Two

It began with a rind of yellow cheese.

For at least half a bell, the minstrel managed to keep the pickled patrons under a semblance of control. In a more orderly fashion that Isara would have credited, they called out requests, and the musician either played the tune or faked it; she could usually tell which by the cant of his head as he played the mandolin.

The instrument had a lovely, mellow sound, and she could tell by the gleam of the heartwood that it was quite old. Despite her misgivings, she found herself relaxing her grip on the pouch at her waist. The cider was just this side of fermented; it wasn’t strong by anyone else’s standards, but she felt herself beginning to feel light-headed, though that might have been hunger as much as the weak liquor.

A fellow called Jawless Pete was shouting something uncomplimentary at the musician; he’d asked to hear the ‘Maid of Lendarn’ yet again, and the bard was starting to look irritated beneath his bland smile. Isara knew he had sung it through fully five times, already. She had never heard such homage to heaving breasts in her life.

“It will cost you a full silver for me to sing that again,” the minstrel told Jawless Pete, apparently losing patience.

The sailor had a bad rep along the docks, and he demonstrated why, yet again when he produced a blade. “Maybe I make ye sing, pretty boy…make ye sing soprano, if ye ain’t obligin’ me wi’ my fav’rite tune.”

From her angle, she saw something swift and dark flare beneath the bard’s amiable façade. “Suit yourself,” he said, shrugging. “You’d rather play at knives than hear two new verses, ’tis much the same to me. I’ll have you know, though, that I do nothing gratis. If you want to fight, it shall cost you two silver.”

Jawless Pete’s mouth fell open, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth, and Isara half-expected hornets to emerge in a swarm. At the table he’d vacated, he’d left a rind of cheese, abandoned when he went to harangue the jongleur. With half an ear, she listened to his response, weighing her chances of pinching that tidbit. By the blind god, she was hungry.

“Two silver…t’ fight?” Isara almost felt sorry for him, he sounded so confused.

If she was fast, she could skim the walls, dart past the table, and head down the long hallway, then up the stairs. It might even be safer up there, plenty of places to hide while she was waiting for Piers to finish up.

My luck has to change, she thought. That clinched matters; quick as a mink, she slid from her chair, trying to look casual. She swiped a hand across the table and came up with a crust of bread, the cheese, and two shiny pennies. Sauntereing toward the stairs, Isara thought she was home free as the musician went on, “You don’t spar for free, do you, good fellow? You’re throwing away your talents if you do. Now what’s it to be, fight or sing? One silver or two?”

Utterly entertained by the bard’s quick wits, she sniggered, and Jawless Pete was so attuned to mockery --as he was generally its target -- that his gaze swung her way reflexively. She sensed the moment he focused on her, every muscle going tense.

The sailor shook his head as if to clear it of Isara’s imaginary hornets. “Well, shite. I…hey! That little bubber nimmed my cheese!”

Then, predictably, all hell broke loose.

Before she did anything else, Isara ate the cheese.

No evidence, no crime, she thought, as Pete hurled himself across a table at her. She just managed not to shriek, since she was a rough, tough Natty Lad, who’d blacked both Dim Willy’s eyes for messing with her. Catching herself, she spat a few words that might've peeled the varnish off the table, if it hadn't been only half a step above a stump, mule-towed out of a farmer's field.

Quickly, she dove back under the same table, sliding hard into the surprised feet of another sailor. Her weight shouldn't have been enough to knock him down, except that he was stinking drunk. Like a mighty oak, he swayed before he went down, smashing the chair behind him to splinters. When he stood up, he grunted and spat wood, like a pig gone mad for truffles.

"I’ll crash your lights," Pete snarled as Isara crawled toward the stage.

He probably would too, if she didn’t find a quick way out. As if proffered by providence, the enormous warrior seemed to come out of nowhere, though he'd probably just stepped from the stairwell. No more than a heartbeat passed before he seemed to recognize Isara skidding past him. His stance indicated a certain wry amusement and resignation as he waded in on her behalf.

The soldier’s roundhouse punch caught Jawless Pete squarely, sending him reeling across the room. Catching Isara’s eye, the man in the helm nodded before he landed a solid right to the sailor's stomach. As Pete clawed at the air to regain his balance, he managed to grab the heavy velvet curtain that hung to one side of the stage.

The sailor’s momentum was too much for the tattered drape to bear, and the whole thing tumbled down, toppling chairs and tables as it went. Pete stood up swaying but still ready to fight, and a whack from a broken table leg sent him staggering against the wall. From her vantage on the floor, Isara saw the blow came from one of his own shipmates.

It just wasn’t his night.

Pete’s flailing arms caught a wall sconce. As the oil poured out in a burning stream, Isara froze. Her eyes fixed on the flames as they spread across the floor like cracks on a frozen pond. The fallen curtain made it catch faster, acting as kindling. One of the barmaids screamed, and people who’d been amused by the brawl, standing by, began to fight among themselves, desperate to reach the door. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.  

The armored man shook her soundly. He lifted her with one arm, his tone impatient and accustomed to obedience. “Come,” he demanded. “We must go.”

Isara didn’t protest as the swordsman threw her over his shoulder; dazed, she listened to Jawless Pete's screams. His clothing had caught and he ran like a burning straw man, making it worse, but the noise gradually dwindled as the black knight bore her away. Outside, the Deep pulsed with a heart of orange, tinged blue about the edges. The wood was old and dry, riddled with rot, and it went up as if someone had doused it. In a way, they had, years of spilled liquor and poor housekeeping.

She shivered reflexively, listening to the crackle and hiss, as a virtual stranger carted her away from the flames. But he didn’t cradle her gently, as if he’d seen through her guise. Instead, he wedged her under his arm as if she were a bag of oats meant for his horse. He managed to get them a full block away before she began to struggle, realizing that the Natty Lad she was supposed to be wouldn't take kindly to manhandling.

“Put me down, ye gob-handed mackerel!”

“Two debts,” the stranger rasped. “Do you acknowledge the indenture? I could use a boy to look after my gear.”

Nerveless with dismay, Isara went limp, for how could she not concede the obligation? According to the oldest law, her very soul became his possession until she redeemed it by offering him such service as he had offered. By the look of his scarred armor and razor sharp blades, he would not require any martial aid she could render. That meant he’d just acquired an unpaid slave for life. Her shoulders slumped.

“I name you my liege until…” she trailed off, unable to envision a circumstance in which she would save his life. Twice.

“Santos will do.” He set her on her feet, retaining his hold long enough to make sure she would stay upright.

She stood like a doe, surprised at a spring but too thirsty to flee. Isara was not accustomed to such concern from men, and as a rule, she did not seek after their attentions. In her experience, men took what they liked and beat those who were too weak to resist. Fear shimmered through her; the moment she had dreaded for years was upon her, but she must pay her debt. Gods only knew what he would do when he realized he had acquired an unwilling leman instead of a squire.

"Call me Isa," she told him cautiously. It was a good name, common enough for boys in the south.

“We have a long way to go before we rest,” the man growled. “But first you eat. You weigh next to nothing. If you are to serve, you need to be strong.”

Isara nodded. “Yes, my liege.”

Was that the right response? Even before she joined the faceless swarm of street rats known as the Natty Lads she hadn’t known the ways of knights and lords. As a girl, she’d ‘helped’ her father in the apothecary shop, although in retrospect, her aid had probably done more harm than good. Isara remembered her father as a kind, patient man, ever wearing a warm smile on his bespectacled face. But that memory belonged to another life, another Isara, who always had a full belly and never had anything to fear from the Butterbridge guards. She didn’t want to think about that girl anymore, especially not as the fire watch brought the water wagons to tame the conflagration before it spread.

“I said, Santos will do,” he repeated, an edge in his rumbled voice.

Noted. He doesn’t want an obsequious servant. Just someone to fetch, carry, and do as he’s told. To be fair, if Santos made sure she was safe and well fed for the duration, that didn’t sound entirely objectionable. She could follow orders.

 To prove it, she said quietly, “Aye, Santos.”

“How old are you anyway, boy? Twelve?”

That pricked her vanity. She was eighteen and a woman full grown, not some squirrelly pimple-faced brat. If she wasn’t filthy, starved, and wrapped in rags, she could turn a man’s head, she thought. Not that she wanted such attention, far better he thought she was a boy forever.

“I don’t know,” she muttered, for it was common enough that a street rat wouldn’t be sure of his exact birthday.

He tilted his helmeted head in an appraising fashion. “Well, I take you for twelve, no older. But don’t worry, we’ll make a man of you yet.”

Not without an alchemist who can make a potion of transmutation, you won’t.

Isara took refuge in silence. One crisis at a time, she decided, following his lead away from the docks and toward a nicer part of town. She’d tell him about the bounty hunters and the stolen pouch after he fed her. Even if he turned her over to the Myrmidons, at least she’d get a decent meal out of it. I wonder what business brought him to the Deep, she mused, on a night where the Gallows moon hangs heavy and ice-rimmed in the sky.

They walked without further discussion, and she went at a half-run to keep pace with his long stride. As they reached an inn—the Cup and the Casque, where mercenaries often congregated when they stayed in Butterbridge, he paused and glanced her way. Or rather, she thought he did; it was difficult to tell what he was looking at through the slits in the helmet. It occurred to Isara that she’d never seen his face.

“We’ll pause for a meal before we set out,” he said. “My horses are stabled here, so the stop isn’t a complete waste of time.”

“What a Rum bite that is, eh?” She was careful to stay in character, but the brute didn’t understand patter flash or he was immune to sarcasm. Isara fought not to bare her teeth at his back as she followed him inside.

By the time she finished eating, she felt friendlier toward her new employer. He hadn’t stinted on stew and bread, allowing her to eat as much as she could hold, even bought her a good flagon of watered wine to wash it all down. However, it was more than a little odd, the way he sat and watched her, fully armored and still wearing his helm. The man didn’t let a morsel pass his lips in her view, didn’t touch the tankard of ale the proprietor placed before him with a nervous smile.

At length, Santos rose to his full, towering height, signaling the meal had ended. “Get the horses ready. It’s Glassfield by sunrise. You know your way around a stable?”

Well, she’d stolen from them more than once, to be sure.

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