Sons of Chenia

Chapter 21

Nicolai wedged into the tavern booth between Petrov and Dmitri. As they slide into the wooden seat Leo and Fyodor pulled up two chairs to sit across from them. The air of the smoky basement tavern was thick with cigar smoke and the musty heat of too many sailors who had not washed in weeks. Nicolai turned his nose as a husky barkeep, a man who smelled of slop and cheap tobacco, stood over their table, the tip of his round belly resting on the wooden edge.

"Your order?" he asked in a gruff tone that offered no hint of hospitality.

"Five pints of your finest ale," Fyodor replied before he turned his head to Leo. "On second thought," he added, his gaze still on his friend beside him, "make it six."

The barkeep wrinkled his nose before he spat on the ground "Aye, six it is," he said before turning to waddle away.

Once he was out of earshot Nicolai set his forearms on the table as his head shot forward. "Damn it, Fyodor. What are you doing? We're out of money, we can't afford that."

Fyodor grinned as he produced a gold ruble from his trouser pocket. "Today we can. Like I told Leo and Petrov earlier, I had a bit of luck today in Midtown. I set off to inquire about more help for our quest. I didn't last but fifteen minutes before one of an old lord had one of his personal guards chase me off. Fortunately, during my escape, I bumped into an equally disagreeable old man, who swat at me with his cane . . . but not before I made off with this."

Leo slapped him on the back. "How's that for our scholar? He was a bookkeeper for a merchant in Knight's Harbor, but not more than a week in Sagemark he managed to have his first fight, then another one, followed by his graduation to pickpocket. It took an oceanic voyage to make a man out of you, but damn it, it looks like you're on your way."

"Fortunately for us, he didn't have the good sense to buy a whore for himself," Petrov added. "Like a Chenian, he choose to share the wealth with his brethren." The barkeep returned to set down six pints, the foam of one spilling over the top onto the table. Petrov reached for it, raising it in salute toward Fyodor. "Here's to you, you honest bookworm."

Nicolai frowned, unimpressed by their banter. "We could have used that ruble for food, maybe even for another blade or two."

Fyodor wiped the ale foam from his lips with the back of his hand. "That's taken care of. Petrov and I set up fishing hooks below the Tenth Street pier. There should be a good catch or two hanging from one of them by now."

"And if there's not?"

"For Ada's sake!" Leo erupted. "Let the man treat us for once. We deserve it after all we've been through."

"I'm just being cautious, that's all."

Dmitri leaned forward, intent on diffusing the tension. "And what of your progress today?"

Petrov shifted in his seat. "Well, as you can tell, beside his coin, Fyodor had little luck today. Leo didn't fare much better in North Sagemark. Just got the usual grunts and shrugs as we've been getting these past few days."

"And you," Nicolai asked, "what did you do?"

Petrov answered with his eyes, which glanced over to the other side of the tavern. Nicolai followed his gaze to find a group of well-dressed men, in clean, crisp surcoats and trousers. Six in all they were, surrounding a portly gentleman in his late forties enveloped in a white sable-lined coat. His hands and neck sported gem-encrusted jewelry the likes of which Nicolai had never seen. That is when it dawned on Nicolai. They were not here for drink. They were here for the wealthy man.

"He's no doubt a man of prestige," Dmitri said, knowingly pointing out the obvious. "But what use is he to us?"

"He's a merchant. Jorshash Wyarian. He specializes in luxury products, mostly sable exports to Maricania. If ever you've seen a rich man or his wife in Knight's Harbor wearing violet or dark blue sable, chances are that he provided it to them."