65th of Spring, 514 AV
Continued from Fracture Lines.
Continued from Fracture Lines.
Isana Lin felt like a stranger in her own home. Her face was a mess of bruises from the previous night and her head felt like an angry hedgehog had taken up residence in her skull but her steps were light as she weaved through the press of buildings. The ocean breeze drifted over the docks, the tips of masts visible over the sprawl. It felt strange to be walking the city without armour, though the sword at her hip provided some measure of normality. She felt a hundred times lighter without mail hanging from her shoulders, but it was the sort of weightlessness that left her feeling exposed rather than free.
Not for the first time that morning, she wondered what she was doing in the docks again. Less than twelve bells ago, she had nearly had the life beaten out of her at the hands of a mercenary's kelvic - her ribs still hurt when she put her foot down too hard - or breathed, for that matter, but time was sadly limited. The few bells sleep she had been able to snatch after the night's activities had done little to rest her mind, a familiar nightmare lurking behind her eyelids, but it had served to convert her dozen small hurts into a more generalised ache.
Now, walking the streets in only a tunic and trousers, there was little to distinguish the battered knight from the travellers, sailors and mercenaries that roamed the early morning streets - some stretching, most shaking off the effects of the previous night. Little to distinguish her but the fact that she could not swing a sword to save herself. As last night had painfully demonstrated. For a mercenary it would have been embarrassing. For a knight, it was unacceptable. So, she found herself here, hunting the myrian that had pulled the kelvic from her before it clamped teeth around her neck and the answers she was certain he had. He had claimed to know the man they duelled - a man who had held off two nights in a duel. Perhaps the myrian would also know where he had trained.
The Broken Casket was much as it had been the previous night. The knights had removed the bodies, but there was still an air of violence about the place that she suspected would remain until that night's clientèle were deep in their tankards. Whatever else they were, sailors were a suspicious lot. When a man died in a place, it was easily enough to give his shipmates second thoughts. Whether they were suspicious enough to steer clear of a proffered drink was another question altogether. Still, it was likely that business would slow, at least until the ships in harbour moved on. Going by the lack of occupied chairs and the furtive glance the innkeeper shot her, it may have already.
"Haven't you caused enough trouble already?" There was no trace of accusation in the man's question. The innkeeper was a broad man, likely a former sailor himself, a white beard - in the tradition of retired mariners everywhere - clinging to his face, as if to insulate it from a wave that had never quite come. Isana racked her brain and came up empty. If the man had been present last night, he must have been upstairs, or otherwise sheltered in the dark. Likely the first. This did not seem a man that would cower.
"Trouble? It was not I who stood idly by while a man bled out on your floor, sir." Isana gave her best nonchalant grin. With the bruises dotting her face, it came out as more of a grimace.
"No, and I'll wager any money that it wasn't you who missed a night of sleep cleaning it out of the floor either." He waved a hand around the empty bar. "Business'll be down for a good number of days now, thanks to that gallivanting around." His eyes flickered to the sword at her hip. "Nasty weapons, those. Right bad for business, they are. What's wrong with a good old-fashioned club, eh? Whack a man over the head and he's done for the night, no blood spilt. Not good for a place to have blood seeping into the floor."
"I am not carrying a club." What was she, a two-coppper thug?
"Just a suggestion, lass. Just a suggestion." He shrugged and exhaled, folding like a stowed sail. "What's done is done."
An uncomfortable silence settled between them. Isana let it creep into the cracks alongside the blood before she spoke again."There was a myrian drinking here last night. I need to know where he is."
"Business is going to be slow, you know. Five days, maybe four." The innkeeper frowned, his eyes flicking to her coinpurse. "Times are hard."
Isana glared at him. Under other circumstances, she would have argued the point, but she wasn't wearing any mark of rank to speak of, and she was in a hurry. Mercenaries came and went with the winds, and it would not be long before the caravans began to filter out of the city. That aside, breathing alone hurt more than she wanted to admit. No, she had better things to waste her energy on than arguing with the innkeeper. She slid a pair of gold mizas across the table. The old mariner pocketed them.
"Very kind of you lass. Your myrian said he was travelling with Hayton's band today. Bound for Kenash, I think they were." He tapped the bar thoughtfully. Isana blinked. When did Matar become her myrian? "Early risers, those ones. Probably left by now already. I'd get the wind up, if I were you." Outside, Isana could hear a steady patter of footprints. The days traffic was slowly, inexorably settling in. The mariner had a point. "Where were they staying?"
He shrugged. "Damned if I know. I'm not his mother."
He fetched a familiar-looking cloth from somewhere beneath the bar and began to rub the bench down. "But my guess'd be the Swan, overpriced dump that it is. Seemed well-off for a sellsword. Only place he could be."
"You seem remarkably certain." Isana raised an eyebrow.
"'course I do, lass. I was a sailor once. Not so different from a mercenary when you get right down to it. And at least as foolish with my money." He chuckled and returned his attention to the bar, signalling the exchange was over.
"Your confidence is inspiring." Isana stalked from the bar, tugging the door shut behind her - ignoring the innkeeper's chuckle at her back. It was with a profound sense of relief that she left the hint of blood in the air behind. To the Swan, then. It took more willpower than she would care to admit not to shove her way through the crowd drifting the streets, ribs or no.
Not for the first time that morning, she wondered what she was doing in the docks again. Less than twelve bells ago, she had nearly had the life beaten out of her at the hands of a mercenary's kelvic - her ribs still hurt when she put her foot down too hard - or breathed, for that matter, but time was sadly limited. The few bells sleep she had been able to snatch after the night's activities had done little to rest her mind, a familiar nightmare lurking behind her eyelids, but it had served to convert her dozen small hurts into a more generalised ache.
Now, walking the streets in only a tunic and trousers, there was little to distinguish the battered knight from the travellers, sailors and mercenaries that roamed the early morning streets - some stretching, most shaking off the effects of the previous night. Little to distinguish her but the fact that she could not swing a sword to save herself. As last night had painfully demonstrated. For a mercenary it would have been embarrassing. For a knight, it was unacceptable. So, she found herself here, hunting the myrian that had pulled the kelvic from her before it clamped teeth around her neck and the answers she was certain he had. He had claimed to know the man they duelled - a man who had held off two nights in a duel. Perhaps the myrian would also know where he had trained.
The Broken Casket was much as it had been the previous night. The knights had removed the bodies, but there was still an air of violence about the place that she suspected would remain until that night's clientèle were deep in their tankards. Whatever else they were, sailors were a suspicious lot. When a man died in a place, it was easily enough to give his shipmates second thoughts. Whether they were suspicious enough to steer clear of a proffered drink was another question altogether. Still, it was likely that business would slow, at least until the ships in harbour moved on. Going by the lack of occupied chairs and the furtive glance the innkeeper shot her, it may have already.
"Haven't you caused enough trouble already?" There was no trace of accusation in the man's question. The innkeeper was a broad man, likely a former sailor himself, a white beard - in the tradition of retired mariners everywhere - clinging to his face, as if to insulate it from a wave that had never quite come. Isana racked her brain and came up empty. If the man had been present last night, he must have been upstairs, or otherwise sheltered in the dark. Likely the first. This did not seem a man that would cower.
"Trouble? It was not I who stood idly by while a man bled out on your floor, sir." Isana gave her best nonchalant grin. With the bruises dotting her face, it came out as more of a grimace.
"No, and I'll wager any money that it wasn't you who missed a night of sleep cleaning it out of the floor either." He waved a hand around the empty bar. "Business'll be down for a good number of days now, thanks to that gallivanting around." His eyes flickered to the sword at her hip. "Nasty weapons, those. Right bad for business, they are. What's wrong with a good old-fashioned club, eh? Whack a man over the head and he's done for the night, no blood spilt. Not good for a place to have blood seeping into the floor."
"I am not carrying a club." What was she, a two-coppper thug?
"Just a suggestion, lass. Just a suggestion." He shrugged and exhaled, folding like a stowed sail. "What's done is done."
An uncomfortable silence settled between them. Isana let it creep into the cracks alongside the blood before she spoke again."There was a myrian drinking here last night. I need to know where he is."
"Business is going to be slow, you know. Five days, maybe four." The innkeeper frowned, his eyes flicking to her coinpurse. "Times are hard."
Isana glared at him. Under other circumstances, she would have argued the point, but she wasn't wearing any mark of rank to speak of, and she was in a hurry. Mercenaries came and went with the winds, and it would not be long before the caravans began to filter out of the city. That aside, breathing alone hurt more than she wanted to admit. No, she had better things to waste her energy on than arguing with the innkeeper. She slid a pair of gold mizas across the table. The old mariner pocketed them.
"Very kind of you lass. Your myrian said he was travelling with Hayton's band today. Bound for Kenash, I think they were." He tapped the bar thoughtfully. Isana blinked. When did Matar become her myrian? "Early risers, those ones. Probably left by now already. I'd get the wind up, if I were you." Outside, Isana could hear a steady patter of footprints. The days traffic was slowly, inexorably settling in. The mariner had a point. "Where were they staying?"
He shrugged. "Damned if I know. I'm not his mother."
He fetched a familiar-looking cloth from somewhere beneath the bar and began to rub the bench down. "But my guess'd be the Swan, overpriced dump that it is. Seemed well-off for a sellsword. Only place he could be."
"You seem remarkably certain." Isana raised an eyebrow.
"'course I do, lass. I was a sailor once. Not so different from a mercenary when you get right down to it. And at least as foolish with my money." He chuckled and returned his attention to the bar, signalling the exchange was over.
"Your confidence is inspiring." Isana stalked from the bar, tugging the door shut behind her - ignoring the innkeeper's chuckle at her back. It was with a profound sense of relief that she left the hint of blood in the air behind. To the Swan, then. It took more willpower than she would care to admit not to shove her way through the crowd drifting the streets, ribs or no.
