Chapter 17 #4
The elf scrunches his nose, his eyes angled and filled with venom. “Ten minutes, at most.” He glances at me, then at my servant. “And no, I wasn’t watching you. Do you think I have time for such frivolities?”
Ronan quirks a brow. “You seem to have time to lead us to a tallup’s breeding grounds, do you not?”
“I thought I’d mentioned the grounds are on my route to Nwatalith.”
I remain silent as Ronan glares at Pluto, and the elf snarls back.
After an hour of walking, I’ve drunk all the water in my cask. We decide to make a stop at a ramshackle wood building, dingier than Pally’s. A stake is pounded into the ground outside, a plank of wood with the word “PUB” etched into the surface and nailed to the stick.
The bartender greets us with a toothy yellow smile. Her ears are about the size of a balled fist, and her lips and eyes are a mix of proportions I’m unused to. I avoid staring.
“What a handsome group,” she giggles in a raspy voice. “Just for yiz, first ale’ll be on the house.”
“Oh, I don’t?—”
Pluto slaps a cold hand over my mouth, and I muffle a surprised scream into it. “That’s very kind of you, Your Ladyship. We’ll take your house specialty.”
I throw a glare at Pluto, who wears a smug expression and avoids eye contact.
We take our seats at a scuffed wooden table, too big for just the three of us, but it looks like there aren’t many customers here, so it shouldn’t be an issue.
The woman reappears, her face dripping with sweat as she clunks three tall beer mugs on the table, then arranges them in front of each of us. She grins wide as she waits, eyes flitting between the elf and my aide, excited for them to take a sip.
Pluto lips the foamy gold liquid at the mug’s rim, slurps down a big gulp, then releases a satisfied gasp. “Delicious, Your Ladyship. Are these home-brewed hops?”
“Yessir. The finest in Myrlbourne. Ye better believe it.”
Ronan swishes the foam in the glass mug, then drains the entire thing without taking a breath. His gasp is much more exaggerated than Pluto’s. My aide avoids the elf’s glower, smiling sweetly at the woman. “Delicious as always. You’ve outdone yourself this time, Your Ladyship.”
Are they in on some kind of joke? The troll-like woman doesn’t look like a Her Ladyship to me.
After a beat, she gawks at me.
I don’t know how to tell her I’m deathly intolerant to liquor.
I know it isn’t a common ailment, and it’s likely she won’t believe me.
Glancing toward my two accomplices, who have both finished their drinks and stare at me expectantly, I feel an immense pressure to take a sip of the amber liquid.
There’s also an uneasiness in their actions—Ronan wrings his hands together and Pluto gnaws on his lips.
Will my decision to not partake end badly for us?
With a breath, my hand grips the smooth glass handle of the mug, and I raise the heavy thing to my face, the liquid sloshing around lazily but never going over the edge. Should I pretend to let it slip? The thought is tempting, but I have a feeling the woman will heartily fetch me another pint.
A bead of sweat forms at my temple as the glass meets my lips and the sparkling liquid seeps through slightly, sizzling onto my tongue.
Its sweet barley taste is nearly sickening, but I manage to gulp down the small amount.
The allergic reaction flares in my throat before rising to my cheeks, making them go numb.
I set the glass down and release a fake gasp. “Very delightful, er, Your Ladyship.”
Her expression goes flat.
She turns away without another word.
Ronan laughs softly. Once she’s out of earshot, he says, “She’s a dwarf, my liege. Hot-headed, with a nasty habit for hospitality. They love to force their services upon their customers. But they are scarce in Aldorin, so what’s left of them is treated like royalty.”
“You dare insult their people?” Pluto growls without humor.
“I’m speaking facts,” Ronan says, smiling. “If I meant to insult someone, it would be more…obvious.”
“Would it, now?”
“Are all elves this difficult?”
“You would know, wouldn’t you? You look familiar.” Pluto flicks me a look. “But your traveling companion has changed.”
Ronan doesn’t respond, so I choke out a quick, “Guilty.”
Pluto snorts.
I mindlessly lift my glass to my lips once more, wrinkling my nose when the acrid stench of liquor burns my nose.
As though culled by the scent, a dull ache sprouts in my ears, and sweat coats my palms. I’d already taken a sip, but the effects of the drink are delayed slightly.
Every blink grows heavy, every inhale laborious.
“Oh! That’s right,” Pluto says abruptly, turning to me. “We came for water, then got wrapped in the owner’s…kindness.”
I raise an eyebrow at Pluto’s pause, but he’s already whistling for a barmaid.
Once she returns with our flasks, filled now with crisp water, we dismiss ourselves. Thankfully I haven’t drunk enough to experience stronger symptoms, but I still keep my focus sharp with each step so I don’t seem so easily affected by drink.
I down a few gulps of water and remind myself that the task at hand involves finding a tallup and returning safely to a hopefully still-in-one-piece elven warrior.
There are much bigger things than my embarrassment or how others view me, and I’m running out of time.