City of Strife Page 11

  “Don’t you dare,” he said.

  His warning gave Cal a fit of giggles, confirming Hasryan’s fears. His friend threw the cards on the table. “Sorry, mate. Got myself a full house of … who were the 8s? House Serringer?”

  “No one we care about, for sure,” Larryn said.

  He’d folded long ago, so he patted Hasryan’s slumped shoulders as Cal raked the money in. It didn’t matter who finished with the gold—everything returned to the Shelter, where Cal spent as much time as he did in his own flat. Winning was a matter of pride. One day, Hasryan promised himself, he would beat Cal.

  “You really hoped to win against a priest of Ren?” Larryn asked. “Your powers of self-delusion are impressive.”

  “Why don’t you shut your mouth and pass the next draw?” Hasryan answered. “I’m not giving up just yet.”

  He’d need more beer, though. His pint had remained empty, abandoned by the staff. They avoided him on purpose—yet another reminder of why they should always stay in the Shelter. Hasryan grabbed the mug and was about to stand when a nasal voice hailed them from behind.

  “Well, well, well … look at that. Two half-elves and a halfling. They should call you the Halfies Trio. All halfway to being worthwhile.”

  That brilliant gem of wit emanated from a snide, twenty-something human noble—Drake Allastam, heir to the second most important House in Isandor.

  The arrogant asshole had trimmed dark hair, a long straight nose and a pointed chin. He kept his hands on his hips and his chest puffed out, putting forward his family’s crest for all to see. This little shithead had harassed Larryn for as long as Hasryan had known him. Whenever they ventured out of the Lower City and Drake caught wind of it, he followed them around, throwing uninspired insults and trying to provoke Larryn into a fight—which worked more often than not. The noble had his usual goons just a step behind, rippling muscles waiting to be put to good use. Between the glares of other patrons and his empty mug, Hasryan had no patience left to entertain him.

  “You’re right, O glorious Drake. How great would I become without a human half providing me with awful things like a conscience? Perhaps I should give in to my bloodthirsty, scheming impulses more often. Starting … now?”

  Hasryan’s answer knocked Drake’s smirk down a peg, but the young noble flicked two fingers, and his goons drew closer. Larryn’s face had grown an ugly red, and his hands bundled into shaking fists under the table.

  “Halflings aren’t even half a race,” Larryn said. “They’re just small. Take your messy insults elsewhere and stop harassing me. Haven’t you done enough?”

  Drake leaned forward, his voice falling into a low pitch. “After the humiliation you put me through? My mattress still smells! Never. I do what I want.” He straightened up and allowed his words to carry to the entire tavern. “But I guess you have a point about your friend. Wouldn’t call him small, though, considering his girth.”

  Hasryan sprung to his feet, his chair falling with a thunk, and grabbed the front of Drake’s rich doublet. Alone, he might have resisted the impulse. He knew Larryn, however, and his punch would’ve been a second behind. No one insulted Cal in front of them. This city didn’t have a single person more generous with his time and luck, more open-minded and kind-hearted. Cal might be the luckiest soul to walk these bridges, but he shared every ounce of it. He had gone out of his way to earn Hasryan’s friendship, to create a safe group for him, and Hasryan would never forget.

  “Shut up.”

  “What’s the problem?” Drake asked. “Don’t think your friend can take a blow? He has all the fat he needs to cushion it.”

  Hasryan twisted his grip on the doublet with one hand, curling the other into a fist. Cal grabbed his arm right away.

  “It’s okay, Hasryan. Let it go. He's wrong and I'm awesome. I don’t care.”

  Cal might not, but that was only part of the point. This little shit followed Larryn everywhere, mocking him, laughing at his rage. He believed his noble title made him invincible—that because he was Lord Drake Allastam, no one would dare touch him. Everyone knew he’d killed the Shelter’s previous owner, even if Larryn never talked about it. Hasryan wanted to teach him a lesson. He inhaled deeply, unclenched his fist. A soft, self-satisfied laugh crossed Drake’s lips.

  Hasryan grabbed Drake’s clothes with both hands again and yanked him close. He smashed his forehead hard into the noble’s nose, enjoying the loud cracking sound. Blood gushed out, sprinkling red stains in Hasryan’s white hair. His victim stumbled back with an outraged cry and tried to staunch the flow. Hasryan grinned. He could tell Larryn was struggling not to laugh.

  “Get him! Call the guards! This is assault!”

  The two goons surged forward and forced Hasryan to withdraw. He dodged the hands grabbing at him, but another customer smacked his wooden pint on the back of his head. Pain exploded behind his eyes, and Hasryan fell to his knees with a grunt. Larryn stepped between him and the goons, a small knife at the ready. Cal snatched the half-melted silver coin he kept as a holy symbol from his pocket, but Hasryan motioned for him to stay hidden. The wound didn’t warrant healing—it would just turn into a bad headache. Hasryan lumbered to his feet and set his back against Larryn’s, drawing out his blade. Not Brune’s gift, not here, though it remained well within his reach should he need it. His other hand hovered near throwing daggers, half-hidden under his vest.

  Holding his bleeding nose, Drake glared at them. “What a cute couple you make.”

  Larryn choked down a laugh while Hasryan gave the noble a long look-over. Was that supposed to insult him? They protected each other. Or tried to, at least. An overview of the room convinced Hasryan this fight wouldn’t last. A dozen bar patrons circled them, ready to jump into a brawl, equipped with chairs, mugs, and fists. He doubted any would join his side.

  “Not sure we’ve got the best idea here,” he muttered, leaning on Larryn’s left to make himself heard clearly.

  “If I can land a punch on his face, it’ll be worth it,” Larryn answered.

  Hasryan recognized that tone. Once you pushed Larryn past a certain point, he never backed down, no matter the consequences. Better not to waste time arguing. They couldn’t take on a whole tavern by themselves, but Larryn was about to try, the rest of the world be damned. Hasryan tightened the grip on his dagger, then smirked. Cal would have to put his meagre healing skills to work after tonight.

  “Let me open the way, then.”

  He flung two daggers at the goons near Drake, then dashed forward and smacked the flat of his electrified blade against the left one’s cheek. Head-on battle had never been Hasryan’s forte, but his sudden burst destabilized their opponents. Larryn pounced on Drake with a wide grin.

  He punched the noble twice before the crowd was upon them. Hasryan did his best to stay near Larryn and dodge, but he couldn’t keep every strike at bay. Clubs connected with his shoulder, a glass was thrown at him from afar, then someone yanked his legs from under him. He fell on broken glass with a groan and tried to roll away. A kick smashed against his temple, and sparks flew before his eyes. Cal’s voice called to them through the crowd. It seemed incredibly distant.

  The clank of armour interrupted their brutal assault, and alarmed exclamations emerged from patrons. Everyone backed off. Hasryan spat blood on the ground. His split lip bled, he wasn’t sure his left leg was still attached to his body, and his fingers clung to his electrified dagger despite being stepped on several times. A few feet away, Larryn held his side, panting. Four city guards surrounded them, swords gleaming in the tavern’s light. Drake hurried to two of them.

  “Arrest the dark elf. I want to see him pay.”

  Hasryan tried to scramble up, but they kicked his stomach again. The ground spun as his breath escaped. They grabbed his arms, snatched his dagger away, and lifted him to his feet. As they dragged him toward the exit, Larryn stumbled after them. He was grimacing, fists at the ready. Cal pushed through and caught his wrist to stop h
im from attacking the fully armoured guards. Hasryan met their gaze, touched by the worry in their eyes.

  “It’ll be fine. My boss will take care of it,” he said.

  The Crescent Moon Mercenaries dominated the landscape in the Lower City, and Brune would never have achieved this level of success without Hasryan. Together, they had crushed all competition and unearthed dirt on several influential figures in Isandor’s guards, solidifying their position as the mercenary organization to hire and protecting themselves against the law. His friends knew that much, even if they’d never learned the details of Hasryan’s role in it. Larryn gritted his teeth but nodded. Despite the pain in his muscles, Hasryan did his best to straighten up. He countered Drake’s victorious grin with a smirk and winked at the young noble as they walked past him and into the night.

  For the umpteenth time, Larryn yanked his hand back with a hiss. “What even is that shit? It hurts.”

  “Yeah, well, it’ll save you two days of fever. Stop moving.”

  Cal grabbed his wrist and pulled it closer once more before dabbing the numerous cuts on Larryn’s arms with his lemon-based solution. Every time he used this trick, his mind shifted toward Aberah Lake, far to the South, and the less-than-tender care of his mom. She didn’t budge if it stung: you’d gotten yourself into trouble, and those were the consequences. A zealot had snatched control of the region at the time, and Cal had been too young to understand why bringing attention to their family was dangerous. But he’d learned, and it had hurt more than lemon ever could. Now all that was left of his parents were a few household tricks and a sadness that climbed like the tide every other month.

  “I can’t believe you’re protesting this, and not the beating you just took. You didn’t complain so much when you broke the bones at the base of your wrists to escape shackles!”

  Cal had meant to tease, but he regretted it when Larryn’s expression darkened. “Sorry, I was too busy thinking about how an asshole noble had just stabbed my father.” He sighed, leaning back into his chair. “Can’t you just call upon Ren and heal me?”

  “Afraid not.” Cal reached into his small kit for the bandages. He’d closed most of Larryn’s wounds with magic, but Ren’s power didn’t lie in healing. Xe brought luck. Under Xir guidance, you avoided getting hurt at all, and thus never needed divine fixing. Larryn, on the other hand, still had a sizeable cut in his palm from a glass bottle. “You shouldn’t have fought. Maybe it’ll teach you.”

  Larryn straightened up, his attention snapping back to Cal. “He insulted you.”

  “So? I don’t need Hasryan and you to prove you’d fight on my behalf. I know that already.” In fact, they were a little too willing to do so. “You realize Drake used me as bait? It’s bad enough to be mocked, but when you’re the lure to provoke your friends into a brawl, it sucks double time.”

  “I couldn’t let him get away with it.”

  “You should have!” Cal pulled on the bandages tighter than necessary, then captured Larryn’s gaze. He needed him to understand. “I know you think you’re helping me, but you’re wrong. I asked you and Hasryan to stand down and ignore him, and you didn’t listen. You weren’t fighting for me. I’m just your excuse to land a few hits on him again.”

  Cal tied the fabric in place and examined his handiwork. Few would try to treat people from the streets, and he’d learned a handful of tricks over time. Larryn’s propensity to get into fights provided ample practice.

  “Well, if Arathiel had been there, maybe we—”

  “Stop. You can’t blame those absent for actions you regret.”

  Knocks interrupted them, and when Larryn called, Arathiel himself entered. He’d found a cleaner outfit than the mismatched mess he’d arrived at the Shelter in, but still wore short sleeves despite the cold nights. Temperatures outside dropped at an alarming rate, and the common room’s fire didn’t reach most of the Shelter, yet Arathiel continued to go around with inappropriately light clothes. He’d become sick before long.

  Cal cast Larryn a meaningful stare. For all of Arathiel’s peculiarities, he’d proven a kind and warm new friend. From the moment Cal had spotted him waiting at a table, drenched and lost, he’d known Arathiel would be more than a patron. Cal might have no interest in romance, but he loved making new friends and spotted potential ones faster than most developed a crush. His instincts didn’t lie, and if Larryn scared Arathiel with ill-thought words, Cal would have a few choice ones of his own.

  “What’s going on? The common room is so—” Arathiel stopped as he laid eyes on Larryn’s multiple bruises and bandaged hand. “Quiet. What happened?” He closed the door behind himself.

  “Tavern brawl,” Larryn said. “They arrested Hasryan.”

  “What? Why him?”

  Larryn snorted, and Cal sensed the snarky answer long before it came. He interrupted. “He head-butted Drake Allastam. A lord.”

  “This asshole snapped his fingers, and they took him. Simple as that.”

  “What now? How can we help him?”

  This time Larryn laughed. “We can’t. Tonight they’ll beat him up, but tomorrow his boss should bail him out.”

  “That’s …”

  “Typical,” Larryn said. “Typical is the word you’re looking for.”

  “He’ll be okay!” Cal added. “There’s nothing you can do. He’ll be touched to know you worried about him, though.”

  Arathiel half-pouted, half-smiled, as if he couldn’t decide whether it irked him to have to wait or pleased him to learn Hasryan cared what he thought about him. Cal wondered how far that interest went. The bond between these two had forged quickly, but Hasryan had only ever expressed interest in women, and it always stopped at desire. When Cal had asked, Hasryan had shrugged it off as a potential trust issue, saying he’d never met someone he trusted deeply enough to have romantic urges. At the hint of anxiousness in his friend’s voice, Cal had promptly answered, “If you ever get them, tell me how it feels, because I’m forever at a lost.” It drew a smile out of Hasryan, and they let the matter rest.

  Larryn lumbered to his feet with a groan and stretched his muscles. “We should return to the main room. The longer we stay apart, the wilder their theories will become. Cal, can you get the music started again? I’ll prepare some quick snacks to distract them.”

  “And me?” Arathiel asked.

  Larryn shrugged. “You’re welcome to enjoy the fireplace and not freeze those poor arms off.”

  Fear flickered over Arathiel’s expression, and he crossed his arms, trying to subtly inspect them. Questions burned Cal’s lips. Their new friend so often seemed to forget the world, like he now had with the chill and his outfit. He never commented on the stink, and he hadn’t noticed his wound, according to Hasryan. Larryn believed he couldn’t taste anything, so he’d started cooking his meals with a wide range of textures for Arathiel, but the only reaction it had earned him was a suspicious stare when he’d brought a strange tomato jelly. And in Cal’s modest opinion, that weird stuff had deserved the look. Despite his desire to ask about everything and promise Arathiel he could talk to them, Cal locked his questions behind tight lips. He wanted Arathiel to stay comfortable, and if that required intense willpower on his part, then so be it. Cal smiled at their new friend.

  “Come with me. I’ll introduce you to our musicians! Do you dance?”

  And they were off, Arathiel surprising Cal with a wistful story of his sister, who had loved to dance.

  ✵

  Arathiel tightened the cape over his shoulder. He kept thinking it would slip without him noticing, that the hood would fall off and reveal his features. Sneaking and sulking had never been his method of choice, but his other option involved sitting all night at the Shelter and doing nothing. Not much of one. After Cal had revived the music and introduced him to a few regular patrons, Arathiel had pretended he needed fresh air and left. He climbed through the city straight to the Sapphire Guard’s headquarters and prison.

  Arathiel’s
hand clasped over his emergency pouch, almost devoid of coins. It wasn’t empty, though. Inside hid his family’s sigil, the light blue tint washed away by the decades. Or perhaps Arathiel just couldn’t see it anymore. So much looked grey to him now. He approached the two guards near the entrance. Their shoulders hunched and they rubbed their hands—must be cold, then. When they noticed him, however, they snapped to attention.

  “No one goes in at night, sir.”

  “I need to visit someone. To make sure he’ll be all right.”

  The guard scowled. “I said no one—”

  “I heard you.” Arathiel’s soft tone vanished, and he recovered the commanding voice he’d used when training rookies. “He has dark elven blood. Your colleagues must have brought him in earlier, from a tavern brawl.”

  The guard snickered. “Ah, yes. You still can’t get in, sir.”

  “It’s milord.” Arathiel had known it might come to this. Even on a good day, most people weren’t permitted to enter the prisons. You needed influence, and his resided in his title. Voicing it felt wrong, however. Like an old relic trying to pass as modern art. He reached into his pouch and retrieved his family’s sigil. It glinted in the torchlight despite its age, as if winking at him. Mocked even by inanimate objects. Arathiel gritted his teeth and extended his palm. “House Brasten.”

  The guard stifled a groan. He picked up the insignia and squinted. Perhaps in the darkness he wouldn’t notice how old it was. “That’s all good, milord, but he can’t see anyone tonight. He can’t even open his eyes!” Arathiel glared at them, and the two guards’ snickers died. “Come back tomorrow.”

  “I will, and I expect him to be in shape to talk.”

  Arathiel turned on his heel and strode away. He’d maintained a firm tone despite his hammering heart and the doubts crawling into it. If he returned tomorrow, he’d have neither darkness nor his hood to hide himself. They’d ask for more than a sigil to substantiate his claim. Arathiel hurried down a flight of stairs, ignoring the risk inherent to his speed—he moved on instinct, the granite under his boots hard to feel through the numbness of his senses. He would fall long before he even realized his false steps. But the exertion helped clear his mind, and by the time he reached the ground, he’d spent his nervous energy.