The smell of freshly cut grass did nothing to sooth Daven’s dark mood. He brushed passed several men on the way to the courtyard. These tried to engage him in conversation or offer a pat on the back. They had not let up since the games. His disastrous match during the games was neither worthy of congratulations nor cause for sympathy. His father made his disapproval abundantly clear and Daven took no satisfaction in taking another man’s hand. He simply had no choice.
There were several young maids who had formerly focused their attentions on his brother who now noticed him. They offered any comfort they could to help him heal the new red scar over his right brow. He enjoyed their attentions at first but had grown weary of them. He had never seriously harmed any one in his years of training. These were times of peace. What had happened in that circle felt like war and he had not considered till that moment what that might mean or that he might die. His gullet rose every time he recalled the lump of flesh and bone curled about the hilt of Byron’s stripped sword. He felt his pain as he watched at his pale stunned expression, the overriding shock waves and disorientation as the blood pooled in the dirt-all the agony and disbelief at the sudden loss. He understood in an instant that there was relief in Byron’s face, as if he wanted Daven to do exactly that. As if all he wanted was the torment to ease his suffering.
The congratulations that flowed afterward were distasteful and old men, who thought they understood, simply said:
“There was nothing you could have done.”
Daven reached the stables and found Kallos saddled and waiting for him. He had been a gift from Engle and was supposed to have been bred from the old Duessite bloodlines. Such horses were only slightly less fabled than the people who bred them. He kept the reckless colt stabled just beyond the outer wall of the palace. Kallos was a brash colt the color of burnished copper. Daven’s father had given him a grey stallion, an animal equally as prized and beautiful. Most days he rode Kallos leaving the grey with naught but the stable boys to give him exercise.
Daven charged down the hill toward Traimiss village. He stopped short at the small bridge over a watercourse, dug to feed water to the other side of the village. If he turned east he could follow Engle into Duessa and disappear. Unfortunately, he knew no matter what wonders might await him there. It was not his life. He thought he wanted solitude, but as he looked at the bridge what he really craved was noise and the foulest cup of ale ever brewed.
Daven charged over the bridge reaching the heart of town in minutes; tossing Kallos leads to the first person he saw, a man weighed down with bolts of heavy cloth. It was probably pure reflex, but the man dropped his burden and caught the reins. All his wares were spoiled at his feet in the soft earth. It never occurred to Daven he gave Kallos into the hands of village tailor instead of the smithy. The man smiled and bowed in recognition. He was as pale as the linen he had carried.
Daven stepped through the door of The Harpy and his heart began to pound. Immediately assaulting his nostrils was the smell of men and the earth they dug, mingled with the sour stench of cabbage and fermenting ale. The babble of voices tickled his ears and set a hum in his veins that infused him with a bizarre energy. The floors were dirt and there was dust kicked up on every service. The walls were a dark wood panel, stained in patches from unsatisfied stomachs and rowdy drunks who stumbled too hard against them to find the door.
The Harpy was nicknamed for its colorful patroness Mistress Delilah. She was the only woman in all of Traimiss to run her own establishment. She never owned her age, but her appearance would have put her near to her fifties. It was more likely that she was not yet forty.
She had never been married, drank every man under the table and used language few men dared. The Traimiss Inn was the name on her shingle, but if ever a stranger asked for it by name no one knew what he was talking about. The Harpy survived despite its many empty rooms and the diseased stench of its larder.
Daven loved it. Delilah made certain that the ale and the wine never ran dry and all the spirits she served were sufficient to kill the poison of the rancid meat she served. She always made sure that her girls gave a lot to look at. They knew their trade and their charms seldom required intoxication to appreciate, though Daven knew better than to sample their wares.
He walked inside hoping to find some of the men who had completed the morning watch taking their ease with a few pints. He was thirsty for whatever the madam was serving. The sudden dimness inside The Harpy, after the glare of the midday sun temporally blinded him. While his eyes adjusted Delilah’s dimwitted chore boy stepped forward to block his way. His name was Simon. He may well have sprung from the grime around the place. No one could recall having ever seeing him elsewhere. He smelled like everything sour and foul in The Harpy. His manners were as course and rough as the benches and roughly hewn tables. Simon stood a full head taller than Daven but seemed to have never grown into his gangly limbs.
Daven did not like him. He knew never express it lest Delilah throw him into the streets. She was not in the least bit impressed by him and had thrown him out on several occasions albeit with his father’s blessing.
“Can we help Your Majesty?” Simon’s voice cracked but there was nothing boyish in his steely gaze. His dark hair hung like limp tentacles over his eyes and his beard was patchy and red underneath. Daven suppressed the urge to punch him in the face.
“Ah let him be. As long has he pays for his drink and promises not to terrorize my patrons he can stay.” Delilah barked from across the room.
Daven raised his purse. He removed a few coins and tucked them into his belt before tossing the rest across the room. Simon smiled, revealing his crooked green teeth and stepped aside.
“As bad as all that?” She said, catching it in one hand without spilling a drop from the three tall steins she was carrying. She shook it by her ear and estimating its contents by weight and sound. No doubt she was accurate to the pence.
He had his first stein in hand before he crossed the room. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the gentle bitterness and slight burn as he drained it dry. The second mug arrived before the empty hit the table. A third followed which Daven took care to savor as he walked about greeting the officers. He stopped at a table where many of his father’s men took their leisure. He was itching for a fight and set out with broad boasts and less than subtle insults. It was to no avail. None of the young men present had approached anything near the level of intoxication required to inflate their sense of invincibility to answer his challenge. If they needed a reminder of why they ought to refuse, they need only look over Byron who sat at the next table.
“Come, will no one help me entertain these fine folk,” Daven his eyes came to rest on the square shoulders of Byron. His stomach gripped hard at the sight of him and their locked eyes for an instant of hatred and admiration. He turned his head and focused to a young officer named Roberts, who was with him on West Road guarding King Waldhar.
“There is no retribution if you accept and consider the glory if you prevail.” Daven continued, watching Byron out of the corner of his eye. Byron kept to his seat. His stump was wrapped in dirty gauze and the firm hand of a broad backed, red headed Captain Williams helped bolster his resolve. Daven acted in self defense but he was not satisfied that he had won. He carefully avoided any further eye contact and settled down on a bench. From behind the shield of his stein, he looked over at Byron’s tall form. A mason could cut the stones of a cathedral by the angles of his tall frame. He averted his eyes quickly as Byron shifted his weight, probably sensing his gaze. Daven wondered what would become of him now. He had acted out of self-defense. Byron lost control in their contest and would surely have taken Daven’s head had he not done what he had done.
Another hour passed. No one stood up to him no matter how ridiculous his boasts. Giving up, he quit The Harpy and ventured into the public square. He needed a place in the world that did not vibrate or tilt. He knew he had to keep moving or risk humiliating himself by getting sick on the street. He tried to raise a fistfight with the same hapless tailor and the man turned and ran. The rush of a good knock on the jaw would sober him up enough to get back on Kallos so he could pass out unseen in the woods. Everyone else knew to steer clear of him. They had their lesson in the past and had crooked noses and missing teeth to prove it. Daven started toward the stables carefully planning each step to stay steady and unnoticed. If he could make it to Kallos’ stall he would be happy. He lost count of how many of Delilah’s toxic steins he threw back but his head was keeping score.
“You would dare argue with me?” He heard someone shouting behind him. “Do you take me for a fool?”
Daven smiled as he slowly turned around to answer his challenger. A tomato shaped man covered in flour was not the opponent he expected, not that he was in condition to face a more agile one. A sudden rush flooded his veins and his palms itched with eagerness. It was Jacob, the baker. Judging by disfigured knuckles he knew his way around a fistfight. Since that time he had acquired all the features hazardous to his past and present occupations. His red face glowed to his fleeting hairline.
The object of Jacob’s bluster, however, was not Daven but a scraggly ten year-old boy. Daven had seen him around the village and near the palace gate by the stables. He first noticed his presence following the millennial celebration. Daven supposed he must have been separated from his group. He had seen him lurking about the stables mostly. It was hard to tell his age. He was skin over his bones and so pale Daven could see the workings of vein and muscle just below the surface. His face was never without a smudge of mud or soot and his clothes were little more than rags. His leggings stopped just above his ankles and he wore some kind of strange sort of coarse knit that barely obliged itself to cover his elbows. He and his costume looked as though they might disintegrate at any moment. None of the sculleries or stable boys knew anything about him though several admitted to slipping him food. He was often the object of their tricks and jokes until Daven put an end to it.
"I was promised six for what I done,” said the boy. He pointed to the two coins in his palm emphatically. “And this here's only two. I want the rest of what I was promised.”
"You're lucky to get the two. I never promised you more than that. Now get your scrawny carcass out of here before I take them back and call on the sheriff to lock you up as a thief!"
“You promised me six because you knew I wouldn’t work for you because they promised me four at the smithy.”
The coins they argued for were of little value but would be sufficient for the boy to buy a ladle of milk, hunk of molded cheese and a half a loaf of bread. Twice that amount would have hardly been an imposition to Jacob.
“Than better you should a worked for them now shouldn’t you? At least they would not have noticed your smell!”
The boy’s face turned red. His eyes narrowed and his body shook with rage. He stared down Jacob with an evil eye and a clenched fist. Jacob laughed. The boy’s eyes flicked left. He grabbed one of the loaves and took a defiant bite. Jacob answered by grabbing his arm roughly and twisting. The boy cried out in pain.
"That'll be the two I just paid you."
The boy struggled. He twisted his head and bit Jacob’s hand. He then stomped on the instep of his foot. Jacob yelped in pain. He lost his grip and the boy bolted for the door. He was not quick enough and Jacob managed to catch him by the neck through the doorway.
"You’re paying for more than that bread now!” Jacob roared. "You stinky thief, I'm taking this straight out of your hide! The horsewhip I have in the back should suit you nicely. And you’ll thank me for the kindness once the sheriff has his chance at you!”
The boy made a horrible screech kicking, scratching and biting anything to break away. "You are the thief, lousy...cheap. You didn't pay half of what you owe me. I cleaned your filthy, stinking shutters! Your filthy, stinking walls!! Filthy, stinking you!!! If anyone smells around here it’s you. I hope the whole town hears me! You smell like a dead fish and so does your bread. I’m probably going to die from eating your lousy rotten bread. Watch out he kills you with that smell of his!!” The boy was screaming at the top of his lungs, pretending to choke and grabbing his stomach in agony.
Jacob closed his fist and backhanded the boy, sending him flying into the street where he landed on his face at Daven’s feet. Jacob stomped out after him ready to do more damage. The boy screamed.
"Jacob!" Daven shouted over the top of both of them. "Is not it enough you beat on your own children? Now you have turned to practicing on the street rats as well?"
Jacob stopped and slowly raised his eyes. He was so intent on his prey he did not see who was standing over him. The boy looked up at Daven warily and noiselessly got to his feet.
"My lord, this vermin is robbing me. Ought he not to pay?”
“Yes, I heard what happened.” Daven mustered sufficient dignity to keep from slurring his speech. Jacob turned pale.
“The boy claims I offered what no one in their right mind would pay. Then uses his lies, to justify stealing, my bread."
"Liar!!" shouted the boy, spitting out a mouthful of dirt.
Jacob raised his hand to strike. Daven stepped in between and caught his arm.
"I am inclined to believe the boy,” Daven said. Then lowering his voice, he added: “After all he wasn’t lying about the smell.”
Beads of sweat formed on Jacob’s brow. The boy got behind Daven.
“How much were you supposed to get? I know Jacob is eager to settle your differences in a legal manner,” said Daven and turned toward the boy. He had not moved a muscle. He seemed somewhat bewildered at having Daven arbitrate for him.
"I was promised six. He paid me two. I figure the bread is part of my pay if he gives me no more coin.”
Jacob grunted.
Daven held out his hand to Jacob. He grumbled as he placed two coins in his palm. Daven frowned and wiggled his thumb and Jacob added two more.
“That wasn’t so very hard.” Daven heard himself slurring his S’s slightly and tried to stand up straighter to compensate. Daven raised his brow and nodded his chin.
“May I take my leave? I have had trouble with rats lately had have a lot to clean up after.” Jacob bowed and lumbered away.
The boy reached in to grab his spoils. Daven was quicker and caught hold of his wrist.
“You are a bold one.”
“Thank you milord.” The boy wrinkled his nose as Daven exhaled. “I am hungry. I’d like to take what’s mine.” He was wearing a funny brown pouch around his neck that caught Daven’s eye.
“You mean what is mine?” Daven reached a finger toward it and the boy clutched it away.
“Milord, I did the work. Doesn’t that mean the money is mine?”
“I earned it. I call it a fine. He broke your contract so by law he must pay a fine to the crown. I am the law today so he paid that to me. Nothing in the law says I must pay that back to you.”
The boy’s jaw dropped.
“Do you think that is fair?”
“No, milord. I’m not afraid to say so.” He crossed his arms.
“It is however just, if justice be defined by the letter of the law.”
“I don’t know about what is written in books much but I know what’s right and that money is mine. I earned it.”
Daven smiled. He knelt down to the boy’s level, steadying himself with his empty palm.
“You’re not afraid of anything are you?”
“If I let myself be afraid I might never survive. Might I have my money, Sire?”
Daven chuckled and handed it to him along with a piece of gold he kept tucked away in his sleeve.
“You’ve earned it.”
The boy looked down and shook his head. “The gold isn’t mine sire.”
“You will not take it?”
“I should be accused of stealing then. I could not take it.”
“You truly are a singular creature. Do you have a name?”
“Yes.”
“Will you not tell me it or should I keep on calling you boy?”
The boy looked around nervously. Daven waited and waited. At last the boy cleared his throat and said in a whisper:
“Tim. I come when you call me Tim.”
Daven laughed until he nearly choked.
“Truly Tim, we need such jesters as you in my father’s court. Do you have any family?”
“None living that I recall.”
Tim seemed to tilt sideways and Daven put a hand down to steady himself. Just beyond the boy a small group of spectators began to gather. Daven put his hands on Tim’s shoulders and stood up.
“I see you at the stables sometimes. Do you know the game where they play with wooden swords?” Daven was careful not to let his voice carry to the crowd.
Tim looked round behind him. “I don’t like people looking at me.”
“And I always draw a crowd. Listen, I’m in no shape to face these people but if we give them a bit of entertainment perhaps they’ll go away after its over.” He winked at him and the boy’s eyes brightened in a way that Daven caught his breath.
“I don’t think your right. Do I have to do what you say milord?”
Daven’s gaped at him. He had never met a bolder creature. “You are extraordinary. Of course you must do what I say but I’ll make it easy for you. I promise not to let you get hurt.” "What kind of game is it that you have to promise me that?"
“Swords are the only game I like to play.”
“We have no wooden swords.” Tim protested.
“You have played with the other boys have you not? Once I stopped them from teasing you I know the stable hands taught you to play. I saw it.”
The boy nodded slowly and bit his bottom lip.
“I dare say when I am not about they still plague you. But answer me this, what do you think will happen after you tell them you crossed swords in a game with me?" Daven looked at his sword and judged it too big for the boy. So he drew a long dagger that he kept at his belt and handed it to him. “You cannot use a blade if you can’t lift it.”
Tim nodded but he only had eyes for the sword. His face was full of wonder and delight.
Daven chuckled. “This is an exhibition nothing more. I will be on the defense.”
“How long do we play to?”
"My lord, he is a child. There is no glory or honor in a challenge such as that." Daven recognized the booming voice of Captain Williams. He must have been called out to put an end to it. Daven’s stomach flipped. This was far more public than he planned. Williams’ challenge only made matters worse. He looked at Tim who was making tentative swings at the air. If he called things off now, it would be an embarrassment for him but would Tim suffer humiliation? No he had to give the boy a chance to look credible.
“Milord.” Williams’s called again.
Daven raised his hand to silence him, and kept his eyes trained on the boy. He spoke carefully so that only Tim could hear him.
“I promise to recommend you for a squire-my own should I be at liberty to choose. Right now we even have a small boy who came to us the only survivor from an attack of highwaymen. My father arranged that he should go through training when he is old enough.”
"I already earned my money." The boy returned evenly.
"You are quick and wiry. I promise you won’t get hurt.” Then more loudly he added: “We will each make five passes only. William’s will count. The object is for…” he gestured towards Tim and caught his look of alarm out of the corner of his eye. “The boy here to make contact. Do you have a decision?”
“Sire I beg you…” Williams interjected. His face was as red as his beard.
“The king and his subjects commend even the smallest of knights!” Daven returned. He marched over to Williams and held out his hand. “So our games may be without dangerous interruption and so my fine boy may have the dignity of a real weapon.” Daven knew he could not refuse him.
The Harpy emptied into the street. This had to look like a lesson at the very least. Daven walked back toward Tim with Williams’ sword in his hand. He traded him for the long dagger he had offered him earlier. There was definitely iron in the boy’s eyes.
“Tell me, you do mean to win?”
"I can always use ten in gold." Tim took hold of the sword with both hands and no sign of weakness.
“I think you will handle this better than any of them think. I promise I will not forget what you do here today.”
Just then Daven felt a pricking at the back of his neck. He looked round and sensed yet another disapproving gaze coming from hooded figure just joining the crowd. If he had paid closer attention he would have known the stranger at once. Only in the luxury of hindsight did he consider how easily a lingering look might have averted disaster.
