Murtagh

This time, Murtagh didn’t enter the city through a main road. Instead, he made his way to the lake and continued along the water until he arrived at Gil’ead’s outer docks. From there it was a simple matter to walk out on the strand, climb a muck-encrusted dock, and slip past a watchman preoccupied with his pipe.

The docks had a very different smell from those at Ceunon. Isenstar was a freshwater lake, and the absence of salt resulted in a cleaner, fresher scent. Even the odor of fish was more mild, inoffensive.

Murtagh skulked along the lakeside buildings—past sorting houses and storage barns and dry goods stores—searching for what he knew had to exist. But all of the taverns and common houses he found were already shuttered for the night, and dogs, not drunks, ambled across the packed dirt of the street, sniffing and snapping at one another in a desultory manner.

The patter of light footsteps passed behind him.

He turned fast, only to see the same two ragged urchins who had accosted him outside Gil’ead’s fortress. They held up their dirty hands, their faces pale and wide-eyed beneath their poorly cropped hair. “Please, master, sir,” they said in a pleading tone.

Murtagh frowned, his senses alert for an ambush. “What are you doing about at this time of night?”

The two glanced at each other with bright, impish expressions. They were brothers, he thought, only a year or two apart. The taller one said, “Oh, nothing much, sir. Just trying to find food.”

The shorter one piped up: “That’s right, sir. Food for our poor mum, that is.”

The brothers exchanged delighted glances again. Then, from both of them: “Please, master, sir.”

Trouble, that’s what you are, Murtagh thought. He eyed the length of dark street. A watchman appeared between a pair of buildings some distance away; the man’s lantern cast a key of yellow light across the street before he walked on and a corner cut off the glow.

Murtagh looked back at the two incorrigibles. He fished out a pair of coppers. The boys reached for them, and he lifted the coppers over their heads. “Ah-ah. Not so fast. Tell me first, are there any taverns still open at this ghastly hour?”

The boys bobbed their heads. “Oh yes! Several.”

“And where might I find the nearest?”

“Right down thataways, sir!” said the shorter one without the slightest hesitation, and he pointed along the lakeside buildings. “Right past th’ stables and to the left. The Rusty Anchor. You can’t miss it.”

Murtagh dropped the coins, and the boys caught them out of the air, fast as birds. “My thanks. Now off to bed with the both of you, and don’t let me catch you out here again.”

“Yessir! Thank you, sir!” they said, bowing and laughing. And then they ran off into the dark city, the shorter leading the taller.

Murtagh shook his head and continued in the direction they’d indicated.

The way was farther than he expected. He had nearly lost faith in the boys’ instructions when he spotted a battered old tavern with light in the windows at the western end of Gil’ead, where the buildings were low and shabby. True to its name, the Rusty Anchor had a ship’s anchor hung over the front door, along with a sign featuring a pair of beer mugs clinking together.

“The more things change…” Out of habit, Murtagh touched his belt to check on the position of his dagger. But, of course, it wasn’t there, only the empty sheath.

He scowled. He was running a risk going to a place like this unarmed. It was the sort of disreputable establishment where strangers often woke up the next day with a lump on their head and a purse empty of coin. If they were lucky enough to wake up at all. More than once, he’d heard about the sons of nobles who had gone out drinking in such establishments and ended up robbed, bruised, or worse.

Of course, now he was the sort of person that others needed to be afraid of. He couldn’t lie to himself: the thought wasn’t entirely unpleasant. After the past few years, Murtagh would settle for inspiring fear if it would keep him and Thorn safe.

He took a moment to set his mind and assume the needed persona. Then he moved forward with a rough stride and entered the tavern.

Unlike the Fulsome Feast in Ceunon, the Rusty Anchor was a dark, grim place that smelled of smoke, sweat, stale urine, and despair. The floor was a mess of muddy boards, and there were only a few bottles and cups on the shelf behind the bar. The barkeep himself sat in a corner, next to a cask of tapped beer, head against the wall, snoring loud enough to wake a dragon (and Murtagh knew exactly how loud that was).

The patrons of the establishment were a mix of fishermen, laborers, and several men who Murtagh guessed were either swords for hire or—if they didn’t get hired—footpads looking for their next object of prey.

He could feel them watching him as he made his way across the room. The barkeep woke the instant he placed coppers on the scarred wood counter.

“Beer,” said Murtagh. “Cheapest you’ve got.”