[Flashback] Lying Lyres

[Ulric]

16th of Summer, 503 AV “Tell me, why shouldn’t I rip out your guts?” Lester stared over a frothy cup of ale. Ulric returned the stare, taking a draught from his own cup. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Go ahead, try to rip them out,” he growled. “You’d just slip on your own guts before you got near.” Lester raised an eyebrow, but he couldn’t keep up the façade any longer. His handsome face split into a grin. “Those are some bold words,” he chuckled. “Not as bold as your fingers.” Ulric scowled, pushing the slender hand away. “Now leave off before somebody sees,” he snarled. “Got it?” Lester was going to be sulky for the rest of the day, but that was his fault; the harper knew better than to screw around in a tavern. “Come on, don’t you want to drink and make merry?” Lester joked. Ulric gave him a long, steely glance. He wasn’t one of them. “You’re such a whore,” he snarled, with as much vitriol as he could muster. “Don’t you think it’s bad enough that I’m being seen with you? Do you, Lester?” Ulric couldn’t help the fury that boiled up inside of him. He was angry, and his nerves were on edge. He just wanted to lash out at somebody, and the harper was an easy target. “Do you?” Lester’s face was slack, apart from a twitch under his right eye. “Go petch yourself, Ulric.” Lester rose, shoving his chair to the ground, and vanished into the crowd. Ulric remained at the table, staring into his half-empty cup. He knew he’d been wrong to say those things, but he didn’t care. How could a man like that not feel any shame? He remained at the table for a long time, staring blankly across the rude, crowded tavern. There was nothing to do but wait. Finishing his ale, he got up and ordered another at the bar, knowing that other patrons were already flocking to his table. Here, that was reason enough to draw a knife, but he wasn’t fool enough to risk his neck over a few planks, held together by bent, rusty nails. Not without Lester. Now that he thought about it, Ulric began to recognize that he’d made a grave mistake in driving the harper away. That meant he’d be on his own later that night, without a steady sword at his back. He didn’t think about changing his plans, though. He had nothing to fear from a few thieves. His work that night would just be… messier than was usual. Ulric leaned against the dingy, crumbling plaster, which was stained with soot around the torch sconces, and observed the crowd through a haze of smoke that made his eyes red and bleary. Hard men and easy women, mostly. They drank, threw dice, and argued loudly, creating a cacophony of curses, shrieks, and crude laughter that echoed through the dank, winding alleys. There wasn’t much else to do here, save brawl over some petty grievance. The pair of men seated in the corner seemed to be headed there, what with their red, angry faces, and the way the skinny one kept fingering the knife at his belt, as if to make sure it remained. Ulric would have liked to hit somebody, but he forced himself to choke down the contents of his cup and leave, hurling the crude vessel against the plaster, where it broke into pieces. There wasn’t much use for metal tankards; they’d just get pinched by the rogues that made up their own rules. Here, property began and ended at the point of a knife. Taking a deep breath, Ulric kept a tight grip on his purse as he shoved through the raucous throng, disregarding the curses and rough jeers they flung in his wake. There weren’t quite so many thieves in his city, but he knew most of their tricks. He swept his dark eyes back and forth, reaching for his sword with the other hand. Moving aside the scrap of cloth that served as a door, he left the tavern for the shadows of a dank alley. There wasn’t much traffic at night, mostly because the urchins clung to the shadows when they moved, while the beggars were already in hiding and the honest folk of the city were somewhat safe behind their locked doors. Ulric swiftly moved to the other side. Having been an urchin himself, he knew a few things about moving unseen. The stench of putrefying flesh clung heavily upon the stagnant air, melding with the reek of urine and feces from the rude gutters that had been hewn in the ground. “Fancy a ride?” Up ahead, a slattern leaned against a cleft, her low-cut shift leaving little to his imagination. Ulric couldn’t help but frown. He hadn’t thought that she’d be able to discern his presence. He strode nearer, but even then, it was hard to make out the contours of her face. She might’ve been thirteen or thirty for all he knew. The youngest whores often sounded double their years after working for a few seasons. “How much?” He inquired out of habit. He’d no desire for the ride, not with the icy tendrils of fear already coursing down his spine. “Depends on what you’re looking for.” Ulric paused, a crazy thought coming to his mind. He glanced at the dark circles of her eyes, deciding whether he should take the gambit or continue on his way. “Do you know what sound roosters make?”