that he had finished one of the ales, the lager, and had made serious headway on the stout by the time the thought had fully registered confirmed both my suspicions and my panic.
“Let’s take it easy, shall we?” I said, grasping the beer in his hand and pushing it back down onto the table.
“This is great,” he said, apparently unaffected. “Let’s get some more. I didn’t know it would be this much fun, just sitting in a bar.”
I grinned and sat back as he got to work on another ale. I supposed I was overreacting. Things didn’t look so grim after all. I went to the outhouse and, on my way back, walked into Renthrette. She smiled at me rather warmly and I knew that I had somehow gained masculine adventurer points by nearly getting killed again. She was wearing a light summer dress and had let her hair down. It took about thirty seconds for things to get grim.
“I heard you were with Garnet and thought I’d join you.” She smiled, her eyes meeting mine. This rash of goodwill was a veritable epidemic. “I hope you’re looking after him,” she said coyly.
I chuckled and said, “He’s over-”
I had started to point to our table, which she had her back to, when I saw Garnet, sprawled across the table in a pool of spilt beer. He had drunk at least two pints in the time I had urinated away one.
“Er, I think he just left,” I spluttered. “Yes. You can probably catch him if you leave quickly.”
“You can come with me, then.”
“Yes. Yes, I mean, I could do that,” I said, thinking desperately. “But, well. But I have to settle the bill.”
“I’ll wait,” she said, nicer-damn her-than she had ever been before.
“Well, it could take a while. We had some, er. complicated drinks and-”
“Complicated?”
“Yes.”
“How?
“Well, you know. Complicated. Complex.”
She gave me a blank look.
“Mixed!” I exclaimed. “They were mixed drinks and it always takes a while for the barman to figure out how much they cost.”
“Oh,” she said. “I’ll sit down then.”
She turned, took a few steps towards the table where Garnet was now dragging himself upright with a bleary, vacant look in his eyes, and froze.
Then, very slowly, she turned and there was the look I knew so well: cold, cynical, murderous, and reserved entirely for me.
“He drank too quickly. ” I began.
“This is your fault,” she muttered in a voice like dripping acid.
“Renthrette?” said Garnet distantly. “I don’t feel well.”
As his sister turned to him, he seemed to reconsider this statement and amended it.
“I feel
I made a run for it, slamming a few coins on the bar as I left. I could handle a lot of things, but Renthrette protecting her cub from the evil Mr. Hawthorne wasn’t one of them. I had reached the door when I heard the guttural surge and splash of vomit, followed by Renthrette’s imperious yell:
“William Hawthorne, come back here!”
No chance. No chance whatsoever.
SCENE XXXVIII The Razor’s Edge
Garnet had stayed in bed late, groaning. Renthrette had banged on my door, and while I lay still, pretending not to be there, it occurred to me that this was the first time she had actually wanted to come in. The irony was almost unbearable.
It was going to take three people to maintain surveillance on the remaining two Joseph houses. That meant only half of the party could be spared to investigate the Razor’s keep, but since even Lisha’s little band wasn’t stupid enough to go storming a castle with a small army inside, numbers didn’t matter too much. We just had to decide who was going where.
Garnet and Renthrette were tired of surveillance and thought this Razor thing sounded like action. They put their names forward, which would count me out; after the previous evening, I didn’t want to be anywhere near them. I figured I’d just stay where I was and let Mithos chaperone the dismal duo.
I should have guessed that things wouldn’t be decided so democratically. That night I was told to get my stuff together. Orgos and Lisha and I were going to see Mr. Razor and his boys. Garnet and Renthrette, though pleased to see the back of me, must have been livid.
“Will, do you want to ride Tarsha?” asked Lisha as we saddled up.
“Nope,” I said with a slight shudder.
“Why not?” she asked as she launched herself into the saddle.
“Because I value my life,” I answered, “as if you didn’t know. Where’s the wagon?”
“We aren’t taking the wagon,” Orgos beamed. “Too slow. Just fill your saddlebags and we’ll go as we are. Hopefully we’ll be back in a couple of days.”
“By about three or four o’clock we should come to an inn,” said Lisha. “The Sherwood. That’s less than a mile from the keep. We can stay there.”
Orgos grinned at me. I told him to go away, or words to that effect, and he spurred ahead, laughing. My horse started slightly at the movement and I fell off. It was going to be a long day.
The tracks we followed took us directly west towards Shale through meadows of long, sweet-smelling grass, hedged fields of barley, and clustered fruit trees. We went at a canter, occasionally walking the horses to let them get their breath back. Whenever we started to move faster again, I gripped the reins and the beast’s thick mane as tightly as I could until the panic subsided.
We ate our lunch of cold chicken, goat cheese, and coarse-ground oat bread by a clear stream where dragonflies hovered. Orgos chilled a bottle of plum wine in the stream and we shared it among us. Lisha preferred the water. She told us the names of the plants that grew by the stream and their uses, and then I watched her entice a red-and-black butterfly into her fingers and study it carefully, tenderly, before it flew away. I was going to remark that this was a bit odd for the grim party leader, but something in her glance told me not to.
The sun was hot as we rode the rest of the day, so we took it slower than before. I had a very slight headache from the wine, but I was also getting more relaxed and at ease on horseback and the miles passed surprisingly quickly. Orgos told me more tales of ancient battles and heroes, and I recited parts of the banned Thrusian history plays. Orgos lapped it up. It almost felt like I had something in common with this principled swordsman and his artifact of power. Weird.
The sun was still high when we rounded a bend in the hedged track and saw the Sherwood set back from the road, its chimneys placidly curling smoke. I was sweating a little and was glad of the shady porch where we could take our boots off while the stable boy dealt cautiously with Tarsha. The kid looked awestruck and terrified at the same time, which I could relate to.
The innkeeper was glad to see us. He introduced himself and offered us cold roast pheasant for supper. We bathed, changed, and came down to eat as the sun set. Apart from two blokes at the bar, we had the place to ourselves.
“Innkeeper!” I called, trying out the local dialect with fair success. “This is the best piece of roast pheasant I’ve ever had. Do you know that? I mean it.”
The innkeeper smiled with genuine pleasure. The two men at the bar had turned around and were nodding
