8. Charm & Manners #2
“How long did it take ye to learn that?” Torren asked. Then he sliced another chunk of his roast and washed it down with a sip of Brandlewine.
“It’s easy, if you know how to watch people.”
Torren grunted.
They ate the rest of their meal in silence.
Cypress, no doubt, was memorizing exits and floor plans, tracking faces through the crowd.
Torren, on the other hand, was doing the same, but he was looking for his people.
Ellisar would have returned to camp by now, but Torren would not have been surprised to find someone else waiting for him here.
However, there wasn’t a familiar face amongst the guests at the inn. He supposed it was just as well. Traveling would be quicker without another to slow them down.
Torren was on edge, despite his relaxed pose in the chair, the carefree smiles he sent toward the brunette barmaid. Far too many men in this establishment were looking at Cypress like they had something to prove. Like she was their next meal.
Sighing, Torren ate the last of his roast, washing it down with the dregs of the Brandlewine, and signaled for another. Cypress raised her brow, draining hers as well.
“Another?” He asked, looking the Lass up and down.
“Is that a problem?” She retorted, placing her chin in her palm, gazing straight through him.
“Depends on whether you’ll need help getting into bed?” Torren asked, leaning toward her.
“Does that line ever work for you?”
Torren scoffed. “What line?”
Cypress smiled, cheeks raising. “No, thief, you will not need to help me into bed.”
“Are you sure you can handle a sword like that in your condition?” He asked, looking down her body toward her belt, and the sword sheathed there.
Cypress smirked, leaning toward him a fraction more. “If you don’t think I can hold my drink, Thief, you are mistaken.” And there was that spine of steel again, the minute shift in stance that made the hair on Torren’s arm rise.
He relented, leaning back in his chair with his hands raised between them in acquiescence as another pair of glasses filled with Brandlewine appeared on the table before them.
“The brunette likes you,” Cypress commented, tracking the barmaid’s movements through the inn.
Torren chuckled. “All brunettes like me,” he said, and threw an arm across her shoulders, watching the faces of some of the men in the room. The ones who’d paid a bit too much attention to the drink in Cypress’s cups.
Regrettably, Torren would not be meeting with the barmaid tonight.
Cypress looked at his arm with one baleful eye, and an elegantly arched eyebrow raised. “What are you doing?”
“Are we not friends?” Torren asked, giving her his widest smile.
Cypress curled her lip and opened her mouth to retort.
“Don’t answer that,” Torren said, laughing lightly. Then, he released her, pulling a lock of hair through his fingers as they separated. Perhaps if the men in the room thought she was spoken for, they wouldn’t make idiotic decisions when they were deep in their cups.
“We should get some rest,” Cypress said in a tone that brooked no arguments.
“I suppose we should,” Torren agreed, though it was a mistake to leave the main rooms so early. “Go on. I know what room you’re in. I’ll get you if there's trouble.”
“And I’m to trust you won't galavant away in my absence?” Cypress retorted, crossing her arms.
“Lass, we’ve been over this. I can’t get what I need until you tell the King the Wylds are awakening. So, unless you’d like to turn around now, so we don’t have to trek across the entire continent?”
Cypress raised her chin. “I won’t abandon my duty.”
“You could just say you saw one of the Old Ones in Grethnah,” Torren suggested, though he knew better to think she’d accept the subterfuge.
Her face darkened, brows lowering over uncommon eyes.
“Right. Go on. Get cleaned up and get some of that lady-like beauty rest you lot harp about.”
“Perhaps you could use a clean-up and some beauty rest, Torren. I doubt the brunette wants a dusty vagabond like yourself,” Cypress retorted as she stood from the table, her half finished Brandlewine in hand.
Torren choked on his drink, amusement flooding him as he watched Cypress ascend the staircase and disappear down the hall. Thankfully, the room doors weren’t visible from the hall and the inhabitants within.
But he wanted to see who would follow Cypress up the stairs.
Torren finished his drink. The wine wouldn’t affect him, no matter if he drank a whole barrel or two. Pixie blood ran rampant through his veins, which made human spirits nothing more than juice.
At some point, a bard struck up a lively tune on a lyre, a pair of flutes trilling away in a lovely melody. It was seemingly a popular tune around these parts, as many in the crowd took up the tune, tapping their feet and pounding their fists on the table in time with the rhythm.
One of the men Torren had been keeping an eye on all evening kept glancing toward the upper balcony leading to the rooms, as he had when Cypress disappeared.
Torren could feel the violence seeping through the man’s pores. The man was as deep in his cups as Torren appeared to be, and like his cohorts, made no attempt to hide their thoughts and chatter about the woman who came screaming in on a horse earlier that day.
It was time to put his plan into motion.
Rising from his chair, Torren stumbled a bit, playing into the character he’d crafted in the hours sitting in the corner of the room. He took the stairs one at a time, accepting the brunette’s help when she rushed over. She ducked under his arm, supporting him up the stairs.
When they ducked just out of sight, Torren straightened, disengaging from the barmaid.
“Two men are about to come up these stairs to kill me. Go down the back way and stay out of sight, send word for my horses to be readied,” Torren ordered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Thank you for your help.”
Then, Torren pushed the girl away, urging her down the rear stairs. He regretted not being able to give the horses more of a rest without the saddles, but there was nothing to be done now. Then, he bent at the waist and began moaning as if he was going to be sick.
Heavy footsteps coming up the stairs sounded almost on cue, and Torren had to suppress a laugh.
Predictable. So predictable.
They barely waited at all before following him up the stairs. Dorne Towne was a convenient stop on the way to the Wylds, but perhaps Torren had allowed convenience to override his senses for too long when he brought Cypress here.
Two men rounded the corner, and Torren faked a retch with his hand pressed to the wall, his head hung so that his hair hid his face.
“Deal with him, I’ll find the girl,” the shorter of the two men ordered his companion.
Torren didn’t give them the opportunity to separate. He pushed off the wall and swung his fist, using the momentum to throw a knuckle duster to the larger male’s chin.
The man’s head whipped to the side with a distinct crunch, and then he dropped to the ground–dead as a doornail.
Which only left the smaller of the two males.
At his companions' disposal, he blanched, but squared up to Torren with a scowl.
Torren waved at the male to begin, his hands hanging loosely at his side.
The man charged with a yell, sloppily swinging his fists in great, heavy arcs. It was as if he were trying to recreate what Torren had done to his friend.
Smiling, Torren easily evaded each blow until the man was red-faced, his breath coming out in great heaves and sweat beading across his brow. It only took another couple of throws like that, with Torren easily keeping out of his reach for the male to exhaust himself.
Torren ducked under the male's arm, then came up behind him and grabbed him.
With his forearm around the male’s throat, head held tight, Torren easily broke his neck.
The crunch was barely louder than the songs still being sung only a stairwell away.
As soon as the male’s heart stopped beating, Torren was on the move.
He quickly dragged the body across the hall, toward the waiting open window.
Below, there was a cart filled with scraps he knew from various reports his people had collected of the Inn’s movements that went to the hog farm nearby.
With one great heave, Torren tossed the body through the window and repeated the process for the first assailant. When he closed the shutters with finality, he finally took a steadying breath. Then, he dusted himself off.
From his position, he could hear the final notes of the song, scraping chairs, and a hushed series of thank you for listening.
The inn was closing down for the evening, it seemed.
There was another hall of rooms on the other side of the Inn, which was where Torren suspected the remaining patrons were meandering off to.
He waited for a few more moments at the top of the stairwell, leaning against the wall in a picture of relaxed comfort. Thankfully, though, no one else followed the two men up the stairs.
The horses should be ready for them by now, but a few hours' rest sounded nice before they departed.
Mind made up, he aimed toward room number eleven, where Cypress was holed up.
Torren knocked twice, then leaned against the frame to wait for the Lass to answer.
The door cracked barely a finger’s width, one greenish eye laying sight on his form before it widened a fraction more.
“What?”
“Change of plans. Can I come in?”
Cypress scoffed. “Because all the ladies in this establishment thought better of themselves and decided not to bother with the likes of you?”
Torren laughed at her, then pushed past and into the room.
“I never said you could come in,” Cypress said, though the latch still clicked behind him when she closed the door and locked it.
“If you must know, I declined her, but that’s not why I’m here,” Torren said, turning to rest his hip against the small desk on the opposite side of the room.