Old Dog, New Tricks (Next bit) (Or I suppose you could call it Chapter 2)

Tom took a swig of beer and watched as the master of the Hanging Tree Inn carried mugs of black ale, plates of roast lamb and greasy deep-fried potato skins to a table in the corner where six men were gambling with ivory tiles. Tom ordered two beers from him as he passed by.

Source

He’d gone from inn to inn looking for the most likely place to gather information, and the Hanging Tree seemed the best of the lot. There were a few travelers, and some locals, although none were likely to want to spend even a few minutes chatting to a mud-spattered vagrant. Tom paid for a bed and the inn-keep grudgingly offered him the key to the bathroom. He quickly snatched it up and made good use of the facilities. The problem was that his change of clothes was only in marginally better condition than the ones he’d arrived in, but at least they didn’t smell as bad.

The inn was lively, but it remained to be seen whether he could learn anything useful here. He could talk to Stephron in the morning without this background, but having it would be to his benefit. Change was constant, and his home in the Vale was as far away from Devilsbluff as you could go and remain in the Kingdom of Severnhelm. Not a lot of news made it up the mountain.

Five of the inn’s customers looked like good prospects for conversation. Two sat near the bar, drinking round after round. They made almost as much noise as the gamblers. Both men were red faced and roundly drunk. They laughed at each other’s stories and paid little attention to anyone else. Two others sat apart, heads bowed in quiet conversation. Not far from them sat a lone man eating a pie. He had a pitcher of something set in front of him.The lone man seemed the best bet. Tom walked over and sat opposite him, sliding one of the beers over.

“I just arrived in town,” Tom said. “I’ve news of the south if you’re interested.”

The man looked up at him, ignored the proffered beer, then went back to his pie.

“Not one for conversation, eh?”

One of the gamblers noticed his attempts. He slapped the man beside him on the back, and made a comment. At that a few of the gamblers looked over and laughed.

“He don’t talk,” one of them said. “You’re wasting your time.”

Tom stood. “I’m after news from the north.”

“I’ll give you some news,” the man said. “It’s bitter cold and every woman you find is like to be as frigid.”

“Or as bitter,” another put in.

“I’ll trade you for news,” one of the drunk men near the bar offered. Tom looked over dubiously. The man beckoned. “Just bring your beers with you.”

The gamblers laughed and turned back to their game. A few watched him from the corner of their eyes as he passed, but he sensed no threat from them. Walking over, Tom put a beer before each of the men at the bar and pulled up a stool.

“Master, another beer here,” said the man closest to the bar. Where his companion was large-boned and red-headed, this one had a dark complexion. He was slim without being small, with broad shoulders and a sly glint in his eye. Tom distrusted him immediately, which he took to be a good sign.

“My thanks,” Tom said.

“Well you weren’t like to get much out of Calloway over there,” said the redhead. “He’s got no tongue.”

“That explains the frosty reception,” Tom said.

The sly one smiled. “That and he hates beer with a passion. You’d have done better with whisky or wine.”

“But he still don’t talk,” said the the larger man. He was hewing slabs of what appeared to be turkey meat off an overly large drumstick. His chin and hands were covered in rivulets of grease and spittle.

“I’ll try to remember that.”

“My name’s Bert,” the sly one said. “My friend here is Hog.”

“On account of my gut,” Hog said, slapping his belly. His hands left greasy prints on his already stained and yellowed shirt.

“Tom.”

“Where are you from, Tom?” Bert asked, taking a drink of the beer.

Bert’s hand was far too steady. Tom had the distinct feeling that he was not half as drunk as he had first appeared. He resolved to be cautious. “Dellport. I just arrived today.” Which was no lie. He’d left his mountain home in search of Tarkin and gone to Dell first. He suspected Tarkin of falling afoul of the troops scouring the countryside for the errant prince, and if that was so, it was more than likely he’d been taken to the capital. Unfortunately he’d found no sign of him anywhere. Worse, the kingdom’s military were in complete disarray, and he’d been unable to find anyone willing to even help him look for the lad.

“What news?” Bert asked.

Tom shook his head. “Nothing good. The king is dead. Murdered.”

The muscles around Bert’s eyes twitched minutely, then his neutral expression returned. Tom noted the reaction. It was the only thing the man had revealed, besides his tolerance for alcohol.

“Go on,” Bert said.

“And the prince is missing. They’re blaming him for the murder.”

Hog whistled through his teeth.

“Not that I give two shits about it, but when did all this happen?” asked Bert.

“It’s recent,” Tom said. “They’ve got troops hunting the prince, but it’s all a shambles.”

“And you saw all this yourself?” Bert asked.

“With my own eyes.” Tom didn’t add that he had been more shocked by the state of Severnhelm’s military than by the death of the king himself. In another life, he’d served as Severnhelm’s battlefield general--the life before he’d taken in Tarkin as his son. He decided to change the subject. “What news of the north?”

Hog slammed his mug onto the table. “Word is the Tanxi are pushing north into Chulle and Abodi lands again. The horse-rutting bastards are just as like to run than they are to stand their ground.”

“Their northern lands will be snowbound already. If the lands between their realm and Tanxi are closed to them they will have nowhere to go--” Bert began.

“But through the passes and into Devilsbluff,” Tom finished.

Bert nodded. “The snows will start soon in earnest and the passes will close, but come the thaw they’ll be here in numbers.”

“That’s the word,” Hog said. His jovial look had vanished. He raised his voice and the gamblers stopped and looked over. “The other word is they’re bringing in the draft. That steaming turd Stephron thinks he can order us to take up steel for him. Wants us to ‘defend the realm’ or some such shit.”

“Keep it down,” said the master from behind the bar.

“I will not," Hog said. He tried to stand but when that seemed to prove too difficult, he propped himself half-against the bar. "We’ll not stand for it,” Hog said. “Bert and I and some of the boys are getting together. They’ll have to lock up the lot of us if they lock up one. We’ll see what Stephron eats when the fishermen stop bringing him the catch and the trappers close up shop. It’ll be a long, hard winter for him and his. And if he’s not careful he’ll end up the way of dead King Severnhelm. He may have been a poor excuse for a king, but at least he didn’t lock up his own people and force them to fight for him. Stephron’s days are numbered, if you ask me.”

“Enough,” Bert said. He clapped Hog on the arm. “We agreed not to speak of this.”

Hog shook him off. “Sorry. I just get so riled up.”

The king was not a week in his grave. He may have been a flawed man, but he did his best for Severnhelm. Tom tried to calm himself but he was still frustrated at not being granted an immediate audience with Lord Stephron and his temper was short. “Don't speak ill of the dead,” Tom said. He felt a moment of satisfaction at giving free rein to his anger.

Hog stood, pushing the table against Tom’s ribs. One of the beers tipped over, spilling the dregs across the scored wood. “I'll do anything I want, especially when it’s deserved.”

“It's not polite,” Tom said. He was already regretting his decision to speak up. This was no way to gather information. Starting a fight was only going to get him locked up, or worse. He cast a glance at the gamblers and saw that most of them were keeping a close eye on what was going on. They were probably locals, so he was unlikely to receive any assistance from that quarter.

“Come on, Hog,” Bert said. “He didn’t mean anything by it. Sit down.” Bert stood, trying to get his friend seated again.

Tom was now certain that of the two men, only Hog was drunk.

“I’ll not be preached to by someone who hasn’t been here more than a day,” Hog said. He pointed at Tom. “You don’t know shit, so you watch your mouth around here. Or you might find yourself in trouble.”

“I’ll consider myself forewarned,” Tom said.

Hog had already covered the distance between them and grabbed Tom’s arm with one of his massive hands. Tom tried to pull away out of Hog’s grip, but Bert was quicker. One hand whipped out, picking up a mug from the table top and in almost the same motion, smashed it into the back of Hog’s head. Hog fell across the table, unmoving.

Tom’s eyebrows furrowed. “That was a bit much, don’t you think?” So much for not making a scene. He was not likely to get much conversation out of anyone after a stunt like that.

“He’ll be fine,” Bert said. “It’s the only thing that stops him when he’s drunk. Just give him a moment. You’ll see.”

A few seconds later Hog began to breathe deeply. His breaths became snores and the slightest of smiles settled across his lips.

Bert sat down again. “He’ll be out for the night. Now perhaps you can tell me what your business is here? You seem to have an uncommon love for Severnhelm’s monarch. He’s not well-loved in these parts.”

Tom hesitated.

Bert smiled. “I’d prefer not to have to convince you.”

There was a time when Tom could have bested the entire inn single-handedly, but he knew those days were far behind him now, though he liked to think he could take two or three of them. “I’d prefer not to be convinced.”

Bert grinned. “Master, another round here.”

“Coming up.”

“I have business with Lord Stephron,” Tom said.

Bert raised an eyebrow. “Business is it?” He pointed to the door. “Must be some kind of business to brave this weather.”

Tom nodded. “The most vital kind.”

“And you think he will want to entertain this business of yours?”

Tom nodded. There was a lot riding on his reception, but he didn’t see a need to go into detail.

Bert stared into Tom’s eyes. After a while he said, “Come with me. If you have something to tell Stephron, I’ve someone who will want to hear it first.”

Tom stood. “I don’t think so. What I have to say is for his ears alone.”

Bert leaped to his feet, then pulled a long-bladed knife from his belt. “I insist.”

Tom laughed and reached for the pommel of his sword, but stopped part-way. Did he really want this to escalate?

Bert nodded. “What’s it to be?”

Tom remained hesitant. He was supposed to be gathering information, not picking fights with any common thug he happened to meet, and certainly not spilling his secrets.

“Too slow.” Bert put two fingers between his lips and whistled.

Behind him, Tom heard the sound of the gamblers dropping their ivory tiles. He turned and saw them gathering behind him, weapons appearing suddenly in hands. Tom placed his hands on the table top, careful to move slowly. He was outnumbered and outmatched and far too weary and worried to try his luck, especially minus his sword arm.

“I like think of myself as a careful planner," Bert said, shrugging. "Let’s walk."

Tom took a long look around the room. There were far too many suddenly sober and angry-looking eyes focussed on him. It seemed the decision would be an easy one. “Then lead the way, ” he said.

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Thanks for reading. Thanks to @naquoya, @scottish01 and @aussiesteem for encouraging me to write on. All comments and suggestions welcome. If you'd like to read more of this, please do let me know and I can write the next chapter.

Here is what passes for Chapter 1.

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