“No!” I clenched my hands into fists and muttered under my breath. By the gods, it had been a test. A test that I’d failed. My heart thundered in my chest as I realized I’d not just blundered, I might have blown my entire strategy. The door was closed, and the sun would set within the hour. I’d ruined my one and only chance to get inside that pub.
I turned to walk back to the stable, grateful at least that I’d save a few pennies, when something inside me lured me back. I could not give up. Not without exhausting myself trying. I took a deep breath and then stormed up to the door. I yanked the handle hard, giving the thing a vicious shake. Once again, the door didn’t budge. And once again, the tiny window opened and the voice behind it demanded my name.
“I have no name,” I said as soon as he uttered the question.
“Ahhhh!” The voice sounded pleased. “Are ye a friend o’the place, then?”
I’d not been prepared for this sort of question, but I nodded. “Indeed, sir,” I confirmed. “I’m a friend to this place and all those inside.”
The small door slammed shut, and my heart froze as I waited. After the unlatching of a great noisy lock, the door swung open. A very old man, his shoulders severely stooped, peered up at me. He was at least a foot shorter than I was, truly not much taller than that ten-year-old boy I’d asked for directions. Although he might have been average height before age had bent his spine. He grinned up at me with a stiff-looking twist of his neck, each of his long narrow teeth separated by uncommonly wide spaces.
“Welcome in,friend.” The way he emphasized the word made me certain this was a hint of some kind. “Keep your belongings close. Management ain’t responsible for anything that happens in here.”
Anything?
I dared not let the man see my concern, and I nodded, giving him a warm smile. “Of course,” I agreed, patting the dagger under my cloak. “Thank you,friend.”
He chuckled audibly, then fastened the lock and resumed his post on the backless wooden chair that kept his eyes level with his peek-through window.
Inside, the tavern was unlike anything I’d ever seen. To be fair, I’d only been in a pub a handful of times and never without Biko at my side, steering me toward a table and ordering ale for me with his booming, boisterous voice.
If I’d thought I felt the eyes of Kyruna on me in the square, here I felt practically invisible. The tavern was large, and in every corner, some game or activity consumed the attention of the group playing as well as several spectators passionately betting on and cheering for the outcome of the contest.
I wandered through the motley crowd of people, some finely dressed and many with hands still filthy from the day’s work. Folk dressed in formal, elegant clothes that looked custom-tailored, both played and watched. Some very poor players, their breeches thin with wear and tunics wrinkled and stained, counted their pennies together in corners.
There were two bars, one at each end of the tavern, and a roaring fire in a central fireplace. Tables and chairs filled the space, but most were moved into circles so that a single table could accommodate two or four players while a ring of watchers could either stand by or sit. I wandered between games as shouts pierced the air—some elated, which were followed by the clinking sounds of coins being traded. And some were angry, aggressive, followed by the pounding of fists and boots.
Women in identical dresses, the front panels cut scandalously low, sailed past feet and arms, tables and chairs, navigating the crowd with the ease of low-flying birds. They carried trays laden impossibly heavy with mugs or plates of food, and they shouted, “Behind!” or “Beside ya, friend!” in warning anytime someone got a little too close to their flight path.
I peeked at the games being played, trying to hold back a delighted smile. Through the smells of sweat and ale, filthy clothes and fine perfumes, something in me caught the excitement of the games. I listened to the dice players, seemingly betting over nothing more than the outcome of a roll. Games of bluff, games of chance—Knuckles & Bones had it all.
At one long table, players lined both sides and drank full mugs of ale as fast as they could. The player who found a coin at the bottom of his mug “lost,” and had to add a coin of a matching value to a large pot at the middle of the table. A serving girl stood by at each end of the table, holding a huge bucket of ale, ready to refill the mugs after the losing player deposited a penny. I couldn’t quite make sense of that game, but there was a flurry of mugs being passed about and quite a lot of shouting, so I expected the stakes were quite a bit higher than simply the loss of a coin.
In the far corner of the tavern, the wall was marked with a large X that looked carved into the wall. An offensively dirty man held a common axe in his hand. His instrument was not the fine work a craftsman like Syndrian might hone. This poor tool looked hardly suited to breaking branches into sticks for a campfire. But the player gripped it intently and stood behind a line marked in ash on the wooden floor.
A supervising player shouted, “Axe!” at the top of his voice, and with an unbelievable burst of strength, the man threw the thing at the wall. A chorus of booing followed his attempt, and the defeated man stomped toward the wall. He yanked his axe from where it had landed and grimaced as he sheathed the disgraced weapon at his waist. I assumed that meant he’d scored poorly, but was fascinated enough to keep watching.
A gentleman in a fine burgundy-colored doublet held up his hand as the group gathered around the game fell quiet. He unrolled a handsome leather sheath, which held a set of slim, highly polished throwing knives. The gentleman removed one by an ornate ring-shaped handle and closed his eyes, as if praying to the knife. Then, with a click of his heels and a brisk step, he took his place behind the same line where the axe thrower had stood. The man closed his eyes, and with a cheeky grin, he flicked his wrist and landed his throwing knife in a place that must have been incredibly accurate or perhaps earned a good score, because the spectators burst into rowdy cheers.
I wandered through the place, studying the people and the games. Mugs of ale were spilled, delicious-smelling food was eaten and shared, but what interested me most was determining whether anyone was playing backgammon. I walked the entire tavern, noticing once I’d settled into the place that there was a steady flow of traffic in and out of the tavern, but not through the front door. The back door was unlocked, and it was through there that the “friends” of Knuckles & Bones passed.
I held the sack with my backgammon board in it and wandered the tables, scouting for a game I knew how to play. As I caught sight of a standard checkerboard, a vicious snarl erupted from one of the men hovering over it. He lurched to his feet and pointed at his opponent.
“That was a bloody cheat,friend. And all who watch here know it!”
The accused knocked back his chair and rose to his feet. Grime stained the crinkles at the corners of his eyes as he glared. “That’s a godforsaken lie,friend. All here who watch know my words to be true.”
In what seemed like an instant, the table was overturned, and the first man threw his body atop the opponent. The barrage of fists that followed was difficult to hear over the cheers and chanting of the crowd. Onlookers gathered in a circle, some standing back, some creeping closer as coins changed hands while bets were made on the outcome of the fight.
A sick feeling crept up my throat as I realized this was no good-natured brawl like I’d seen between Biko and Syndrian. The slaps and nudges that they so playfully beat upon each other lacked the rage and unrestrained force of what I was seeing. Worse was hearing it. Even over the shouts of the crowd, I couldn’t ignore the wet sounds of fists striking jaws, of hair being torn, and finally, awfully, a knife being drawn and slicing deep into the soft, flabby flesh of a man.
At the first spurt of blood, the crowd hushed again, only to grow violently loud with cheering. The bets were called in, and coins were exchanged as the victor of the fight staggered to his feet, sweat pouring from his stringy hair. The tip of his blade dripped blood. The man on the floor was motionless, his eyes staring up at the ceiling, while a dark pool puddled beneath his back.
Immediately, chaos erupted in the tavern. Four enormous men, larger than even my brother, shoved their way through the crowd, their boots thundering across the floor. Women shrieked, and players began running, some for the rear door and others toward the bar. A server dropped a tray loaded with full mugs and food, nearly falling as she stumbled through the mess on the floor.
One of the four enormous men—dressed in a vest of mail, a vile scowl on his face and a menacing-looking spiked flail in his fist—rushed toward me. I froze as the reality of what I was seeing seemed to slow the scene around me. I felt light-headed and hot, the stench of hot blood and spilled ale filling my nose. I swallowed against the flood of saliva in my mouth just as my arm was roughly grabbed. I tried to resist my captor, but I was pulled close to the man’s face as his urgent whisper pressed against my ear.
“Come quickly now.”