Murtagh

“Cheap is all we ’ave got,” said the barkeep, slowly getting to his feet. He had a pregnant paunch that stretched his apron as tight as a drum. He made the coppers disappear in his pudgy hands and gave Murtagh half a copper in return. Then he grabbed a mug that looked none too clean and filled it from the cask.

Murtagh eyed the beer. It was totally flat. He decided not to press the point and carried the mug to a table by the small stone hearth. The fire was almost dead, barely more than a bed of despondent coals.

As Murtagh settled into a chair, one of the hired swords—a short, bird-chested man with a nervous tic in his left eye—cleared his throat and said, “Yuh come in w’ one of th’ caravans?”

Murtagh nodded. “Straight from Ilirea. We got in two hours before dark, but it took this long to shift everything out of the wagons.”

A man with a dwarflike beard and a scar through his left eyebrow spoke up: “What news of the road?”

The beer had all the flavor of thinned barley water. Murtagh grimaced and put it back down. “The road is fine. Dusty, that’s for sure. We made do without anyone waylaying us, so I reckon the queen’s men are doing a good job of keeping order.”

The bird-chested man and his bearded companion exchanged a glance that seemed somewhat conspiratorial. Bird-chest said, “Were yuh working as protection for this said caravan?”

Murtagh nodded. “Didn’t even have to draw my sword none. Can’t complain with that.”

“Always a good day’s work when you don’t have to work,” said the bearded man.

“There’s a truth worth drinking to.” Murtagh raised his mug and took a quaff. Then he looked over at the fishermen in their cabled sweaters and woolen caps, which they kept on even indoors. “I heard tell there’s good fishing in Isenstar Lake.”

“Passable good,” said the near fisherman, keeping his gaze on his mug.

“One of the men I stood watch with wouldn’t shut his gob about it. Kept going on and on about the summer pike. That and the eels. Always the eels.”

“The eels is fine enough eating,” the fisherman allowed. “Long as you ain’t overcook ’em.”

Murtagh nodded, as if this confirmed what he’d heard. “Seeing as that’s the case, I might try my luck with a hook and line while I’m here. I used to be a dab hand at fishing.” He lifted his mug again and then shook his head and put it down. “Only…It’s a silly thing, and I’m dead sure this watchmate of mine was tozing me, but, well, he kept talking about how it was right dangerous to drop a line hereabouts. On account of some fish called Muckmaw. Said it was the biggest, meanest fish in the whole lake. I figured he was talking out his ear an’ it were all stuff and nonsense. Right has to be, no?”

The fishermen tensed, and one of them made a motion to ward off the evil eye and leaned over and spat on the floor. The spittle was dark green from a plug of cardus weed tucked in his cheek. “Blasted thing.”

Murtagh raised an eyebrow. “So there’s something to it, then?”

“Maybe,” said the near man, surly.

“That sounds like a story worth telling.”

No one volunteered. The fishermen stared with sullen gazes at the fireplace, while bird-chest and dwarf-beard smirked at each other at the lack of response. The man who had spat pushed back his chair. “Horvath. Merrik. I’ll be off. Anra will be a-waiting.”

Murtagh raised a hand. “Barkeep. A round for everyone. My coin.”

The barkeep forced his eyes open and blinked, bleary. He nodded and shuffled off toward the cask.

After a moment’s hesitation, the fisherman settled back in his chair. “Suppose she can wait a mug longer,” he muttered.

They sat in silence while the barkeep filled the mugs and made his rounds to the tables. As Murtagh handed over the last of his coppers, bird-chest raised his mug in an appreciative gesture.

“Thanks, stranger,” said one of the fishermen. He had a scar on his forearm that reminded Murtagh of Essie. “Mighty kind of you.”

“Oreth son of Brock,” said Murtagh. He figured it wise to start using a name other than Tornac around Gil’ead.

The cardus chewer scratched the red stubble on his chin. “Muckmaw, eh? If you really want to know the truth of th’ matter, you’d best be talk’n to old Haugin, but he’s long since asleep if’n I know aught about him.”

“He’ll sleep th’ whole winter through,” said the scarred fisherman.

“Ain’t that right,” said cardus-chewer, nodding. “Can’t rightly blame him, though. He’s got three and seventy winters. A man’s due some sleep after that long working.”

Murtagh took another sip of the flat beer. “And what would he tell me about Muckmaw?” he asked, trying to hurry them along.

Cardus-chewer and his companions exchanged significant looks. “Well now, it’s a curious thing. Might be you think I’m whistling in the wind if I say the truth, but y’ asked, and since you paid the beer, you’ll get the tale, if’n you pardon the expression.”

Murtagh smiled. “Of course.”

“So. You have t’ understand what Muckmaw is afore I start.”

“Do tell.”