A Dead God's Tear(47)

     
 

     

It was just Simon's bad luck that it was only in the Lowtown and the adjacent trade hub referred to as the Bazaar, that he was able to ply his trade with any modicum of success. Then again, the exact definition of his trade was also in constant flux. Simon considered himself, ironically, a jack of all trades. He dabbled in a little bit of everything. The only problem was that his dabbling wasn't usually appreciated by the local authorities.

Was it his fault that they couldn't recognize or appreciate genius? He decided it was their loss. Artists were always under appreciated. He mulled over it a bit, tugging at the bottom of his lip with his finger. Yeah, Simon concluded that he liked that thought. He'd have to write down that epiphany in his journal.

"Hey, going to move yer skinny ass or will I have to move it for you?" a gruff, portly man, breath heavy with alcohol, was waiting impatiently for Simon to vacate the doorway of the tavern.

"Oh, my good man, I am truly sorry! Last thing I would want is to impede your progress into our fair city!" Simon was all apologies as he stepped aside, and with a gesture and a flourish, indicated for the man to proceed him. Such manners were lost as the dirty man pushed rudely past him and onto the street, eventually disappearing into the shuffling morning crowd.

Simon just smiled, completely nonplused as he turned around to close the door the rude man left open. He was stopped by a hand on the door. Barry, the rotund, bald tavern keeper and owner, poked his shiny head out. "Hey, you, Simon. Got to talks to you." He opened the door further so that the full extent of his body, blown large from endless nights of drinking his own wares, blocked the doorway with far more efficiency than Simon's.

Simon threw the man his best, and most innocent, smile. "Ah yes, Barry, what is it?"

"Yous haven't paid yer keep fer last night." Barry's eyes narrowed suspiciously and the man leaned forward aggressively on the old rickety door as if daring Simon to contest his claim.

Simon had been renting out one of the rooms above the tavern, but business had been rather slow as of late, for both of them, and the wizened old tavern keeper was eager to get more. . . reliable. . . customers. Simon knew this required a delicate hand, for Barry was a volatile man, at least when money was concerned. "My friend, truly you have hurt me! Do you believe that after the last few months that we have known each other, that I would seek to deceive your prominent business by leaving a debt unpaid?"

Barry's black inset eyes warily flickered back and forth at that, no doubt looking for any perceived slight. Calling the meager building that housed the Black Rose Tavern 'prominent' was a stretch in and of itself. But besides that, Barry couldn't really find anything, so he just gave a noncommittal shrug. "Whatever, do as you want. But I'll not let you back in here unless yer payment be with you."

"Keep my room free, Barry. I'll have the pay for you within the day."

Barry responded by slamming the tavern door in Simon's face. As soon as Simon was sure that the tavern keeper wasn't coming back out, the smile on his face fell into a frown. He turned back to gaze out at the ramshackle buildings of the Lowtown, still rubbing the last fairy dust remnants of sleep from his brown eyes. He tried in vain to arrange his straight black hair into something resembling order. It was a useless fight, but it distracted him temporarily from the burden that Barry just put on his shoulders.

Damn! He was hoping for some time to write a bit of music. He'd had this tune in his head the last couple of days and it was driving him nuts. He needed to find a way to jot it down, but it would probably take him all day to earn his rent for last night and today.

Then, no doubt, he would spend the night entertaining the patrons of the bar with song and story, earning perhaps a bit more money for the linings of his pockets. If he got lucky, he might just end the day in bed with a warm girl for his troubles. . . perhaps two girls, even! But alas, it would seem as if that tune was doomed to linger within his head just a bit longer. . .

He sighed, priorities. . .

Eh, he'd just see which way the cards fell today. No sense worrying about it. He felt it was time to move on though. The familiar excitement of wanderlust was beginning to make him restless, becoming a pleasant shiver that ran down his spine and eventually settling, tingling, into the tips of his toes. He had spent too much time in Harcourt, and it was near time to hit the road and see which way the winds of Fate took him. Well, there was also additional motivation in that the local guard was getting wise to his antics, and he owed a bit of money to several unsavory groups of people, but that sounded far less romantic.

Simon reached into his pocket and pulled out a personal invention he had dubbed his "little helper." It was a thin knife, whetted to a sharp cutting edge. Instead of a conventional handle, the end curved around into a ring that could fit around the middle finger. One could cup their hand and flip it around to rest in your palm, and no one would be the wiser. It was so invisible that Simon felt like a wizard. It brought a whole new definition to the term: cutpurse. The local guard was always on the watch for the tiny switchblades and daggers normally inherent to thieves, but they had not a clue as to the existence of this little gem.

A huge grin worked itself on Simon's face. Twirling the "little helper" around on his index finger, he stepped out onto the street, whistling the tune in his head. Despite all the troubles he had seen and was no doubt going to see before he closed his eyes, he felt great to be alive. There was truly no greater feeling than to be free, without a care in the world. To do whatever it is that you wanted as a self-made man. The deplorable conditions of the Lowtown held no sway over Simon's moral. To him it was a land of opportunity. Well, now that he thought about it, it was probably better to call it a very dirty land of opportunity.

Still whistling, his experienced eyes spied a black pouch, overflowing with coins, hanging from some young man's hip, practically begging to be lightened. It was if the Gods themselves had heard his plight and delivered him an answer in the form of a bulging purse. Well now! Things were looking up! It looked to be a foreign trader, or perhaps a naive noble on an errand, probably en route to the Bazaar. Simon couldn't see any other reason for such a fat purse in a place like the Lowtown. Nor could he excuse the stupidity of displaying it so overtly. It would be a crime not to steal it!

Simon's smile got wider as he followed the witless man through the dirty streets of Lowtown, weaving in and out of the crowd with practiced ease. It seemed like things were going his way for once. He just might get time to write down that song, and perhaps even an early breakfast. Then there was that barmaid. . . what was her name. . . Dalilia? He tried for several moments to place the name to her face, or more specifically her body, before eventually shrugging it off. Eh, he was never good with female names. Not that it really mattered. All one had to do is feed them what they want to hear and they would become clay in the right hands. His hands.

If that failed, there was always alcohol.

Thank the gods for stupid people! At the thought, Simon did falter a bit, losing the man he was following in the mushrooming crowd. Such thoughts were sacrilegious for a priest.

After a moment of intense thinking, he shrugged. His god wouldn't really mind. In fact, The Broken One would probably applaud his resourcefulness. Such was the irony of priestly life.

Reassuming the whistling where he left off, he cupped the "little helper" and moved in for the kill.





Chapter 17

"Amazing." Marcius sucked in his breath, forming a reverse whistle.

The three of them had just crested the top of a small grassy hill and displayed out before them, like a glittering jewel laid bare, was what could only be the trade city of Harcourt. All around the city stretched the Golean plains, the long reeds of the low grassland swaying seductively in the breeze, like a sea made of golden waves.

Marcius thought the Golean looked beautiful when he first had left the Solokivian woods, but several tough days of traveling it on foot, with very little food, quickly robbed it of its glory. A vision brought kicking and screaming to the forefront of his mind as he watched the wonder before him. He could stand here forever, basking in the majesty.

"Come on, Marc! We don't have time to sit around gawking and holding hands," Alicia said with a huff, tromping her way past Marcius.

Marcius narrowed his eyes; he finally had enough of it all. Ever since their narrow escape from the jaws of death, Alicia had been irritable, snappish, and even outright mean. She even refused to talk about what had happened at the bandit camp, only furthering suspicion for both Marcius and Jared.

He was, at first, too grateful to just get away with his life to respond negatively, but her constant attitude had worn away whatever positive feelings he had about her. "Alright, that's it Alicia!" he seethed, hoping his courage held long enough to get his feelings off his chest. "I'm tired of treading around you as if I was walking on eggshells! What's your problem? What is bothering you?"

"What is my problem?" She whirled around, her hair twirling in a dervish of gold and bronze, and Marcius acutely regretted his outburst when he saw the anger and pain evident on her face. "My problem?" she practically shouted, pointing an angry finger at herself, before jabbing it at Marcius, "My problem is you!"