1. Drusilla #2
Dru pulls her hand away and shoots her a look. “And what if I am?”
“It was your idea,” Ovi reminds her.
“And just like you to hold that against me.”
Ovi laughs too loud for Dru’s comfort. “It’s clearly the only place in this shithole of a village with anything to drink. You made the right choice.”
“It’s not safe to stop this close to the border of Namicus,” Dru argues. “Not while they resist the Imperium. We should do what we came here for and get out.”
“But I haven’t heard a proper tabernae song in so long,” Ovi whines, ignoring Dru’s concerns. As she often does.
The bard strums the lute softly, deftly, a contradiction to the rough intonations of his voice—though no one else seems to notice, or they don’t care.
From a distance, he’s an attractive man with a strong jaw and striking hazel-green eyes.
But the longer Dru watches him, the more the truth of his profession reveals itself: the gauntness of his admittedly handsome face brings attention to the slight bruising beneath his eyes, one of the teeth inside his mouth appears dead, and his blond hair hangs loose in a matted mess. Even his clothes have seen better days.
The plague of the Imperium before her eyes: an artist suffering for his art.
“There’s nothing proper about this song, Ovi—it’s banned by the Imperium.” Dru leans forward, elbows biting into the table. “And we can’t afford to get arrested.”
A short, round woman with white wiry hair sets a pair of clay cups in front of them and walks away without a word.
Blood-red mulsum wine sloshes up the sides, staining them.
The heady concoction of honey and spices wafts up from it, begging Dru to take a sip.
She could certainly stand to take the edge off after the week she’s had.
Ovidia juts out her lower lip. “But the wine’s here. We can’t leave now.”
Dru grimaces but once again decides not to argue. She never wins anyway, not when Ovidia’s involved.
While Ovi remains enraptured by the song, Dru picks up on a conversation from the patrons behind her, barely audible over the bard’s shrieking.
“Have you heard Anziano is bringing the Valorem Blood Trials back?” one man’s gruff voice asks, loud enough for her to hear him clearly. Interesting . The Imperium doesn’t often receive news of Anziano, the only country left on the known continent that’s managed to remain unconquered.
“What’s it to us if they are?” a woman’s voice answers. “Let ’em kill each other.”
“There’s supposed to be Imperium involvement this time. ”
Another male voice cuts in. “I’ll believe that when I see it. There’s no reason for the Imperium to involve themselves in such savagery.”
The others hum in agreement before going back to their drinks, carrying on as if the Imperium hasn’t been involving themselves in the affairs of “savages” for centuries now. Dru clenches her hands to keep them from doing something she’ll regret.
As the bard keeps on, she takes stock of the crowd. One sweep of the room confirms every patron here is an Imperium soldier. It makes sense, given the location, but she continues to keep up her guard all the same.
At least with all these soldiers here, we won’t be arrested for listening to a pre-Imperium song.
Looking closer at the uniform of the nearest soldier, she recognizes two red eagles on one of their sleeves.
She sighs in relief, her wariness slipping away: they’re mere foot soldiers, which means no ranking officers with the authority to arrest them.
These legionaries will get in just as much trouble—if not more—for being here.
Continuing her inspection, she finds herself drawn to the darkest corner of the tabernae.
It’s occupied by a man who sits so still that he might as well be made of marble.
The deep hood of his black cloak obscures his features, calling more attention to him than he realizes.
A dark blue tunic peeks out from beneath the cloak, the golden pommel of a Gladius sword sparking in the low lamplight.
No wine cup or candle graces his table, nor is there an empty plate of food to be found. Either he hasn’t been here long, or he’s denied every amenity Tabernae Ebrius offered him.
Shoulders rigid, arms crossed, he faces away from the bard, his attention on the door. But, peering over her shoulder, the threshold bears not a soul.
When she looks back, he’s gone.
Dru blinks rapidly, her gaze searching the immediate area, but nothing changes: the man has disappeared.
Confusion muddles her thoughts as she grips Ovi’s arm, murmuring, “Where did that man go? ”
Ovi’s attention on the bard doesn’t stray. “What man?”
Dru tempers her voice. “The one in the corner—who wasn’t eating or drinking.”
Finally, Ovi looks at her, intrigue glittering in her dark green gaze. “It’s not like you to show interest. What was he wearing?” She moves to stand. “I’ll find him?—”
Dru reaches over to clamp a firm hand down on her friend’s shoulder, holding her in place before she exposes them by searching the crowd for a man she can’t be certain she saw.
“Ever heard of lying low?”
“Stellae knows you have,” Ovi mutters, wrenching her arm out of Dru’s grasp.
Dru ignores her jab, still stuck on the strange man. She thought she ate enough today, but imagining a person isn’t a good sign.
Deciding to blame his disappearance on malnutrition and a lack of sleep, Dru takes a sip of her own wine. At the bitter taste, she clicks her tongue. Could use more honey.
“ He bestowed the gift of prophecy;
But her predictions went unperceived
That her city would surely bleed.
For she was cursed for none to believe,
Ne’er to stop the fall of Malum. ”
The song slips into a deluge of wordless chords and plucks. Much less annoying. And as good a time as any to leave.
“We should get going.”
Ovi ignores her as the bard’s voice returns for the final verse.
“ Lying dead in her golden garb,
Her tale on tongues of every bard,
She left her realm beaten and marred,
Gone from this realm was Laelia of Malum. ”
At the last boisterous strum, the room erupts in cheers. Copper coins litter the ground at the bard’s feet, and someone shoves a drink in his hand, which he gladly swallows the entirety of.
Dru presses her fingers into her brow. “Finally.”
Ovi sets down her cup hard on the table. “I don’t understand what music could’ve possibly done to you to make you hate it.”
Dru bites her tongue—no one but her dead mother knows she can sing, and she’ll take that secret to her own grave.
“It’s not the music; it’s the words. Laelia of Malum is completely helpless, never in charge of her own fate. Does that sound like a valiant purpose to you? A tale that should have songs sung about it?”
Ovi finally tears her gaze from the bard, whose adoring fans—despite his dead eye tooth and untamed hair—now crowd the makeshift stage, placing their hands in areas they shouldn’t be.
“Such is the providence of most women under Imperium rule. We were lucky the Faithless found us, gave us a purpose.”
A corner of Dru’s lips tips up in a smile. Every now and then, Ovi says something logical.
“At least we have each other.”
“Whatever that’s worth.”
Dru laughs. “You’d be dead without me.”
Ovi crosses her arms on the table. “Well, I suppose if you insist on being factual.”
“Oh, I do. I really do.” Dru gulps down the rest of her wine. “And at the risk of being factual once again, we need to go.”
Her friend frowns. “At least let me finish my drink.”
The bard plays a new chord, warming up the crowd again—Dru groans. “Please don’t make me suffer through another, I beg you.”
Ovi grins, her parted full lips revealing slightly crooked teeth. “I love it when you beg.”
She downs the rest of her wine while Dru places a couple of coins near their empty cups, and the two of them make for the door. Dru opens it for Ovi, the hinges creaking .
“Besides,” Ovi murmurs, a cool gust and lambent firelight catch in her hair as she pulls her hood over her head, “if we’re quick with our unfortunate friend behind the blue door, we can come right ba?—”
The squelching of an arrowhead finding its mark cuts her off.