Agatine (Terres book II)

Chapter Twenty Six

The last few weeks inside left Rannok anxious for a walk, despite the ever-present ache in his back and the bruises on his face that were still healing. Ittra had given him the names of places in the city where he wouldn't be unwelcome, but the eyes of everyone around him still made him wary. 

Rannok ducked into the tavern with his head held low. The air inside was musty and dim, and filled with smoke from a couple sailors puffing away at pipe tobacco. The place was quiet, just the way he wanted it. He needed some time to himself. Some space. He took a seat on a stool and flagged the bartender down, then fished a couple ingots out of his pocket, courtesy of Michael.

"You know what you want?" The bartender asked. Rannok shook his head 'no' and shoved the coins at the bartender. He came back a moment later with a mug of something weak and watery. It smelled like sweet potatoes. Rannok took a sip. It tasted like them, too, but with an off flavor of fermentation he'd not yet started to find palatable when he left the guard. He drank it anyway.

"Take your drink and leave quick, the streets are crawling with sellswords that would kill to get a piece of you once the sun goes down," the man said in a low voice. Rannok nodded, but otherwise ignored him. He already knew that well enough.

This place was so different from the caravan that it startled him every time he thought about it. There, there were so many marked ones he could blend into the crowd just by existing. There was no shortage of money, or gambling, or women. Or drink, if you wanted it. As much as he missed home, he missed the caravan, too. He missed the noise and the excitement and being busy instead of just sitting inside all day not doing much.

He sipped at his ale for a little while, savoring the sweet flavor while doing his best to ignore the off taste. The sailors in the corner talked amongst themselves and glanced at him every once in a while, only to turn away again as soon as he looked in their direction. He let out a long sigh, ignoring the creaking of his ribs as he breathed in deep. It was nice to be alone. 

The low muttering of voices came behind them. Rannok turned and saw two more sailors walk into the bar. He didn't pay them much mind until one of them shouted, "Hey, you!"

Rannok turned and raised his eyebrows. He shot the bartender a worried look. The bartender shrugged and Rannok's heart started beating in his ears. He took another long drink out of the mug to steady himself.

"Yes?" he asked.

"You're a marked one, right? We don't got those at home. Heard you all run brothels, know where we can find one?" The man's bald head shone even in the low light, and he stank so strongly of alcohol that Rannok could smell him from where he was sitting. Rannok bristled and turned back to his drink. He didn't know how it wasn't obvious with the wings on his back. He didn't let those words leave his mouth.

"No," he said. 

"Shame, I was hoping for some nice ladies before we sailed home tomorrow," one of the men said. He was small and slender as a matchstick. He leaned heavily over the bartop, more to keep himself balanced than anything else. Rannok curled his hands tighter around his mug and went to stand up.

"Whoa, just a moment," the bigger man with the bald head said as he clapped Rannok on the back so hard he winced. "We don't mean any harm. We just want a little fun." He lowered his voice. "And last I heard, the brothels might not be here the next time we come to port."

"I wouldn't know anything about it," Rannok said. He could feel his heart drop into his stomach, but he tried to keep it out of his tone and off his eyes. what hadn't Ittra told him that would make the men think the brothels would be gone? He had to say something to Wren.

"Come on, help a man out. Surely you know where they are. I mean, you're a marked one, aren't you? What else do you guys do for fun other than beg and whore yourselves for money?"

Rannok had a sudden and terrible urge to punch the man in the face. He quaffed the rest of his drink and turned toward the sailors.

"Look, I don't know where you think I'm from, but I don't know anything about the brothels and if I did, I wouldn't tell you. Piss off."

The bald-headed man's face darkened, and redness creeped up his neck and into his face. He put his hand on the sword around his waist and took a step closer to Rannok, until he could feel the odor climbing up his nostrils. The man smelled like old cheese and lack of washing in addition to the alcohol. He wondered how his cabin mates could stand him. 

"If that's the way you want to play it, we can play it that way," he said. His chest was huge, and his gut stuck out underneath his leather armor. Rannok had a feeling it wouldn't be hard to outrun him if it came to that. 

"I'm not looking for trouble," he said.

"Sure you are," the man replied. "Oh, don't worry. We're sure the next time we come here, there won't be any of you to ruin our night. No one's gonna care if we smear a little stain like you all over the sidewalk, so you'd best tell us."

"Gentlemen!" the bartender shouted, and everybody turned to look at him. "Take it outside, or I'll ask you all to leave."

Rannok didn't have to be told twice. He took off before the drunk sailors could give him a second thought and disappeared down an alley, heart racing, images of the sellswords as they pummeled his face flashing through his head. 

He turned down a side street and ran toward home, ignoring the ache in his back, not bothering to look behind him to see whether they followed him through the darkness. His heartbeat didn't slow until he'd found the flowerbox and the stark white flag, then burst into the apartment and slammed the door behind him. He pressed himself up against the wall and took a deep, shuddering breath.

Wren and Elyn looked up from where they'd been playing a simple game with the catch-cards at the table. Rannok could feel the color draining from his face and he closed his eyes.

"Are...you okay?" Wren asked. Rannok said nothing and disappeared into the other room. She followed on his heels, lantern swinging in her hand. She folded her arms and regarded him from the doorway while he braced his aching chest against a wall.

"I'm fine," he said, as he wiped a hand across his sweat-covered forehead. Wren gave him a worried look. He sighed and sat down on the floor. She followed and sat next to him.

"You're not fine. What's going on?"

Rannok rubbed at his eyes. "Barfight," he said. 

"Bad memories," she said, as if confirming what he was thinking. He nodded and rested his back against the wall. The room pressed in like a comfort all around him. He turned back and looked at her.

I heard...someone said something about the sellswords and the brothel. People keep saying they'll be gone--" He paused. "I shouldn't worry, I know you can take care of yourself but sometimes I can't help it."

Her eyes narrowed and she leaned back against her wall and folded her arms. Heat creeped up into his face. How many times could he say the wrong thing before she got tired of it? He'd lost track. 

"I'm fine," she said. "We already know about Seltus and the sellswords."

Rannok's chest deflated and relief washed over him like a cooling breeze. Lately he worried about everything. About Elyn and Michael, and whether they were going to be found out, dragged into a public square, and beaten. About whether Ittra was going to be okay, once people figured out that's where they were staying. He was surprised she hadn't asked them to leave yet.

"Promise me," he said. "Promise me if something happens, you won't do anything stupid. That you'll leave and come back here and ask for help. Promise me you won't try to fix it on your own."

She started right back at him and nodded. 

"I promise," she said.