Chapter Two (old)

Wren

I approached the Leaping Hart with caution, mentally identifying and counting the men lingering along the road, around the sides of the building, and blocking the doorway. The heavy reward money, evenly distributed around my waist, weighted on my nerves as well as my hips. Today wasn’t the first time that a male bounty hunter had mistaken me for easy pickings. Most men saw a female in leggings and thought that if they brought her to tears, she would give in to their demands. Thanks to the scene in the courtyard, every bounty hunter in town knew that I now carried twenty gold coins.

A sturdy building, the inn sprawled along the side of the road. It was the only inn in town, a place to eat, sleep, drink, and do business. The innkeeper ran a tight, clean establishment. The beds were aired daily, the floors swept, and if a client roughhoused, he was thrown out on his seat into the night. It was one of the few places of its kind where I felt reasonably safe, but tonight was an exception.

As I stepped through the door, I was greeted with a wave of sweat, smoke, and the sickeningly sweet smell of fermented drink. A group of men wearing the common garb of bounty hunters, expensive materials that had seen better days and more weapons than necessary, leaned on the bar at the far end of the room. They were laughing heartily at another man’s joke. His clothing identified him as the town baker, and the flour down his front told me that he had just stopped for a moment on his way home. He was probably curious about the unusual bounty that Lord Forgtrey promised to reveal.

“Ah, Mistress Romany.” The innkeeper greeted me with a bow and a smile before rescuing a half-full tankard from the edge of the table. “I had the cook save you some dinner and a room is ready for your use tonight.”

“Thank you, Gainry.” I smiled at him in a friendly manner.

He scanned the room and signaled the serving maid. “If you would come this way?” he prompted before leading me in the direction of a back booth.

I followed. A few of the other customers turned to watch us pass, but no one said anything. I could feel their gazes on my back and other body parts, but I chose to ignore them. It would be futile to attempt to demand respect. These men wouldn’t even know what the word meant. I was female and the word brought only one thing to mind and it wasn’t pleasant. As long as they kept their hands and their thoughts to themselves, I could tolerate their gazes for a short time.

“I spotted a booth opening up fifteen minutes ago and tried to save it for you. Although it isn’t a private parlor, it will offer some seclusion.” Taking a cloth from his belt, the innkeeper wiped the already clean surface and bowed me onto a bench.

I smiled my thanks. A booth was better than sitting out in the open where all of the patrons could watch my every move. Hidden in the back corner and far from the ruckus at the bar, this booth was the best in the room. Sliding across the bench so that my back was to the wall and I could survey the room, I loosened my throwing dagger in its sheath. With my other hand, I fetched out a coin and passed it to the innkeeper. He smiled as he ran his grubby fingers over the rough edges. “Your meal will be right out.”

While I waited, I contented myself with sizing up my competition. Aside from the men at the bar, I counted twelve other fortune seekers. Three loners sat along the far wall, scarred faces hidden in the shadows, one was missing a hand and another lacking a foot. The third was unusual. He alone of all the men met my gaze as I looked around. As our eyes met, he inclined his head every so slightly.

I frowned and turned away to pay closer attention to a contest of skill on the other side of the room.

“Your meal, miss,” a young woman said. She slid a heavy trencher full of thick stew with a floating slab of bread across the table. A waft of beef and turnips flooded my senses and my mouth watered. A mug of watered ale followed, liquid sloshing over the edges and covering the table as she thumped it down.

“Wench,” a male voice hollered nearby. “My meat is overcooked!”

After tossing a spoon on the table, the woman adjusted her bodice and turned away to attend to the man’s complaint. I pulled the trencher closer and picked up the spoon. The first spoonful was heavenly, the turnips were well cooked and the meat tender. I closed my eyes and let the thick gravy coat my throat.

On the trail, I rarely had time to cook. Most meals were bread and cheese, or salted jerky. Occasionally, after a capture, I would treat myself to a stew, but it never was this good. This taste could only be produced by cooking it all day over a low fire.

“You have gravy on your chin,” a male voice informed me. My eyes flew open to find the bold bounty hunter sitting on the bench across from me.

I swallowed and dragging a sleeve across my mouth, glared at him before looking at it. It was clean. “That seat isn’t available.”

“I don’t see anyone sitting in it.”

Shifting so that I was farther away from him, I turned my attention to breaking up the bread with my spoon. His dark eyes watched me.

“Do you want something?” I asked. I filled the spoon and brought it to my mouth.

“Yes.”

I met his gaze as I chewed. He had an honest face, well formed, and strong with a slightly large nose. His tousled, black hair and scruff gave him a sinister look, but his dark green eyes held no malice. If anything, they glinted with curiosity as he examined my face as well. Leaning back against the back of the bench, every line of his posture conformed to the image of a man completely at ease, except his hands. The long fingers of his left hand kept in constant motion, tracing the ridges in the scared wooden surface of the table. The right was beneath the edge of the and out of my sight, but I could see the muscles in his arm moving as he fiddled with something.

“What do you want?” I asked finally.

“I will tell you when I am certain.”

“Of what?”

“You will see.”

I grimaced and turned my attention to the stew. If I let him distract me much longer, it would grow cold. In silence, he watched me. Then, as I wiped up the last dregs of the gravy with the bread, he spoke again.

“You have some just below your lip.”

I met his gaze doubtfully. I had fallen for that before. “I didn’t last time.”

“You do now,” he assured me. Before I could protest, he reached across the table and ran a finger across my bottom lip. “See,” he said, offering a crumb on the tip of his finger for my inspection. “It would look mighty unprofessional to walk around with that under your lip.” He flicked it away. “It undermines any chance of respect.”

“Are you here to follow me around, wiping my face as though I was a child?”

“No. Now that you have finished your meal, I am ready to talk business. Are you inclined to listen?”

“It depends on the business,” I replied.

“I am not here to steal the bounty, if that is what you are thinking.” He laid both of his hands on the table top, spreading his fingers. They were large hands, callused and rough. “I am more interested in making sure you keep it.”

I raised my gaze to study his face. Dark green eyes regarded me seriously and earnestly.

“After that confrontation this morning, Roark isn’t going to be satisfied until you have been beaten and humiliated.”

“I already knew that,” I pointed out. “Male egos are not foreign territory.” I do have four brothers, I almost added. I bit it back as flickers of memories passed through the back of my mind. “What does that have to do with you?”

“I can protect you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Arthus

I watched the color of her incredible hazel eyes change from hawk yellow to a deep brown. Instinctively, I knew what her answer would be before she opened her mouth. I debated for a moment whether it would be better to offer more of an argument. However, the set of her jaw and the frown barely disguised beneath her placid pretense warned me that nothing that I said would penetrate.

“I can take care of myself, sir.” Her voice was cold, wary rejection in every line of her face.

“It isn’t that I don’t think you can,” I replied. “I know Roark and what he is capable of and I know that no matter how good you are, he will find a way to accomplish his goal.”

“And you can prevent that?”

“Two are better than one.”

She frowned in earnest this time. “No thank you, sir.”

“Arthus,” I supplied.

“What?”

“My name is Arthus Heaton.”

She inclined her head in polite greeting. “I am Wren Romany.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Miss Romany.” She raised an eyebrow at that. “Do you mind if I remain here until the announcement of the bounty. Another man has taken my place.”

She nodded and then turned her attention to scanning the room. I took the opportunity to covertly study her face. Wide eyed and even featured, it had an attractive element that I couldn’t put my finger on immediately. Perhaps she reminded me of my little sister, Blaire, or perhaps it was the strength beneath the femininity. Whatever it was, I felt compelled to protect her whether or not she was willing to pay me to do it.

“Ah, Heaton, we meet again.” Instantly recognizing the voice, my left hand went to my waist. “Not so fast,” Roark admonished as he slid onto the bench across from me and next to Wren. He flashed a wide grin her way and he raised his hands, spread and empty. “Reaching for a weapon is hardly a civilized greeting for an old friend.”

I pushed back the bile that rose at the memory. “I wouldn’t describe our relationship as a friendship.” Fingering the hilt of my short sword, I met his gaze with a glare. Because of my position at the table I could draw my weapon should I need to, but the movement would have to be slower than customary.

“Don’t even think about it, gimp.” Jarthros, Roark’s muscle man, sat down heavily next to me. A cloud of unwashed body stench came with him, making my eyes water slightly. A sharp point prodded my ribs. He grinned and ordered, “Hands on the table, Artie. We wouldn’t want to show the little miss the inside of your gut would we?” His breath reeked of fish and ale as he slightly slurred his words.

“And how much of Gainry’s ale have you consumed today, Jar?” I asked as I obediently lifted both my hands above the table edge. I looked across to check on what Wren was thinking of all this. The situation should be just what I needed to convince her that she was in more danger than she thought. Of course, I had to somehow manage to get us out of the situation alive first.

“What do you want?” Wren asked Roark as coolly as though he had come over to inquire about her health. Behind her calm mask, her eyes were dark and angry.

“My bounty.”

“The bounty isn’t yours.”

“Ah, but it is. I only kindly allowed you to collect it for me. Where is it?”

She said nothing, but her eyes quickly assessed the circumstances, Jarthros’ thick hand poking my ribs with his dagger, Roark’s empty hands, and the distance between him and her. A plan was forming behind the placid mask. Incapacitated as I was, I could only hope that she wasn’t weighing my life in the balance against hers. If she could only cause a diversion to draw Jarthros’ attention for a moment, I could gain the upper hand. I met her eyes and willed her to understand as I moved my hands toward the edge of the table.

“Hey, I said keep them on the table.” Jarthros’ blade point penetrated my leather jerkin with a sting.

“I am just adjusting,” I protested. “Do you mind not perforating my ribs?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wren

It was only a three second gap, but it was what I needed. Roark shifted his attention to berate the stranger and Roark’s henchman’s attempted to intimidated without actually causing a scene. I slipped my knife from its sheath and flicked it into a back stab grip, the blade lying against my forearm while the hilt clasped tightly in my fist. By the time Roark turned once again to lean over me, the blade was out of sight beneath the table.

“Now, the bounty.”

“What bounty?” I asked.

Roark’s face flushed red and his hands clenched. “Listen, wench, I am not here to play games. Either you hand it over or I will have Jarthos here slit Gimpy’s throat right in front of you.”

I glanced at Arthus. His dark green eyes were on me. Somehow I knew that he was waiting for an opportunity to take his tormentor by surprise. “What makes you think that I would object?” I asked without dropping Arthus’ gaze.

“Ah,” Roark relaxed back against the bench and flashed me a lazy smile. “Women have delicate sensibilities.”

“And what would you know of women’s sensibilities, Roark,” Arthus replied. “You can’t even manage to get one to look at you twice.”

Roark leaned forward, placing his hand on the table as he spat at Arthus and I took the opening. I embedded my first dagger in the table, pinning Roark’s wrist there by his shirt sleeve. Before he could do more than stare at it, I whipped out the second knife and threw it at the muscleman’s shoulder. It struck home with a surprised grunt. I slid my third dagger from its place and jabbed the point against his kidneys. He responded with a satisfying groan.

“Be silent,” I warned. He wisely hushed.

“Impressive.” Arthus hadn’t moved very far, but the thug was sucking in his gut and looking very uncomfortable. I shot Arthus a questioning look. “My blade is against his stomach,” he answered. “He makes one wrong move and I spill his insides on the floor.”

“Now what are you going to do?” Roark asked me. He turned his head so that I was practically nose to nose with him. “Are you thinking of slicing me open?”

As I contemplated the suggestion, a shadow fell across us. Raising my eyes, I found the innkeeper standing at the end the table and regarding the blade embedded in his tabletop. Jarthros was bleeding, but not obviously enough for the innkeeper to notice in the dimness of the corner. Somehow my second knife had disappeared from the man’s shoulder. I suspected that Arthus had retrieved it, but I missed seeing his actual movements.

“Is everything under control, Wren?” Gainry asked. “Are these ruffians bothering you?”

“Roark and his friend were just leaving,” I said pointedly, prodding Roark’s side for emphasis.

“Yes, we were,” Roark replied. He ripped his sleeve free of my first knife. “Jarthros needs to have his shoulder looked at before it gets worse.”

The innkeeper’s gaze went to the muscle-man’s bleeding cut as he gained his feet. Gainry’s eyes widened. “The apothecary’s is just up the street.”

“I know where it is, old man. This conversation isn’t over,” he told me. I didn’t expect that it was. He glared at Arthus. “Be sure we shall be meeting again.”

“I count on it,” Arthus replied as he lazily brought up his leg to rest casually on the now empty bench. I caught a flicker of light on steel, but by the time I focused on it, the glimmer was gone. “I will be ready.”

Roark and Jarthros moved off toward the bar.

“And this one?” Gainry stuck his chin in Arthus’ direction.

“He can stay.”

Gainry nodded slowly and moved away. “As you wish.”

“That was some fast knife work,” Arthus commented the moment the innkeeper was out of hearing range. He slid my second knife across the table hilt first. “I will keep it in mind when making you mad.”

“I don’t get mad.” I took the knife, wiped in on the cloth that I kept in my sleeve for the purpose, and replaced it in its sheath at my waist. I had already replaced the one I had been using as incentive for Roark’s departure. All the remained was the one buried in the table between us. Arthus’ strange green eyes followed my motions as I gripped the hilt and effortlessly retrieved it. I could see that he was measuring my strength and skill. “Is there something more that you want?” I asked, examining the tip of my last dagger for damage.

“You already know what I wish.” He leaned back and watched me from behind lowered lids.

As I opened my mouth to remind him that I had already refused his offer, a loud clang brought both of our attentions to the center of the room. Tyruth, the infamous tracker of a generation past, stood upon a table in the center of the room. In his gnarled hands were the metal pan and wooden ladle that had called to us.

“I have come from Lord Forgtrey with news of a bounty worth 300 gold.”

The room fell into eerie silence. Not out of respect for the man, but at the thought of the money.

“Tourth Mynth of Lornwyn killed Lord Forgtrey’s youngest son, Kale, three weeks ago. He was tracked as far as Itrany, three days journey south where his trail was lost.” Scanning the room, Tyruth frowned. “Lord Forgtrey wants him brought back dead or alive, but preferably dead. The man who brings him back will receive the reward and land under Lord Forgtrey’s rule. That is all.” Handing the noise makers to the young man at his feet, he began the slow progress of climbing down off the table. Meanwhile, the common room transitioned into chaos as bounty hunters clamored to pay their bills and leave.

“So, it has begun.” I turned to find Arthus frowning at the place where Tyruth had been standing only moments before.

Biting back the urge to ask what he meant, I replaced my dagger in its sheath under my sleeve. I slid off the bench and to my feet.

“Watch your back,” he warned as I walked away. I didn’t favor him with a reply, but simply climbed the stairs to the room Gainry had prepared. It was going to be a long and difficult day tomorrow and the luxurious bed in the room above called to me seductively.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wren Romany - © 2006 Rachel Rossano