Excerpt, Shadows and Substance, Book 6
Rojah’s gaze slid around the busy tavern. The hour was neither early nor late, but some time after supper and that part of the evening between being merely sober or completely smashed.
The Blue Swan’s usual patrons occupied the tables, chairs and benches and jostled for elbow space. Warbling male voices chortled in conversation; laughter boomed over the clank of wood and pewter ale mugs. In a corner space near the hearth, several men enjoyed a rousing game of dice. In the course of the last half-hour that Rojah had sat watching the game, several winners and losers had come and gone with no one in particular dominating the roll of the spinning dice.
Rojah’s restless gaze shifted from the knot of dice rollers to the smaller groups hurling darts at the Swan’s scarred game boards on the opposite side of the common room. Neither dice nor darts interested him ― no more than the card game going on in another corner of the tavern. A wandering minstrel strumming a gourd shaped lute, wandered through the patrons and accepted a mug of ale here and there for a song.
As he sipped from his second mug of Barleyman’s stout ale, Rojah did not feel all that sober, but not so drunk he could not tell what was more out of tune: the tone deaf musician or his battered instrument. If the musician kept up his singing and lute strumming for much longer, only a man drunk out of his senses could enjoy the music.
Arms braced on the table in from of him, Rojah’s restless gaze continued wandering from man to man, group to group. He did not look too long at any one person — no longer than the flicker of his eye sliding past. He did not make eye contact. He did not invite anyone to sit down in what had to be the tavern’s only remaining, unoccupied chair.
He waved the tone-deaf minstrel away when the long legged, shabby fellow ambled toward his table. Rojah shook his head, hiding a half curled smile when the scrawny, hungry looking musician abruptly whirled away, strumming out of tune chords and followed a harried tavern maid hefting a mug laden tray through the crowd.
The musician could not have been much older than himself ― undoubtedly a youth seeking adventure far away from home judging from the troubadour’s travel stained cloak, patched long vest, slouch hat sporting a ragged peacock’s feather, and scuffed boots looking as thin in the sole as the musician’s lean face.
Rojah knew most of the patrons who frequented the Blue Swan — all local villagers and tradesmen mingling with the occasional outsider from a nearby farming village. Those he did not recognize appeared to know each other. Few were strangers, other than the scrawny musician who had decided to settle for the moment in a nearby chimney corner, out of the way, his ear pressed against the body of his lute as he attempted to tune the instrument’s gut strings. Rojah caught the flash of shadowed eyes gleaming beneath a tumble of dark curls and the curled lip when the tuning key slipped.
The shift of Rojah’s gaze paused on two other strangers, who from their dangerous, scruffy appearance alone, had commandeered a nearby corner table and sent the previous occupants scattering into the crowd. The two strangers warded away any friendly attempts to join them. Both were outlanders. One wore his head shaved and a mercenary looking scar sliced his face from jowl to ear. The other was a shaggy haired, slightly smaller version of his companion. Gold coins slipped through their thick fingers, easier spent than earned no doubt, and neither caring too much with each mug of ale they drained while demanding more from whatever harried tavern maid had the misfortune to pass too close to their table.
From their fiendish appearance, Rojah did not care to speculate on the manner in which the two ruffians had earned their gold, not that either pair advertised whatever services they offered. Judging from the round bulge of their leather purses and the flash of gold slipping between their fingers, the two had rendered a valuable service, however dubious, to someone who had neither the scruples nor the morals to hire the two.
Someone like Noah Winterringer, Rojah guessed was their most likely patron. Few paid with leather pouches bulging with gold coins.
“San Bargellian gold! Ye know I can’t take San Bargellian gold. Who do ye think I am, a money lender?” squawked Tisane, the boldest of Barleyman’s tavern maids and a woman with a face bearable to look upon only in the kindest of a tavern’s smoke-dimmed lights or a drunken stupor. She displayed a true harlot’s ignorance of danger toward the two ruffians. The loud stroke of Tisane’s voice pierced the noisy din, but she did not protest too hard ― not when the more grizzly of the two fellows slipped a gold coin down the gaping front of her blouse and squeezed her breast, as if to add further incentive to take their gold.
“Why, I do believe ye are tryin’ to buy me.” Tisane grinned and winked, the matter as settled as the round bottom she plopped down upon the man’s thick knee and the shrill cascade of giggles that followed when thick fingers groped beneath the hem of Tisane’s ale stained skirt. Snarling lips snagged Tisane’s laughter in a half growled kiss.
Rojah’s gaze slid past the scene and caught the flicker of the musician’s wandering gaze curiously observing him while he observed the two strangers spending San Bargellian gold and groping Tisane.
Whenever the wind gusted through the tavern door opening to admit another customer seeking a warm spot out of the night, a mug of ale, or whatever entertainment the Blue Swan afforded that evening, Rojah shifted his gaze to the door. Among the four men who entered removing cloaks, jackets, and hats, and greeting friends and acquaintances, Rojah spotted Edan Drum. The San Bargellian’s copper hair gleamed in the lantern light, striking a bright spot among dun browns, gray, and black.
Rojah stood, cupped hands to mouth. “Drum, over here!” he shouted over the boisterous crowd. A wave of his hand snagged the physician’s roving gaze and brought Edan, weaving a path among the tables and throng, toward Rojah’s table. Along the way, he snagged a mug of ale from a tavern maid’s tray, while avoiding jostling elbows and nodding to those he knew. Joining Rojah at the corner table, Edan spared the musician lounging in the chimney corner a glance. He sat down in the unclaimed chair.
“Busy night.” Edan looked around the crowded tavern and grinned upon seeing Tisane squealing on an outlander’s knee. Edan turned away from the scene and focused his gaze upon Rojah. “What are you doing here? I thought you would be at the Hotel Swan enjoying the company of our latest San Bargellian visitors.”
“I am trying to avoid the attentions of a certain San Bargellian who seems to find me too fascinating for some odd reason that I find highly appalling,” Rojah grumbled. Much to his chagrin, heat flushed his cheeks.
Edan studied him from behind thoughtful eyes. Although the physician did not dare follow that particular subject any further, Rojah knew Edan had a good idea the San Bargellian he spoke of was Reece Rau.
“Where is Chaeran? Is he here or are you enjoying Barleyman’s ale alone tonight?” Edan asked instead.
Rojah shook his head, snorted before tipping his ale mug to his lips. “Chaeran rode north two days ago.”
Edan arched a copper eyebrow. “Rather late in the season to travel north.”
“That is not the half of it, Drum. Can you believe this? Chaeran told me some crazy story about Maybelle Flower being his mother and that taking the old woman north to meet Doriano was his reason for making the journey.”
A gut string clanged, broke and, with a ringing snap, jarred a breathy curse from the musician. Rojah glanced toward the chimney corner and the musician nursing a gut-string-whipped finger between his lips. The musician grimaced, shook his long, thin hand, and resumed tuning his lute.
“Maybelle Flower? Are you sure?”
“Chaeran is not exactly known for his sense of humor ― not when it comes to his mother. Apparently, Chaeran believes Maybelle Flower is his mother, although I personally do not believe the old woman is Jarutia Fayerfield any more than I believe the stranger in the chimney corner is an accomplished musician.” Rojah scowled toward the chimney corner.
Edan grinned. “I am inclined to agree with you ― about the young musician. So, have you told Jantz about Chaeran’s extraordinary claim? Your father would know his own sister, surely.”
“I have not seen my father. He has been busy and so have I.” Rojah pushed aside his ale mug and leaned forward. “Can you keep a secret?”
The corner of Edan’s mouth twitched in an effort to refrain from smiling. “What are you up to?”
“Nothing.”
“I hope you are not entertaining some absurd notion about any more midnight excursions. I thought your father warned you to stay away from Noah Winterringer.”
“This is not about Winterringer. At least, I do not think it is. No, someone came to me several days ago ― someone who may have information concerning Oanada’s abduction.”
Edan blinked. All traces of his previous amusement vanished. “What? Are you certain?”
“Keep your voice down. Why else do you think I have spent my nights here waiting to meet Flora Moss?”
“Flora Moss?” Edan narrowed his eyes. He tipped Rojah’s mug and peered into its liquid depths. “How much of Barleyman’s ale have you had to drink tonight?”
Rojah retrieved his mug from Edan’s inspection. “This is my second and I have never been more sober in my life, Edan. It is true, I swear! I do not think my sister’s abduction anything Flora would lie about. Why would she? Especially after the role she played helping Rena destroy my sister’s marriage. Those two used you and your own life was devastated.”
“You were not here at the time, Rojah.”
“Something has Flora frightened. She was nervous, jumpy about meeting me, and all but forced me to swear I would meet her.”
Edan scowled. “I imagine the girl has reason to be frightened, especially after what happened at Winterringer Hall the other night.”
Rojah sat back in his chair, frowned. “What happened?”
“You have not heard?”
“What?”
“I delivered Noelani’s baby.”
Rojah lurched to his feet. His chair scraped the wooden planks of the ale stained floor.
Edan grabbed Rojah’s wrist, hissed, “Sit down!”
Rojah sank back down into the chair. Through a daze, he heard the tuneless drift of the musician’s voice from the nearby chimney corner and the cutting edge of Edan’s crisp, but low voice.
“I dare say Flora Moss has every reason to be frightened and if you have any true affection for Noelani you will stay away from Winterringer Hall and Flora Moss, Rojah.”
“Is ― is Noelani all right?”
“Mother and daughter are doing fine.”
“Noelani has a daughter? What ― what happened?”
“I do not see how what goes on at Winterringer Hall is any of your concern, Rojah. Let us say, I do not believe Flora and Darcy will be continuing their affair under Noah’s roof. If Flora has any news for you about Oanada ― well, can you not see? It is probably another one of the girl’s schemes to pull you into her deception and draw attention away from Darcy and her, especially after everyone starts noticing the girl’s expanding waistline in the coming weeks.”
Rojah glared at the physician. “I am not that big a fool, Drum. Everyone knows about Flora and Darcy. How else do you think Rena was able to use Flora? Flora would do anything to keep Darcy.”
“Not everyone knows about Flora and Darcy. Noelani certainly did not know about her husband’s infidelity. How do you think she feels now that she does know? Better still, what do you think Noah will do? How convenient for Flora to play you as the father of her child — how much more convenient for Darcy. That is what the girl has planned for you, my friend. Having news about your sister is just a ruse.”
Rojah grabbed his ale mug and drained what remained of the tepid ale. He set the tankard down and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. With equal calmness, he stood and tossed two silver coins upon the table.
“Where are you going?”
“To see if Flora still plans to meet me.”
“Rojah, do not get caught up in the problems of others.”
“I do not intend to.”
***
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