch of my back to free his arm and a rough shove with my foot sent him skidding across the floor.  He broke the legs out from under another table and scattered drinks.

The other two waded back in, carrying chairs.  At least it was still a brawl.  There were no actual weapons, only improvised ones.  The chairs were heavy things—durable.  This was going to sting.

One came at me overhand, trying to bring the chair down on my head.  The other swung sideways.  I turned to take the side-shot with my back and shoulder.  I raised the other arm to both block the attack and to hit the overhand chair with my forearm.  Both chairs broke on impact, but none of my bones did.  I’m more durable than I look.  The impacts didn’t stagger me as much as I feared, either.

While they recovered from their swings, I kicked one of them in the knee.  It made a wet, popping sound and he went down, clutching at it and howling.  No adventuring for him.

The remaining guy, still holding a pair of sticks from the broken chair, started laying into me with his impromptu clubs.  I closed with him, getting inside his guard, and took a couple of hits in the process—one on the left arm, defending my head, another in the ribs on that side.  What bothered me most was the thrust, straight into the spot where everyone seems to aim.  I’d call it a stabbing pain, only being stabbed hurts less.  It didn’t double me up—I saw it coming—but it hurt far more than the punches.  It went a long way toward getting my opponent killed. 

I succeeded in getting my arms around his body, under the arms.

He turned a leg against the anticipated knee to the groin, but I surprised him.  I had my arms around him; I raised my hands behind his back, up his neck.  I pushed his head from behind, shot my head forward.  His face met my forehead in a sudden thud. 
Then
I kneed him in the groin, because I was feeling ornery.

I wiped blood from my face—my blood, from the table scrapes—amid laughter and cheers.  It seems everyone loves to watch a fight. I hurt, but nothing seemed about to fall off.  No teeth were loose, but, since the adrenalin started to wear off, the multiply-abused spot in my gut started to complain more stridently.  The rest of my injuries were painful, but minor—bruises, maybe.  My gut was going to stiffen up, though; I could tell.  My facial lacerations started to sting, too.

The cheering died down as I grabbed the four and shoved them together amid groans and whimpers.  I picked up the man with the broken foot.  I put one hand in the throat of his shirt, the other around his belt buckle.  I lifted him overhead like a piece of lumber and held him there at arm’s length.  In the resulting quiet, I explained to him, hopefully in a patient and calm voice.

“Your behavior toward that little girl is reprehensible, especially from someone in a position of authority.  You are a
disgrace!
  You are supposed to set an example, adhere to a higher standard!  You’re lucky to be
alive!

“As of this moment, all four of you are relieved of duty.  Limp or crawl your way to the Temple of Shadow and explain why you’re there.  After they explain why you’re scum, you will go to the Temple of Justice and serve there for thirty days.  And learn how to be a better human being while you’re there!”  I shook him a bit to emphasize my ire.  “Do you understand me?”

He gurgled a bit and nodded.  I dropped him onto his companions.

A hand grasped my upper arm and turned me around.  One of the baron’s knights stood there, frowning at me the frown of a man who finds he has to touch something distasteful.

“These men are part of the City Guard,” he snapped.  “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What
you
should have,” I replied, glaring into his eyes.  Without looking away, I threw a gold coin to the musicians.  The harpist caught it.  “Sorry to have interrupted.”

“Explain yourself!” the knight commanded, not letting go of my arm.

“He means,” replied another knight, in an odd voice, “that we should have stopped the… that we should have stood up for… that we should have been ‘as just and fair as our mortal wisdom will allow.’”

Nobody else seemed to get it, but the knights did.  The first one let go of my arm as though it was on fire.

“I don’t think much of your mortal wisdom,” I told him, softly, keeping eye contact.  “Surely you remember the words?  ‘Righteous in wrath…’?”

“…gentle in peace,” he continued.  The rest of the knights in the room joined in.

“…noble at all times,” came the half-whispered chorus.  Light seemed to dawn on the non-knights.

Silence fell.

“You let this happen,” I growled.  “Those four aren’t the only ones who have disgraced themselves.  They have a penance to do.  As for all the so-called knights here… You cannot understand how utterly disappointed I am with you.”

I held out my hand to Mary.  She took it and rose.  We headed for the door amid a bubble of empty space and a sea of murmuring.  Mary and I made it out the door and into the winter air before she said anything.

“Every inch the king, hmm?” she asked, holding on to my arm.  I leaned on her a little.  My midsection had a fist-sized knot and hurt like hell.  Walking out with dignity took more effort than I like to think about.  As I calmed down, it became harder and harder to ignore my injuries.  It’s one thing to take a hit and wait a minute for it to go away.  It’s another to take a hit and have to deal with it on a continuing basis.  I’m not so good with the second one.

Once we were outside, I hurried us away.  The main streets run in curves, but the city blocks have alleys and side-streets between the buildings.  We ducked into a narrow alley and I leaned back against the wall.