Thy Father's Shadow (Book 4.5) Read Free

she put it down in front of him. She didn’t bother with a tray, just brought it right to him, careful as anything, her yellow eyes looking down at him from beneath her frizzed white hair. “Is this going to be another night where I have a cart man wheel you home?”
    Terian studied the green ale as though it held the great mysteries of Lake Magnus’s depths somewhere within it while he fished into the coin purse at his belt and came back with three bronze pieces only slightly smaller than his littlest finger’s first knuckle. “It is beginning to turn that way, isn’t it?”
    She looked at him, bereft of any amusement as he laid the bronze on the table. She waited, expectantly, and after a moment he put two more down. She scooped them up then finally graced him with another look. “Shall I have him standing by, then? I know a good one, wheels a corpse cart around the slums most days, but at night he’s quite discreet about delivering drunken souls to their beds. And quite cheap, too—”
    “The last ride,” Terian said, letting his fingers play over the smooth surface of the glass, “didn’t cost me a thing.”
    She gave him a look that was all fire and attitude. It filtered past him and came to rest on his helm, which was hiding in shadow on the bench next to him. “Can’t imagine why someone would hesitate to run afoul of you by haggling over price of service when you’re drunk.”
    “Especially when I’m so sweet and pleasant of disposition, right?” Terian took another sip, long and measured. The ale was room temperature at best. Other establishments might have taken advantage of Reikonos’s snowfalls to cool their beverages. The Brutal Hole never even bothered. Terian suspected that was a management decision, though he didn’t rule out Rosalla simply not caring.
    “You’re not a mean drunk, that’s certain,” Rosalla said with a cool indifference. “Many’s here that are. So … will I be having the cart man pick you up later?”
    “Sure,” Terian said, watching the bubbles drift up to the top of the glass. “Why not?”
    “Why not?” Rosalla asked. “Are you looking for a legitimate reason?” Her voice carried a rough, guttural accent. She was plainly used to speaking dark elvish, but she spoke the human tongue here. He looked behind the bar at the jars filled with pickled meats and wondered idly if they served human tongues, real ones.
    “Can you give me a reason not to?” Terian wondered if he’d care if she could.
    “Perhaps you have work tomorrow?” She cast an impatient gaze at him. He didn’t care. She turned a nervous eye to the bar, as though she could sense a riot impending, the longer she was away from pouring drinks. “An early morning? Or plans for later tonight?” She gave him a mirthless, though wicked, smile. “A visit to the Silken Robe, mayhaps? Need to keep your sword rigid for the work that might entail?”
    “Sword rigidity is not a problem for me,” Terian said with only a little irony, “since I carry an axe.”
    “Is there some semblance of meaning to be found in that?” Rosalla asked, and he could see the genuine amusement in her face. “That you carry an axe, inflict bloody wounds with it, and spend your nights chasing—”
    “I wouldn’t delve too deep into that thought,” Terian said and drank again. The brew was foul, fouler than anything Larana would dare to put out back at Sanctuary. I only miss the beer, he told himself. And possibly the companionship.
    “Hrm.” With a last sound of amusement, Rosalla turned away from him, heading back to the bar.
    He wasn’t too shameless to watch her as she walked away, either. More genuinely interesting than anything I’d find at the Silken Robe, I’d wager . His view was suddenly blocked by a dark cloak and he felt a flash of annoyance. He looked up to see who might be approaching him and had to suppress the desire to grasp the axe hanging behind his back. He let his hand relax after a