The Ale Boy's Feast (4 page)

Weese shrugged himself into his leather vest and tied his curtain of yellow hair into a cord. “Yup,” he said.

He opened the back door, went inside, and passed through the steamy kitchen with a nod to his workers—Hunch, the hulking custodian and carpenter who only ever asked him questions, and Rik-pool, his singing, fast-handed dishwasher.

“Two,” he said, referring to the customers he’d heard approaching.

He thrust a heavy curtain aside and stepped into the narrow span behind the bar, inhaling the heavy haze of beer, sweat, dust, and hot grease from fried gorrel strips. The sensation always caused a few moments of blissful dizziness. Every afternoon the place became an oven, heated by the sun and the flaring tempers of the angry drinkers who circled the five round tables. So long as it was hot, so long as they were engrossed in debate, they’d keep on drinking, and Weese would be happy. He hummed an old Jentan soldiers’ song as he gathered empty clay mugs from the bar.

Two travelers pushed through the swinging doors and crossed the sand-swept floor to the bar. They drew glances from all directions.

The one wrapped from head to toe in red—even his face concealed in a mask—paused and pondered the tables as the glances became gazes. The other newcomer, a carriage driver with a wide-brimmed hat, slumped against the bar and stared wearily down at its polished wood.

Weese sensed that the driver deserved pity for having drawn this garish passenger across the desert. He gave him a mug of dark, foamy ale. “First one’s free for drivers,” he said in his very best attempt to sound welcoming.

“You sound as bad as I feel,” said the driver. “Hard times for soldiers out of work?”

Weese sighed.

It was, he supposed, obvious. He still wore his long yellow hair tied back in a tail in the tradition of Jentan Defenders. But his days of swords and shields were behind him. The word
freedom
tattooed down his arm declared that he had broken away from dependence on the Aerial—the society of mages who ruled the Jentan School.

House Jenta’s Defenders had once fought beastmen and thieves. But three generations ago the mages had changed history. Promising their people that they would flourish if they separated themselves from the Expanse and its corruption, the Aerial led everyone out of the desert settlement and took them in ships to Wildflower Isle on the southern horizon.

Then, as Jenta’s island settlement grew, the mages had combined their powers to contain their people there. Returning to the School to pursue their meditations and studies in solitude, they kept only a small company of servants.

In time, the mages’ need for protectors dried up. They were powerful enough to defend themselves and too self-absorbed to care about sustaining any kind of society.

So the Defenders, men with no society to protect, became self-reliant, hiring themselves out to defend the scattered clans of herdsmen in the desert—cattlemen and shepherds who were similarly abandoned by the house they had once served.

In these days of independence, Weese had become known throughout the southern dustlands as a brewer, a cactus hog roaster, and a club-wielding punisher of reckless inebriates. (A collection of blunt instruments decorated the wall behind the bar.) He was the most beloved brewer in the region, for since the mages had lost any care for the art, he seemed to be the only brewer left. So he shipped generous amounts of his beer off to Wildflower Isle, hoping to cheer the angry, troubled settlers there.

Thus, Weese was the largest sponge for news and rumors in the Jentan territory. He earned as much for his information as he did for his unremarkable drink.

As the driver reached for the mug, Weese pulled it back. “Who’s yer smug, prancing passenger, driver?”

The red-robed stranger had settled on a bench at a crowded round table where herdsmen were placing bets on a tabletop duel between two broad-shelled, grappling sandpinchers. The herdsmen regarded the masked visitor quietly, studying his sensational costume.

“He’s not one of them Seers, is he?” Weese asked.

The driver scowled. “Says he’s the prodigal mage.”

Weese snorted. “The third Scharr ben Fray this season.” He released the mug and reached backward, closing his hand over the handle of a polished stick the size of his forearm. Smacking it against his open palm, he said, “It’s gonna get ugly.”

“He’s expecting a hero’s welcome.”

“He might have had one if they hadn’t already bought drinks for the other Scharr ben Fray at that table.” Weese nodded toward the elderly longbeard seated next to the newcomer.

The driver licked a line of foam from the side of the mug. “Why are herdsmen so eager to believe the prodigal mage will return?”

“Simple. They hate the other mages of the Aerial. Scharr ben Fray, he’s different. He’s the one mage who walked away in protest. He went off to serve kings and commoners alike. He made something of his life. He’s the last living remnant of the ancient government that the Jentan Defenders were proud to protect. Some hope he’ll return to restore the house to its past glories.”

The driver looked over his shoulder. “Why do you let these impostors carry on?”

“The prodigal’s myth is powerful. It draws crowds. And crowds buy drinks.”

The driver smiled. “The prodigal’s myth?”

Weese shrugged. “Think Scharr ben Fray’s still alive out there?”

“I hear all kinds of stories,” said the driver. “Killed by beastmen. Killed by the Seers. Killed by Deathweed. Killed in a cave collapse by his own stonemastery. Who knows? The sightings go on. Scharr’s been seen helping House Abascar’s survivors. He’s been seen traveling with a young boy rumored to be the world’s last firewalker. He’s been seen in the shadow of the Forbidding Wall. Some say they’ve even seen him riding a dragon.”

“A dragon? Haven’t been any big ones in the Expanse since before our fathers were born.” Weese took the driver’s empty mug. “Enough about rumors. Give me real news, and I’ll pour you another.”

“How’s this?” The driver drew an invisible map through beer puddles on the bar.

He spoke of House Bel Amica on the western coastline. Deathweed had invaded the harbor, forcing Queen Thesera to move her ships south of the Rushtide Inlet.

Then he described turmoil in the Cent Regus Core as beastmen fought for control after the death of their chieftain. “The beastmen are desperate and dying,” he said. “They’re cut off from the source of their strength. But Deathweed is spreading like the roots of some accursed tree. And if we don’t find a way to fight back against it soon, we’ll all have to find new homes across the sea.”

Weese gave the driver a new mug twice the size of the first and full to the brim. “What about House Abascar’s survivors? Rumors have them wandering Bel Amica’s streets.”

The driver confirmed it. The remnant of Abascar, he said, now lived under House Bel Amica’s protection, while their king, Cal-raven, had gone missing during a venture to rescue slaves from beastmen. “Some say he’s been seen haunting the ruins of House Abascar. Like a man who’s lost his mind.”

“I want news,” said Weese, “not rumors.”

The driver grinned, beer fizzing on his upper lip. “You think that story’s strange? Try this one on. A sky-man’s been seen over Deep Lake, soaring on bright golden wings.”

“A sky-man?” Weese raised his eyebrows. “That nursery story’s still around? It’s tired as talk of the Keeper.”

Hunch, the custodian, moved among the tables with his broom, bent low as if he were watching for some lost gemstone in the dust. As he passed behind the driver, he leaned in and murmured, “Shall I water your horses, son?”

The driver nodded, surprised. “They’ll be grateful, I’m sure.” Then he leaned across the bar. “Say, what’ll you charge me for a bowl of Ribera stew?”

“Ribera stew?” Weese narrowed his eyes. “I haven’t heard that name in years. I bought this place from Ribera Dan just before he died. Long time ago.”

A mug smashed at the corner table. Uproarious laughter exploded from the drinkers there. Weese, teeth clenched, reached for the polished stick.

The bearded geezer stood and pointed an accusatory finger at the red-cloaked stranger. “Me? A liar? I’m the real Scharr ben Fray. Everybody here knows it!”

A small man with a Bel Amican glass over one eye squeaked in the longbeard’s
defense. “I’d walk out of here now if I was you. This is the prodigal mage. I’m travelin’ with him to chronicle his past for posterity!”

The stranger calmly pulled up his mask from under his chin so he could take a swig of beer. Then he said, “We’ll see if his stories can match mine.”

“Shtories?” roared a drunkard. “Forget about shtories. We wanna shee tricks ’n’ powers! Scharr ben Fray, he talksh to animalsh!”

The herdsmen agreed. It was time to expose the liar with a test. In a flourish that seemed rather magical itself, they produced two birdcages and planted them on the table before the rivals.

Both men stared at the nervous birds. Both offered interpretations of what the chirps meant. The intoxicated audience quickly concluded that they had no way of verifying these translations. The cages were removed and set aside on the windowsill just inside the door.

“Stonemastery,” rasped the red rider, turning to shake his opponent’s hand. “Which one of us can mold stone as if it were clay?”

The longbeard did not accept the handshake. “I’m not a performing monkey,” he barked. “I’m leaving.” Then he began to groan, his face reddening, his hands splayed on the table, pressing as he tried to stand.

The herdsmen gasped.

The longbeard’s rump remained stuck to the bench.

“He’s glued!” someone shouted. “His backside’s been affixed by stonemastery!”

The newcomer stood and bowed.

Weese began to tap the club against the bar to remind his customers that he was watching.

“Well, then.” The driver drained his glass. “My passenger said he’d prove it. Now he’ll want to move on.” He slid unsteadily from his barstool and staggered toward the door. “I’ll prepare the horses.” He chirped a friendly farewell to the twittering birds on the sill, and they fell silent, watching him go.

Meanwhile, the red-robed stranger made slow progress, his hands raised as if to deflect the praises of herdsmen who followed him to the door.

As Weese calmly dragged a towel down the length of the bar, he looked at the birds in their cages. They were staring out the window, watching the driver.

As the new hero and his admirers left the bar, Weese hurried to the table where the longbeard was furiously trying to free himself from the stone bench.

“He’s no mage!” the impostor snarled, spitting a spray of beer. “That wasn’t stonemastery! Can’t you see? This here’s just a plate of fast-drying clay. He slipped it beneath me while I was standing. I just didn’t see him do it.”

“Another impostor?” Weese sighed. “I thought we might really have Scharr ben Fray in our midst this time. Let me get my tools. We’ll set you loose so you can run.”

“Run? I’m not running anywhere.”

In the distance Weese could hear carriage wheels and the horses’
trip-trap
. The departing carriage had reached the stone bridge over the snake-stream.

“That mob? They’re coming back. And they’re going to punish you for lying.”

The old man’s anger vanished on a sudden surge of fear. “I’m an actor,” he stammered. “Sometimes I … I just like to practice. Why would they punish me?”

“They spent drink money on you.” Weese jerked a blade from his belt and cut a square from the back of the old man’s leather trousers. “And worse, you got their hopes up. They all wanted to meet the real Scharr ben Fray. He’s independent. Untethered. Won’t take orders from anybody. He is, to all of us betrayed by the Aerial, a hero.”

Just then the cheers and laughter outside diminished. In the awkward hush, Weese sensed new troubles brewing.

“They’re coming.” The impostor leapt forward, dashing like a young athlete through the bar and out the back door, his hind parts plain to see.

Weese ran to the swinging front doors and stepped outside. The mob of herdsmen was not coming back. They were charging toward the bridge. The carriage was rumbling off crookedly into the distance as if it had no driver. And the red-robed stranger was on the bridge over the snake-stream, down on all fours.

“What happened?”

“The driver!” Rik-pool, the dishwasher, exclaimed. Wiping his soapy hands on
a towel, he went on. “The driver kicked the mage out of his carriage. Then he gave the fellow a reprimand. And the mage … he sank up to his elbows in the stone of the bridge!”

Weese blinked. “Wait. You’re telling me that the
driver’s
a stonemaster?”

“See? That red fellow’s stuck on the bridge. Hands and knees sealed in the stone.” Raising an eyebrow, Rik-pool added, “Perhaps he’s not the real Scharr ben Fray after all.”

“Of course he isn’t.” Wiping his tattooed arm across his brow, Weese looked out at the escaping carriage. “You think the real Scharr ben Fray would come bragging into Mad Sun’s? He would know that the Aerial has eyes and ears everywhere.”

But that driver
, Weese thought.
He knew so much about happenings all across the Expanse. And it turns out he’s a stonemaster
.

“Poor impostor,” said Rik-pool as the man on the bridge was surrounded by angry drunkards. “He’s gonna lose more than his fancy red costume.”

“I think it’s closing time.” Weese pushed back through the swinging doors. Then he took the heavier front door—the sliding gate that would seal the bar—and mightily dragged it shut. Circling the room, he pulled down the shutters, then jumped over the bar to grab his best fightstick—the one with a concealed blade.

Out front, the red-robed impostor was howling through the herdsmen’s assault.

Out back, to the crack of a whip, the longbeard’s vawn was galloping away.
Gonna be an uncomfortable journey for that old fool’s backside
, Weese thought.

Slipping out the back, he hurried to the bundle of blankets where Meladi was still, somehow, asleep. “It’s time, my joy. I’m taking our carriage. I’m off to tell the Aerial that I’ve seen Scharr ben Fray.”