Tolmer arrived at Virna Berin in the late afternoon, three days after the weekly market was held. Despite gray and drippy skies, the road leading to the east gate into the Old City teemed with travelers. Tolmer allowed himself to be swept along with the traffic. Having never beheld a walled city of any size or in any condition—indeed having seen naught but his poor, small village and glimmers of Morolath Island from the western shore of the lake when the skies were clear—he marveled at the size and spirit of the once magnificent city.
Colorful stalls emanating sweet and savory aromas battled for his attention, as he was jostled at every step. Men in hooded cloaks and faded cloth of coarsely woven linen and wool forged past him on foot and on horseback, seemingly in a rush to get somewhere fast. He hardly noted the black leather brais partially concealed by their tattered clothes as they hurried by. A few young men in mud- and bloodstained tabards—soldiers from the look of them, more than a few with a woman on their arms—patronized the stalls set up in front of an assortment of shops. The sing-song cries of bakers and tinsmiths, jewelers and cloth merchants mingled with laughter and conversation.
“Excuse me, my good man, my good woman….” People bustled past him in groups and alone, barely stopping to acknowledge that he’d spoken. He approached all who came his way and followed each with his monologue until he gave up at the senselessness of continuing. “I’m looking for an old man…and his companion…a young woman with beautiful long, dark hair.” Figuring the girl would be wearing his stolen things, he described his old clothes. “My grandfather and my…my cousin…. I understand they were here in the past day few days or so…passing through…and I don’t know which way they….”
His stomach rumbled in protest as he surveyed the goods and especially the food—suckling pigs, crispy brown, roasting over smoldering coals; bread and puddings piping hot from clay ovens; meat pasties and fruit tarts…. His mouth watered, even as he side stepped a pile of fresh, steaming horse dung.
Skulking close by in the doorway of a tumbledown structure, a mangy yellow dog eyed him with suspicion, its head held low between its shoulders, a discolored and deeply gnawed ham hock on the crumbled stones between its paws. It snarled a warning, yellow fangs bared, as Tolmer pulled a face and strode past. Another dog, black and just as scruffy as the first, eyed the bone while keeping well within striking distance.
For all his confidence upon setting off from home, a sense of foreboding trilled on Tolmer’s senses with the same pitch and resonance as the yellow dog’s growl. Not even the drone of voices could compete. The corrath’s song, previously so enticing, had grown silent the moment he passed through the gate.
“You look like a hungry young man.” A sweaty, beefy-faced baker in a greasy apron called to him from his stall under a bright red awning, as a young assistant arranged a steaming tray on the shelf. “Sample my pasties?” He swept a pudgy hand over his wares.
Tolmer’s stomach did flips and flops, gurgling at the prospect.
“They’re the best in the city.” The baker motioned Tolmer closer.
He could barely contain his eagerness. “They’re the best, you say?” He followed his nose to the stall and the array of little meat pies displayed on trays. Fat flies hovered over the edibles.
“Try one and tell me they’re not.”
“And if they aren’t the best…?”
“You’ll never know if you don’t try one.” The man’s eager but discolored smile flickered over his thick-lipped mouth as he passed sausage-shaped fingers over the array of little rolled up pastries, none larger than his fist. He poked them into alignment. “That’ll be pork, these mutton…and these be pigeon…. What’s yer pleasure?” He straightened up, tapping his fingertips together in anticipation over his ample, apron-covered middle.
Tolmer angled closer and inspected the items, inhaling their savory aroma. “I’ll have one of each.” He engaged the man’s mud brown eyes.
The baker nodded, still smiling. “A wise choice.”
Tolmer snatched up a flaky, golden bundle and shoved it into his mouth. It was warm, not too hot. His eyes rolled back. “Mmmmm!” Spices he’d never experienced burst in his mouth with a riot of flavor.
The man’s smile blossomed as Tolmer wolfed it down. “Tasty, isn’t it?”
“Mmmmm!”
“That’ll be two coppers, young man.” He held out his hand and waited.
Not knowing what the man expected of him, Tolmer eyed the baker’s hand, palm turned up, in front of his face. “Two coppers, you say?” He hungrily eyed another pasty. “I thought you said it was pigeon.” He dragged his sleeve across his mouth.
The beefy man laughed, then his face fell into a scowl. “Hand ’em over.” He stepped out from behind the counter.
Tolmer stared blank-faced at the baker.
“Two coppers.” The man rubbed the fingers of one hand together under Tolmer’s nose.
Confused, Tolmer homed in on a second pie. “You were right. It was delicious. I’ll have another. I’ve never had a two coppers pie and I’m very hungry.”
“Not until you pay for what you already ate.”
Monetary exchange was a foreign concept to the Milithos, who used barter as their form of commerce. Or they took what they wanted without consequence. Tolmer shrugged and reached for the pasty. “I don’t understand.”
The baker slapped Tolmer’s hand away before he could grasp the pie. “Don’t be daft!”
Irked by the man’s unexpected reaction, Tolmer glared at the man and snatched up a pasty. He stuffed half of it in his mouth as the baker’s eyes ignited with fury. Without warning, his hand flew out of nowhere and struck Tolmer full across his face.
The force of the whack dislodged the pasty, both the piece in his hand and that in his mouth, both of which flew across the distance between the stall and the crumbling wall.
His cheek and nose throbbing with fire, Tolmer glanced back as the pasty struck, first one piece and then the other in rapid succession, smashing into a chunky, runny, gooey mess slithering down the stones. The yellow dog sprang first, but the black dog was faster. The ensuring scrap was short-lived, the black dog limping off with a yelp, the yellow finishing off the food as Tolmer looked on in horror.
The baker grabbed Tolmer by the front of his tunic and, pulling him close, shook him hard. “That’s four coppers you owe me now!”
“Let me go.” He wriggled and pulled, fighting to tear himself from the man’s grasp.
“Thought you’d trick me, eh?”
“N…n….no. I wouldn’t do that!”
“Milith bastard!”
“You don’t understand, I—”
“Thief! Help! Thief!”
A wave of panic rippled through Tolmer as he struggled to free himself, the baker’s once amiable face now red and distorted with rage, veins on his fleshy neck bulging. Through the milling crowd, a motley band of men with pikes pushed toward them. Sounds of shouting and commotion quickened his heart. His head swam. Tolmer kicked out with all his strength, catching the baker full on his shin.
“Ouch!” The man recoiled, and for barely an instant, loosened his grasp. “Miserable little whelp!”
It was just enough time for Tolmer to tug free, snatch up another “two coppers” pie and run as fast as his legs would carry him.
“After him! Thief! He’s getting away.”
1* * *
1Grasping his knees to his chest, laboring to breathe, Tolmer hunkered down in a narrow alley of crumbled lichen-covered stones and tried to control the shaking that seized him. Sounds of turmoil and running footfalls swelled all around him. The “two coppers” pie in his hand had been squashed beyond recognition, oozing through his fingers. He licked what was salvageable from his hand. The voices drew closer. His heart wrenched.
The gray sky continued to drip. He turned his eyes up through the shock of damp rust-colored hair falling over his face.
“Inni pana anenethil! Inni pana anenethil!” Trembling, knowing his life depended on it, he repeated the charm again and again with increasing urgency. If he could not summon his shadow veil, he’d be doomed. But he was wet through and through. His body deflated under the knowledge.
“We know you’re in there, thief! There’s no escape.”
It was true. They had sealed off the alley, standing with pikes at the ready at both ends.
“Show yourself, or we’ll come in after you.”
Not having any choice in the matter, Tolmer pushed himself to his feet. His knees wobbled with such force, he feared he would fall.
They tied his hands in front with coarse rope and prodded him with pikes along the avenue, through alleys and streets. The cords chafed at his wrists. All the while the fat baker hurled accusations and insults at him, but Tolmer did not look at him; he kept his gaze fixed on the cobblestones under his feet. People stepped aside as they passed, gawking and gaping, commenting behind their hands. Mortified, his eyes cast down, he followed where they led.
At last they came into a small square in another part of the city, where a throng of coarsely dressed people milled about in front of a wattle and daub building under a faded poster board bearing the sign of a swan. One of the pike bearers went inside and returned shortly followed by a large, barrel-chested man with a black leather patch over his right eye. With a swaggering stride and a look of annoyance, the big man handed off his pot of ale to someone in the crowd.
The baker, having continued his harangue non-stop, finally fell silent as the one-eyed man bent his head close to the one who’d fetched him from the tavern. He then straightened himself to his full, imposing height and surveyed Tolmer with a glowering eye. Tolmer wilted under his gaze.
“Do you know who I am, boy?”
“N...n...no, sir.”
“Does the name Bedannach Bregolan mean anything to you?”
Tolmer’s mouth was parched. He swallowed with difficulty. “Should it?” His voice came out as a peep.
“Impudent pup!” He lunged forward. Tolmer cringed. “Do you know what the penalty is for thieving in my city?”
Unable to force himself to speak, Tolmer shook his head. Tears filled his eyes. His legs buckled.
Bregolan pulled a large, sharp knife from the sheath on his belt. “We cut off a hand….” He played the blade around Tolmer’s face.”… or maybe an ear.”
Quaking violently, he sank to his knees on the slippery cobblestones. “P-p-please…d-d-don’t….”
“Milith sprout!” Bregolan withdrew the blade an inch or so from Tolmer’s face and looked over the gathering crown. “Then again, such behavior is to be expected of your kind.”
Head drooping, tears running over his cheeks, Tolmer struggled for breath.
“So, I will be lenient with you…this once.”
The baker raised his voice in protest. “What about my six coppers?”
“Your pies are worth but half o’ that…” Bregolan turned on him with a murderous glare. “…and you been paying me my share based on that. Half! Don’t think I’m not aware! Nobody cheats me in my city!”
The baker hauled in a breath as if to raise his voice in protest, but thinking better of it, he hung his head instead. “I’m amenable to settling with you, Bedannach…sir.” He smiled a weasely smile.
“Go inside then and ask for Rhaine. You’ll settle up with him. I’ll have my honest share!”
“Yes, Bedannach…I will at once.” He slithered past Bregolan, who regarded him with a scowl until the cringing baker disappeared into the inn.
“Mind me,” Bregolan called after him, “if I find out you’re cheating me again, I won’t be so forgiving.” Then he turned his dark gaze on Tolmer, who withered, casting his gaze to the ground.
“Now…” He loomed over Tolmer, knife in hand. “What was I saying?”
Kneeling and shaking, Tolmer could barely force himself to raise his eyes as high as Bregolan’s knees. “Something about being lenient…?” He cringed, expecting at least a reprimand, at most a thorough thrashing.
“Stand up like a man,” Bregolan said through his teeth.
One of pike bearers prodded him and Tolmer staggered to his feet, his head spinning. Bregolan took his hands by their bonds. Tolmer flinched and looked away as he raised his knife.
“P-p-please….”
Bregloan sliced through the rope. “Now get out of my city before I change my mind…and don’t come back.” He bent over Tolmer, so close, his whiskered chin chafed Tolmer’s cheek and the smell of ale on his breath made his stomach roil. “Because if I see your snot-nosed face again, I’ll cut off both your hands…and your ears!”