NIGHT: DEMONS

When Bast came through the back door of the inn, he was greeted with the smell of baking bread, dark beer, and pepper in the simmering stew. Looking around the kitchen he saw crumbs on the breadboard and the lid off the kettle. Dinner had already been served.

Stepping softly, he peered through the door into the common room. The usual folk sat hunched at the bar. There was Old Cob and Graham, scraping their bowls. The smith’s prentice was running bread along the inside of his bowl, stuffing it into his mouth a piece at a time. Jake spread butter on the last slice of bread, and Shep knocked his empty mug politely against the bar, the hollow sound a question in itself.

Bast bustled through the doorway with a fresh bowl of stew for the smith’s prentice as the innkeeper poured Shep more beer. Collecting the empty bowl, Bast disappeared back into the kitchen, then he came back with another loaf of bread half-sliced and steaming.

“Guess what I caught wind of today?” Old Cob said with the smug grin of a man who knew he had the best news at the table.

“What’s that?” the smith’s prentice asked around half a mouthful of stew.

Old Cob reached out and took the heel of the bread, a right he claimed as the oldest person there, despite the fact that he wasn’t actually the oldest, and the fact that no one else much liked the heel. Bast suspected he took it because he was proud he still had so many teeth left.

Cob grinned. “Guess,” he said to the boy, then slathered his bread with butter and took a bite.

“I reckon it’s something about Jessom Williams,” Jake said blithely.

Old Cob glared at him, his mouth full of bread and butter.

“What I heard,” Jake drawled slowly, smiling as Old Cob tried furiously to chew his mouth clear. “Was that Jessom was out running his trap lines and he got jumped by a cougar. Then while he was legging it away, he lost track of hisself and ran straight over Littlecliff. Busted himself up something fierce.”

Old Cob finally managed to swallow, “You’re thick as a post, Jacob Walker. Who said it was a cougar?”

Jake paused a bit too long before saying, “It just makes sense—”

“I don’t know what it is with you and cougars,” Old Cob said, scowling at him. “Jessom was just drunk off his feet is what I heard. That’s the only sense of it. Cause Littlecliff en’t nowhere near his trap line. Unless you think a cougar chased him almost two whole miles…”

Old Cob sat back in his chair then, smug as a judge.

Jake glared venomously at Old Cob, but before he could make some further argument for cougars, Graham chimed in. “A couple kids found him while they were playing by the falls. They thought he was dead and ran to fetch the constable. But turns out he was just head-struck and drunk as a lord. The little girl said he smelled like drink, and he was cut up from some broken glass there, too.”

Old Cob threw his hands up in the air. “Well ain’t that wonderful!” he said, scowling back and forth between Graham and Jake. “Any other parts of my story you’d like to tell afore I’m finished?”

Graham looked taken aback. “I thought you were—”

“I wasn’t finished,” Cob said, as if talking to a simpleton. “I was reelin it out slow. Tehlu anyway. What you folk don’t know about tellin stories would fit into a book.”

A tense silence settled among the friends.

“I got some news too,” the smith’s prentice said almost shyly. He sat slightly hunched at the bar, as if embarrassed at being a head taller than everyone else and twice as broad across the shoulders. “If’n nobody else has heard it, that is.”

Shep spoke up. “Go on, Boy. You don’t have to ask. Those two just been gnawing on each other for years. They don’t mean anything by it.”

The smith’s prentice nodded, not blinking at being called ‘boy’ despite the fact that he did the lion’s share of the town’s smithing these days, and had been drinking with the other men for two years.

“Well I was doing shoes,” the smith’s prentice said. “When Crazy Martin came in.” The boy shook his head in amazement and took a long drink of beer. “I ain’t only seen him but a few times in town, and I forgot how big he is. I don’t hardly have to look up to see him, but I still think he’s biggern me. And today he was spittin nails. I swear. He looked like someone had tied two angry bulls together and made them wear a shirt!” The boy laughed the easy, too-large laughter of someone who’s had a little more beer than they’re used to.

There was a pause. “And what’s the news then?” Shep asked gently, giving him a nudge.

“Oh!” the smith’s prentice said. “He came asking Master Ferris if he had enough copper to mend a big kettle.” The prentice spread his long arms out wide, one hand almost smacking Shep in the face.

“Apparently someone found his still.” The smith’s prentice leaned forward, wobbling slightly, and said in hushed voice, “Stole a bunch of his drink and wrecked up the place a bit.” The boy leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms proudly across his chest, confident of a story well told.

But there was none of the buzz that normally accompanied a piece of good gossip. The boy took another drink of beer, and slowly began to look confused.

“Tehlu anyway,” Graham said, his face gone pale. “Martin’ll kill him.”

“What?” the prentice said, looking around and blinking like an owl. “Who?”

“Jessom, you tit,” Jake snapped. He tried to cuff the boy on the back of his head, but couldn’t reach it and had to settle for his shoulder instead. “The fellow who got skunk drunk in the middle of the day and fell off a cliff?”

“I thought it was a cougar,” Old Cob said spitefully.

“He’ll wish it was ten cougars when Martin gets him,” Jake said grimly.

“What?” The smith’s prentice laughed. “Crazy Martin? He’s addled, sure, but he ain’t mean. Month ago he cornered me and talked bollocks about barley for two hours,” he laughed again. “About how it was healthful. How wheat would ruin a man. How money was dirty. How it chained you to the earth or some nonsense.”

The prentice dropped his voice and hunched his shoulders a bit, widening his eyes and doing a passable Crazy Martin impression. “You know?” he said, making his voice rough and darting his eyes around. “Yeah. You know. You hear what I’m sayin?”

The prentice laughed again, a little more loudly than he would have if he were strictly sober. “People think they have to be afraid of big folk, but they don’t. I never hit a man in my life.”

Everyone just stared at him. Their eyes were deadly earnest.

“Martin killed one of Ensal’s dogs on market day a couple years back,” Shep said. “Right in the middle of street. Threw a shovel like it was a spear.”

“Nearly killed that last priest,” Graham said into his mug before taking a drink. “The one before Abbe Leodin. Nobody knows why. Fellow went up to Martin’s house. That evening Martin brought him to town in a wheelbarrow and left him in front of the church. Broke his jaw. Some ribs and such. He didn’t wake up for three days.” He looked at the smith’s prentice. “That was before your time though. Makes sense you wouldn’t know.”

“Punched a tinker once,” Jake said.

“Punched a tinker?” the innkeeper burst out, incredulous.

“Reshi,” Bast said gently. “Martin is fucking crazy.”

Jake nodded. “Even the levy man doesn’t go up to Martin’s place.”

Cob looked like he was going to call Jake out again, then decided to take a gentler tone. “Well yes,” he said. “True enough. But that’s cause Martin pulled his full rail in the king’s army. Eight years.”

“And came back mad as a frothing dog,” Shep said, but he said it quietly.

Old Cob was already off his stool and halfway to the door. “Enough talk. We got to let Jessom know. If he can get out of town until Martin cools down a bit…”

“So…when he’s dead?” Jake said. “Remember when he threw a horse through the window of the old inn because the barman wouldn’t give him another beer?”

“A tinker?” the innkeeper repeated, sounding no less shocked than before.

Silence descended at the sound of footsteps on the landing. Eyeing the door, everyone went still as stone, except for Bast who edged toward the doorway to the kitchen.

Everyone breathed a huge sigh of relief when the door opened to reveal the tall, slim shape of Carter. He closed the door behind him, not noticing the tension in the room. “Guess who’s standing a round of bottle whiskey for everyone tonight?” he called out cheerfully, then stopped where he stood, confused by the room full of grim expressions.

Old Cob started to walk to the door again, motioning for his friend to follow. “Come on Carter, we’ll explain on the way. We’ve got to go find Jessom double-quick.”

“You’ll have a long ride to find him,” Carter said. “Seeing as I drove him all the way to Baedn tonight.”

Everyone in the room seemed to relax. “That’s why you’re so late,” Graham said, his voice thick with relief. He slumped back onto his stool and tapped the bar with a knuckle. Bast drew him another beer.

Carter frowned. “Not so late as all that,” he groused. “All the way to Baedn and back. Even with a dry road and an empty cart I made damn good time…”

Old Cob put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Nah. It ain’t like that,” he said, steering his friend toward the bar. “We were just a little spooked. You probably saved that damn fool’s life getten him out of town.” He squinted. “Though I’ve told you, you shouldn’t be out on the road by yourself these days.”

The innkeeper fetched Carter a bowl while Bast went outside to tend to his horse. While he caught up on dinner, his friends told him the day’s gossip in dribs and drabs.

“Well that explains it,” Carter said. “Jessom showed up reeking like a rummy and looking like he’d been beat by seven different demons.”

“Only seven?” Bast asked.

Carter took a drink and seemed to give the question more thought than it deserved. “Yeah. But all different demons, mind you. Like one that had a real love for knuckles, and another who came at him with a switch, and…” He trailed off, frowning as he realized he couldn’t seem to think of more than two types of demon.

“And one who would go after him with a bottle,” Shep said helpfully. He’d traveled a bit in his youth as a caravan guard, and had seen some fairly rough business.

“And one who puts the boot in once they get him down!” the smith’s prentice chimed in cheerfully, raising his mostly empty mug.

“Can’t imagine there’s a demon who would only want a switch,” Graham mused to Jake. “Seems like short beer there.”

“I’d take a fair shot in the gut before a proper switching,” Jake replied philosophically. “My old gran couldn’t hardly lift a cat, but she’d clip me so’s I’d see stars.”

“…right in the nadgers!” the smith’s prentice added, making an enthusiastic motion with one foot.

Old Cob cleared his throat and the conversation stilled. “Let’s assume it was an appropriately varied group of demons,” he said, eyeing the lot of them sternly before gesturing for Carter to continue.

“Numbers aside,” Carter conceded, “what demons there were sure put in their penny’s worth. He was a proper mess, something wrong with his arm, limping. Asked me to drive him to the Iron Hall, and he took the king’s coin right there.”

Carter took a drink of beer. “Then he changed his coin and offered me double to drive him straightaway to Baedn. Asked him if he wanted to stop for clothes or anything, but he seemed in a good hurry.”

“No need to pack a bag,” Shep said. “They’ll dress and feed him in the king’s army.”

Graham let out a sigh. “That was a near miss. Can you imagine what would happen if Martin got hold of him?”

“Imagine what would happen if the azzie came for Martin,” Jake said darkly.

Everyone was silent for a moment. Folk died sometimes. But outright murder meant the Crown’s law. It was all too easy to imagine the trouble that would come if an officer of the Crown was assaulted here in town while attempting to arrest Crazy Martin.

The smith’s prentice looked around at everyone’s expressions. “What about Jessom’s family?” he asked, plainly worried. “Will Martin come after them?”

The men at the bar shook their heads in concert. “Martin is crazy,” Old Cob said. “But he’s not that sort. Not to go after a woman or her wee ones.”

“I heard he punched that tinker because he was making himself familiar with young Jenna,” Graham said.

The group grumbled indistinctly at that, sounding like thunder in the distance.

After it faded, there was a moment’s quiet. “Nah,” Old Cob said softly. “Weren’t that.”

Everyone in the room turned to look at him, surprised. They’d known Cob all their lives, enough to hear every story he knew. The idea that he might have held something back was almost unthinkable.

“I caught the tinker after he’d done most of his trading,” Cob said, not looking up from his beer. “I’d waited, as I wanted to ask after some items…they were personal-like.” He paused for a moment, then sighed and shrugged. “He ran his mouth a bit on the subject.” Cob swallowed. “And…well, you know me. I told him he better mind his tone.”

The old man went quiet again. “And he sort of…pushed me. And I weren’t expecting it, so I fell over. And he…well…he hit me a bit.” The smoke in the fireplace made more noise than the other men in the room, as Old Cob rolled his mug idly in his hands, still not looking up. “Said a few things too. Can’t say’s I remember the details too clear though.”

A shadow of a smile curled up on the old man’s face, as he glanced up from his beer. “Then Martin came round the corner.” He shared a look with Jake and Graham. “Y’all know how Martin gets himself all in a puzzle sometimes?”

Jake bobbed his head. “Caught me in my garden once. Asked why my fenceposts weren’t square. I couldn’t half guess what he meant, and not a thing I said made sense to him. But he kept on like a dog chewing its own leg. Talked the sun down. Couldn’t understand. Couldn’t seem to walk away, either.”

Cob touched his nose. “That’s the thing,” he said. “Never seen a man who could get his wheels in a rut like Martin. But this particular night, Martin sees me there with this big bastard standing up over me, blood on his knuckles…” Cob shook his head at the memory. “He wasn’t in a puzzle then. No talking. Not a blink. Martin doesn’t even break stride. He just turns a bit and walks up to the tinker.”

Old Cob chuckled a bit with grim satisfaction. “It was like a hammer hitting a ham. Knocked the fellow right out into the street. Ten feet, my hand to god. Then Martin looked at me laying there like a beetle on my back, and he walks over to the fellow and sticks the boot in good and hard.” He gave a nod of acknowledgement to the smith’s prentice. “Good and solid, but nowhere near as hard as he could have. And just once. Look on his face was the damnedest thing. I could tell he was just settling up accounts in his head. Like a moneylender shimming up his scale.”

“That wasn’t any kind of proper tinker,” Jake said with a low note in his voice. “I remember him.”

A few of the others nodded wordlessly. They each took a careful moment to let time pass and drink their drinks.

“What if Jessom comes back?” the smith’s prentice asked. “I heard some folk get drunk and take the coin, then turn all cowardly and jump the rail when they sober up.”

Everyone paused to consider that. A band of the king’s guard had come through town only last month and posted a notice, announcing a reward for deserters from the army.

“Tehlu anyway,” Shep said grimly. “Wouldn’t that be a great royal pisser of a mess?”

“Jessom’s not coming back,” Bast said dismissively. His voice had such a note of absolute certainty that everyone turned to eye him.

Bast tore off a piece of bread and put it in his mouth before he realized he was the center of attention. He swallowed awkwardly and made a broad gesture with both hands. “What?” he asked them, laughing. “Would you come back, knowing Martin was waiting?”

There was a chorus of negative grunts and shaken heads.

“You have to be a special kind of stupid to wreck up Martin’s still,” Old Cob said.

“Maybe eight years will be enough for Martin to cool down a bit,” Shep said.

“Maybe I’ll lend a prince a penny and he’ll give it back,” Jake said darkly. “But I’m not going to hold my breath.”