A Dead God's Tear (The Netherwalker Trilogy) (31 page)

"Thank you.”
Simon bowed graciously. "It is nice to know, even in places such as this, one can still find those who appreciate music."

"Yes," the woman seemed taken aback, as if praise was something she didn't do often, "the son
g was truly beautiful."

"My name is Marcius," the other man, with sloppy muddy brown hair, held out his hand to Simon.

His companions were obviously not ones to be outdone. "Alicia," the woman said with a nod of greeting.

"And I am Jared," the blonde man
held out his hand after Simon had finished with Marcius.

"Care for company?" Simon leaned over the table and dropped his voice as if divulging secret information. "I'd rather sit with some people who might carry intelligent conversation, you know, somethin
g beyond how many women they bed a'night or how their boss screwed them out of pay."

The grins he received told him he was welcome, well before they had said it. "Sure, we wouldn't mind the company of a bard. Perhaps you could entertain us with your travel
s?" Jared said after Simon had sat down.

Simon's astute eye noticed something that was of far greater importance than their immediate questions. "What is this? Your cups are empty! This simply will not do!" Before they could protest, Simon turned around in
his chair toward the bar. "Hey Barry, a round of beers for this table!" turning back around, he was awarded with a shocked look on three faces. He merely winked. They didn't know how profitable the work had been this morning for him. "Don't worry, it's my treat."

"Thanks for the show of kindness," the woman said before regarding him critically, "I'm afraid I didn't catch a name, master bard?" Alicia asked, sitting back in her chair.

Simon chuckled. “My name's Simon and I'm not a bard."

Jared didn't seem to
believe him, shooting him a shrewd look. "Come now. . . uh. . . Simon, you're trying to tell me you play like that without any training?"

"Yeah
. . . come on. You were brilliant up there," Marcius chimed in meekly.

"I never said I never had training. I jus
t don't consider myself a bard, that is all."

"Well, then, what do you consider yourself?" Alicia raised her eyebrow questionably, a coy smile gracing her lips.

Simon rubbed his chin thoughtfully, "Well, if I had to pigeonhole myself as anything, it'd probably be a priest. I do a bit of everything." He had to resist the temptation to wink at her in regards to the last statement. He doubted such a woman responded to such crass flirting, though he made a mental note of that pick-up line for future use. You never know when such things might come in handy.

The looks of surprise he received at the proclamation were genuine, if a bit suspicious. "You're kidding me," Jared said, leaning over the table towards Simon. "What priest would sing songs like that?" The blo
nde man pointed at a table that was still singing, rather badly by Simon's experienced ear, the words to the "Man with a Hundred Hands and a Thousand Wives".

Hey, was it his fault that it was such a catchy ditty? Simon
’s professional side grimaced anyway. There
was
a point where enthusiasm was overridden by drunkenness.

"I would agree," Alicia piped in, redirecting Simon's attention back to the conversation. He liked her lips, they were nice and pink, and they looked soft to the touch.

He should probably correct their views
.
Simon sighed, forcing his mind once again to the conversation, though he hated the amount of explanation whenever someone asked him what he did. Why couldn't he just agree with their initial assumptions? He'd done it often enough to other people to not feel guilty over lying. It'd be so much easier, but some annoying itch within him prevented that simple route. He felt that he should at least be honest with them.

Simon chalked it up on being in service of a god. Inspiration or something
like that. Yeah, that sounded plausible. Perhaps this was his purpose? Simon found the idea of his fate predefined as positively frightening.

"Now wait a mom
—" Simon's half-hearted protests were cut off by the immense presence of Barry, the barkeep holding a tray heavy with beer. The big man looked back and forth between Simon and his "friends," as if the two ingredients together were too much for him to fathom.

"Here is yer beer, Simon," Barry said as he gently plopped the mugs down, and then his face to
ok on the face of utmost humility. "I hope yer not done with yer playin' yet?" Simon had to bite back a laugh. It was a turnaround from when Barry was asking him for his rent.

"Of course not, Barry. I'm just taking a bit of a breather. I saw a couple of ne
w faces and I decided to make their acquaintance," Simon finished with an elaborate gesture towards his drinking companions.

The man's head bobbed with understanding. "Ah, not a problem, Simon. This round's on the house, just 'member to play again. My cust
omers love yer twiddlin's."
And I love their money
. Simon had to resist the temptation to voice the unsaid addition to Barry's words.

The whole situation would have been amusing if it wasn't so blatantly obvious, instead it was just kind of sad. No doubt t
he pockets of Barry would jingle from the efforts of Simon. He could afford to give them several rounds of beer. That scoundrel. "Not a problem, Barry," Simon said with a brief inclination of his head, betraying none of the small flecks of anger that he felt inside.

Now reassured, the big barkeep left with a noticeable extra bounce to his step. Smiling to hide his annoyance, Simon turned back around to his companions. They seemed to have lapsed back into their self contemplative moods, something which annoy
ed Simon greatly. "Drink up, my friends. The night is too young for such long faces!" he raised his mug. Jolted from their private musings, they were quick to echo his statement, tapping their own mugs gently against his before taking a deep gulp of beer respectively.

"So, Simon," Alicia was the first to put down her mug. "What god or goddess do you hold allegiance to? I assume, from your
. . . ah. . . 'twiddlin's' it certainly isn't Avalene?" The tone of her voice suggested that she still didn't believe him.

Setting his mug down, he regarded the distractingly beautiful woman. The alcohol, coupled with the warm tavern, had made her cheeks flush a most exquisitely rosy color. "Well, my lady, I don't recall this being 'question the minstrel night'?"

"I apologize, I didn't mean—" Simon held up his hands to forestall the protests that were already starting to spill from her mouth.

"No offense taken, good lady. I'm happy to answer your question. After all, what priest wouldn't like to speak of their god or goddess
to those who wish to listen?" He shot her a smile to disarm any resentment to his earlier comment.

Everybody conceded that point with a nod. He couldn
’t put it off any longer. "I follow the teachings of The Broken One," he said, standing up and pushing his chair back to give colorful bow, which he did to hide the slight flush of embarrassment from his statement.

His habit for the dramatic caused the back of the chair to slap against someone sitting at the table behind him, introducing Simon to a few choice
words from the person sitting in it. Well, until the person realized who had bumped into his seat, then the obviously drunk man just raised his mug in toast to Simon, before quaffing the drink, spilling most of it down his front. The man looked down at the spilt beer with groggy disdain, as if it had somehow deliberately slighted him by missing his mouth, before he called for another drink, already completely forgetting Simon's transgression.

Smiling ruefully, Simon was quick to sit back down and return the
man's apathy. He looked sheepishly at his companions, who grinned back.

"The Broken One
. . . " Jared and Alicia's voices trailed off as they tried to place the name.

Simon waited patiently. His god wasn't someone commonly worshipped, so it came as no big
surprise that they didn't immediately recognize it. Hell, most of the temples refused to even recognize the existence of his God. But Simon knew better. The Broken One was as real as the mug in his hand. He knew this because the God had saved his life, and had shown himself to Simon in all his terrible glory and might.

To see a god was an incredibly humbling experience, one that instilled both fear and love, among a whole gamut of emotions that ran unerringly through his veins like fire. Simon, who up until
then had been someone who had never held much stock in religion, instead preferring the more tangible belief in oneself, had groveled like a little child before the all encompassing might of The Broken One.

Damn it! He had prostrated, wept, writhing his h
ands together like a nervous wench at the bared power before him. The very memory caused a tick of anger in the recesses of Simon's chest.

"Oh, come on," the brown haired lad, Marcius was his name if Simon remembered correctly, interjected with a sigh. "Yo
u two have never heard of The Broken One? Didn't you guys study your Pantheon?" The numb look they shot back at their friend did much to answer that question for both Marcius and Simon. Simon's respect for the boy grew at the words. He liked intelligent people. They were far more interesting than the general rabble he was forced to wallow with.

Simon couldn't help but to comment. "Oh? And you know about him, Marcius? Tell me exactly what you think you know, and I will tell you if you are correct. Far too of
ten the few that do know of him are full of preconceptions that are utterly false."

Taking it as a personal challenge, Marcius assumed the practiced air of a scholar, unconsciously straightening himself as he eyes glazed over with memory of texts read long
ago. "Triundral, also known as The Broken One, was the supposed father of the Pantheon. He was wild, capricious, and unpredictable, all symptoms fitting for a God of Chaos. Legends speak of him leveling whole cities in his rage, only to repent his actions and bless the people that so angered him with gifts for generations. Good and evil had no bearing on him. In fact, early scholars speculated that he did things merely for amusement. Eventually, his children, our current gods, rebelled against his rule, unable to take the chaos that followed all he touched. They craved order, and after a mighty battle that shook the heavens, they attained it. Triundral was injured; forever bereft of the use of his arm and eye, and thus became known as The Broken One. He has disappeared since then. Whether or not he is dead, or even if gods
can
die, is something known only to the gods themselves. Most religions in Faelon choose to strike the existence of him from their records, for such a god could not be followed, for he had no real laws or rules
to
follow. Most find the mere existence of such an irresponsible god abhorrent." Marcius licked his lips, seeming satisfied with himself as he finished.

Simon was dumbfounded. He blinked once. Twice. Three times. Never before had it
been put so. . . so. . . eloquently? Some measure of his astonishment must have passed to Marcius, for his smile just got wider as his apparent success. Letting out a low whistle, Simon searched for a response. "Well, I am impressed!" he said truthfully after a couple of seconds, "Not many know what you have said, and even less could put it so. . . succinctly."

Marcius's smile reached his ears. "Thanks, Simon. Though I can't really take all the credit. I'm just merely reciting things I have read. Things I h
ave read far too many times!" He gave a dry chuckle at some inner dark humor.

"Scholar, I take it?"

"Ah—" Marcius started to respond, before Alicia interjected.

"Yes," she said, "Marcius and myself are journeying scholars, and Jared is our bodyguard."

Simon didn't miss the discreet looks exchanged between the three. The sense of something wrong grew stronger; they were hiding something, he could feel it.

Even if they were scholars, which he believed to be a lie, what would they be doing in the most dilapid
ated tavern in Harcourt? The more he tumbled such thoughts in his head, the less it made sense. Well, like he always said, when smoke obscured the truth, one merely had to prod the flame.

"Excuse me for my bluntness, my fair lady, but I don't recall your n
ame as being Marcius," he shot her a disarming smile to soften the reprimand before turning back to Marcius. "Now, Marcius, what is it that you do?
Are
you a scholar?" Simon put on his most innocent face.

It was a useless gesture, and Simon knew he had err
ed when he saw all three jaw lines tighten and the general temperature of the table seemed to drop drastically. The formerly relaxed faces were now guarded and wary.

"We're going to retire for the night," Alicia said tersely, standing up, "Thanks for the c
onversation, master bard." Simon didn't even bother to correct her, his mind was too busy racing to find a way to hastily patch up whatever line he had crossed.

"Oh, please stay for a couple more drinks? It is awfully lonely here, with just a bunch of work
ing men to talk with," and figuring he should throw them the benefit of the doubt, "It's not often that I get to talk with scholars."