The night was cold. Cold and loud, louder than Bregdys’ pulse. Her eyes stung as she ran down the tall front steps of the Mumak and Keep for what might be -- no, would be -- the last time. Cool air nipped at her skin where her fingers gripped her small pack of belongings and clung to an unwieldy package, but even with her lack of a proper cloak, she was warm. Too warm. Her blood felt ready to boil within her veins. A small thought nagged at the back of her mind, told her to seek work, to seek someplace safe for sleeping. She pushed it away. She didn’t need work. She needed to hit something, needed to scream, but most of all she needed a drink.
Her thoughts turned to the Splintered Shield. After all, what better way was there to spite the Keep than to patron the competition? Yet, no matter how her mind lured her to that warmly lit terrace and the second home of the backrooms, her feet refused to carry her there. For the first time in her life, she paid no heed to the creeping darkness of the Soldier’s Tier at night. It was never quiet, but that didn’t mean it was safe… When the lights of the Shield came into view, she turned, instead mounting the steps up to the wall where the watchmen patrolled and the wind howled in eerie comfort. It echoed in her ears, washed over her. Ash fell wherever it pleased, catching in her hair, but she could still somehow see the stars. She watched them for what felt like an eternity. She could have sworn they were watching her too.
Bregdys did not recall when she sat down on the stairs. She didn’t remember falling asleep, but by the time she awoke, the stars had disappeared beneath the dull glow of sunlight filtering through the ashes. She rubbed the dust and the sleep from her eyes, and rose wearily. Her skirts were filthy. With a sigh, the slight woman shouldered her bag, picked up her oddly heavy parcel, and made her way across town to the baths. Just because she no longer had a home didn’t mean she had to look it. She had no home… The notion reverberated through her mind as cold water washed away the evening’s grime. It was all his fault. It was his fault and there was nothing she could do about it. Softly, she breathed to herself, “It doesn’t matter now.” It was a new day, a brand new day, and she needed to find a job.
• • •
That night, she found herself at the Shield. It was the third time she had stopped by the establishment that day. First, she had wasted coin and precious hours betting beside the gamblers that raised her. Recently, it appeared that luck favored the smaller fighters. Small and fast won twice in three matches against brute strength. Bregdys patched up the losers as she always had, a bit of pride swelling in her chest whenever the smaller fighter landed a blow. Even they towered over her small frame, but she felt a sense of kinship nonetheless. Her winnings were meager; they’d just barely buy her a pint at the bar. Already, the sky outside was darkening. She asked the barman if they were hiring, and he brushed her off. She frowned, shouldering her pack once more and lifting her parcel. The lumpy object was nearly her height; carrying it made her arms hurt, but the cargo was too precious to abandon. What little daylight was left was spent in search of work, before returning once more to the tavern. She stashed her pack and parcel in one of the empty barrels by the hidden door in the storage room, and approached the barman once more.
Bregdys hopped onto a stool and leaned over the bar, studying the server intently. “Is the Shield hiring?” she asked. The man shook his head. Apparently nothing had changed in the four hours since she’d last asked for work. She sighed heavily. “Wonderful…” Voices carried over from the table nearest the bar. She didn’t mean to eavesdrop, she seldom did… but intent never stopped her in the past. A few glances in the table’s direction revealed the face of the First Warden, and that man who bore his sword, on the stage when Megorlebdas -- she wrinkled her nose at the memory, and rested her head in her hands, watching the three men from time to time out of absolute boredom.
The First Warden hummed a tune, scribbling one thing after another into his tablet dutifully. Bregdys’ gaze flickered away -- writing was dull to observe. The man to his right, however, was much easier on the eyes. The man looked young, possibly around twenty-one at the oldest. Dark hair, short and carelessly tended to contrasted sharply against fair skin, and his eyes were the color she imagined oceans to be. He was drinking something she didn’t recognize, sipping it in the strangest way. He could almost be described as pretty… Bregdys’ attention shifted from the stranger only when the Warden’s swordbearer across the table spoke.
“Are you… thirsty?” he asked awkwardly.
The pretty one lowered his glass. “What?”
The First Warden paused his writing, setting his stylus down on the table, and glanced to the man beside him. “How do you…” he began.
The swordbearer lowered his cup. “...Nothing?”
Bregdys sighed. Why did she never eavesdrop on anything interesting? She shifted in her seat, and took to tracing circles on the wooden countertop. An abandoned pint of mead sat three seats over, and she glanced at it enviously and sighed again, wishing she could afford to buy one of her own. Just when she was about to look back to the table, she heard the pretty one say:
“Who is that lady over there?”
Bregdys smiled slightly to herself and focused her gaze elsewhere, suddenly interested in the conversation once more.
“Some bartender perhaps? She does seem new,” replied the swordbearer.
The First Warden’s voice came next. “That is Bregdis. Have you not seen her before?” There was a pause, but then the pretty one spoke again.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I see a lot of people in a day, can’t keep track of them all.” Bregdys frowned to herself upon hearing the response, and decided it best if she returned to pestering the barkeep, if only for the sake of appearances. “So, no jobs here, then?” she asked him, not even earning a response. It didn’t matter; her alibi was in place. The emptiness of the bar worked in her favor as the dull rumble of conversation evenly dispersed through every corner of the tavern save her own, but the lofted ceilings were not on her side. Voices echoed from the second floor railing, obscuring the nearby conversation just enough to be annoying. Peevishly, she began to rap her knuckles on the wooden bar in time with the metronome of a leaky keg tap.
“I have never seen her,” the swordbearer commented awkwardly. It wasn’t the words so much as the way that they were said…
“She is one of the ones who comes late at night, there are a few who come more often than others.” That was the Warden, she thought. Mere weeks ago she’d thought him pleasant, but that was before. She broke away from the memory before it even had the chance to resurface. Death made her stomach churn, and she’d be dying in no time if she couldn’t find work. She sighed and leaned back on her barstool.
“You think I could find work anywhere?” she asked the bartender. He ignored her once again, and she made a face when his back was turned. While her attention was focused on immature mockery, the pretty one spoke. She liked his voice, the pretty one. It was different than the rest somehow.
“Call her over then,” he said, a bit dismissively.
There was the small sound of seats being adjusted before the Warden called out:
“M--Bregdis?”
Hearing some -- variant -- of her name, Bregdys looked over her shoulder, catching sight of the First Warden. He looked different without blood on his hands. Oh, who was she kidding -- the blood of those he had murdered for the state could never be washed away. At least not when she was the one looking at him. Boots… she remembered his boots. Dark leather, spattered with sick drops of freshly spilt crimson. She forced a smile, waving politely at the man. His complexion was dark like her own, an oddity in a city like theirs, yet she felt no sense of kinship. The pretty one was looking at her, and her smile turned a bit more genuine. The Warden beckoned to her, motioning to the pretty one with a jerk of his head.
“The Lieutenant would like you to join us and drink,” he said. “It is not fitting for a woman to drink alone.”
The swordbearer gave her an oddly stiff wave, raising his hand in greeting rather than actually waving. Strange man, that one… She made her way over to the table quietly, trying to read the faces of the men before sitting down. The Warden returned to his writing.
“How are you?” he asked as Bregdys took her seat across from him, hands folded tightly in her lap. She glanced enviously at the men’s drinks. She felt the sword bearer's gaze on her and hazarded a glance over to the Lieutenant. It figured that the pretty one would be so high above her… just her luck. She sighed inwardly at the thought.
The Lieutenant leaned his elbow against the table. “Hello there,” he said in greeting. His voice was even-toned. It made his thoughts difficult to read, but there was little she loved more than a challenge. She smiled at him.
“Hello.”
The Lieutenant lifted his drink up in a small gesture. “Have we met before? You look somewhat familiar.”
“You look a bit familiar too...” Bregdys wished he were more familiar, but quickly chastised herself for the thought. He outclassed her -- it was a stupid thing to think.
He shrugged slightly. “I live here, perhaps we have simply passed. I’m First Lieutenant Eglanion. Or Lance, if you want.” His gaze wandered slightly, but Bregdys nodded with a warm look nonetheless.
“It’s good to meet you, Lance. My name’s Bregdys,” she said, emphasizing the proper pronunciation. She found her attention beginning to linger on his unusually delicate features. Her face grew warm, and she quickly looked away. It is only the crowd, she told herself. It’s just the warmth of a crowded tavern. She didn’t want to consider the alternative. Bastards don’t blush at Lieutenants.
Lance nodded slightly, glancing back at her. “Of course, it is nice to meet you Bregdys.”
The swordbearer looked between Bregdys and Landrem, and Lance raised an eyebrow at the man. “How do you two know each-,” his words cut off as his face sparked with life, “--Ah, I remember you! You passed out during the execution, right?”
The Warden grimaced. “Yes,” he said, “She did.”
Bregdys felt her cheeks blaze. “Oh. Oh you remember that, then…” She drifted off, utterly mortified even weeks since the incident. The swordbearer tilted his head, curiously.
“Were you feeling ill? Did someone hit you?”
Bregdys shook her head hesitantly. “First execution I’d made the mistake of attending; wasn’t quite prepared…”
“Prepared…?” he asked, confused.
The Warden bowed his head. “It is a difficult thing,” he said. “There is no shame in not having the stomach for it.” Lacking the stomach for it was an understatement, but never let it be said that Bregdys, formerly of the Mumak & Keep, was weak… She shrugged, falsely casual, and attempted to talk her way out of the humiliating memory.
“Wasn’t the blood, not really. The death is what bothered me, it’s…” she faltered, realizing that she was talking to the executioner himself. “I don’t think it’s right, but it’s the law.”
Lance looked back down to Bregdys, a slight smirk playing at his lips. “There is nothing wrong with thinking it isn’t right,” he said, gesturing towards the Warden beside him. “In fact, you should debate with Landrem here on that opinion.”
The Warden returned to his writing, and as his hand moved across the tablet, he said, “I am but the instrument. But part of the hand of the law’s arm. It is not my duty to see what is right, but what is just. Most of the time, they are aligned.”
Bregdys shook her head slightly. “Maybe some other time. I’m not looking to debate tonight, just seeking work really.”
Disappointment crossed Lance’s face, and his expression returned to bored and distracted. Something inside of Bregdys deflated. Should have gone with the debate... His gaze wandered off, and he rolled his shoulders forward.
“What sort of work?” he asked, blatantly uninterested.
Landrem carefully inspected the words on his wax tablet and asked, “Work?” He frowned, glancing up to Bregdys momentarily.
She shrugged. “Anything that pays, honestly. Used to work at the Mumak & Keep till last night. I thought to inquire here, but there’s nothing available.”
The Warden offered Lance a questioning look. Lance paused for a moment, glancing around before looking again to Bregdys. “Want to work here as a cleaning person? We have a lot of men in the barracks who aren’t so… clean-acting. It’s sort of disgusting,” he said, glancing to Landrem.
“It is good work,” the Warden added.
Rathel sipped his tea quietly and commented to himself, “I clean a bit…”
Landrem gave him a weak smile. “Well,” he said, “we do not mean you, of course.”
Somehow managing to contain the squeal of happiness lurking in her core, Bredgys smiled widely. “Of course!” She exclaimed. “Thank you! Very much, thank you!” She ducked her head in a small, polite bow. She told herself that the queasy feeling in her stomach was little more than a mixture of joy and relief. It wasn’t because she was nervous. And it definitely wasn’t because the job -- lowly as it might be -- happened to come from a very beautiful man. She lied to herself fairly often.
“Should you tell the barman or should I?” Landrem asked, nudging the Lieutenant with his elbow. Lance glanced to the Warden for a moment before downing the rest of his whiskey.
“You should do it; they’re not the happiest with me right now.”
Rathel looked at the Lieutenant. “Why aren’t they?”
Lance waved a hand dismissively. “For reasons. Doesn’t matter,” he said and held out his glass to Landrem. “Can you get me more whiskey while you’re at it?”
Landrem swung a leg over the bench, glancing over his shoulder at Lance. He took hold of the empty glass and made his way towards the bar, calling out to the bartender.
An uncomfortable silence fell over the table, filled only by Landrem’s distant announcement. The dull harmonies of the Shield filtered in where conversation should have been. Flies buzzed lazily around abandoned platters, getting drunk off the bounty of unwanted scraps. Somewhere, a cup shattered. A man yelled, and a serving boy muttered curses. Bregdys fidgeted with her sleeve, knowing that if she looked up she would likely return to staring at the Lieutenant. Staring was rude, especially when one was staring at someone attractive. Attractive and of a class much too high for her… Thankfully, before she could worry about her politeness, the quiet was shattered by the loud bang of the front door slamming shut.
Bregdys jumped slightly, and turned to find a young girl darting in, dusting ashes off of her shoulders. Despite the girl’s efforts, the grey debris clung desperately to the coarse fabric of her fraying tunic. Even more remained in her hair -- without the ash mixed in, it would be dark. The strange young woman took a seat at the table on the other side of Rathel. She was average height, as far as Breg could tell, and therefore much taller than herself. Her skin was pale, her knees scuffed from some misadventure. Rathel failed to notice her.
Tilting his head to the side, Lance leaned forward to stare at the lass. “Who are you?” he asked.
Rathel followed the Lieutenant’s gaze and gave a small start upon finding the girl beside him. “Oh, you again,” he said. Landrem returned to the table and passed the filled glass of whiskey back to Lance, taking his seat. The Warden appeared notably tense as he greeted the young lady.
“Evening, lass.”
The girl leaned over the table, kneeling on the bench more than sitting. She placed a wax tablet like the Warden’s on the wooden surface. “Yvyrn,” she said in haphazard introduction. She looked to Rathel. “What do you mean, me again? I live here.”
Rathel set his cup down. “I live here too.”
“All of us either live or work here,” Lance pointed out. The Warden had already returned to his writings.
Yvyrn mimicked Rathel, “What, you again?” She opened the tablet and took up her stylus, carving pretty patterns across the wax.
Rathel tilted his head, “Huh?”
Growing weary of her own distracted fidgeting, Bregdys leaned over to catch a better glimpse of the girl. She recognized her from the execution: she was the one with that lady -- Lheinel, or whatever her name was… Landrem glanced at Yvyrn and sighed.
Yvyrn frowned, and leaned further on the table. “Sorry. I’m try’na be good. Miss Lheinel’s been good to me.”
The Warden replied, “If you were good, Miss Yvyrn, you would practice your letters.”
“Practicing letters is a teller of total behavior now?” Lance asked in a bored tone.
“It is what she is supposed to do,” Landrem said.
“Is that all she’s supposed to do?”
Yvyrn piped up, “I can’t do my letters yet. Miss Lheinel has been busy, I think.”
Landrem frowned. “Hm. I suppose so.”
Yvyrn didn’t bother looking up from her tablet. “I can do other things, if you like. I’m going to be doing work for Miss Lheinel ‘cause she said she’d be my mother instead of Malvyrnen, but I can help other people too, if they’re nice to me.” Spirals trailed behind her stylus, twisting lazily into one another.
Lance looked at the young girl for a moment with an expression that matched his dull tone. He turned to Landrem, beside him. “Have you seen Aedren around?”
“On official business, I expect.” The Lieutenant raised a brow. “Aedren? Official business? I doubt that.”
Landrem shrugged nevertheless. “Haven’t seen him,” he said. Lieutenant Eglanion’s only response was a small, bored breath. He allowed his gaze to drift over to another table, staring into space. Yvyrn looked up, closing her tablet carefully, while Rathel quietly nursed his tea beside her. The drone of the crowded tavern once again infiltrated the uncomfortable quiet of the table. Earlier, it had been a welcome sound. The thunderous rumble of deep voices in deeper discussions, the clinking and clattering of plates, and the squeak of a rocking chandelier were the same in every ale-house. It was the sound of home, a scrap of comfort wherever Bregdys chanced to go. But even comfort can grow stifling in too large a dose.
“I’ll be right back; getting a drink,” Bregdys said with a polite smile.
She made her way over to the bar with a spring in her step that hadn’t been there when last she approached. She leaned against the bar, shooting the barman a smug grin.
“Looks like I’ll be working here after all,” she said victoriously. He approached her end, and she quickly scrambled to find her coin purse. It took a moment before she could gather a sufficient amount, but at long last she pushed the pile of odd coins across the bar. “Uh… Mead, thanks,” she said. Accepting her drink, Bregdys returned to the table to find the small group in the same dreary silence as when she had left. She took a seat, and finally Yvyrn broke the silence with a cautious question.
“Mister First Warden?”
“Yes, Yvyrn?”
“Do you know where Miss Lheinel has been?”
The Warden replied, “She is more often in the stores. Scribes’ work, really.”
“Oh, that’s fine then,” Yvyrn said, a bit glumly. “I haven’t seen her for a bit… but then again, perhaps I haven’t made myself present quite often enough.” She placed her elbows on the table, and her chin in her hands. Landrem’s worn, dark hands closed his tablet with a swift clap.
“I see,” he said. Lance continued to study the room, from the vaulted ceilings to the ornate glass of the high windows, blatantly bored and distracted. Bregdys sipped her mead and took the opportunity to occasionally glance his way, abruptly looking away when his attention returned to the table at hand. Rathel yawned, covering his mouth with a hand and blinking slowly.
“Well, have a good night,” he said to no one in particular. He rose and began heading towards the bedchambers without another word.
“Night!” Yvyrn called after him. Her elbows trembled just a bit before finally giving way. Her head clunked lightly as it met the table, and she closed her eyes, too weary to right herself.
Bregdys raised an eyebrow at the girl. “You alright there, miss?”
In response, the girl emitted a barely audible groan.
“This conversation is quite interesting,” the Lieutenant remarked. Despite his even tone, the words dripped sarcasm. Bregdys returned her gaze to the young man.
“Can’t exactly be a dull conversation if there’s barely any to begin with,” she retorted. Yvyrn gave a small snort of laughter.
Lance looked at Bredgys for a moment. “Good point there,” he said with a faint nod. “We should find an interesting topic.” He paused to look to Yvyrn, and then to Landrem. “There must be something worth talking about.” Bregdys studied his expression. Earlier he had seemed interested in…
“Well, if nothing else there’s always the morality of execution.” She said it casually, with a small shrug, waiting with bated breath to see if she could hold his interest -- if anything ever could. The Warden gave her an odd look, but Eglanion smirked. She could have sworn she noted amusement in his eyes.
“That is a topic to discuss,” he said. His eyes were the most striking shade of blue…
“Pardon, but what is your name?” Yvyrn asked abruptly, raising her hand to point at Lance.
“First Lieutenant Eglanion,” he said in formal introduction before glancing at the youth, “Or... er...Lance.”
Yvyrn blinked. “Am I allowed to call you Lance? Or would you rather I called you something different?” Bregdys looked at the young girl curiously. Yvyrn fidgeted with her hands, and Bregdys idly wondered if the Lieutenant made the girl nervous.
“I really don’t care,” Eglanion shrugged. “Call me Lance if you want to; not like you work for me.”
Yvyrn nodded. There was a momentary pause, but the quiet was broken by an incredible yawn. For someone small, Yvyrn did seem to make a lot a noise. The young girl hopped off of the bench, and declared in a decisive voice: “I should sleep. Goodnight.” She flashed the table a weary grin and meandered off to the rooms before anyone could properly respond.
Bregdys gave the girl a small wave of farewell as she walked away. She nudged her mead aside, and leaned forward on the table. The sweet smell of honey was insidious; even with the tankard a good foot away it trailed back to her. Her nose wrinkled in mild disgust, but quickly composed herself. “What I’ve never understood is how the law insists on executing murderers. It’s… the law says killing is wrong, so they punish it with more killing.”
Landrem glanced to Eglanion before hunching over the table and peering at his tablet. He lingered in silence before responding: “I am not the law, but merely its actor. Ours are ancient laws from ancient kinds, and I am not high enough to speak against them.”
Bregdys shrugged. “Not attacking you personally, sir. Criticism of the law is hardly renouncement.”
Lance rolled his eyes and elbowed Landrem in the side. “Just because you are not high enough to change the law or act against it doesn’t mean you’re not allowed personal opinions.”
Bregdys smiled at Lance, “Exactly! If you don’t mind my asking, what’re your thoughts on the matter?”
Landrem grimaced and let out a heavy sigh. “To tell you the truth, it is the sole moment I cannot think. The sole moment I cannot have an opinion. A man who falters in his mind falters in his stroke.” He ran a hand through his hair.
Eglanion shrugged slightly, glancing to Landrem. “I do not execute people so I do not have to worry about that.” His gaze returned to Bregdys. She found herself smiling, despite the subject matter. “Personally, I am not an advocate of such a high punishment. It is hypocritical in nature. I can understand some arguments for it, but overall I am not fond of executions.”
Bregdys looked at the First Warden, saying, “A stance of non-opinion is little more than a way to avoid guilt.” She paused for a moment, recalling whom exactly she was speaking to. “A-although in your case perhaps that is for the best. Sorry.” She began to fidget with an empty cup on the table, running her thumb along its rim. “I think I’m in agreement with you, Lance, for the most part. I think killing for any reason to be an act of unadulterated cruelty.”
The Warden spoke with a humorless smile. “I have a distaste for it. Sometimes I rather I were a scho-- a soldier lower in rank, so that I would not face such grim tasks. But it is… for my family, most honorable. I must, so I do.”
Eglanion nodded. “Of course you have a distaste for it. It is not in human nature to take another life. If you enjoyed it, you would have an untreatable illness.”
Bregdys took a drink and said softly, “You would make a good scholar, from the looks of things, Warden.” His fingers were calloused from turning pages -- this she recognized. The bookkeeper at the Keep had the same sort of hands. There was a splash of dried ink on his sleeve. She wondered if he’d noticed.
Landrem hailed a server, requesting a pot of tea for the table. “Two… three cups,” he told the boy before shooing him off. Bregdys finished off her pint of mead, cringing a bit from the sheer sweetness of the drink. She pushed the empty tankard away, the metal scraping gently against the rough wooden surface. Lance looked down at his whiskey, swishing it in the glass.
“There are many things I would rather do as a role in life, but we all must accept what tasks we have at hand.” He shrugged slightly before drinking his whiskey once more.
Landrem smiled wryly, pouring tea into the cups. "I was fostered here by a friend of our family, a man by the name of Nenbŷr. He was a wealthy man, learned in noble ways if not noble himself, and taught me the ways of the quill and the sword alike. He was a man fond of birdsong, and so in his gardens he kept a cage of fair songbirds. They were sweet singers and fair birds. Beautiful things, yet I ever reckoned their songs colored by the mournfulness of those forever in a foreign land, in bondage away from their true homes. But he was a fair lord, or so he wished to be, and so he let the old birds go free. But they were old and frail of wing in their age, and so I saw them fly over the hedges and through our gates and into the city. I chased them, the youth I was--twelve--and followed them over the hedge and through the streets until I saw one was missing of the seven there were. I hunted for the last one, and found it dying on the ground. It was the first thing I saw die. I knew this bird, or my brothers did. It was the first bird of that cage and the fairest by their reckoning, and yet in the company of other birds nobody noticed it had stopped singing save I, in hindsight. I lingered near its corpse and mourned for the bird. The hands of greater beings had plucked it from its proper home and thrust it into a cage. Fate holds little happiness for birds such as I.”
Bregdys slowly tilted her head with a slightly confused expression. “Poetry’s always been lost on me, but that sounded nice nonetheless?” The heavy doors slammed shut in the background, briefly disrupting the ongoing chorus of the Shield, but she paid no attention to the controlled footfalls of its newest patron. Eglanion stared at Landrem for a long time, thinking through his words. He looked upwards, but the movement of another caught his gaze. Turning his head to the side, the young man looked across the room towards the newcomer by the bar. Bringing one hand up to rub the side of his nose, he said to Landrem:
“Yes, that is how life functions. But just because life functions a certain way, does that mean you must agree with it internally?” After a moment, his eyes broke away from the man, and returned to the other two. “Higher men place you where you belong, but are they inevitably right in their decision?”
Landrem shook his head, continuing in a lower tone, “The All-father and the heavens, and kings, and captains, and fathers and uncles put a man where he is. This… is where I am placed.”
Bregdys shrugged. “Bemoan it in any fancy way you please, but we can’t do much to change how we’re born. I’ll not become all high and mighty even if I whine about it,” she hesitates, “not that you’re whining, of course…” She looked up at Lance and told herself it was purely because she had to look somewhere, not because he was pleasant to observe. Despite the depth of his questions, the Lieutenant’s eyes remained frustratingly unreadable. It almost seemed that he didn’t care much about the response at all, but was rather going through the motions of conversation for the sake of it. Bregdys pursed her lips. She’d make him interested, eventually.
“Greetings,” a deep voice spoke from behind the officers. Lance turned to look at it’s owner.
“Hello there,” the Lieutenant said. Bregdys glanced at the newcomer, attempting to measure his station and decide whether or not she should be standing to greet him. Then again, there were very few who weren’t above her class… She decided that, for her sake, she would remain sitting.
Landrem offered a haggard smile to the stranger. “Suilad,” he said, getting up from his bench and bowing, his hand to his breast. The stranger returned the ceremonial gesture with a hand gloved in fine leather. At the average height for a man from -- Belfalas, perhaps? -- he towered over Landrem’s stockier build. Bregdys sighed to herself. With all of these tall folk running about, ash wasn’t necessary to block out the sun. They did it well enough on their own.
“Greetings. I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure. High Captain Adathrond Arheston.”
Landrem reached into the pouch at his side, and produced a brooch marking his rank. “Forgive me for not being the first to speak. I am Landrem son of Hadrem,” he said, “First Warden of the Minas Tirith City Guard.”
Eglanion glanced between Landrem and the man for a moment. “No, I do not believe we have met,” he said as he rose and turned to face the man of higher rank. Unlike Landrem, he neglected to reach for any symbol of his rank, and fell quiet.
Adathrond eyed the brooch for a moment, nodding in confirmation. He lifted his tankard to his lips and took a long drink before speaking in response: “An honorable position. It warms me to be among my own kin once more. I assure you, the pleasure is mine.”
Landrem motioned towards the table, “Please, sit.”
Finishing another swig of alcohol, Adathrond shook his head. “I must apologize for my exhaustion. T’was only the late watches of yesterday that I at last arrived home. I’m afraid I am void of time, for the most part - so I shall have this drink and be on my way. But please, do not stand on ceremony on my part. Enjoy your drinks -- your next round shall be on me,” he smiled.
The Warden shook his head, motioning towards his teapot of the table. “Forgive me sir,” he said, “but I already have a pot. It would be best to give what would be mine to one of you three.”
Adathrond inclined his head slightly, “I can only hope that when my time is free to spend as I wish, I might stumble upon your company again and learn of those I know nothing of. As you wish, First Warden Landrem. Perhaps next time.” He looked then towards Eglanion, still standing silently beside the Warden. He arched a brow, still awaiting introduction. “I don’t believe I caught your name, sir.”
Eglanion looked between the two for a moment before blinking and looking back to Adathrond. After a moment, he leaned over to retrieve his glass, and his gaze drifted to Bregdys for a moment.
“First Lieutenant Eglanion,” he said formally. Landrem drank slowly from his teacup, and looked over at Bregdys, gauging her reaction to the newcomer. Judging by her bored preoccupation with an empty tankard, it was barely a reaction at all. She idly rolled the cup around on the table, in an attempt to stay out of business that was beyond her. The sound of wood against the curvature of the mug was satisfying at least. She sighed, and checked her coinpurse to see if there was enough left for a second drink. Digging around for a good minute or two, Bregdys expected to find something at least. When her fingers came up empty, she sighed in disappointment and returned to rolling the mug.
Adathrond stared at the Lieutenant for a moment, nodding with a warm smile: “A pleasure. Now, please, continue as you were before my presence interrupted you. As I said, any who wish it may have a drink on me. The fine man behind the counter will see to that. For now, I bid you goodnight.” Bregdys perked up a bit too noticeably at the mention of free drinks, her manner earning a nearly inaudible laugh from Landrem.
The High Captain bowed his head. “Until next time,” he said. Adathrond turned and departed from their company in resolute, measured steps. Everything about him managed to be orderly. It made little sense to Bregdys. The Lieutenant looked after the man with the same distant stare that he’d had all night. He had the face of a man lost in thought, or at least Bregdys thought so. She wondered what he was thinking, but wasn’t about to inquire. Slowly, tables emptied. Plates and tankards lay in forlorn disorder across the long counters and tabletops of the tavern. Crooked benches were left to their fates. Even the flies abandoned their feasting, and it wasn’t long before the rhythmic drip, drip, drip of the ale tap could be heard even from the table where she was sitting. Bregdys felt her pulse slowing to match the rhythmic beat of liquid falling against stone flooring. There the trio sat in weary silence, listening to the roaring voices dissipate. They no longer echoed from the lofty heights of the second floor. The chandelier paused it’s groaning complaint. Finally, Lance looked to his companions. Wordlessly, he gave them a polite nod, and headed towards the bar for one last drink.
Time dragged on. Eventually, the establishment began to close down. Chairs were righted, candles extinguished. Bregdys did not notice when Landrem left, but by the time she was roused from her drowsy reverie she knew he had been gone for a very long time. Someone placed a hand on her shoulder.
“I’ll show you to your quarters,” he offered. Brushing off the thick malaise of the darkened ale-house, Bregdys stood. He chatted amiably as he lead her to the barracks, stopping by the kitchens to bid the other staff members goodnight. How the man was still energetic after a day of working was beyond her. Even at the Keep, business had always drained her.
“My name’s Orben,” the young man continued, “I work the kitchens. You’re the new maid, right? Think you could take a look at the main oven? One of the cooks spilt something in there and it’s smelled like burnt flesh ever since.” Bregdys managed a weary nod. She supposed it might come off as rude, but she was too sleepy to care. “You have a name?” he asked. Bregdys yawned. Either she was ignoring him, or she hadn’t heard the question. “Right, then,” he said awkwardly. “In that case I’ll just call you half-pint; you’re almost as tall as one…”
If the naming was intended to earn a reaction, it failed -- she simply nodded. She had been called worse things. The pair came to an abrupt halt, and Bregdys looked up to see a large archway, opening onto a hallway tightly packed with bedchambers. If not for the ornate styling of the architecture, she would compare the rooms to cells. Orben gestured for her to proceed into the hall. “First door on the right,” he told her.
“Thank you, Orben.”
“So she does speak,” he exclaimed with a hint of melodrama. The young man turned to leave, “Night, half-pint.” She cracked a sleepy smile and twisted the handle of her bedroom door. Her room was small and cramped, holding little more than a bed and a set of drawers. It was bigger than what she was accustomed to. As she stepped inside, she breathed a small sigh of contentment. Her fingers ran over the rough wooden surface of the dresser. She could place her sword there. The parcel, she’d left it… “Shit,” she breathed.
“Sorry?” Orben asked from the hall. Bregdys jumped, surprised that he was still there. She would have to retrieve her belongings in the morning.
“Oh, nothing--goodnight.” His footsteps receded down the hall, and Bregdys closed the door. The bed was stuffed with straw and blanketed in warm wool blankets. It creaked a little when she fell onto it, and the mattress let her sink in just far enough…
The Splintered Shield was not the Keep. She decided that much when weariness tugged at her eyelids; when the glimmer of candlelight in the hall waved and flickered in time with the soft footsteps of watchmen leaving for the night shift. The night was cold -- cold and noisy -- and this time it didn’t matter. This time, she was home.
