Eyes ever watchful, she played on with a scrap of attention on the music while she studied the crowd in front of her. She kept her hood over her head and her eyes low. In a place such as this, nobody thought twice of such things. Many people here were criminals, thieves, trying to hide themselves. They would think the same of her.
The innkeeper was a slovenly thing, Tyriel thought. But he was no worse than the rest in this city. How had it changed so much? It had only been a few years. Or had it? It was easy enough to lose track of time when one had lived so many years, and lived a great number of them alone.
No longer were men expected to take a wench upstairs. Now they simply retreated to the shadowy corners, engaging in oral sex for the most part, holding the wench by the hair or shoulders, tossing her a few coins when he was done. But one or two over the past few hours had actually pushed the woman up against the wall and fucked her right there.
Since the wenches seemed to enjoy the money, and the attention, Tyriel turned a blind eye. And a deaf ear when need be. Pity she couldn’t turn her nose off. The scent of unwashed bodies and copious sex, stale beer, burnt food—she longed for the mountains, the plains, the green of the wood.
Her eyes closed and she briefly thought of home, longed for it—not the wagon trains of the Wildlings, but home—the Four Kingdoms of Eivisa, and the sprawling valleys and towering peaks of Averne, her father’s realm, to walk among the woods and feel the magic of it seeping into her bones, to lie down on the mossy green grass and feel the hard, powerful body of a warrior over her while the magic mingled and their bodies—
Boisterous shouts intruded on her thoughts. She opened her eyes, torn out of her fantasies.
One lout, in particular, was annoying the hell out of her. He had made several lewd comments in her direction the night before, all of which she had brushed off and ignored. But he was already drunk and getting drunker, and the night was still young.
Turning her attention to the rest of the crowd, she dismissed him from her mind and looked for a likely mark with full pockets. The one she found was already nodding happily to her music, a sweet-looking old peddler, prosperous from the looks of it. What in the name of hell he was doing in this dive, she couldn’t understand.
And even as she changed her music to match the emotions she sensed in him, he tossed two silver marks into the open case at her feet.
She nodded at him in thanks, pleased. Those two silver marks would let her leave a few days earlier than planned.
There might be more where those came from. It wasn’t exactly the most honorable way to play, but she was not using magic. Just playing to suit his moods. What he gave was of his own free will.
A few coppers joined the scattered coins but she didn’t even notice as a loud crash, followed by a bellow, echoed through the tavern.
The guard, an overgrown hulk of a man, looked at the spreading patch of wine that soaked the front of his already filthy uniform. The serving boy, no older than nine, stood on weak knees, his face pale, too afraid to even dodge the blow sure to come.
Behind the bar, the innkeeper did nothing, merely filled mug after mug with the disgusting ale. Her flute landed on the ground before the cup fell from the boy’s trembling hands. A growl rumbled low in her throat as she crossed the room quicker than human eyes could follow. Another man was moving, a dark cloaked figure, but Tyriel moved far quicker.
The small boy stared at the guard, so pale as he cowered there, obviously awaiting a blow he knew would come. But the huge fist never landed. She grabbed the boy, shoving him backward before turning to face the guard.
“I doubt anybody is going to notice one more stain on your uniform,” she said softly, her husky voice carrying through the suddenly silent inn as she pushed her hood back.
She’d kept it up out of a need for privacy as much as anything else. Unless she used magic to conceal her appearance, it was hard to hide who—and what—she was. Now, as the hood fell back, the people around them reacted. Whispers and gasps, plus a few curses, rippled around the room, spreading from those closest to them until even those in the farthest reaches, hiding in the dark shadows, were now watching.
She’d confined her dark hair in complicated braids that left the soft point of her ears partially obscured.the ears weren’t the most obvious sign of her heritage, not for those who knew what to look for—that lay in the luminous glow of her topaz eyes, even now holding a warning as she eyed the guard.
A guard who, clearly, was too stupid to see that warning.
“Mind your own business, bitch,” he growled, looming over her, going to knock her aside.
He failed.
When she stood there, immovable as a rock, the guard’s face twisted, growing redder with anger.
“I told you to piss off,” he snarled, placing the flat of his hand on her chest and shoving.
Tyriel, though nearly as tall as he, was reed slender. Had she been human, like the guard, she would have stumbled back onto her tail, likely taking the boy with her.
Unnoticed in the crowd, a patron went still. He’d been halfway to intercept the guard, ready to bloody him if he struck the poor, clumsy child, but the minstrel had moved from the stage where she’d been playing with such relentless cheer, it had almost driven him back out into the dark, cold night.
Now, hand still resting on his blade, he observed as the guard’s hard shove failed to make her moved so much as finger’s width.
Concealed in the shadows of his hood, he watched the woman smiled tauntingly at the guard.
The fool might be half-drunk, but something resembling sense had finally penetrated his ale-addled mind. That, or he noticed the danger lurking in her smile, for he fell back a step to give her a narrow-eyed study.
Nonchalantly, she gathered her braids into a thick tail, using a tie she produced from somewhere to secure the mass at her neck. All the while, she held the guard’s gaze as that taunting smirk widened.
It couldn’t even be called a challenge, the man thought, watching with growing interest—and amusement. The guard was no threat to her, even had he been sober. He’d counted a solid ten guards in the inn and all ten wouldn’t be a challenge for this woman.
“Elf.”
“Look there, see the ears? Oh, my stars, see her eyes?”
The voices blended into the background as she stepped closer to the guard.
All the blood drained from the man’s face and his next breath came out a high-pitched wheeze.
Inside the confines of his hood, the human, a swordsman known only as Aryn, chuckled. Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He slanted his gaze without moving his head.
It was so quiet, one could hear a bloody mouse fart.
Or the faint clink as a pickpocket made his way around the room, so brazen even the presence of a high-magic user didn’t deter him.
“Shall I continue to mind my own business?” the minstrel asked.
Aryn stayed tuned in on the conversation as he circled the room, keeping to the shadows, as he went about his task.
“Perhaps…perhaps it was my own…my own fault, milady,” the guard stuttered, his booming belligerent voice now a mumble. “Seein’ he jes’ a kid, after all. No harm done.”
“None at all.” An agreeable smile lit the minstrel’s face and her eyes all but glowed, making everybody watching her feel warm, welcome…loved.