three-deep at the serving bar, and the tables were filled. Well, almost filled. He noticed one at the back of the room where a man in a black cloak and hood hunkered down over his drink in splendid solitude, the rest of the room choosing to give him a wide berth. No one had mustered the courage to ask for the two chairs that sat empty in front of him, even though other patrons were standing everywhere about the room, most of them finding places to help hold up the walls.
He let his gaze drift until he found the Fortren brothers and felt a sudden weight settle on his shoulders. He had hoped they would not be here. He had hoped they would find another tavern and another musician to taunt. But apparently they either lacked the initiative or had decided it would be more fun to continue tormenting him. Yancel glanced up unexpectedly, saw him looking, and grinned. Borry turned and offered a tip of his battered hat. Both waited for a response, but he ignored them. What else could you do with people like these?
Shrugging the strap of the case that protected his elleryn higher onto his shoulder, he moved over to the serving counter and stepped around its end to reach the kitchen. He gave Gammon a wave as he passed through the door, not bothering to slow. The room beyond was filled with casks of ale, dry foodstuffs, packages of meats and bins of vegetables, table settings and implements, candles and lamps, a pair of stoves, and a cook standing over a griddle working diligently on preparing food for customers.
“Reyn, lad,” the old grease-dog offered, one hand lifting in an attempt at a jaunty salute.
Smoke rose and steam spat from the griddle and food smells filled the room, the mix venting poorly through screened openings in the walls. In spite of the vents, the room was stifling. Reyn waved back and walked over to the coatrack to shrug off his instrument and cloak and hang both over the wooden pegs.
Gammon came through the door. “Big crowd for you tonight, Reyn. Hope you’ve got your nimble fingers and angelic voice finely tuned and strongly flavored!”
He always said that, but Reyn grinned anyway. “Maybe you could keep an eye on the Fortren brothers for me?”
Gammon laughed. “Them? No need. I talked to them already. Told them one more incident, one more bit of trouble, and they were out of here for good. I don’t care who fathered them or how many more of them are out plowing fields and mucking pigsties. I told them that, I did.”
Reyn was less than convinced by what Gammon might or might not have told them. He would have been happier if the barkeep had just thrown the Fortrens out in the first place. But he knew he couldn’t do anything about it except what he always did, which was to keep an eye out for trouble because trouble had a way of finding him. It had a strong attraction to him, one he understood all too well because it had charted much of the course of his life.
Still, he was able enough that even the Fortrens didn’t frighten him. He was a boy technically—just past his sixteenth birthday, no whiskers showing on his face in spite of his size, which was considerable. Already, he stood six feet tall, and his broad shoulders and strong arms suggested he could look after himself well enough if he had to. He had been on his own since he was eight, no mean feat in the outland villages of the eastern Southland, orphaned and set adrift—well, set to flight, actually—with no idea how to look after himself and no clue of where to go to find out. But luck and providence and common sense had seen him through, and now here he was, supporting himself nicely, a member of a community that for the most part liked him well enough to welcome him into its fold.
He brushed drops of water from his shaggy blond hair and snatched a roll from a pan cooling on the stovetop. The cook gestured threateningly with his spatula but without enough emphasis to be convincing, then motioned to the platter of meat sitting next to him. Reyn helped himself, building a sandwich and devouring the results. Gammon found him a glass of ale to wash down his food and brought it over to him.