them crying into their beer and apologizing to the serving girl. But not for the price of a meal. Not unless I had no better options. This room reeked of trouble. It was a fight waiting to happen. No trouper worth his salt could fail to recognize that.
The broad-shouldered man picked up a wooden mug and sauntered with theatrical casualness over to our table where he pulled out a chair for himself. He smiled a wide, insincere smile through his thick black beard and stuck his hand out in Tempi’s direction. “Hullo there,” he said loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear. “M’ name’s Tam. Yussef?”
Tempi reached out and shook, his own hand looking small and pale gripped in the other man’s huge hairy one. “Tempi.”
Tam grinned at him. “And what’re yeh doin’ in town?”
“We’re just passing through,” I said. “We met up on the road and he was nice enough to walk with me.”
Tam looked me up and down dismissively. “I wan’t talkin’ to you, boy,” he growled. “Mind yer betters.”
Tempi remained silent, watching the big man with the same placid, attentive expression he always wore. I watched his left hand come up to his ear in a gesture I didn’t recognize.
Tam took a drink, watching Tempi all the while. When he lowered his mug, the dark hair around his mouth was wet, and he wiped his forearm across his face to dry it. “I’ve always wonnert,” he said, loud enough for it to carry through the whole room. “Yeh Adem. How much does one of yeh fancy lads make?”
Tempi turned to look at me, his head tilted slightly to one side. I realized he probably couldn’t understand the man’s thick accent.
“He wants to know how much money you earn,” I explained.
Tempi made a wavering motion with one hand. “Complicated.”
Tam leaned over the table. “Wha if yeh were hired to guard a caravan? How much would’ee charge a day?”
“Two jots.” Tempi shrugged. “Three.”
Tam gave a showy laugh, loud enough that I could smell his breath. I’d expected it to stink, but it didn’t. It smelled like cider, sweet with mulling spices. “Yeh hear that boys?” He shouted over his shoulder. “Three jots a day. And he canna hardly talk!”
Most everyone was already watching and listening, and this piece of information brought a low, irritated murmur from the room.
Tam turned back to the table. “Most of us get penny a day, when we get work at all. I get two, ’cause I’m good with horses and can lift up the back of a wagon if I need to.” He rolled his broad shoulders. “Are yeh worth twenny men in a fight?”
I don’t know how much of it Tempi understood, but he seemed to follow the last question fairly well. “Twenty?” he looked around appraisingly. “No. Four.” He wavered his spread hand back and forth uncertainly. “Five.”
This did nothing to improve the atmosphere in the room. Tam shook his head in exaggerated bemusement. “Even if I believed yeh for a second,” he said, “that means yeh should make four or five pennies a day. Not twenny. Wh—”
I put on my most ingratiating smile and leaned into the conversation. “Listen, I—”
Tam’s mug knocked hard against the tabletop, sending a splash of cider leaping up into the air. He gave me a dangerous look that didn’t hold any of the false playfulness he’d been showing Tempi. “Boy,” he said. “Yeh innerupt me again, and I’ll knock yer teeth right out.” He said it without any particular emphasis, as if he were letting me know that if I jumped into the river, I was bound to get wet.
Tam turned back to Tempi. “What makes you think you’re worth three jots a day?”
“Who buys me, buys this.” Tempi held up his hand. “And this.” He pointed to the hilt of his sword. “And this.” He tapped a leather strap that bound his distinctive Adem reds tightly to his chest.
The big man slapped the table hard with the flat of his hand. “So tha’s the secret!” he said. “I need to get me a red shirt!” This brought a chuckle from the room.
Tempi shook his head. “No.”
Tam leaned forward, and flicked at one of the straps near Tempi’s shoulder with a thick finger. “Are yeh saying I’m not good enough to wear a fancy red shirt like yours?” He flicked the strap again.
Tempi nodded easily. “Yes. You are not good enough.”
Tam grinned madly. “What if I said yer mother was a whore?”
The room grew quiet. Tempi turned to look at me.
Unsurprisingly, that hadn’t been one of the words we had shared over the last span of days. For half a moment I considered lying, but there was no way I could manage it. “He says your mother is a person men pay money to have sex with.”
Tempi turned back to the mercenary and nodded graciously. “You are very kind. I thank you.”
Tam’s expression darkened, as if he suspected he was being mocked. “Yeh coward. For a bent penny I’d give yeh such a kickin’ you’d be wearing your pecker backwards.”
Tempi turned to me again. “I do not understand this man,” he said. “Is he attempting to buy sex with me? Or does he wish to fight?”
Laughter roared through the room, and Tam’s face grew red as blood under his beard.
“I’m pretty sure he wants to fight,” I said, trying to keep from laughing myself.
“Ah,” Tempi said. “Why does he not say? Why all of this . . .” He flicked his fingers back and forth and gave me a quizzical look.
“Pauncing around?” I suggested. Tempi’s confidence was having a relaxing effect on me, and I wasn’t above getting a little dig of my own in. After seeing how easily the Adem had dealt with Dedan, I was looking forward to seeing him thump some of the arrogance out of this horse’s ass.
Tempi looked back toward the big man. “If you wish to fight, now stop pauncing around.” The Adem made a broad gesture to the rest of the room. “Go find others to fight with you. Bring enough women to feel safe. Good?” My brief moment of relaxation evaporated as Tempi turned back to me, exasperation thick in his voice. “You people are always talk.”
Tam stomped back to the table where his friends sat throwing dice. “Arright now. Yeh heard him. The little gripshit says he’s worth four of us, so let’s show him the sort of damage four of us can do. Brenden, Ven, Jane, you in?”
A bald man and a tall woman came to their feet, smiling. But the third waved his hand dismissively. “I’m too drunk to fight proper, Tam. But that’s not half as drunk as I’d need to be to go up against a bloodshirt. They’s bastards in a fight. I’s seen it.”
I was no stranger to bar fights. You’d think they’d be rare in a place like the University, but liquor is the great leveler. After six or seven solid drinks, there is very little difference between a miller on the outs with his wife and a young alchemist who’s done poorly on his exams. They’re both equally eager to skin their knuckles on someone else’s teeth.
Even the Eolian, genteel as it was, saw its share of scuffles. If you stayed late enough you had a decent chance of seeing two of the embroidered nobility slapping away at each other.
My point is, when you’re a musician you see a lot of fights. Some people go to the bars to drink. Some go to play dice. Some folk go looking for a fight, and others go hoping to watch a fight.
Folk don’t get hurt as much as you’d expect. Bruises and split lips are usually the worst of it. If you’re unlucky you might lose a tooth or break an arm, but there’s a vast difference between a friendly bar fight and a back-alley koshing. A bar fight has rules and a host of unofficial judges standing around to enforce them. If things start to get vicious spectators are quick to leap in and break things up, because that’s what you’d want someone to do for you.
There are exceptions, of course. Accidents happen, and I knew all too well from my time at the Medica how easy it was to sprain a wrist or dislocate a finger. Those might be minor injuries to a cattle drover or an innkeeper, but to me, with so much of my livelihood relying on my clever hands, the thought of a broken thumb was terrifying.
My stomach knotted as I watched Tempi take another swallow of whiskey and get to his feet. The problem was that we were strangers here. If things got ugly, could I count on the irritated mercenaries to step in and put a
