Chapter 4 Toran
Toran
Ale, rum, and Keslo liquor.
Toran poured each into a large pitcher and, swirling the three liquids until they became one frothy concoction, tossed the drink down his throat. It hissed and burned, a snake fighting his inevitable swallow. The mixture settled in his stomach and an easy warmth tapped along his limbs.
He brought the blurring mug up to eye level before licking the dribble from the side. Delicious.
Toran could recognize he was drunk—no sober person would choose to drink, let alone enjoy, the taste of all three liquors together—but he didn’t particularly care. Not caring was a new thing for him. He found it much more appealing than his other option.
Besides, Keslo liquor—imported from the Kono Islands—was supposed to be something of a delicacy. No matter how it came, he wasn’t about to let it sit undrinken.
Undrunken?
Undrunk?
Toran shook his head and took another swig, letting the concoction stew in his mouth a bit before swallowing. The Guard’s Pub was crowded for a Monday night—littered with as many people as the forest had trees.
He’d been here since the pub opened at eleven this morning, but he’d been drinking since the King had brought up Loriana.
After leaving the King’s study—sans journal—he’d nursed the bottle of Keslo liquor until the sun came up.
Then he’d passed out and, upon waking, had come here to find more to drink.
A low ringing in his ears surged, and he listed to the side.
“Watch it,” the man next to him grunted, momentarily stopping his humming to curse Toran out.
He raised his mug in salute before guzzling down the rest of his drink. The liquors roiled in his stomach. He turned his head, letting out a long, low belch in the humming man’s face.
The man shoved Toran behind him. The rest of the people surrounding him did the same until he found himself halfway across the pub, the bar completely out of sight.
Shit.
Now his mug was empty, his flask was empty, and that promise of another drink from the bar was fading fast. He needed a drink before the King’s words came creeping back to mind.
Swinging his empty mug jovially, he approached a table. There were six guards seated around it. He didn’t care about them. He cared only for the three untouched pitchers of ale clustered together in the middle.
Toran slammed his empty mug down on the table—ignoring how, as soon as he let go of the handle, it clattered to the floor. He placed a hand on one man’s shoulder and looked around at the surprised faces surrounding the ale. He was smiling. He was sure of it.
“Friends,” he said to the men and women, leaning down to join their circle. He was sure that was what he said. In fact, he’d bet all the alcohol in his body it was what he said. Yet they looked at him as though he’d vomited into each of their laps.
“Leave,” the woman to Toran’s right said.
“Ah, come on,” he protested, smiling wide at her. He’d lost track of the number of times someone told him he had a great smile. For some reason, he never used it to his advantage when sober. He was pretty stupid sober. “We’re all guards here. We all work for the King. That makes us friends, right?”
Their uniforms did not invoke camaraderie. Despite being completely identical, the black-and-red coat and black slacks had never helped Toran blend in. At least here in the pub, few recognized him, and fewer paid him any mind.
The man directly opposite him stood. “She said leave.”
Toran only kept grinning. “What’s your rank?”
The man glowered, his nostrils flaring to reveal long, dark nose hairs. “There’re no ranks here.”
Nose Hair was right about that. The pub served only guards, but once one entered the bar, all ranks fell away. No one was anyone’s superior or subordinate. To pull rank in the pub was grounds for getting thrown out.
He chuckled, nodding fiercely. “You’re right, you’re right. But, just between us, I know you’re pretty high up there, huh?”
Nose Hair snorted, fluttering the ends of his current namesake. It was confirmation enough.
He leaned in, doing his best to hover over the table rather than collapse onto it. “What do you say we make the night a little more interesting?”
Nose Hair grinned, and the others around the table chuckled softly enough for them to think Toran hadn’t heard. True, he was drunk. That didn’t make him stupid. He’d learned from observing Kohen, of all people, just how often everyone confused the two.
“I’m listening.”
“There’s a deck out back. You, me”—Toran tapped the sword hanging off the belt at his hip—“and our two weapons that are a hell of a lot finer than us. What do you say?”
Nose Hair raised his brows. “I’d ask, what do I get when I win?”
Someone shouted something over by the bar, and soon half the pub was singing and stomping their feet. Toran stomped his foot half-heartedly but didn’t take his eyes off the man across the table. “I win, I get your drinks. You win, you get the honor of throwing me out of the pub.”
For three years, he’d watched the Crown Prince make this same deal with guard after guard. Except, unlike Toran, Kohen had never really been after the ale. No, the ale had only been something to bet. What Kohen had really been after was a fight—a fight he could win.
Nose Hair shook his head. “I have a better idea. You win, I’ll buy you all the drinks you can keep down tonight, but if I win”—Nose Hair nodded to Toran’s belt—“I get the sword.”
Toran pushed off the table, hand clutching the exposed hilt a little tighter. His gut churned at the thought of giving up Cavallis. It was the first sword the King had ever gifted him—the one used in his title ceremony back when he was eight.
His stomach settled as he stared down Nose Hair. “This sword is worth more than a night’s drinks. Make it a month.”
“A week.”
Toran grinned. Nose Hair seriously underestimated his ability to drink. “You have a deal.”
He pulled his hand from Cavallis. Sentimentality was for people who cared.
Nose Hair’s companions, along with a line of curious onlookers, followed them out onto the back deck.
Fencing barricaded three sides of the deck, the remaining side occupied by the studded slats of the pub wall.
Beyond the fence, the sea eddied and churned.
A chilly sea breeze filtered through the fence posts, forcing the gathering spectators’ shoulders to hunch and their collars to hike higher.
Toran tapped out a rhythm on the hilt of his sword, humming along to the tune still wafting from inside the pub.
Nose Hair squared up opposite him. His opponent stood with his back to the wooden fencing, while at Toran’s back spectators formed a half circle. Gadots started changing hands as everyone placed their bets. He hoped a few people were smart enough to bet on him.
Toran was still tapping when Nose Hair’s friend stepped between them. She held all three pitchers of ale in her hands. Rolling her eyes, she said, “First to break skin wins, agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“Try not to cut deep, okay?” She sighed. “Ready? Draw. Fight!”
She stepped out of the way, and Nose Hair wasted no time. He lunged for Toran, barely a breath of air between them.
If Nose Hair thought he had the element of surprise, he was gravely mistaken. Toran was never surprised. Much to Kohen’s chagrin. Toran sidestepped him, holding his sword in front of him at the same angle a sash might fall over his chest.
Nose Hair swung at him, and Toran met his blow, leaning into the block a bit more than he knew he should.
He could already feel his head clearing, his vision solidifying, and his steps becoming more grounded.
His muscles fell into the rhythm of the fight.
It was too bad for Nose Hair. There was only one way the man stood a chance against him—if Toran was so drunk he couldn’t feel his legs. Even then the odds were in his favor.
It wasn’t Nose Hair’s fault. Most guards started their training at sixteen. Toran had started at six.
Nose Hair feigned a strike on the right before swinging at Toran’s left.
With every advance, Nose Hair stomped his feet, sending vibrations through the wooden deck and up into Toran’s knees.
The man’s moves were too sure, too large, and it was only too easy for Toran to predict what he would do next.
He glanced back over his shoulder at the crowd. “Shot, anyone?”
Nose Hair attempted to strike below Toran’s outstretched arm, aiming for the knees, but Toran hopped over the low swipe of Nose Hair’s blade, then kicked at the side of the man’s sword for good measure, sending Nose Hair’s sword and arm swinging.
A small glass found his outstretched palm, and he downed the contents without so much as looking at it. The warm liquid sang down his throat. He tossed the shot glass over the fence and faced forward. With the liquor in his stomach and a new buzz in his head, he was ready.
He launched at his opponent like a viper, only to trip over his own big toe.
But, even stumbling, he was still faster.
Taking advantage of his fall, he allowed the momentum to propel him into a low crouch.
He steadied himself with four fingers pressed to the floor and rolled as a blade struck the deck where his head had been.
Straightening back to his full height, he cast Nose Hair a withering look and strode forward. He’d grown tired of the charade.
Sword clanged against sword as he swung—albeit a bit unenthusiastically—at his opponent again and again.
The cheers around them tittered off into what sounded more like groans.
Nose Hair huffed out breath after breath with every swing of his blade, puffing along like he held a pipe in his hand instead of a sword.
“Toran!”
He knew that voice.
Toran glanced surreptitiously over his shoulder. Quint stood by the door, the irritation on his face as visible as the uniform on his body. Irritation of his own bubbled deep in his gut.
“Just give me a minute,” he called, turning back to the fight. “I’ve got a week’s worth of drinks riding on this.”