How the hells did this guy know Elyse? And why did she seem so happy to see him?
The strange fellow was cowering in the corner like a mouse, obviously no threat to anyone. Elyse and I walked over to him.
“Cranton!” she said with a warm smile. “It’s been… how many years? How do you fare?”
The man called Cranton stood up, smiled awkwardly, and offered Elyse a knobbly hand, which she shook.
“M’lord,” he said to me, bowing. I had no idea how he knew I was a nobleman, or even if he knew, but I gave him a respectful nod in response.
“Cranton, this is Vance Chauzec, Lord of Brakith,” Elyse said. “Vance, this is Cranton, one of my fellow acolytes from the Irradiant Institute.”
Cranton beamed a friendly, gap-toothed smile at me. I caught a whiff of his breath, which punched me harder than his fists ever could have, and almost stumbled back from the smell. I did my best to pretend I hadn’t noticed it as I smiled back.
“I knew you were a nobleman, m’lord,” he said, still smiling. “Just from the way you carried yourself, m’lord. I’m always right about these things, m’lord—”
“Call me Vance, please. I’m not big on the whole ‘m’lord’ thing.”
“Right,” he said, chuckling, his already wide smile stretching even further across his hollow-cheeked face. “Vance. Nice name, I like it. Much better than stupid old ‘Cranton,’ huh?” He paused to chuckle. “Man, you even have a lord’s name! Not to mention the kind of looks that’ll have princesses falling at your feet. Are you engaged to Elyse or something? You’re totally her type.”
I laughed, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Elyse blushing but also doing her best to suppress a pleased smile.
“No, no, Elyse and I are just friends,” I said.
“Ha!” He pointed at her. “I never thought I’d say this, Elyse, but I got there before you!”
He held up his left hand, and I was honestly surprised to see a wedding ring on one of his fingers. I felt like a total asshole for thinking it, but I couldn’t see how any woman would find this guy attractive enough to marry, even if he seemed pleasant enough.
“Cranton, I’m so happy to hear that! Is it Bertha?”
Oh man, this guy would have a wife called Bertha. I’d have bet she weighed about 400 pounds too. Sometimes, stereotypes exist for a reason. I’d only ever heard of one attractive Bertha, and she was from a fairy tale about a half-troll who made a living as a dungeon champion.
“Bertha the blacksmith’s daughter, yeah,” Cranton answered. “She works in her old man’s forge too now. She can pound out a sword like nobody’s business. Hey, uh, Vance, you don’t need a new sword or anything do you, my man? My wife, she can make blades better than any fella. Hells, she could snap most guys in Erst in half if she wanted to.” Again, he laughed, and my skin crawled.
Big Bertha indeed. I did my best not to laugh.
“I absolutely believe you,” I said, before tapping Grave Oath’s hilt. “But I prefer shorter blades.”
Cranton’s squinty eyes drifted down to Grave Oath—or at least I guessed they did, because it really was difficult to tell where the focus of his gaze was, with each of his eyes looking in a different direction—and he gasped.
“The Lord’s Brightness, man! That’s fucking Grave Oath! Or a Grayforge-certified replica at least!”
Huh. There did seem to be more to this guy than met the eye.
“This is no replica,” I said. “This is the real deal.”
“Shit. Can I… can I touch it?”
A scoff came from behind me, and I turned my head to see Isu standing, peering over my shoulder. Her jaw was set, turning her mouth into a fine line, and I figured I’d better keep Grave Oath sheathed for the moment. If Cranton here so much as touched the hilt, the former Death Goddess would probably gut him without a second thought.
“I’m sorry, my friend,” I said, “but I don’t lend my blade out to anyone. And since you seem to know just what Grave Oath is, I’m guessing you’ll understand why.”
His scrawny shoulders slumped, and he let out a long sigh, but he nodded. “Yeah, I figured you’d say that. I thought I may as well ask, though.” He flashed a gray tongue across cracked lips.
“Cranton’s a historian,” Elyse said. “He left the acolytes and decided to study history instead.”
“A fucking stupid decision,” he blurted out. “Should have stayed in the Irradiant Institute. Could have gotten Fated. Accommodation and food paid for by the Church of Light. Maybe a little coin for some black spice. The good shit, too. Instead, I’ve nothing more than the worst-off peasants, man. Nobody gives two goblin shits about history these days. Always preferred what happened in the past over the present, anyway, even if there’s no coin in it.”
I was about to respond with some encouragement when a burly ruffian shoved past me and lunged for Cranton, grabbed him by his collar, and dragged him over the table.
“Where’s the fucking gold you owe me, you little weasel?” the newcomer said. “Said you’d have it last week, but my purse is still empty. You remember what I told you then, Cranton, you ratfuck? No gold this week, I rip out one of those ugly, squinty little eyeballs of yours!”
“Please, please,” Cranton stammered, looking like he was on the verge of tears. “Just another week. Just one more week, and I’ll have it. Bertha and me, we just had a baby, and money’s been tight, and—”
“I’ve had enough of your excuses.” The man pulled a
