Inkblots: A Tale of Magic, Adventure, and Romance

XXXV. A Proposition

The bells of the harbor tower had rung twice and Alia had lost count of taverns by the time she found him. At that point, she was just plodding along the emptying streets. First, they had bustled with merchant's wagons, rushing toward the borders as quickly as their oxen could be prodded, but now it was almost entirely dark and only a few clusters of people moved along.

This particularly hall was not exceptional in any way, except that its name was written in Beldaran--"The Crowing Cockerel"--which is why Alia had looked inside in the first place. It was a compact stone building, squeezed in between two taller houses of brick that looked like they could actually crush it at any moment. When two overly-cheerful, overly-loud men shoved the wooden door open before her, the acrid stench of ale and hearthsmoke set her nose to running immediately.

Still, she slipped inside and tried to look inconspicuous as she squinted toward the back room. The front tables were piled high with platters of food and empty tankards, but the sounds of clinking coin came from the darker rear section. Squinting through the wreaths of pipe smoke and guttering candle shadows, she thought she saw a familiar head of curling hair, and the profile of a distinctly crooked nose. 

Taking a deep breath, Alia began weaving her way past drunk patrons, keeping her head down and her arms tight to her sides. This wasn't the first time she'd done this tonight, and she knew what to expect. But when the first one noticed her, it was hard not to flee out into the night without another glance. 

"Hallo there, missy!" The speaker was greasy-haired and his vowels were all drawn out excessively. When she made the mistake of looking his way, he shook a handful of coins at her, grinning lasciviously. "There may be more in my belt purse, too, if ye dare to find out."

Her face burned and she moved past him quickly, trying to look bored and disengaged. Though there had been a few suggestive winks and comments--and even one pinch--earlier, things had been getting successively worse with each stop. The ale was flowing more and more as the night grew later, and this was the first time Alia'd been outright propositioned.

Suddenly, a broad male frame appeared between her and her destination. For one hopeful moment, she thought it might be Kit--but this man was more muscular, older, and had his hair trimmed tight to his head. "Now, now," he said, wagging a dramatic finger at the greasy-haired man. "That's not any way to be treating a lady like this."

She started to relax ever-so-slightly, thinking herself protected, but then he reached into his purse with a fluid, practiced motion, and withdrew two shining silver coins. "I can recognize a lady of quality when I see one, my dear. To offer you coppers would be an insult of the basest variety. For you--two silvers! And Jeb Bronson's reputation as a man whose ladies pay him."

His hand came to rest on her shoulder, and she jerked away abruptly as a laugh went up around them. 

"Lies!" someone was hooting between gasps of laughter. "All lies!"

"I assure you not," Jeb said, grinning easily and threading his hand around the back of her neck. His warm breath gusted across her, smelling of strong spirits. "But there is only one way to find out."

Alia sprang back, slamming her leg into a table's edge and wincing at the pain. "I'm not-- I don't do-- That is, I am--"

"Oh-ho, a bashful maiden!" cried an old bearded man in a gravelly voice. He winked at her then.

When she looked back at Jeb, his gaze had sharpened and he leaned closer. "A maiden?" he asked. "Untouched?"

She opened her lips to deny it, but found that she couldn't summon the lie. 

He fumbled quickly at his purse, not nearly so smooth this time, saying "Four silvers then. Five. No, six, and every copper I've got!" The leather dropped to the floor, and he cursed, stooping down to reach for it.