'Fool bard,' Xaphira muttered to the man, who stared at her wide-eyed. 'Don't you know the difference between a tavern brawl and a real fight?' When the terrified fellow didn't respond, Xaphira made a sweeping gesture with her hand out toward the middle of the taproom, where the fisticuffs was still in full rage, though she never took her eyes off her counterpart's. 'Do you see anyone else with real weapons in hand?'
The bard gave one quick shake of his head.
'That's right. At the moment, it's just a bunch of idiots having fun the only way they know how. But the moment you draw steel in here, all the rules change. And you're not ready to play by those rules, believe me. Now keep your head down before you get it taken off by a table.'
Xaphira turned away from the minstrel and back toward the fighting. Beside her, the musician swallowed hard and shrank back even further into the corner, almost seeming to try to hide behind her. Snorting once in disgust, she scanned the perimeter of the room until she spied what she was looking for.
A middle-aged man stood leaning on the railing of the second-story balcony that ran along the entire length of the opposite side of the common area. He was watching the commotion with a bemused smile on his clean- shaven face, holding a mug of something as he rested his folded arms on the balustrade. His thick, curly brown hair was thinning a bit on top, and his skin was ruddy and wrinkled from long hours in the sun. The laces of his tan shirt were loosened, and the fabric was faded in certain spots, showing the darker outline of an absent breastplate. The blade on his hip showed a well-worn grip, a pair of sapphires set in the pommel. Xaphira remembered it, and him, even after almost twelve years.
Quill. You've hardly changed at all, she thought.
When the man noticed he had caught her eye, his smile deepened, an expression of genuine joy, and he casually raised his mug in a toast and gave Xaphira a nod. The woman returned the smile and began to map out a way to reach him.
Unfortunately, the stairs were on the far side of the room, which meant she would have to cross through the middle of the fight. Her original behemoth of an adversary was still clumsily sparring with his drinking mate, both of them with sloppy grins on their faces. From the look of things, the rest of the room had all but given up tangling with those two, for numerous groaning or comatose bodies had formed a rough ring around the pair. Everyone still standing wisely chose to remain well back of the makeshift barrier.
Shrugging her shoulders, Xaphira stood and began to sprint forward, headed directly toward the second fellow, who had managed to find yet another intact bench and was happily swinging it from side to side, keeping his larger companion at bay. When he saw Xaphira approaching, he set himself and drew the bench back, ready to swat at her with all he had. The mercenary gauged the distance, and when it looked about right and the brawler began to swing, she leaped high into the air.
As Xaphira sailed across the open space toward the two dock workers, she kicked out with both feet, planting them directly on the surface of the bench. The jolt of her weight and momentum reversed the bench abruptly, sending it back into the wielder's face. She had anticipated the shift, and she kicked hard off the bench, sailing to her right and landing on a table.
But she didn't stop there. Without pause, she launched herself across the table and up, angling her body toward a large post along one side of the room, one of a series of columns that supported the ceiling high overhead. With yet another great kick, she managed to push off the column, driving herself higher into the air, up toward the balcony of the second floor. As she reached the balustrade and planted her feet along the edge, she reached out and grabbed for the top of the railing.
Her momentum failed her there, though, and her fingers barely brushed the smooth wood without managing to get a grip. Xaphira felt herself beginning to teeter back away from her perch, and she was just beginning to windmill her arms and twist her body back around to recover some semblance of dignity with her fall, when she felt a hand close tightly on her wrist. She felt the tug of being pulled upright and spun back to face her rescuer.
He stood there still, his mug unmoving in his other hand, holding Xaphira and letting her find her own balance. His smile was as broad as ever.
'Hello, Xaphira,' the man known as Miquillon said warmly as hoots and hollers wafted up from below, cheers for her deft stunt that had almost gone awry.
'Hello, Quill,' Xaphira replied. 'It's been too long.'
'I heard you were dead,' he said, stepping back to give Xaphira room to swing her legs over the railing.
'You should know better than to hearken every rumor in the streets,' she said sweetly as she settled to the floor beside him at last. A mug came sailing over the railing, flying between the two as they eyed one another. Xaphira refused to flinch, and Quill hardly moved either. 'And more than that, you should know I'm not so easy to kill.'
At that, Quill began to laugh, a hearty guffaw accompanied by a slap of the railing. 'Aye, that,' he said at last. 'There's no one harder to down than the Ruby Terror of the Reach.'
Xaphira pursed her lips in mock indignation, but before she could spout a proper protest at the moniker her old unit had bestowed upon her, Quill wrapped her in a bear hug. The cheers from below grew louder, accompanied by more shouting, and another mug crashed into the wall next to the embracing couple.
Finally, Quill pulled back. 'Let's find someplace quiet to talk,' he said, motioning to one of the alcoves that lined the second story of the
Xaphira followed the man into the alcove, which was little more than a tiny closet with a table and a pair of benches, all firmly attached to the walls. The thick curtains were enough to muffle the worst of the noise from outside and below, though. Xaphira sat down opposite her old friend and just looked at him.
Still the same, she thought again, though she noted that many of the lines in Quill's weathered face had deepened in the past twelve years, and his eyes had a different look to them. Sadness and wisdom, she decided.
'I won't even ask where you've been all this time,' he began, settling onto the bench opposite Xaphira and just looking at her in an appraising sort of way. 'Though whatever you've been at, it's suited you.'
Xaphira felt herself flush a tiny bit, remembering all over again the shivers he once gave her whenever they found time to be alone. The memories took her back in a rush.
'And you haven't changed a bit,' she replied, smiling warmly.
'You're the worst kind of liar,' Quill said, smirking, 'but I'll let you get away with it just this once.' The smile left his face, then, and the man leaned forward and rested his elbows on the edge of the table, folding his arms in front of himself. 'I missed you. I always wondered-' His gaze flinched away as he stopped himself from finishing the sentence, and Xaphira felt pangs of guilt wash over her. She knew it would come to that eventually, that she would have to answer for disappearing all those years ago, without a word. It still hurt.
'I'm sorry,' she said.
Quill began to dismiss the issue with a wave of his hand. 'No promises were made,' he said. 'We both know the soldiering life is like that.'
'I know, but-' Xaphira began, but then she, too, stopped herself. She wanted to tell him the whole story, explain to her old companion why she had fled the city of Arrabar nearly a dozen years before, to prevent her nephew from being framed for murder. But she couldn't. There was still too much at stake, still a chance that events from before could come back to plague her and her family.
'I had to leave in a hurry,' the mercenary officer revealed. 'If events had permitted, I would have gotten word to you. Someday I'll explain it all.'
Quill nodded, and Xaphira thought she could see his shoulders straighten the slightest bit, as though a burden had been lifted. 'I always knew you were alive,' he said, though Xaphira wasn't sure she believed him. 'And I wondered-but by Tempus's axe, it's good to see you!' he bellowed, reaching across and grasping her hands in his own. His touch was both firm and gentle, a mixture of hearty friendship and the hint of something more, something Xaphira remembered all too keenly. He gave her hands one extra squeeze, leaving no doubt he remembered, too.
'Quill,' Xaphira said, pulling her hands away. It would be too easy to get lost in his touch, and she wanted to, but it would have to wait for another time. Her family was in danger, and she needed to focus on other things at the moment. 'I need some help.' She almost winced, then, when the barest hint of hurt flashed in Miquillon's eyes. He understood that she had not come back just to see an old friend, an old lover. The pain was brief, though, gone again and replaced by that warm smile once more.
