Hearts Return - Part 9

The next afternoon, about mid-day, a somewhat disheveled young may may be seen slouching along one of the village's side roads. Those in Bree who know Rastellion would hardly recognize him, disguised with the worn clothing and sullen attitude he's donned at his uncle's instruction. Ceolfred had, in fact, not wanted Rastellion to enter town at all, and the two had argued. But the older man had, eventually, given in, recognizing his nephew’s frustration. “Fine,” he conceded at last. “Go an’ meet th’ locals I overheard that barmaid talkin’ of. Suspect they’re jus’ a lot o’ wind anyway, but I can see ye’ll not rest ‘til yer sure.”

Now Rastellion glances along the village street, busy with housewives running errands, neighbors gossiping, and the usual idle or unemployed, before turning his steps toward the battered sign of the Tarnished Tankard at the far end of the block. He's just a few paces from its cracked stoop when Zandrianna steps out of its dim interior. Rastellion hesitates a moment, then he lets his eyes slide off her, as if she were just a stranger, and continues his slouch toward the tavern: another down-on-his-luck local, or some impoverished visitor, hoping to grab a coin or free meal from the upcoming wedding festivities.

Zandrianna passes by the man, having been summoned by a note at breakfast to go tend the dressmaker. For a brief second her step stutters, but she adjusts and keeps moving without turning back.

Rastellion trudges up the two steps and into the tavern; he pauses for a moment at the threshold, letting his eyes adjust as he looks around. Several older men sit at one end of the counter, by the look of it nursing both drinks and grudges. In another corner, a lanky youth is plucking disconsolately at a second-hand lute, looking as mournful as if the strings had been made from the gut of his favorite cat.

A peel of silver laughter breaks out, and Rastellion turns to his left to see Emrabeth surrounded by a crowd of admiring young men. One of the larger youths, with a thick neck and thick shock of black hair, leans back a little bit from the crowd of his fellows, apparently unamused by their joking. His eyes flick over and past Rastellion, dismissively, before he lifts and drains his tankard. This must be the crowd the serving girl spoke of. Maybe they can be of some use.

Emrabeth leans forward and grabs a roll off a platter nestled between the mugs. She taps it against the plate before she leans back against one of the boys, much to the amusement of his friends. As she crumbles the outer shell of the bread in her fingers, her eyes flick over the crowds. Her eyes widen almost imperceptibly as she notes Rast. Then she turns to the young man she's leaning against. "Now, which of the songs I sang this morning do you think I should play for the wedding dance?"

"That's assuming you'll even be one of the ones invited into the villa, never mind into the dance hall!" one of the young men observes.

"Course she will," retorts the one against whom Emrabeth is leaning. "She's the finest bard of them all!"

"Not as good as my sister," the other retorts, his eyes darting jealously to where his comrade's hands are resting about Emrabeth.

"Yeah, well, the competition will settle that, won't it?"

Rastellion turns away from the boisterous group as the argument continues, and makes his way past the empty tables to the bar where, eventually, Walt is persuaded to get off his stool and fill a pint glass. Rastellion turns and trudges back over to a table near Emrabeth's group. He slouches into a seat, pushes his hat down over his eyes slightly, and sips at the drink.

Emrabeth shakes her head at the men and grins, displaying more confidence than she feels at that moment. "Of course, there should be something really special to play when the groom leaves at the end of the night with his new bride." She lifts and eye and smirks, "Something sure to keep him up all night."

A tankard thumps down on the table as the dark-haired youth grinds out, "Only thing should be playin' at this weddin' is a dirge, 'specially seein' how e'ery one of us has been treated by this man."

Rastellion glances over at this outburst and shifts fractionally closer to the group, before returning his gaze to the depths of his mug.

A sandy-haired lad, sitting to the left of the speaker, turns to him and says quietly, "C'mon; don't start that again. Gods know I've as much reason to hate the man as any of us but..."

Another of the youths interrupts, "No, Egworth, Talthos is right! That man's driven half of our families away from home and hearth since he got here, and now strangers from up north buyin' up our land. Just a matter of time 'til the rest of us are beggin' on the streets too. An' we're supposed to wish him well just 'cause he throws a bit of a party for this damn wedding of his?"

"Yeah," another agrees. "An' it's not like any of us are even invited to th' feasting!"

General rumbles of ascent greet this observation, and a few arguments break out. The boy holding Emrabeth on his lap leans in to murmur something to her, his eyes darting meaningfully toward the tavern's back exit.

Emrabeth glances around the table, her eyes darting from face to face as the men all chime in with their complaints about Sallastin. She squeezes the young man's hand and squirms out of his lap, then watches as he jumps up to grab her around the waist. On the way past one of the tables, she bumps into the man slouched there, causing his mug to slosh as he's pushed forward. "Sorry mister," she calls out in passing.

Rastellion just grunts and shifts his chair away from the puddle on the table, bringing him closer to the group of arguing young men. He pays more open attention to them now, and nudges the fellow sitting closest to him. "Y'talkin' 'bout tha' Sallestin' creep?" he asks, thickening his North Downs accent.

The man turns and gives Rastellion a once over. "An' if we are, what's it t' you, stranger?” He shrugs and turns his attention back to the discussion at the table. Rastellion slides closer.

Egworth is trying to calm the others, while Talthos just scowls at everyone. "Look," Egworth says; "I told you - I'm working on it. My sister's been hired on for the preparations, and..."

Talthos shakes his head. "An' we all know how well that plan is goin', what with th' guards checkin' e'veryone goin' in an' out. This plan o' yours t' get th' ..." he pauses, noticing the newcomer to the table, and narrows his eyes. "Ain't seen you 'round here afore," he says and juts his chin towards Rastellion, causing several of the arguing men to turn and take note of him.

Rastellion shrugs back. "Mebbe 'cause I ain't been here b'fore," he answers, in a similar tone. "But I 'eard that ratfaced bastard Sallastin was gettin' hisself married, an' I had t' come see fer m'self. Figgered if it was true, mebbe I could lob a fistful o' horseshit at one o' the two during th' ceremony. Though I hear it's only th' town nobles an' other muckity-mucks as is gettin' an invitation. An' their noses probably so brown already they'd not even notice a face full o' dung." He makes a disgusted sound and knocks back more of his beer. Some of the young men laugh at this, but Egworth just studies Rastellion evenly, and Talthos continues to scowl, then leans forward to answer.

"Yeah, an' mebbe that's true that he's gettin' married. Not like any o' us here goin' t' wish him well." Talthos rests his arms on the table as he slowly looks over Rastellion now, then sneers. "Still, we didn’t invite yer scruffy self t' come t' our table. So tell me why I shouldn't get up an' shove my foot up yer arse t' move ye along."

Rastellion looks down pointedly, as he's still sitting at his own table, though at the far edge of it. He waves at the group. "Yeah, an' I see you brought your buddies t' help, too." He leans back in his chair, stretches out his legs, and lifts his mug. "I jus' came in here t' get a drink, not listen to you lot carryin' on. Though, from th' sound o' it, 'snot my arse you should be kickin' but that Sallastin's. An' I'll gladly hold him for ya as you do, long as then you turn 'im round so I can get m' own kick in on th' front. After what 'e did t' my Ma, tha' bastard d'serves worse than a kick in th' fork."

Some of Talthos' band grin at this, nodding and making gestures as if to egg Rastellion on. Others, though, look around a bit nervously, as if expecting Sallastin himself to slip out of the shadows and take a knife to their throats right there.

Talthos glances at his men, then back at Rastellion, his eyes flashing angrily. He takes a breath, but starts and turns as Egworth places a hand on his shoulder. They share a look, Talthos nods, then returns his hard gaze to the stranger. "We'll be takin' care of him soon 'nough. And we don't need any advice from some loudmouthed drunk on how  t' deal wit' the likes of Sallastin."

Several more of the men at the table look visibly nervous at this point, their eyes darting into the shadows. One of them says in a low voice, "Careful whatcha say Talthos. I hear tell the manor lord has ears everywhere."

Talthos lip turns up and he snorts back derisively, "Let him. Ain't like he's not already made me life miserable. What more can he do?"

"That's enough Talthos," Egworth says, and looks around the table, before returning his steady gaze on Rastellion. "We've got things t' discuss ... in private." he says pointedly.

Rastellion shrugs. "Yah, well, you need an' extra hand takin' care o' him, I'll raise mine t' help. Otherwise, aye, suppose I will jus' get drunk on 'is weddin' night ... then maybe piss th' beer all over his whitewashed walls afore I head on. Not like there's anything here for me. Nor back 'ome, any more, thanks t' him." He drains his tankard, sets it down on the table, and stands. "Th' name's Bercuth, by th' way, not that you asked. Enjoy your private conversation in th' public house."

He turns and strides off toward the front door, muttering to himself under his breath, 'Damn, that could've gone better... And they’re up to something, not just talk." He clenches his fists, sure that he could use this, whatever it is, to help in the rescue of Immalaine, even if only as a distraction. But how to get them to accept him?

One of the gang objects to Talthos as Rastellion leaves,, "What'd be so bad 'bout an' extra pair o' hands?"

But the lad's benchmate shakes his head. "Nah, he's right: what do we know 'bout that guy? He could be a spy o' the old crow for all we can tell. Though he seems angry enough I'd believe he's for real." There are a few murmurs of assent.

Talthos follows Rastellion out with his gaze. “Forget about him,” he tells the others before turning to Egworth.. "Now, you got somethin' needs sayin' about this plan of yours, best t' be doin' it now, afore anyone else decides t' make our business theirs."

Egworth nods and motions the men all closer, the loud joking replaced by low murmurs as the men go over their plan to sneak into the kitchens during the wedding.