A Dead God's Tear (The Netherwalker Trilogy) (30 page)

The Black Rose tavern
was written on a crude wooden cutout of a rose, and the sign hung by a single nail above the door, causing it to tilt to the side and sway as people left and entered the tavern. The stairs leading up to the door were rickety from countless patch ups, a mismatch of different woods and grains. The windows were cracked or, in some places, just not there. It looked as if the three story building might cave in on itself at any moment. It made Antaigne's place look like a mansion.

"Well," Jared put on his most comforting smile as he started up the stairs, "Let us go in and see how much trouble we can rouse?
"

With a grumble about inappropriate humor, Alicia complied, following Jared up the patio stairs. Marcius hurried to stay near, not wanting to be left alone in such a place. 

The stairs groaned warningly with each frantic step and the hinges protested loudly as Jared opened the door. The interior of the tavern was dimmed, so it took Marcius's eyes a few seconds to adjust. Marcius made sure to hold the door open a half-second longer so Faerril could flit his way in. There was no way he trusted leaving his familiar outside, even if the little creature was invisible. The flood of relief Faerril imparted his way showed that the tiny wyvrr agreed. He wondered, not for the first time, where Alicia's familiar was.

Various round tables, all mismatched in form and m
ake, were arranged in a rough semi-circle in front of the bar. Judging by the worn floorboards in the middle of the circle, Marcius guessed that the tavern saw a bit of dancing. A fact he found hard to believe considering the sullen hostility he felt from the few patrons sitting at the tables. Blackened faces huddled behind their mugs, some raised in mid-drink, as they all stopped to regard the three of them. Marcius felt his cheeks flush in embarrassment and the edges of his armpits started to sweat profusely. What was he doing here!? This place wasn't for him. Just for a second he considered turning tail and bolting out the door. His familiar intervened.

Marcius! Remember your promise! This is nothing, and we still have so much to do! I am here, I am with
you. You are not alone. You are never alone. Your friends are with you too.
A strong wave of confidence washed over Marcius, driving away the self doubt.

Marcius took a deep breath, steadying himself with the comforting words of his familiar. Faerril was r
ight. This was nothing compared to what he still had to do. Emboldened, he put on the most confident smile he could manage.

Thanks, Faerril.

No problem, Marc.

The dark eyes of the patrons continued to follow them as they walked toward the bar. Everything
was eerily silent and the sound of their footsteps echoed as they approached. The bartender was a large bloated man with a shiny bald head and a bushy brown mustache that trembled as he muttered indecipherably to himself. He looked up from the glass he was cleaning. "What'ya want?" he lazily asked Jared as they approached, the mustache fluttering with each word.

"Do you have any rooms available?" Jared asked brightly. Marcius found himself envious of his friend's cool demeanor.

"Rooms, eh?" the man repeated Jared's question thoughtfully, taking a few extra wipes of the glass, "Yeah, we might have some rooms. You've some coins, I reckon'?"

Jared smiled. "Of course."

"Two silver a'night. No arguments or hagglin'," the man continued as if he hadn't heard Jared.

"Done." Jared reached into the pouch, and Marcius noted his friend kept the contents hidden. Pulling out two shiny silver pieces, he handed them to the man. The bartender was quick to take the money and, after biting it, was even quicker to deposit it in
the bag hung about his neck. Tucking the bag protectively under his brown tunic, he reached under the counter and pulled out a small key.

"Yer room be the second one on the left, second floor. Might be a bit crowded with three people, but I guess you alrea
dy knew that," he said, jerking a thick dirty thumb to the staircase off in the back of the room. "Name's Barry. Holler if you need anythin'."

"Well, Barry, a bit of crowding is not an issue. Thank you, my good man," Jared said, taking the key from Barry's
outstretched fingertips.

Completely ignoring the rest of the bar, Jared turned around and smiled serenely at Marcius and Alicia. "Well now, that was simple. Let's go check out our room, shall we?"

The general atmosphere of the place seemed to retreat respectively back a bit, now that it was obvious that the strange visitors were nothing more than prospective tenants, though a few pointed eyes lingered on Alicia.

It was still mostly silent, a change from the few bars Marcius had attended back in Rhensford w
here the patrons were mostly rowdy sailors looking to unwind. Nonetheless, the hushed whispering of people amongst themselves was a marked improvement over the suffocating silence from moments before.

Marcius's relief lasted all the way up the stairs, thro
ugh the dirty hallway, and the two seconds it took for Jared to open the door to their room. As soon as the door had creaked ominously open, all such thoughts vanished. Instead of the sanctuary they were expecting, what they got was a literal mess.

It was
a rather small room with one corner housing a mattress supported on all sides by thick blocks of wood, and the sheets were stained a musty brown. The window above the mattress was cracked and a poor attempt was made in covering it with dirty cloth. A small shelf was set into the wall, misaligned and looking lonely with only a small, half-used, candle and its holder to keep it company. The floor seemed to have assimilated the filth of endless nights of excess, turning the formally brown floorboards into a grey-black waxy hue. If there was one thing that Marcius could find to praise the room, it was that at least there were no vermin running about.

He assumed they probably came out during the night.

"Well, at least now we know why this is the cheapest place in Harcourt," Alicia said tersely, stepping about the room warily as if the dirt was transmittable through her boots.

Jared sighed. "Look, Alicia, we're just going to have to make the best of it." He turned to Marcius with a pleading look in his eyes. “
What do you think, Marcius?"

"I think
. . . " and Marcius formed the words slowly, like a prayer, "I think. . . I think I need a drink."

The ring of their unexpected laughter echoed about the empty room, bringing some much needed humor to the whole situation. Su
ddenly, it didn't seem so bad. "Well," Jared began, running his fingers through his long blonde hair, "I think we can afford a bit of excess. But let's try to tidy up the room a bit first, eh?"

For once, everyone emphatically agreed.

Chapter 18

"G
ot yer coin, Simon?" Barry's outstretched hand waited expectantly.

"Of course, Barry. And just to show you that I am a man of my word, I'll pay for tomorrow as well," Simon responded, reaching into his pocket to pull out six silver pieces.

"Sounds good." Despite his words, Barry looked at the money suspiciously, as if it could be fake. Simon almost snorted. He did have some honor! Not much, but it was most assuredly there, buried right under the strong sense of self-preservation.

After a bit of inspection, which included a bite, Barry tossed the money in the pouch about hi
s neck. Simon was turning to go up to his room when Barry's grubby fat hand shot out, grabbing Simon lightly by the forearm. Thinly disguised concern etched the lines on the man's face, and caused his thick mustache to quake."Listen, Simon, you'll be. . . ah. . . playing again tonight?"

Simon just smiled, though his thoughts were positively venomous. It was obvious why the barkeep wanted him. No doubt his playing loosened the tight purse strings of Barry's patrons. "Of course, Barry. Of course." He patted t
he man's arm in the most comforting manner he knew.

Barry shot him a greasy grin, complete with a missing tooth.

Trudging up the stairs, Simon went to his room to fetch his guitar, and then after a second of thought, scooped up his flute as well. Running back down, he was quick to take up his customary spot on a chair set against the back wall of the tavern.

He strummed a few test notes, tuning the various strings that had
inevitably soured since last night. His gentle plucking caught the attention of the patrons as surely if it had been the tinkling of gold, and all were hushed as they all watched him; a fact he was well aware of, and even encouraged. He knew they enjoyed listening to him play, for it gave relief to their otherwise stale lives. Allowed them, if even just for a moment, to forget the sharp reality of the present. And he personally enjoyed obliging them on all fronts.

Simon paused, looking up and around the ta
vern. Every eye was on him, and he basked in the sheer power he held in that moment. Each person in the room was his to control, his fingertips alone decided the mood and disposition of his listeners. The knowledge of the sway he held over everybody was intoxicating and made him feel heady, as if he was literally drunk from the power.

Well! Time to make it worth their while, eh?

He ignored the greedy smile of Barry, who no doubt knew happy customers meant more drinking. Instead he looked over the general make-up of his crowd. They seemed to be mostly working men. Judging by their muscled arms and tough leathery complexions hardened by many hours out in the sun, he felt they were probably employed by various traders in the Bazaar,. That limited his playing to songs with easy lyrics that one could sing to. Preferably bawdy ones. Simon acknowledged his listeners with a nod; he had plenty of lewd songs that would make even the most uncouth person cringe.

Tapping his foot to an internal beat, he broke into a clas
sic bar song, "The Man with a Hundred Hands and a Thousand Wives." In no time at all, glasses were being swung about to the hearty singing, the mugs literally spilling over in the excitement of the moment. Simon mused that although the singing was unrefined and at best, crude, it was at least from the heart. There was a quality to singing done for joy. The most refined song couldn't hold a candle to one delivered with genuine enthusiasm.

Simon allowed himself to be swept up in the sharp rhythmic beat of the
song; though in reality it was no longer his to control. He was now following the tempo set by the crowd, and the words just flowed naturally along with them.

Alas, it was over way too quickly as the final notes broke out over the air and the voices died
down. He, too, felt the acute disappointment one always does when something joyous ends. Oblivious to his tinge of disappointment, the bar erupted in laughter and more orders for beer were quickly called for, no doubt to Barry's delight.

He flexed his fin
gers briefly, and took a bit of pride in that he had just roused an entire room full of world-weary men, though, admittedly, it could just be the beer. Simon allowed his thoughts to linger on that notion before shrugging.

Wallowing was for pigs; if one wa
s in a bar, they should be merry! He quickly launched into yet another toe-tapping song, and then another, intent on keeping the lively pulse of the night moving along. The patrons responded admirably, diving into each song with hearty praise and child-like eagerness. Beer flowed freely and everybody was having the time of their lives.

Or almost everybody
. . .

Simon's eyes eventually settled on a group of people way off in the back that had not joined in. Offended, he got up and headed to middle of the cir
cle of tables, playing and singing all the while, though inwardly his curiosity was piqued by this new development.

Why were they not joining in? Was it some fault of his own, or was his playing not up to par? As he reached the center, he was able to get
a clearer look, and he finally saw the reason why. They were of a different ilk than his usual listeners, that much was for certain. It was a woman and two men. All three were trying to quietly blend in and ignore the passionate, well perhaps it was better to call them rowdy, patrons.

The mysterious trio had an air about them. Something Simon likened to haughtiness, as if joining in with the singing was beneath them. In fact, they reminded him of nobles, and yet they had some unexplainable pull, something w
hich drew him in and heightened his interest. Simon found himself alarmed at the prospect, for the allure seemed not his own, and yet he was helpless but to obey it.

Now what were people like that doing in a place like this? Oh, and that woman! She was a f
air step above the barmaids and such Simon had to shift through! Very attractive, with smooth pale skin. And the outfit she wore! While practical, it still managed to hug every curve of her body. He grinned lecherously to himself.

How to introduce himself
to people like that? Simon skimmed through the possible options. Well, the song he was playing certainly wasn't going to do it. If they were indeed the proud people they presented, he would have to appeal to their perceived higher aesthetic tastes.

He che
wed his bottom lip as he grappled with an internal argument and, after a few moments, he had come to a decision. Simon looked around as he finished his current song, taking in the general drunkenness of everyone about the room. They were smashed. Perfect. It would make them more sympathetic to the song he had in mind.

It was time to unleash his secret weapon. It was his masterwork. The bardic guild, if one could call the loose grouping of wandering minstrels an actual guild, used it as a term to describe an
unending song in which a bard would work on during the course of his life. The catch was that, like most artists, bards were never fully satisfied with anything they did, and only one that fully mastered his art would ever deem such a work as complete.

N
ow it was time to see if that all paid off.

Simon cleared his throat loudly, silencing the noise that had risen in the absence of his playing. "Everybody having a good time?" he asked as all eyes turned to him.

A chorus of affirmation greeted him and several toasts were made in his name. He just smiled and nodded, accepting the praise graciously. "Well, I've got a brand new one for everybody. I wrote it myself, and I need your thoughts! You wanna hear it?"

Again the cacophony of drunken cheers filled the ro
om. Simon smiled. They had no idea what was coming next.

He placed his fingers gingerly on his guitar, for the chording for the song was complicated, and it took a few seconds to visualize the strings. The tavern was deathly silent as the first notes rang
out and over the air. It started out slow, tentative in nature, gently caressing the ears of the listeners. He could see the surprise in their faces as he played; they were expecting a more upbeat song. Simon took that as a good sign, surprise was always better than drunken anger. He began to softly sing, matching the emotion in his voice to the soft tempo.

It started off about a boy, not quite an adult, setting out to carve his niche in the world. The beginning was a slow beat, and reflected the hopefulnes
s in the heart of the innocent. Simon thought he had captured the sense of awe perfectly, the feeling of splendor all people feel when they finally locate that special place where they want to be. The dream was something everyone in the tavern could relate to; everyone, big or small, had some hidden ache in their heart.

Slowly the song began to pick up. The boy had found his calling, that of a soldier. As the boy grew braver, so did the music. Battles were outlined and won, and victory accompanied every ste
p. Except now the boy had grown into a man, and he quickly moved up the ranks, becoming, at last, the successful general that was no doubt his future. It reached its frantic crescendo as the man marched to the roaring applause of his fellow countrymen. They had won the war!

Simon's fingers moved on their own accord now, for he had lost himself in the depths of his song. Was he playing the song or was the song playing him? Such questions were lost in the siren's call as his fingers flitted over the strings u
nerringly.

One day the man falls in love, and now the music took on the bittersweet melody of burgeoning romance, the feeling of a rapidly beating heart taking pleasure in the sharp pang of new love. The delicate notes rang around the details of the courts
hip, fluttered over their unending vows to each other, before finally coming to rest ever so delicately on the shoulders of the final result of passion: a child.

The plucking was slower now, tentative like it had been earlier, as Simon related the beginnin
gs of the happy family; of the baby's first steps, of teaching the child the necessities of life, and even the arguments with someone who had no experience with the outside world.

Then, when it seems as if life was perfect, disaster struck! The music beca
me ominous as both the mother, and then eventually the man's child, is stricken down by the swift hand of Fate. Not by a sword, and not in anger, but by the inevitably of age and sickness.

And now the man is once again alone, his loneliness reflected by a
haunting timbre that hung about the air like a heavy shawl, obscuring the view of everyone. Each gentle note expressed his sadness, for the found man is lost once again, as lost as he was when he first set out on his journey. Only this time, instead of hopefulness of youth, he is directed by jaded cynicism of one who had seen too much, one who had lost too much. And as the final notes thrummed in the air, the man dies.

Alone.

Simon opened his eyes; in fact, he didn't even remember closing them. He was greeted to the spectacle that makes any musician's heart leap with unadulterated joy. Every expression that he saw was one of pleasant surprise. People mid-drink as the words had taken hold of them, paused as the song took them for a journey though they never left the bar.

The clapping began slowly and cautiously, the lone noise in the tavern, before it escalated quickly into a fevered pitch that shook the very walls. There was not a single dry eye in the room.

Simon glowed, his own heart soared, inspired by the sheer truthfulness of their excitement. This is what life was about! It was the confirmation to all his choices in life that had led him here. Cries for more drink filled the air, for the song had set the mood to one of contemplation.

Now everyone was
reflecting on what had gotten them to where they were; most just also chose the reflection at the bottom of a mug to accompany them. Looking over at the table of three, Simon saw that even they were affected. The woman's bottom lip was trembling and she looked on the verge of crying, while her two companions wore expressions of utter seriousness.

In other words, the time was ripe in which to move in.

Ignoring the claps of congratulations he received as he walked between the tables, he stopped at the table of three, waiting until he was acknowledged. The man with shoulder length, curly blonde hair was the first to look up from his inner thoughts and notice him. "That was. . . amazing," he said, the words escaping his mouth in a single rush as if he had to get it out before it was lost.