I felt my shoulders slump, right along with Pauline’s. She turned her attention back to the customers she was serving. I knew by her reaction it was only more strangers, neither one Mikael, but as I got a closer look, my own attention perked up. I watched the newest arrivals step inside and search the crowded room, their eyes roaming over customers and corners. One small table remained available, and it was only a few feet from them. If they were looking for free seats, I didn’t know how they missed it. I sidled closer to the shadows of the alcove to watch them. Their gazes both stopped abruptly on Pauline’s back as she chatted with some elderly gents in the corner.
“Now, that’s an interesting pair,” Gwyneth said, swishing in beside me.
I couldn’t deny they had captured my attention. Something about the way—
“Fisherman on the left,” she proclaimed. “Strong shoulders. Dark sun-kissed hair in need of a comb. Nicks on his hands. A bit on the somber side. Not likely to tip well. Blond one on the right, a trader of some sort. Pelts maybe. He swaggers a bit as he walks. They always do. And look at his hands, they’ve never seen a fishing net nor plow, only a swift arrow. Likely a better tipper, since he doesn’t get into town often. This is his big splurge.”
I would have laughed at Gwyneth’s summation, but the newcomers had my rapt attention. They stood out from the usual customers who stepped through Berdi’s doors, both in stature and demeanor. They struck me as neither fisherman nor trader. My gut told me they had other business here, though Gwyneth had far more experience at this than I did.
The one she supposed to be a fisherman because of his dark hair streaked with the sun and scratched hands had a more calculating air about him than the fishermen I had seen in town. He had an unusual boldness too, in how he held himself, as if he was confident of every step he took. As for his hands, nicks can be gotten in any number of ways, not just from hooks and gills. I’d suffered several on the trip here by reaching hastily into brambles. True, his hair was long and unkempt, falling to his shoulders, but he may have had a difficult journey and had nothing to tie it back.
The blond fellow was of nearly identical build, perhaps an inch shorter and a bit wider in the shoulders, his hair only brushing his collar. He was as sober-faced as his friend in my estimation, with a brooding quality that clouded the air about him. There was far more on his mind than just a cool cider. Maybe it was only fatigue after a long journey or maybe something more significant. Perhaps he was out of work and hoping this was the town that might provide some? Maybe that was why they were both slow to sit down? Maybe they hadn’t a single coin between them. My imagination was getting as vivid as Gwyneth’s.
I watched the dark-haired one say something to the other, pointing to the empty table, and they sat, but little more passed between them. They seemed more interested in their surroundings than each other.
Gwyneth elbowed me. “Stare too long at those two, and your eyes will fall out.” She sighed. “A few years too young for me, but you, on the other hand—”
I rolled my eyes. “Please—”
“Look at you. You’re lathered like a horse at the end of a race. It’s not a crime, you know, to notice. They’ll have two dark ciders each. Trust me.” She reached out and grabbed the replacement brews I had poured. “I’ll deliver these, and you take care of them.”
“Gwyneth! Wait!” But I knew she wouldn’t. In truth, I was glad for the push. Not that they had me lathered in the least. They were both a bit on the rumpled and dusty side. They intrigued me, that was all. Why shouldn’t I indulge in Gwyneth’s little game and see if I served a fisherman and a pelt trader? I took two more mugs from the shelf, the last clean ones, and hoped Enzo was making progress on the dishes. I pulled on the tap and let the dark golden cider race its way to the rim, noting the small flutter in my stomach.
I grabbed the handles of both mugs in one hand and made my way around the bar, but then caught sight of Pauline. The wet-lapped oaf who had grabbed me had a firm grasp on her wrist. I watched her, a painful smile on her face, trying to be polite while attempting to twist away. The soldier chuckled, enjoying watching her squirm. My face flashed with heat, and almost instantly I was by her side, staring into the eyes of the salacious snake.
“You’ve already been gently warned once, sir. The next time, instead of a wet lap, I’ll be planting these mugs in your thick skull. Now, stop your asinine conduct, behave like an honorable member of the King’s Royal Guard, and remove your hand at once.”
This time there was no slapping of knees, no round of laughter. The whole room had fallen silent. The soldier glared at me, furious for being shamed so publicly. He slowly released his grip on Pauline, and she hurried away to the kitchen, but my eyes remained locked on him. His nostrils flared, and I imagined he was wondering if he could throttle me in a room full of people. My heart hammered wildly, but I forced a slow, dismissive smile to my lips.
“Carry on,” I said to the room at large and turned swiftly to avoid having any more words with him. In only a handful of paces, I found myself stumbling into the newcomers’ table. Their stares took me further unaware, and my breath caught in my chest. The intensity I had seen from afar was more apparent up close. For a moment, I was frozen. The fisherman’s icy blue eyes cut through me, and the trader’s stormy brown ones were more than unsettling. I wasn’t sure if they were angry or startled. I tried to roll right past my awkward entrance and gain the upper hand.
“You’re new. Welcome. I must warn you, things aren’t always so lively here at the inn, but there’ll be no extra charge for the entertainment today. I hope dark ciders are to your liking. I surmised they’d suit you.” I set the ciders on the table. They both stared without speaking.
“I can assure you both, I’ve never crowned anyone with a mug. Yet.”
The trader’s eyes narrowed. “That’s reassuring.” He grabbed his mug and brought it to his lips, his dark eyes never leaving mine as he sipped. Rivers of heat spread through my chest. He set his mug down and smiled at last, a very pleasant satisf
ied smile that gave me much-needed relief. “The cider is fine,” he said.
“Is that an Eislandese accent I detect? Vosê zsa tevou de mito loje?”
His hand bumped his mug and sloshed cider over the side. “No,” he answered firmly.
No to what? It wasn’t an accent, or no he hadn’t traveled far? But he seemed agitated by the question, so I didn’t press further.
I turned to the fisherman, who still hadn’t spoken. He had what I imagined could be a kind face if he could only manage a genuine smile, but instead a smug grin was pasted across it. He was set on scrutinizing me. I bristled. If he disapproved of my treatment of the soldier, he could be on his way right now. I’d grovel no more. It was his turn to speak—at least a thank-you for the cider.
He slowly leaned forward. “How did you know?”
His voice hit me like a hard slap to my back, forcing the air out of my lungs. I stared at him, trying to get my bearings. The sound reverberated in my ears. It was hauntingly familiar, yet it was fresh too. I knew I’d never heard it before. But I had.
“Know?” I said breathlessly.
“That the cider would suit us?”
I tried to cover my muddled state with a quick answer. “It was Gwyneth, actually. Another server here. It’s a diversion of hers. She’s quite good at it most of the time. Besides guessing drinks, she guesses professions. She guessed you to be a fisherman and your friend to be a trader.”
I found my voice getting away from me, one word spilling onto the next. I bit my lip, forcing myself to stop. The soldiers hadn’t turned me into a chattering ninny. How had these two managed it?