“Oh, well… please relay my gratitude to your Regent when he has the time. Our treatment here has been beyond expectation.”
The old man bowed again. “We live for service in Casúr, Binseman. Is there anything else which can be seen to?”
“I should speak with the Treorai as quickly as possible. If someone could take our things and Nath to—”
Nath made a nervous noise and edged closer to her.
Socair let out a patient sigh. “Well, I suppose nevermind. We will see ourselves to the inn.”
“Very good. Then I shall have a guard see that you have no trouble on your way out.”
The old man clapped twice sharply and a guard came jogging from her post at the wall. The way out from the keep was simple enough that they’d have had a hard time losing themselves, but Socair knew the guard was there for more than that. At the very least the girl was polite, as was everyone. It seemed earnest enough and made sense for a trade town.
The square just outside the keep was filled with stalls but they were all ignored. The Red Lark was where he had described it and showed its opulence even in the signage and entry way. Stained glass and gold trim in more places than made good sense to Socair. A doorman greeted them and no sooner had Socair said her name than he grabbed their bags and welcomed them.
Socair stopped the man before he entered the inn. “Are we needed for anything further? To see our papers?”
“Not at all, Binseman. We were informed you would be coming and the size of your party.”
“Then we will take our leave here.” Socair looked down at Nath. “Nath, you will stay here. It will be comfortable for you.”
Nath frowned, but she nodded. “Okay. I will wait for you.”
Socair looked to the doorman. “Please see that she is well looked after.”
“Nothing less would do, you have my guarantee.”
He smiled and pulled the door open, looking down at Nath. She entered slowly, looking around and then back at Socair. She gave a small wave before turning and walking into the lobby.
When the door had closed, Socair turned to Práta.
“Then, southeast?”
“Southeast.”
Práta was quiet for the first pair of blocks. “It’s a lovely city,” she said finally breaking a nervous silence.
“I hadn’t noticed.” Socair sounded restless. She’d have tried to hide it from anyone else. “It’s a wonder I’ve not pissed myself, all this… this…”
“Perhaps you ought to. It might level the field somewhat. Put the nobility off their guard.”
Socair laughed. “It could work, you know? They might agree to my demands for worry over the state of their furniture.”
Práta laughed, putting a hand over her mouth. “A new facet to the legendary warrior of Abhainnbaile.”
“I could take to wearing pants with two shades of fabric to keep my enemies guessing.”
Práta stopped in the street, doubled over laughing. She placed a hand on Socair’s hip for balance.
She poked at Práta’s ribs. “Come now. You began this ridiculous jest, and now you’re making such a scene. You’ll ruin our newfound reputation.” Socair chuckled.
Práta pulled in a deep breath and slapped her cheeks a few times. She stood upright and let out the air. “There. Okay. Yes. We’re here on serious business. No more smiling.”
Socair put her hand on Práta’s head and smiled. “Thank you, Práta.”
Práta put her hand on Socair’s. “I’ll not be bought with sentiment and smiles. I expect a fine dinner and horribly mushy words you’d be embarrassed to say in earshot of anyone else. But now we have business.”
“We do.”
They continued down the street. It would have been impossible to not notice that the shops and homes had become more ragged and the speech more bawdy. Socair wondered if perhaps the servant at the keep had misspoken. From Práta’s face, it was clear that the sentiment was shared. It was an odd place for a Treorai no matter how one chose to see it. A man rounded the corner in front of them, going the other way speaking with another who seemed to be younger and less drunk.
“… bloody Treorai, I swear to you. Had ‘er tits out, wavin’ ‘em around and were kissin’ folk.”
Socair spun and grabbed the man by the shoulder. He whirled, throwing his fists up, ready for a fight, but stumbled backward a few steps before finding his balance.
“Whassit with you, bloody oaf?! I’ll not have some bloke handlin’ me! C’mon then! C’mon!”
“No, no! I don’t mean to fight. The Treorai, you’ve seen her?”
“Can’t handle a bit o’ the rough? Girly-voiced shite, o’ course you can’t.”
The man pulled back his fist and Socair took a step back. Before he could throw the punch his friend stepped in and grabbed him.
“Oy, oy! Hold it now! She’s jus’ after the Treorai, ya dimpy git. Same as you was.”
“On her side now are ye? Well ain’t this a bottle o’ piss.” The man was choking back tears now. “’Ow many years we known each other?”
“Ah, Sisters,” the younger drunk mumbled. He shoved the older one to the dirt where he sat, bawling and complaining. “He jus’ come from the… well, you won’t know it. Up two streets, left, and then a right. You’ll hear it afore you see it, I reckon.”
The older man’s sobbing quieted. “Or smell it.” He chuckled and sniffled. And then laughed. “Or smell it! A-ha-ha-ha-ha!” He pulled himself up from the dirt and clapped his friend on the shoulder and off they went.
The directions were true enough. As soon as the left turn came, there was a racket echoing off the tightly packed walls of what could only be described as the city’s slums. They were a far sight better than what she had seen in Fásachbaile. When they’d rounded the final corner a small crowd was in the street outside of what must be an alehouse.
Socair and Práta came to the back of the
