“We’ll be booking a night here,” Asdren told me as we came to stand under a fat wooden sign with a purple beard hangingoff the round face of a sleeping dwarf. The lettering was old, soot-coated, but readable as The Pickled Beard. “I know the owner. Served in the military with him. Good sort Barron is, makes shite whiskey but won’t ask no questions.”
“A bed would be nice,” I wearily mumbled, stepping up and into a packed pub with Asdren on my right. The music continued to play, but the entirety of the tavern gawked at me as we strode into the lively alehouse. The tables filled with drinkers, the bar packed with thirsty miners, even the musicians in the far corner gaped. I felt my face heat.
“To the end of the bar.” Asdren took hold of my good arm, weaving through drunks and those well on their way to drunk. Females eyed Asdren with interest as we moved to the far end of a hearty wooden bar. The steady beating of a drum began to resonate inside my skull as I threw a leg over the short stool and sat. A burly dwarf with no hair, a nose as wide as a frying pan, and four gold spikes in his brow ambled down to us. His apron was splashed with ale as well as some red dots that could have been soup or blood. “Barron, you look like something a shaft crawler ingested and then spit back up.”
The barkeep laughed. “That’s rich coming from a male with legs weaker than a crippled goat.” They clasped hands, grips tight to forearms, then released each other. “Figured you would show up soon as I saw Smuta.” Barron jerked a thumb at the stairs leading to the second floor.
“Oh yeah, she likes to get her face in a nice soft muff right off. So this here is my servant Beiro. We need a bed, some of the venison stew your sister cooks up, and a hot bath. One night.”
Asdren slapped some gold coin on the bar. Barron, he who had made the whiskey that had nearly killed me, slid it into his cupped hand and pocketed it.
“The stew will be a minute, seeing how Thysta just went upstairs with your second,” Barron muttered and threw a look my way. “Huh. Never seen an elf with ginger root hair afore.”
“I hear that often.” I sighed. “May I have some water, please?”
Barron chortled. A mug went flying over our heads to smash on the floor with a cheer. “Polite little thing, ain’t he?”
“Polite and tired. Elves ain’t made to traipse up the side of the Witherhorns. Give him some water and me an ale. You got a room for us?”
“I do. Two silver, and it’ll come with a bath, food, and no questions.”
“We’ll take it.” Coins fell into the barkeep’s hand, then a key tumbled into Asdren’s. “Send the drinks to our room. I need to get this lad into bed.”
“Go easy on him!” Barron shouted over a small brawl breaking out by the front door. As the barkeep went to deal with the fight, Asdren headed upstairs. I followed along, miserable, sick at heart for the caged birds, and ready to return to Celear. Surely Aelir would understand. I would live up to my father’s prophecy for me. I would be that failure who thought he was above a common bandit.
“In here, boy-o,” Asdren said, pulling me from wallowing in pity. The door creaked open. A song about a wild dwarven lass with four teats floated up to us. Surely that was not right. I had seen Smuta’s hefty bosom. There were only two. Any more and she would tip face front. “Not much in the way of fancy, but the bed is soft and the sheets are clean. Mostly.” He tossed our saddlebags onto the pine board floor.
I made my way inside a small room with a short bed, a dresser, a fire in the hearth—the insignia of the Hearthmother carved in the stone chimneypiece—and a bathtub propped in the corner.
“It seems fine,” I said, dropping my arse to the bed to stare down at my boots.
“Barron will have some hot water and food sent up quick aways. I’m going to go see about a few things. You wash up, eat, and get some sleep.”
I raised my sight from my boots to the dwarf lingering in the doorway. I gingerly nodded. He gave me a long look and backed out, closing the door with a soft click. The rowdiness and music seemed less thunderous up here. Easing my arm out of the makeshift sling with a groan, I stalled in undressing to a knock at the door. Calling to whomever it was to enter, I watched as three plump dwarven women entered carrying buckets of hot water, a tray of food and drink, and a fat cloth with a bar of brown soap resting on the drying cloth. They all stared openly at me for a moment before attending to their jobs. Once they were done, they left me to it. The tub was made for dwarven builds as was the bed, but an elf does not shy away from a short tub or a stubby bed. Stripping down to my short clothes, I hung my armor, coat, shirt, and trousers over the bedposts before diving into one of the two bowls of stew.
I fished the meat out with a wooden spoon bit by bit, depositing each chunk into Asdren’s, and attacked the carrots, potatoes, and turnips with gusto. Thick brown bread with soft butter was dunked into the rich broth. I ate like a wild dog. When I was done, my head ached less, but my shoulder hurt more. With a sigh, I removed my undergarments and stepped into the bath. The water was hot the mine tunnels, but I eased down into it, hissing as it hit my balls. There was no room to stretch out fully, so I washed while sitting up, knees bent, thighs pressing into my chest. The soap was much like I had grown up using. A distinct soapy smell, clean, which lingered on the flesh. It cleaned the rock dust from my skin and hair. Rinsing was messy, but soon I was out of the tub with somewhat cleanclothes. A loose shirt that I left dangling to the middle of my thighs would have to serve as a bed shirt.
The room was warm, my hair damp and clean, and my belly full. Sleep beckoned. I turned down the sheets, lay sideways in the bed, and let my head rest on the lone pillow. The fire leapt and crackled. Moving to the side more, I tucked my arm into my side, easing the pull on the sore muscles in my shoulder, then fell into a deep, dark, dreamless sleep.
