Zander
The Greasy Yak is as I remember it, right down to the stench of grimy bodies and sour ale, barmaids in revealing dresses offering more than pints, and a drunk fiddler in the corner playing a spirited tune. Even the charred beam above remains, where a candle once ignited a fire that was quickly doused. It’s an unsightly mark, but the structure still holds, and in a town like Norcaster, that’s all that matters.
While the rustic tavern may be the same, the cloying tension in the air is new. We felt it the moment we passed through the main gates, and it intensified when we reached the square and spotted the ten rotting corpses swinging from the gallows. Mortal corpses. It was a moment of relief for Abarrane, whose hand was already reaching for her pommel.
Beyond the bodies was a row of pillories, fifteen stocked with mortals, women and men stripped down and trembling in the cold rain.
My rage ignited, the urge to punish those who took it upon themselves to exact justice overwhelming. As the king of Islor, I would have demanded to speak to Isembert.
But I am here as nothing more than a weary traveler, seeking a warm, dry place and some company.
I could do nothing but walk past.
Walk past and be thankful Romeria is not here to witness this. Fates only know the scene she would create, and we are not here to cause trouble, at least not until our scouts are located.
“Somethin’ wrong with the ale, sweetheart?”
I resist the urge to shift away from the ample, cream-colored breasts shoved in my face as Etta leans in to collect the empty glasses others at the banquet table left behind. “Savoring it.”
“Hmm … you’re one of those.” She winks. “Where you from?”
“Northmost. Heading to Lyndel through the pass.”
“I’ve met a few from Northmost.” Her eyes rake over my face, keen interest showing. “None o’ them looked like you.”
Isembert may be cautious of travelers entering Norcaster’s walls, but within these walls, they are only too happy to collect coin and dole out compliments to anyone paying.
I force a smile. She’s an attractive and friendly mortal, and under very different circumstances—in a different time in my life—she may have piqued my curiosity for the night. But tonight, she’s only useful to me for the information she can provide.
From across the room, Elisaf sips his pint and talks casually with the barkeep, a barrel-chested man with a mustache that curls down on either side. Abarrane parted ways with us outside and now lurks in the shadows, looking for her two warriors. It’s for the best. She lacks a certain finesse.
“That is quite the body count in the square tonight.”
“Isn’t it, though? Third batch in as many weeks. Biggest one yet, but I heard there’s more comin’ tomorrow.” She balances the edge of her tray in the crook of her hip. “I don’t know what they were thinkin’, poisonin’ themselves like that. Where were they thinkin’ on runnin’ to after? Woodswich?” She snorts, as if the idea is preposterous.
“Is that what happened? They all killed their keepers?”
“The ones hangin’ from the gallows, aye. No denyin’ what they did. Those screams could be heard far beyond the wall, some claim.” Etta shudders. “The guards caught most o’ them before they could escape. Four from nearby villages, brought in on Isembert’s orders.”
“And the ones in the pillories?”
“Kin of the hanged. Wives and husbands. One daughter. It’s assumed they’ve taken the poison, too, so Lord Isembert has demanded they be kept in the square until they confess.”
Force them to confess, truthfully or not, and they’re rewarded with execution. Deny the crimes and they die, anyway, in a much longer, more humiliating fashion, freezing and pissing all over themselves in public. This Lord Isembert could be right about their guilt, but he could just as easily be wrong.
I stifle my curse, wishing I had Gesine here to test them. But the bigger issue is that this is the third execution of this kind in this town, and it hasn’t stopped these mortals. Either they’re ingesting the poison by choice or are unaware. Both scenarios present concerns.
“These vials I keep hearing about … are they plentiful in Norcaster?”
She shrugs. “They’re around. It’s probably not safe to take just any vein offered to you. O’ course, you got nothin’ to worry about from any of Guernet’s girls. He treats us well.” She juts her chin toward the barkeep. “And none of us are too keen on ending up in the square or takin’ our chances in Woodswich. Though, we don’t mind being stripped and bent over under the right circumstances.” She winks again.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” It’s been so long since I’ve been in these parts, I forgot how refreshing it is. These northern mortals are a sturdier, obstinate lot for the most part, and not weighed down by politics and class like elsewhere in Islor. “Anything else exciting happening lately? Interesting visitors passing through, rumors …”
She frowns. “Not that I can think of … Oh! There have been rumblings of a new king. Don’t know if it’s true. Not that it matters much around here. We’ll never see the likes of royalty comin’ this way. Too dainty for the hard life. Holler if ya need me, and I’ll come runnin’.” With an affectionate squeeze across my nape, she saunters off to flirt with the next table.
My hands clamp tightly over my stein.
If a town like Norcaster has already heard about Atticus, news is spreading faster than I anticipated. Atticus has been busy, securing his throne and spreading falsities. If he—
All thoughts and worries evaporate as I spot the last face I expected to see standing in the doorway of the Greasy Yak.