“That wasn’t exactly where I had my dagger,” Emlyn shrugs, “but I won’t object to the assistance.”
Both Benger and Atres stifle a chuckle as the three of them head out. Atres leads her to a small inn named The Sleeping Gentleman, wedged between a dressmaker and a cheese shop.
Pushing open the door, it opens into a vestibule before opening into the taproom, a convenient place to hang up rain gear or heavy coats. The taproom is a haven of amber glow and worn charm. A great hearth dominates the far wall, its stone mouth crackling with logs that fill the space with the comforting scent of smoke and pine resin. Above it, a faded tapestry hangs lopsided, depicting a stag in mid-leap, antlers threaded with stars. Long trestle tables stretch across the floor, their surfaces scarred by years of spilled ale and boisterous stories. A long wooden bench runs along the edge of the room, accompanied by a few smaller, more mobile tables.
Lanterns hang low from crossbeams, their copper housings casting dappled light over the tables below. A narrow stair curves upward in the corner, its railing worn smooth from a thousand tired hands. Upstairs appears to be where the rooms are located. The inn seems to be empty, which isn’t unusual given that so many have left for midwinter festivities far from Harito.
Atres spots the innkeeper, “Kethas, do you happen to have a couple of rooms for my friends?”
Kethas stops mopping the bar and eyes Atres, grinning. “Atres, you dog! Two of them? Male and female? Expanding your range now?”
Benger stifles a snort of laughter, and Emlyn blushes hotly. Atres palms his face and looks at Kethas, grimacing.
“Gods above,” Atres mutters to himself.
“Kethas, she’s a paladin of Morrighu,” Atres grinds out, “Mind your manners, you old goat.”
Kethas laughs heartily and beckons them up to the bar. Kethas observes Emlyn closely as she seats herself primly at the bar.
“You look a bit young to be a battle paladin,” Kethas says, “How long have you been consecrated?”
“Total or most recently?” Emlyn asks politely.
“Total,” Kethas says, clearly intrigued.
“A little over four years,” Emlyn replies. Kethas sees that both Benger and Atres look surprised, so Kethas muses for a moment before pursuing his next question.
“And most recently?” Kethas asks.
“A little over a tenday,” Emlyn responds.
“I can put your friends up until their Temple reopens,” Kethas grins, “If I don’t, she’ll end up sleeping in that hovel you live in. That’s not a fit place for a dog, much less a lady.”
Turning back to Emlyn, “So tell me, battle paladin, what’s your name and how did you meet this scoundrel?”
“I’m known as Nia ferch Hayden ap Rhys,” Emlyn says with a smile, “As for where I met this scoundrel, as you call him, that was when Argonath tried to recruit me for the King’s Guard.”
Eyebrows raised, Kethas looks at Atres, who nods in confirmation.
“Why did Argonath try to recruit her?” Kethas asks.
“I told him he was wasting his time,” Atres shrugs, “since she introduced herself as a paladin. Those oaths and the things we find ourselves mixed up in don’t often go well together.”
“That’s not quite what I was asking,” Kethas says, “She looks like she’s barely old enough to be away from home. Why would Argonath want to recruit a girl-child?”
“She bested the archery contest at the fair,” Atres grins, “After that, Argonath insulted her, so they had a bit of an unarmed bout to iron out their differences, and she held her own, maybe a bit better. So, we took her hunting, and she took four elk – two right through the eye. While she was dressing the elk, a lone wolf came up and tried to chase her away. She took it, too, calm as you please.”
Kethas rocks back and looks at Emlyn with an appraising stare and finally says, “All that true?”
Emlyn smiles serenely and nods, “Yes. I won a necklace for my foster mother from the archery contest. Argonath’s lucky he dodged that punch to the knee, or I’d have had him hobbled, and that bout would have gone rather differently. Most of the folks at the fair ate elk all tenday off the four bulls I took. My foster father was quite pleased with the rack off the big, old bull and the wolf’s pelt. I even paid the Tinker-folk seer at the fair with two of the wolf’s teeth.”
“Now, why would a girl who can do all that want to talk to a seer?” Kethas asks.
“I didn’t,” Emlyn shrugs, “She wanted to talk to me, but every workman should get his due.”
Kethas looks at Benger, who’s trying not to laugh.
“Out with it,” Kethas says, “What’s so funny?”
“My little sister,” Benger grins, “is formidable. Everyone underestimates her, and everyone comes to regret it. I underestimated you during our first fight, and you bent my brigantine so badly I couldn’t breathe, much less fight. Those bandits underestimated you, and they’re dead. Abato underestimated you and nearly got himself snipped. Argonath underestimated you and ended up chugging at least three healing potions after your little squabble. I know because I found the empty bottles when I went to see how you two had settled your differences so quickly.”
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“What’s this about Abato?” Kethas asks.
“The duke’s spymaster tried to sneak into her bath,” Atres says darkly, “He’d been tasked with delivering a message and was planning to leave it with her clothes.”
“I’ll have none of that here,” Kethas replies firmly, “You’ll be safe enough here, girl.”
“I don’t know that he’d try that particular stunt again,” Emlyn shrugs, “after he ended up in my bathwater with a foot of steel shoved somewhere sensitive while I questioned him as to who he was and just what in the name of the ninth layer of hell he thought he was doing.”
Kethas throws his head back and laughs loudly, “I can’t say that I hate hearing that slippery eel got his comeuppance. Now tell me about these bandits while I pull us all a pint.”
“Throw in some lunch with that,” Atres grins, “and you’ve got a deal.”
Between Emlyn and Benger, both recounting the story, Atres gets a much better idea of just how close a call these bandits truly were.
“Damn it all, lass,” Atres growls at her, “be more careful. Overconfidence kills.”
“It wasn’t all her,” Benger tells Atres, “I should have been praying for assistance while she and Jathon were getting his family out of that killing zone.”
At Atres’s sharp glare, Benger throws up his hands in a warding gesture, “Don’t worry, it’s not a mistake I’ll make twice.”
“I didn’t expect there to be so many of them,” Emlyn sighs, “I’m usually a lot better at tallying up what I’m walking into.”
Smirking, Kethas looks at Atres, “You care what happens to her. When did that happen?”
Rolling his eyes, anticipating the teasing he’s about to get, Atres recounts meeting Emlyn at the archery booth and being intrigued when she passed them a hand signal to wait, then another to follow, and his examination of the tree she’d been punching.
“What truly caught my eye was the leap she made to get to the next tree,” Atres admits, “I realized then how she’d been hunting the bandits. At that point, I was beyond impressed with her. I knew I had to flirt with her, and I was praying she’d be interested. I think I came on a bit strong, because I made her blush almost to her toes. That was so damnably adorable that I said something about seeing just how far her blush went, and then her ears were glowing. That was when I knew I was done for.”
“Hmmm,” Kethas laughs, “That the Valkis talent talking to you again? Or just your own loins?”
“It’s been rather active recently,” Atres nods, “and yes, it was practically screaming at the time, if you must know.”
“My, my,” Kethas chuckles, sipping at his ale, “I’m pretty sure you have boots that are older than she is.”
Kethas looks at Emlyn and shrugs, “No offense, girl.”
“None taken,” Emlyn shrugs back, “I know I’m young.”
“Who taught you to fight?” Kethas asks her.
“Mostly my older sister,” Emlyn replies.
“Really?” Kethas asks, “I think I’d like to meet her.”
“I wish you could,” Emlyn says, looking very sad.
Before Kethas can ask anything else, he catches a gesture from Atres asking him to drop it. Kethas signs back “All?” and Atres nods and signs back “Plus.” Kethas sighs heavily.
“What made you think Atres here might be to your taste?” Kethas asks her.
“There is a hum to him that’s similar to what I’d be able to sense from one of my own people,” Emlyn says, “Not quite the same, but not vastly different either.”
“She can sense your dragon-blood?” Kethas asks Atres, “Are you sure she’s not from one of the clans?”
“I think she can, but we’ve yet to test it. I’m certain she’s not from one of the other clans. She’s from so far away,” Atres says, “I don’t recognize anything, including her language. No one here does. She doesn’t seem to have any of it herself. If she does, I can’t smell it.”
“Nor I,” Kethas agrees, “If she were an unbonded girl of the clans at her age, with all the dragon-blooded here in Harito, you wouldn’t be able to keep her in the city.”
“There are reasons,” Atres explains, “that most of the dragon-blood clans live in remote villages up in the mountains. One of those is that when girls hit puberty, their scent drives the young bucks who aren’t kin to them or aren’t already bonded to someone else, into a bit of a frenzy. If I were to bring one of my sisters or my nieces here to Harito, there would likely be a riot among the unrelated, unbonded males to see who was strongest and who might be allowed to claim his place as her mate.”
“Hmm,” Emlyn says slowly, “that doesn’t sound so different from our marriage rituals. Among my people, when a pair wants to bond, there is a gauntlet to run – one for the woman handled by her potential husband’s relatives, one for the man handled by her relatives, and one for them together, manned by everyone, even those not related to either one. If either or both of them fail to pass the gauntlets, they do not get married.”
“Why do that?” Atres asks.
“Because the children must be strong,” Emlyn shrugs, “We live in a disputed land that we must fight constantly to hold.”
“That still doesn’t seem like a riot,” Kethas shrugs. “We did the same thing in a more... controlled fashion with our annual tournament,” Emlyn shrugs, “Rank, among us, was earned through combat. That rank determined, among other things, social standing and choices for spouses.”
“And your rank?” Kethas asks.
“I did well for myself,” Emlyn smirks, “Quite well.”
“How well?” Kethas asks, with narrowed eyes.
“Well enough,” Emlyn heaves a huge sigh, “that no one believes me unless I swear to it. Speaking of Argonath, don’t we need to go see him?”
“We do at that, but not just yet,” Atres says, “Kethas, can you do me a favor and send for my cousins?”
“I could,” Kethas says slowly, “if you tell me what it’s about.”
Atres looks uncertainly at Emlyn.
“I can answer that for you. He’s worried about that damnable dragon,” Emlyn replies with some ferocity tinging her voice, “that I’m planning to rip from the sky and plant in the ground.”
Kethas gives Atres a look, but Atres nods.
“My cohort from the Temple has been tasked to deal with it. It’s behaving oddly and we’re all on edge because of it,” Emlyn continues, “It’s been demanding tribute from one of the villages in... what was the phrase you used... unsullied females. Atres is worried that the thing, whatever it really is, will try to take me, since I qualify.”
“And you’re not?” Kethas asks her.
“Of course I am,” Emlyn nods, “That’s one of the scenarios that I’ve planned for.”
“One,” Kethas questions, “How many have you planned for?”
“Seven major variations,” Emlyn explains, “About twenty or so minor variations.”
“That’s... surprisingly thorough,” Kethas says slowly, “Walk me through them.”
“As you will,” Emlyn nods, “Perhaps you will see something I’ve missed or don’t know about.”
Reaching into her pack, she pulls out a sheaf of papers and starts laying them out for Kethas.
“You know,” Kethas grins at Atres, “You could take the tribute option off her list of possibilities pretty simply.”
“How so?” Atres shrugs, “I’m stuck between the dragon and the deep blue sea on that.”
“That’s easy enough to fix for you, Atres, my boy,” Kethas grins, “She’s got a room, just upstairs. Take her upstairs and... ah... go sully her.”
Benger chokes on his ale and glances at Emlyn.
“Don’t think the thought hadn’t occurred to me,” Atres glares back, “but not so easy with the lady in question, or this might have tempted me to do something so incredibly, monumentally stupid.”
“He’s aware of my requirements,” Emlyn replies, eyes narrowed.
“Yes,” Atres sighs heavily, “Three years, a wedding, and something about a tattoo.”
If you were Emlyn, would you tell Atres about your "big plan"?