- 73 Spring 506
Though Caspian and Taalviel had come back from last week’s outing largely empty-handed, her report to Taaldros sparks a discussion of measurable enthusiasm.
Immediately, Taaldros and the associates who seem to flit in and out of the house at will gather around what would have been a pleasant dining table for a nuclear familial unit, had it not been for the many gougings and suspicious stains marring the wood.
And the spare pair of rusted manacles sometimes taken up by any one of the mercenaries seeking to be heard above the rest.
Taaldros slams the manacles down on the table three times for silence, as if a regular gavel wouldn’t have been portentous enough.
Zhassel, the Kelvic hound who had replaced Caspian and Taalviel’s mother Kharis as Taaldros’ object of romantic affection – if it can be called that – clamps her hands over her ears against what to her is cacophony in sharp amplification.
“How much is a wagon?” Taaldros asks the three mercenaries – and he might not have needed the manacles at all, with the dark steadiness of his gaze, the timbre of his tone that means, without fail, that his word is law.
They shuffle amongst themselves.
“Fifty mizas,” one supplies, but it comes out more like a question.
“Fifty?” the quiet one Caspian’s learned is named Gavir repeats. “You think a wagon is worth fifty?”
Between Taaldros and Gavir, their natural bents for scathing exactness could cause a grown man to break into a blathering, blubbering mess on the spot.
Caspian knows.
He’s seen it happen.
“Thirty-five,” Taalviel says.
Taaldros nods at her in approval. And to Caspian –
Caspian’s blood runs cold, as it does without fail whenever he’s in his stepfather’s vector.
But he only inclines his head towards the larder. Like Taalviel, he’s capable of saying much without saying anything at all, and this time it’s get the ale and get it quick, the penalty for doing otherwise not explicitly stated, but imagination and experience can fill in the rest.
They like drinking. A lot. And especially when schemes are being hatched. From the raucous debate clearly heard even from within the larder, tucked off in the kitchen, it seems his recent expedition with Taalviel has inspired the mercenaries to stage collisions of their own. Like highway robberies, except without the highway – and for some reason they don’t mind incurring collateral damage by smashing their own wagon, which would require the upfront investment of thirty-five mizas, give or take.
Caspian’s mostly useless to them, and as such had been relegated to being the scullion to fetch and tidy. (The latter isn’t necessarily asked of him – but it drives him mad, the filth and grime and how it had only accumulated and festered over the years – so he does what he can.) They’ve gone through most of the ale they have on hand, but there’s a promising crate towards the back, on the highest shelf. Caspian drags a spare stool over and uses the added height to step onto a barrel. From here, he can reach for the crate with both hands, but it’s a lot heavier than he’d anticipated, and if he drags it off the shelf, it’ll be a long drop to the floor, and he doubts he has the strength to lean over while still on the barrel and lower it to the ground without shattering its contents.
Carefully – because it’s infernally dark in here, just like every other musted room in this house – he feels his way down the barrel, back onto the stool, then the surer footing of the ground.
He drags over another barrel, then hops onto the stool, clambers back onto the first barrel, and with both hands drags the crate off its shelf. Back straining, the bottles rattling noisily, he lowers the crate onto the second barrel. It wobbles, but holds steady. Racing against Taaldros’ internal clock – which will always, to his consequence, run several ticks ahead of his own – he lowers himself down the barrel and stool, and carries the crate out of the larder, sneezing at the dust that billows up.
WC: 684
Immediately, Taaldros and the associates who seem to flit in and out of the house at will gather around what would have been a pleasant dining table for a nuclear familial unit, had it not been for the many gougings and suspicious stains marring the wood.
And the spare pair of rusted manacles sometimes taken up by any one of the mercenaries seeking to be heard above the rest.
Taaldros slams the manacles down on the table three times for silence, as if a regular gavel wouldn’t have been portentous enough.
Zhassel, the Kelvic hound who had replaced Caspian and Taalviel’s mother Kharis as Taaldros’ object of romantic affection – if it can be called that – clamps her hands over her ears against what to her is cacophony in sharp amplification.
“How much is a wagon?” Taaldros asks the three mercenaries – and he might not have needed the manacles at all, with the dark steadiness of his gaze, the timbre of his tone that means, without fail, that his word is law.
They shuffle amongst themselves.
“Fifty mizas,” one supplies, but it comes out more like a question.
“Fifty?” the quiet one Caspian’s learned is named Gavir repeats. “You think a wagon is worth fifty?”
Between Taaldros and Gavir, their natural bents for scathing exactness could cause a grown man to break into a blathering, blubbering mess on the spot.
Caspian knows.
He’s seen it happen.
“Thirty-five,” Taalviel says.
Taaldros nods at her in approval. And to Caspian –
Caspian’s blood runs cold, as it does without fail whenever he’s in his stepfather’s vector.
But he only inclines his head towards the larder. Like Taalviel, he’s capable of saying much without saying anything at all, and this time it’s get the ale and get it quick, the penalty for doing otherwise not explicitly stated, but imagination and experience can fill in the rest.
They like drinking. A lot. And especially when schemes are being hatched. From the raucous debate clearly heard even from within the larder, tucked off in the kitchen, it seems his recent expedition with Taalviel has inspired the mercenaries to stage collisions of their own. Like highway robberies, except without the highway – and for some reason they don’t mind incurring collateral damage by smashing their own wagon, which would require the upfront investment of thirty-five mizas, give or take.
Caspian’s mostly useless to them, and as such had been relegated to being the scullion to fetch and tidy. (The latter isn’t necessarily asked of him – but it drives him mad, the filth and grime and how it had only accumulated and festered over the years – so he does what he can.) They’ve gone through most of the ale they have on hand, but there’s a promising crate towards the back, on the highest shelf. Caspian drags a spare stool over and uses the added height to step onto a barrel. From here, he can reach for the crate with both hands, but it’s a lot heavier than he’d anticipated, and if he drags it off the shelf, it’ll be a long drop to the floor, and he doubts he has the strength to lean over while still on the barrel and lower it to the ground without shattering its contents.
Carefully – because it’s infernally dark in here, just like every other musted room in this house – he feels his way down the barrel, back onto the stool, then the surer footing of the ground.
He drags over another barrel, then hops onto the stool, clambers back onto the first barrel, and with both hands drags the crate off its shelf. Back straining, the bottles rattling noisily, he lowers the crate onto the second barrel. It wobbles, but holds steady. Racing against Taaldros’ internal clock – which will always, to his consequence, run several ticks ahead of his own – he lowers himself down the barrel and stool, and carries the crate out of the larder, sneezing at the dust that billows up.
WC: 684
x
