Chapter 30 #2
“It’s alright. It’s only Benno and them. It’s only a laugh. Come here.”
She took his face in her hands and kissed him, open-mouthed. After a flinch, Wren kissed her back, and the men whistled low. The farmer’s hand slid from Tilda’s upper arm to the side of her bodice.
Tilda and Wren broke apart, flushed and laughing nervously as they collected their coins.
“Good lass. Good lad.”
“Now,” the farmer murmured. “Now. Another one. A fine one.”
He took out six silvers.
“Reckon our Tilda here’s been kissed proper.
Reckon she’s warm. Reckon she needs a little something to take the edge off, eh, lass?
” He gave Wren a pointed look over the girl’s head.
“So I want you, lad—I want you to slide that hand of yours under the table, put your fingers where that farm-boy put his mouth, and work her nice and slow. While we watch her face. That’s all.
That’s all we want to see, just her face. Three silvers apiece. Three.”
Tilda gave a nervous giggle, while Wren went stiff.
“Tilda.”
“It’s alright. Wren.” The girl swallowed hard, brought both feet up onto the bench, gathering her skirts. “Three silvers, it is. It’s alright. Do it.”
Wren hesitated and slowly lowered his hand.
“Oh, for the gods’ sake,” Richard hissed and slammed his ale down. He crossed the three strides to their table to stand between the farmer and the butcher.
“That is enough.”
“And who the fuck,” said the farmer, “might you be?”
Richard glowered at the girl and boy. “You will both rise, take what is already in your pockets, and leave. You will do it now.”
“Who—” Tilda recovered from her gawk, the performer’s composure slipping back over her face. “Who are you, sir? Mind your own supper. We’re fine. We’re—we’re having a laugh. Benno and this lot are friends. We ain’t no lambs to—”
“Lambs?” Richard chuckled. “No, you are not lambs, girl, for even lambs know to steer clear of wolves. I do not imagine your ringmaster knows what coin you are earning, or what you are about to do for it. I shall be delighted to inform them, in detail, within the hour.”
The colour drained from Tilda and Wren’s faces.
“Sir—sir, please, don’t—”
“Go,” Richard snapped, all the more irritated to see their guileless apprehension. “Now.”
Tilda hurried up, and Wren swung his leg over the bench.
“Now, now, now.” The farmer’s arm cinched around Tilda’s waist, and the bookskeeper snatched Wren by the scruff. “Where’re you going, sweethearts?” The farmer nuzzled at Tilda’s shoulder. “We were only just getting comfortable.”
“Stay,” the carpenter wheedled. “We’re all friends, aren’t we?”
“Come upstairs with us, lovelies, we’ve taken a room—”
“Proper bed, pretties. Proper bed and a proper supper after—”
“No, sirs, we must go,” Tilda yelped, glancing to where Wren was trying to free himself from the bookskeeper’s lap. “The ringmaster—”
Richard’s fist took the farmer in the jaw.
The man’s head snapped sideways. His arm went slack around Tilda’s waist, and she was up and scrambling over the bench, wrenching Wren out of the bookskeeper’s grip.
As they ran out of the tavern’s door, the farmer staggered to follow, but Richard blocked his path.
“Come now.” Richard’s lip curled. “You are already a small man, purchasing the humiliation of those young enough to be your children, and you have the witless temerity to give chase?”
The farmer growled, blood beading the corner of his mouth. His companions rose from the bench. The butcher cracked his knuckles, meaty hands flexing, and the bookskeeper tucked his coin purse away to roll up his sleeves. From behind the bar, the tavern-keeper rang a bell.
“Now, gentlemen. We’ll have none of that under my roof. Take it outside or—”
“Shut your yap, Horand. Or I’ll have a word with your brother-in-law about that unpaid debt of his.
” The farmer rolled his jaw, working it side to side, then sighed at Richard.
“Why’d you have to go and do that, eh? We was only having a laugh.
Lad and lass were willing and grown. You saw the coin come off the table. ”
“Four men who cannot pry themselves into anything that has not first been frightened or bought.” Richard let his arms fall loose at his sides. “I had expected more from Estaran stock. Perhaps you might try a local goat next. That bar, I imagine, is about level.”
The farmer’s expression curdled. “Get him.”
Giddy excitement coursed through Richard.
A fistfight in an Estaran tavern.
How marvellous.
They came at once—the butcher from the left, the bookskeeper from the right, the carpenter straight on.
Richard moved swiftly, relaxing his knees as Dain had taught him.
He sidestepped the butcher’s grasping arms, and kicked him into the bookskeeper’s path.
Their skulls cracked together, and the bookskeeper went down in a heap.
Richard had no time to deal with the staggering butcher, for the carpenter was upon him, swinging a wild punch.
Richard ducked beneath it, grabbed the tankard from the table, and drove it into the man’s gut.
The carpenter folded with a wheeze, and Richard brought the mug down on the back of his head, dropping him flat.
The butcher leapt at him with a bellow. Richard stepped into the charge and jammed his fist into the man’s throat. As the butcher choked, Richard walloped him with the mug. Teeth and bloodied spit went flying, and the butcher collapsed, eyes rolling back.
One left.
Richard faced the farmer with a smirk. “Your turn, I believe.”
The farmer sneered. His eyes flickered blue, and ice erupted from his palm, a sheet that raced across the floor towards Richard’s boots.
Cold seized his ankles, his calves, his knees, locking him in place.
The farmer lunged and slammed Richard’s back into the table behind.
More ice bloomed, clamping around Richard’s wrists, freezing them to the wood.
“Gift mage,” Richard intoned. “How quaint.”
“Quiet you.” The farmer was panting. “You think you’re clever? You think you’re better than us? Marchin’ over, throwin’ your weight around, breakin’ up a private arrangement between willin’ parties?”
His hand closed around Richard’s jaw, fingers digging into the hinge.
“Let’s see how clever you look,” the farmer murmured, forcing Richard’s head sideways, “when I’m done with your face.”
A skinning knife appeared in his free hand, the sort a farmer would carry for dressing rabbits. He pressed the blade against Richard’s cheek, trailing it to his lips.
“I’ll start with the pretty mouth,” the farmer said. “Since you’re so fond of usin’ it.”
The knife’s edge bit into Richard’s cheek, and he rolled his eyes. By the gods, Kaelen was going to go utterly berserk—
A hand caught the farmer’s wrist, nails digging into the skin.
Kaelen’s face was a mask of cold fury. His black hair fell across his forehead, and his eyes burned with lethal promise.
“Over my dead body.”
Kaelen’s punch connected with a crack that echoed off the rafters. The man dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, and the knife clattered to the floor.