1
The Sotted Swan
The man in the corner leaned against the wall, his chair tipped back on two legs. His feet rested on the table in front of him, and a coarse brown hood framed his face. This restful pose was a sham. The man’s eyes gleamed in the firelight as he scanned the room. A battered pewter mug sat on the table, but he hadn’t touched it in a half hour or more. A huge staff, six feet of oak, stood against the wall nearby, in easy reach of his enormous right hand, and I could see a glint of steel at his belt under the folds of his cloak. The staff had some unsavory reddish-brown stains on it, soaked into the wood. All in all, he appeared ready to break heads at the slightest provocation, and the other patrons at the Sotted Swan kept their distance. No doubt about it –– he looked like trouble, the kind of trouble that required mopping afterward.
He was my partner, Boog. He and I were part of the Inquisitor’s Guild, tasked with investigating crimes and upholding the laws of Frosthelm. Today, our intrepid service to Frosthelm consisted of sitting near-motionless in a tavern for three hours. It had been a distinctly unremarkable experience. I sat at the other end of the room from Boog, near the fireplace, also with a clear view of the door. The chimney wasn’t drawing, and soot coated the walls and ceiling all around me. My eyes were red from the smoke, my nose was running, and my throat felt like I’d swallowed a nail, or maybe a bucket of nails. I wiped my nose yet again on my once-gaudy kerchief. Next time, I vowed, I get to pick where we sit.
The door opened, letting in a blast of cold but thankfully smoke-free air. I caught a glimpse of the muscular tavern guard outside, and then a smaller man pushed past him. This new arrival paused in the doorway, hands on his hips, surveying the room as if he were its lord and master. He was dressed in a red jacket with a green silk sash, orange trousers, and embroidered floppy boots. His hair was long, brown, and shiny, and he’d pressed it into curly ringlets at the ends. After a quick glance, I was careful not to look his way or attract attention, but I saw that Boog had spotted our target as well. Stennis Shortsaber, probably guilty of theft, definitely guilty of dressing himself this way.
My partner lowered his feet from the table and picked up his mug. As he took a drink, he flexed the fingers of his free hand, still resting on the table. I squinted through my watery eyes. Boog was using our guild’s hand speech, the Argot. Though his gaze was focused on his mug, his fingers were busy. Wait, he signed. Of course. We’d already agreed to see whom Stennis was meeting. Armed. Sword. Dagger boot.
Stennis’ long fencing blade was obvious, but I hadn’t noticed the small hilt poking up from the flowery cuff of his boot. I put my kerchief back in my pocket and replied. Wait for other.
A hint of a grin crossed Boog’s face. Chicken is love.
I squinted again, then rolled my eyes. Boog’s thick fingers weren’t quite nimble enough for the Argot, and as a result, he didn’t like the lessons much. He frequently got parts wrong. I signed back. What?
Boog looked faintly annoyed. Chicken. Is. Love. You. Idiot. His motions were still subtle, but his knuckles whitened a bit on “idiot.”
I raised an eyebrow. Stennis slapped the bar loudly and called for the tavern keeper’s finest ale. I had to give the guy some credit for flamboyance. Most thieves would rather not be noticed, but he was awfully sure of himself. Sable, the burly bartender, gave Stennis the eye. Then she picked a mug off a shelf –– the shelf for already-used mugs, I noted with some pleasure – and poured a foamy draft from the large keg set in the wall behind the bar. She set the glass in front of Stennis.
Stennis quaffed his ale with audible swallowing sounds and slapped the glass down again with a thunderous belch. I guessed that he probably practiced this in front of a mirror at home. “Another, milady,” he called, waving a finger in the air.
“I’ll be seeing the color of your coin first,” growled Sable.
Stennis smirked, reached into his crimson jacket, and dropped a fat pouch onto the counter with a resounding tinkly thud. A few gold coins spilled out, enough to buy a number of rounds for the whole establishment. Or maybe even the establishment itself. That wasn’t good. Our prior investigation indicated that Stennis was quite the dandy, but that he was often near poverty from gambling, drinking, romancing, or general incompetence. If the rest of his pouch was filled with gold, it meant he’d probably sold the stolen jewelry already, and our chances of recovering it were remote.
Sable smoothly refilled the mug, and as Stennis turned to survey the tavern, she just as smoothly plucked a gold coin from the top of the pouch and dropped it into the pocket of her greasy apron. Stennis was none the wiser, though what he was now slurping had cost him what I was paid for three months’ work. Bottoms up, I thought.
The door slammed open again, blown by the wind, and a hooded woman stalked in, pausing only to wipe her feet and brush some snow off her cloak. She pushed back her hood, revealing a thin, worn face with coal-black eyes. She wore a dull brown cap that extended from her close-cropped hairline in front down to the back of her neck, and there was a thick purple line, a scar, running from the left side of her chin down to where it disappeared under her cloak.
The woman saw Stennis at the bar. Not surprising, as Stennis shot his hand up in greeting and then beckoned with both arms, his face beaming. The woman pursed her lips and headed over. She spoke to the bartender, who pulled a small glass and a bottle of red liquid from behind the bar. The barkeep filled the glass, pushed it across, then retreated to the other end of the bar. Interesting, I thought. The woman must be a regular patron, or maybe it was on Stennis' coin?
The woman spoke to Stennis, quiet and earnest. Stennis threw his head back, laughing, and then put his hand on the woman’s shoulder. She looked at the hand as if it were a dead fish, and Stennis pulled it back, a bit chastened. Stennis listened, attentive, as the woman continued to speak. Stennis occasionally nodded or said a few words I couldn't overhear. The woman grew more agitated. Stennis’ smile became strained, and he made placating gestures with his hands. Finally, the woman slammed her palms on the bar and shouted “Where is it?" The babble of conversation running through the tavern ceased for a moment as the patrons turned to look.
This was interesting. Who was this woman? A jewelry merchant? Stennis’ partner? Or someone else? I cast a quick glance at Boog, and he gave the faintest of shrugs. If I was correct that Stennis had already turned over his haul and been paid, what was going on here? Had Stennis held back something important? Tried to keep something for himself?
Stennis was taken aback at the woman’s display of temper. He tucked a stray ringlet of hair back behind his ear, straightened his shirt, and then reached into a pouch at his belt. He pulled out a necklace and held it up to show the woman. A shiny silver and gold talisman dangled at the end of a gold chain.
We had to do something. That amulet matched our reports. Stolen, I signed. Boog nodded. I hopped up from my seat and strode toward the bar where the two stood. Boog stirred as well. His fingers closed around his staff as he rose from his chair. He moved to cover the door.
“Inquisitors!” I shouted, trying for my deepest, loudest voice. It turned out a little croaky, but authoritatively so, I hoped. “Stennis Shortsaber! Halt!"
Stennis turned toward me, his face first showing alarm but quickly twisting into a sneer. His companion looked down at me and frowned. I’m not a big man. In fact, most would call me short, and scrawny to boot. But I was trying my hardest to be the intimidating presence of the law. It wasn’t working – the cloaked woman with the vicious scar looked less like she feared arrest and more like she’d found a hair in her soup.