Dain wound a strip of leather around his hand, his gaze shifting to where his opponent readied himself for the fight on the opposite side of the tavern. A wiry sailor with sharp features, the man’s cold grey eyes snapped up to meet his gaze. The two of them eyeballed each other for a few moments, each daring the other to look away first.
“He looks mean,” Ardan murmured next to Dain.
“Aye,” Dain agreed, his gaze still upon the sailor. “But I’ve fought meaner.”
“You’ve got to watch the thin ones,” his friend continued. “They’re stronger than they look.”
Dain smiled. “So am I.”
Across the tavern, one of the sailor’s companions called out to him, forcing him to break eye contact. Still, Dain watched him, taking his measure, while Ardan finished fastening the bindings over his knuckles. Fist fights could be brutal; it paid to look after your hands.
“How much have you got riding on this one?” Dain asked Ardan.
Ardan pulled a face. “Two silver talents, so you’d better win.”
Dain eyed him before smiling once more. “You could have had this fight, if you think your chances are better.”
Ardan grinned back. He was the same age as Dain, although bigger and broader, his dark hair cut close to his skull. He was not the sort of man that others picked fights with in taverns.
“Can’t—now I’ve joined the Port Guard I have to behave myself.”
Dain snorted. “Sounds like an excuse to me.”
Secretly, he was envious of Ardan, who was now making a living as a soldier. Dain was expected to help run the inn until his parents retired and handed the business over to him—a future that depressed him.
He was at his happiest in environments such as this—a dingy quay-side tavern called The Barnacle. The stuffy air reeked of stale sweat, ale and burning peat. Men in salt-encrusted leathers leaned against the wooden-paneled walls, tankards in hand, while serving wenches in long swishing skirts and tightly laced corsets carried jugs of ale around the room. Twice a week The Barnacle held fist-fights in the evening. The men, red-faced and loud with drink, were here to bet, to hail the winner and heckle the loser.
Dain watched the tavern owner, a heavyset man with a thick dark beard called Bart, take the last bets. The tavern owner glanced over at Dain and caught his eye.
Dain nodded.
Bart smiled, strode back to the bar, squeezed in behind it, and rang a bronze bell. This was the signal that the betting was closed and the fight was about to begin. The clanging quietened the room, and Dain felt his heart start to thud against his breast bone, as it always did before a fight. He loved this moment, the tension before the first punch was thrown. The rapt attention of the watching crowd.
He rose to his feet, loosening the muscles in this neck and shoulders as he did so. Across the room, the sailor did the same. Like him, his opponent was naked to the waist, dressed only in leather breeches and boots. Fighting was safer that way; no hidden knives or sharp edges to cut yourself on.
Ardan slapped him on the back in a wordless gesture of good luck, and Dain walked out across the floor to meet his opponent. Sawdust, dark with spilled ale and other less savory liquids, gave underfoot as he walked.
The two men met each other in the center of the tavern.
“The best of four rounds,” Bart called out from behind the bar. “No weapons—fists only.”
This close to his opponent, Dain could see that the sailor had a sallow, slightly pock-marked skin and a hard, intimidating stare. He bore faded scars across his torso and arms and carried himself with cool, confidence.
Dain steadied his breathing and squared his stance ready for the bell to ring.
Ardan’s right—I’ll need to watch this one.
“He broke my nose.”
Ardan peered at Dain, his gaze narrowing. “Don’t know—he might have. It’s hard to tell, it’s so swollen.”
“It wasn’t a question, I’m telling you he broke it.” Dain’s voice was muffled by the linen he held up to staunch the bleeding.
Ardan grinned, pulling back before he shrugged. “It was bound to happen one of these days. You were too pretty anyway.”
Dain laughed and then winced as the act hurt him. He’d nearly lost that fight. He glanced across at the sailor, who had been dragged off the floor and was now leaning, forgotten, against the wall while he regained consciousness. As Dain watched, someone threw a bucket of ice-cold water over the sailor. The man jerked awake, spluttering and snarling.
That man can fight.
Dain ached all over. His jaw throbbed, his nose pulsated and his belly still hurt from the vicious punch his opponent had nearly bested him with. He felt slightly dizzy, and his ears were ringing.
He had not lost a fight in a while, but it had taken every inch of skill he had acquired over the past year to beat that sailor.
“I wouldn’t like to meet him in a dark alley,” he quietly admitted to Ardan.
“I agree,” his friend replied. “That’s one victory you had to work hard for.”
“I think I need to sit down.”
“Come on.” Ardan steered him away from the edge of the ring, as Bart readied the crowd for the next fight. “Let’s find a booth and get ourselves some supper. All this violence has given me an appetite.”
Dain slid into the wooden booth at the back of the tavern and let out a groan. He would be livid with bruises tomorrow. Often, he was able to hide his fight injuries from his parents, but they would be furious when they saw him tomorrow morning.
A blonde serving wench stepped up to their table, her gaze settling upon Dain first. That didn’t usually happen. It was Ardan—big muscled with rugged good looks—who women spoke to first. Dain had noticed this serving wench before, although she had never paid him any attention before tonight. However, now this girl had seen Dain fight. Her blue eyes shone as she leaned over the table, revealing a pert, creamy cleavage. Dain inhaled the scent of warm skin and rosemary. He liked that smell. She was a comely girl.
“Drink or supper?” she asked.
Dain removed the linen from under his nose. “Both.”
“What’s for supper?” Ardan asked.
The serving wench shot Ardan an irritated look before settling her attention back on Dain. “Roast goat and turnip pottage,” she told him.
“Two plates, please,” Dain replied, “and tankards of ale to wash it down.”
The girl nodded, although she did not hasten away to fetch their suppers. Instead, she lingered, her slender hand covering his on the table top. “You fought well,” she said, her voice low and intimate. “I loved watching you.”
Dain heard Ardan choke back a snigger but ignored him. There had to be some benefits to having your nose broken. “Thank you,” he replied with a grin. “What’s your name?”
“Muriela.”
“I’m Dain. Pleased to meet you.”
She leaned closer, the scent of her nearly overwhelming his senses. “Hopefully, we can share an ale together later.”
Dain smiled, his gaze holding hers. “I’d like that.”
Muriela returned his smile before she drew back and walked away from the table. Dain watched her go, his gaze on her gently swaying hips.
“Looks like you won’t be sleeping alone tonight,” Ardan observed.
Dain glanced back at his friend, to find him smirking. He shrugged. “Only if she’s got a room we can share—you know what my parents are like. Last time I brought a girl back to The Grey Anchor, Ma went berserk.”
“Why don’t you move out? Join the Port Guard like me, they’re still looking for recruits.”
Dain stifled a sigh. His friend didn’t know just how much he was tempted. “You know I can’t. I’m their only child—they rely on me.”
Ardan pulled a face. “So you’re going to take over the inn then?”
“It’s not such a bad job.” Dain didn’t know why he defended his parents’ livelihood to Ardan, but he still did. Every time.
“It is if your heart’s not in it. You’re not made to be an inn-keeper.”
Muriela brought the tankards of ale and plates of supper then. The smell of roasted goat and overcooked pottage made Dain feel slightly queasy. He wasn’t sure he could manage a mouthful of it.
However, he had a raging thirst. He exchanged a look with her before he took a deep draft of ale. Revived, he leaned back against the hard wooden bench seat and felt the tension of the fight drain out of him. He was too tired to have this discussion with Ardan, especially since he agreed with him. Still, his loyalty to his parents made it a sore topic between them.
“My parents have hired a new cook,” he said finally. “She arrived today.”
Ardan grunted into his ale, clearly not interested.
“She’s comely.”
That got Ardan’s attention. “What? Like your new friend Muriela?”
The envy in Ardan’s voice took Dain aback. Since Ardan received most of the female attention when they were out, it surprised Dain that it bothered Ardan if a woman preferred Dain. Despite his bluff exterior, Ardan was more insecure around women than he let on.
“No, quite different,” Dain replied. “She’s smaller, curvier, with skin like milk, brown eyes and dark red hair. She’s even got freckles.”
Ardan grinned, his bitterness forgotten. “Sounds delicious—I might pay The Anchor a visit tomorrow eve.”
Dain snorted. “Good luck to you. I said she was comely, I didn’t say she was friendly. Every time I tried talking to her today she ignored me.”
Ardan’s grin widened. “A woman with taste then.”
The moon was setting when Dain finally left The Barnacle and began the steep climb up Harbor Way to his home.
Muriela had been disappointed when he’d dislodged her from his lap and made his excuses. She shared a room in the attic of The Barnacle with three other serving wenches—and he didn’t feel like weathering his mother’s rage a second time. She’d berate him about his face as it was.
It was a cold, still morning. Port Needle glowed under the many lamps that lined its steep streets. The night was not always safe. Outside Port Needle, the servants of the shadows stalked the darkness. They didn’t often venture into townships, but folk liked to ward them off nonetheless. Each night the settlements upon the Isle of Orin glowed like beacons, making it relatively safe to walk the streets after dark.
Harbor Way didn’t usually pose much of a challenge to Dain, but after a tough fight and too many tankards of ale, it felt as if he were scaling a mountain. He’d not managed to eat much supper—the goat and pottage hadn’t been good anyway and he was never hungry after a fight—but now his belly rumbled. By the time he crested the hill and walked the last few yards to The Grey Anchor, he felt ravenous.
He’d need something to eat before he crawled onto his sleeping pallet and let exhaustion claim him.
Dain entered the inn through the back entrance, crossing a shadowed courtyard and letting himself into the common room. The kitchen lay just off it. Their previous cook, Bruina—the elderly woman who had worked for his parents for years before moving out to be with her son in Waybrook—always used to leave some bread or left-overs from supper out for him. He wondered if his mother or their new cook had.
A glow emanated from the kitchen door, causing him to slow his step. Usually, his mother left a lantern lit in the kitchen overnight, just in case anyone needed something. Yet it looked as if she had left all the lanterns alight. The sound of scrubbing alerted him that someone was working inside.
Dain frowned. Who would be up at this hour? He stepped into the threshold and halted, his gaze settling upon Lilia.
She bent over one of the wooden benches that ringed the kitchen, scrubbing furiously at its oaken surface. Intent on her task, she hadn’t noticed his arrival and so Dain took a moment to study her.
She was a pretty wench, there was no denying it. He liked her mane of auburn curls, which she wore up in a messy bun this morning, and her small, soft body that moved in a deft, purposeful manner. Her heavy skirts swished as she worked. Her delicately-featured face was flushed, her full lips slightly pursed in concentration. She had rolled up the woolen sleeves of her under tunic and the laces of her bodice were slightly loose, revealing full breasts.
Still admiring her, Dain leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms across his chest.
“A bit early for that, isn’t it?”
Lilia dropped the hog-hair brush and gave a squeal of fright. She turned to him, her dark brown eyes huge, her hand clutching at her heart as if he’d half frightened her to death.
“Don’t creep up on folk like that,” she hissed.
“Sorry—I wasn’t expecting anyone to be up this early.”
Her gaze narrowed as she stared back at him. “Shadows, what happened to your face?”
Dain pushed himself up off the door frame and sauntered into the kitchen. He saw her body stiffen. She did not like him walking in here; just one day on the job and this was already her domain. Dain pretended not to notice.
“I fight at The Barnacle once a week,” he told her, opening the door to the pantry and stepping inside. “You should come watch sometime.”
“You brawl for coin?” The disgust in her voice was evident. It didn’t surprise him; most women weren’t like Muriela.
“When I win I’m compensated,” he admitted, “but I mostly fight because I like it.”
“Why?”
“Makes me feel alive.”
Dain retrieved some bread and cheese from the pantry and emerged to find Lilia standing a few feet away, hands on hips.
“Do you make a habit of taking food without asking?” she asked.
Dain laughed. “Bruina didn’t mind. She used to leave me out treats—you can start doing the same, if you want.”
Her mouth thinned, telling him she had no intention of doing so.
Dain would have liked to remain there and tease the lovely Lilia a while longer, but fatigue pressed down upon him and his nose was aching cruelly. He made his way toward the kitchen door before glancing back over his shoulder at her. “You didn’t answer my question before. Why are you up cleaning at his hour?”
Her pale, lightly freckled face flushed. “I like to be organized.”
His answering grin made her flush deepen. “I’ll leave you to it then.”