A doughy tavern girl made her way to the table dressed in a linen chemise over a plain brown skirt. In addition to the clothes, she wore a fair few pounds more than suited her frame, but her skin was fair as fresh milk with bright red hair and a slim, childish face.
“Be… beggin’ yer pardon, miss… madam Treorai. It’s me… my… my great honor to welcome ye to our ‘umble tavern.”
Rianaire was taken immediately with the poor girl’s awkward attempt at decorum. She was young and fidgeted terribly, practically worth the annoying ride just for the sight of her.
“I am duly welcomed.” Rianaire reached out a hand and ran her fingers down the girl’s arm. She could feel the girl stiffen at the touch. “Sisters, your skin is beautiful. And soft.”
The girl flushed bright red. “I… thank ye, madam Treorai. Is there—”
“I insist you call me Rianaire.” She gripped the girl’s wrist and pulled her close. “This pair at the table with me have caused me no end of bother. I love them dearly, you see, but I fear they may not love one another.”
Neither Síocháin nor Inney showed any expression at the jab. Rianaire put her arm around the girl’s waist and slid a hand down over her ample bottom. A small chirp escaped along with the startled hop.
“It would please me unto the ends of this world if you would bring me some drink to put the petty quarrels of my loved ones out of mind. Do you have anything of the sort?”
“We got corn liquor, strong. And a decent mead. Me father makes it.”
“A family specialty! Wonderful. Bring a round for the table. Perhaps the problem is they’ve been too dry of late.”
“Yes’m. As you like.”
The girl scuttled off to the back. The interest in her seemed to have died at least in part. Rianaire looked across to Síocháin and Inney. In her mind, it was enough to have made clear to them that she was aware of their petty bickering. She was unsure if it was some sort of jealousy or who might even be the jealous one. Certainly they had each done what they could to avoid the other’s company though their distaste for a shared proximity had not been so blatant until the carriage ride.
Before she had much time to work the idea over, the tavern girl returned with a trio of mugs and tiny bowls. She sat them down on the table and Rianaire pawed at her arm again.
“A fine looking mead and… the liquor is in the bowls?”
“Yes’m. We got no glasses, begging your pardons.”
The girl glanced around the table with an apologetic look across her face.
“There is no need to apologize. And they are unlikely to sweeten their sour faces even for as fine a creature as you.” Rianaire stood and gently moved her hand down the girl’s cheek to her neck. “Shall we make them jealous? I am sure we would both enjoy it.”
The girl looked Rianaire in the eye, her mouth fell open, and the bright red color flushed her pale skin again.
“I… I…”
Before she could collect her words, the girl was yanked away, pulled up by the arm. The silence in the tavern was sudden and oppressive.
“Lit’l muleborn whore. Treorai comes an’ says some pretty words, you get all flustered?”
“M’sorry, Brúid. I weren’t thinkin’. I swear, I jus’—”
“You will remove your hand from her skin or I will have that hand removed from your body.” Rianaire smiled politely at the man.
He stared at her for a moment, half seeming to realize what it was he was doing. He dropped the girl’s arm and stood to face Rianaire. Inney stood at the table but did not move beyond that. The thick-necked elf didn’t notice the move. Rianaire figured words might be best if this was to end without a dead man in a local tavern.
“There is no sense in punishing the girl when your trouble seemed to be with me. What is it that I have done to wrong you?”
“You brung them things here.”
“Things?”
“The fuckin’ horsefolk! No sense playin’ dumb at it. Tell is you let ‘em into the Bastion even.”
The eyes were on her again, but inquisitive this time. Stories were dangerous things, she knew well enough. A legend that brought fear or respect was also like to bring high expectations. And elves were stubborn at giving away the first story they’d heard.
“What sense would there be in bringing horsefolk to Spéirbaile? Or do you mean to suggest I wish to fill my province with creatures who wish me dead?”
He stared at her for a moment, red-faced and gawping. “Then what about all them stories you took horsefolk into the Bastion?”
Rianaire wanted to sigh, but the staring faces could not be ignored or taken lightly.
“There was one. A satyr named Gadaí. She led a group of mercenaries in my name to retake the city. She is through with her own people well enough, I believe that. And she knows little enough that if she is not done, then she is only one more body among the horde.”
The elf righted himself and looked at her. “But you trust ‘em?”
“One of them.”
“Might as well be all of ‘em, then.”
There was some muttering at that.
