Seeds of Rebellion
Page 24
Assuming a sad-eyed expression, the musician began plucking the strings of the lyre and singing in a tremulous vibrato. The pace was much slower than the previous tune, each word drawn out to hang quavering in the otherwise silent room.
My love is as the lilies,
Her eyes like sapphires shine.
Harmless as a lamb is she,
Her countenance divine.
“Is this a punishment?” a harsh voice shouted. Several others chuckled.
The singer paused, glaring.
“Humbid has declared war on Ithilum!” added another heckler. The laughter increased.
“Hold!” the singer cried, raising a hand. “Hold, let me give you the chorus.”
“Don’t do it,” Jason murmured to himself.
The ruckus subsided somewhat. Plucking the lyre, the man went into a high falsetto.
But she was taken, taken, taken away
Stolen away, oh so far away …
“I wish someone would take you away!” yelled an onlooker.
The crowd became riotous, hurling objects at the stage and shouting taunts. The singer turned his back to the shower of vegetables and insults. The announcer hurried onto the stage, waving his arms and shouting over the commotion.
“By popular demand, Wendil the Fantastic Waster of Our Time, will be shipped back to Humbid in a barrel of rotten fish.”
The crowd hoorayed. Wendil slunk off the little stage.
From his position near the bottom of the stairs, Jason scanned the room, wondering how he would identify one person among the boisterous multitude. Aram was supposed to be big and strong. Jason looked for men who might be bouncers. Sooner than expected, he spotted a likely candidate—a hulking mountain of a man leaning against the bar, primitive features set in a scowl. The only space along the bar not crammed two or three deep with patrons was to either side of him. The man did not look very approachable, but he fit the description Tark had supplied.
While the announcer introduced the next act, Jason descended the remaining stairs and shouldered his way through the crowd. “I present another newcomer to our venue, who also journeyed from afar to be with us, Hollick, son of Mathur.”
A skinny man with a long face and big ears mounted the stage, holding a recorder that forked into two tubes. Placing one hand over the finger holes on each tube, he began to play a catchy melody, the instrument harmonizing with itself.
Jason reached the vacant space surrounding the goliath at the bar. He could better appreciate his size up close. The man stood more than seven feet tall. His massive shoulders were bloated with muscle, and a sleeveless tunic revealed thick, bulging arms. He carried no visible weapons, except for a set of iron knuckles on one huge hand. Oily hair pushed back from his brutishly handsome face dangled almost to his shoulders. The man regarded Jason disapprovingly as he drew near.
Even leaning against the bar, the man stood more than a head taller than Jason. “Are you Aram?” Jason asked.
Aram gave a slight nod, his squinted eyes roving to survey the room.
“I need to hire your sword.” Jason thought that sounded like a professional way to approach a mercenary.
Watching the piper, Aram spoke in a deep voice. “You can’t afford my sword, let alone me along with it.”
“I have a lot of money.”
The man continued to watch the performer. “In that case, go wait out back, I’ll send some men to rob you.”
“I’m not carrying it with me,” Jason lied, thinking of all the money and jewels currently in the pockets of his jeans.
“I’m no longer for hire at any price.”
“You were recommended to me by Tark the musician.”
Aram glanced down, making real eye contact for the first time. “Of the Giddy Nine?”
“The sole survivor.”
“They were the most talent this place ever saw. The room would overflow. Is Tark well?”
“Depressed, but holding up.”
Aram’s scowl deepened. “He knows I no longer accept assignments.”
“He said you owe him some favors, and gave me enough money to tempt you.”
“Tark supplied the funds to hire me?”
“We’re working together. Is there a place we could talk privately?”
Aram snorted. “I’m at work right now. Leaving would draw attention. Meet me out back of the place tomorrow after sunset, and I’ll listen to your proposition. I’ll turn you down, but I’ll listen.”
The piper onstage stopped playing, and the onlookers applauded, though not as vigorously as they had for the three women. The man bowed and left the stage.
“My request is urgent,” Jason said.
“Look, kid, if you must, wait around, enjoy the entertainment, purchase some food. We might talk later.”
The announcer declared an intermission.
“You want anything?” Jason asked.
Aram shrugged his bulky shoulders. “If you’re paying. You have enough?”
“Sure.”
“Hey, Sandra,” Aram called.
“What?” answered a barmaid.
“This character wants to buy me a triple order of sand scuttlers prepared Weych-style.”
Several heads swiveled to look at Jason.
“Did he just come into an inheritance?” Sandra laughed.
“Something like that.”
“He want anything?”
Aram looked at Jason.
“I’ll take an extra order of what he’s having,” Jason called.
“You got it, Your Majesty.” She winked.
At a nearby table, one man roughly overturned the chair of another, depositing him on the floor. The fallen man bounded to his feet and pushed the other guy, growling a threat. Faces near the pair turned toward Aram. The big man coughed loudly into his fist.
The pair of would-be combatants looked up, stricken, all anger vanishing from their expressions. They appeared ready to run.
Aram jerked his head in the direction of the door. The two men nodded politely, then pressed through the crowd, followed by a few of their comrades.
“You want to go watch the fight?” Aram asked. “Should be decent. They look evenly matched.”
“I’d rather stay away from trouble.”
“What do you know. An ounce of sense. Let’s commandeer their table and wait for our meal.”
Several people were heading toward the vacated table, and a husky man had already laid hands on a chair, but they all backed away as Aram strode forward. Jason claimed a seat across from the enormous man. There were chairs for four other people, but nobody joined them. The noisy room was not conducive to conversation, so they sat in silence. Aram watched the crowd, paying no attention to Jason.
My love is as the lilies,
Her eyes like sapphires shine.
Harmless as a lamb is she,
Her countenance divine.
“Is this a punishment?” a harsh voice shouted. Several others chuckled.
The singer paused, glaring.
“Humbid has declared war on Ithilum!” added another heckler. The laughter increased.
“Hold!” the singer cried, raising a hand. “Hold, let me give you the chorus.”
“Don’t do it,” Jason murmured to himself.
The ruckus subsided somewhat. Plucking the lyre, the man went into a high falsetto.
But she was taken, taken, taken away
Stolen away, oh so far away …
“I wish someone would take you away!” yelled an onlooker.
The crowd became riotous, hurling objects at the stage and shouting taunts. The singer turned his back to the shower of vegetables and insults. The announcer hurried onto the stage, waving his arms and shouting over the commotion.
“By popular demand, Wendil the Fantastic Waster of Our Time, will be shipped back to Humbid in a barrel of rotten fish.”
The crowd hoorayed. Wendil slunk off the little stage.
From his position near the bottom of the stairs, Jason scanned the room, wondering how he would identify one person among the boisterous multitude. Aram was supposed to be big and strong. Jason looked for men who might be bouncers. Sooner than expected, he spotted a likely candidate—a hulking mountain of a man leaning against the bar, primitive features set in a scowl. The only space along the bar not crammed two or three deep with patrons was to either side of him. The man did not look very approachable, but he fit the description Tark had supplied.
While the announcer introduced the next act, Jason descended the remaining stairs and shouldered his way through the crowd. “I present another newcomer to our venue, who also journeyed from afar to be with us, Hollick, son of Mathur.”
A skinny man with a long face and big ears mounted the stage, holding a recorder that forked into two tubes. Placing one hand over the finger holes on each tube, he began to play a catchy melody, the instrument harmonizing with itself.
Jason reached the vacant space surrounding the goliath at the bar. He could better appreciate his size up close. The man stood more than seven feet tall. His massive shoulders were bloated with muscle, and a sleeveless tunic revealed thick, bulging arms. He carried no visible weapons, except for a set of iron knuckles on one huge hand. Oily hair pushed back from his brutishly handsome face dangled almost to his shoulders. The man regarded Jason disapprovingly as he drew near.
Even leaning against the bar, the man stood more than a head taller than Jason. “Are you Aram?” Jason asked.
Aram gave a slight nod, his squinted eyes roving to survey the room.
“I need to hire your sword.” Jason thought that sounded like a professional way to approach a mercenary.
Watching the piper, Aram spoke in a deep voice. “You can’t afford my sword, let alone me along with it.”
“I have a lot of money.”
The man continued to watch the performer. “In that case, go wait out back, I’ll send some men to rob you.”
“I’m not carrying it with me,” Jason lied, thinking of all the money and jewels currently in the pockets of his jeans.
“I’m no longer for hire at any price.”
“You were recommended to me by Tark the musician.”
Aram glanced down, making real eye contact for the first time. “Of the Giddy Nine?”
“The sole survivor.”
“They were the most talent this place ever saw. The room would overflow. Is Tark well?”
“Depressed, but holding up.”
Aram’s scowl deepened. “He knows I no longer accept assignments.”
“He said you owe him some favors, and gave me enough money to tempt you.”
“Tark supplied the funds to hire me?”
“We’re working together. Is there a place we could talk privately?”
Aram snorted. “I’m at work right now. Leaving would draw attention. Meet me out back of the place tomorrow after sunset, and I’ll listen to your proposition. I’ll turn you down, but I’ll listen.”
The piper onstage stopped playing, and the onlookers applauded, though not as vigorously as they had for the three women. The man bowed and left the stage.
“My request is urgent,” Jason said.
“Look, kid, if you must, wait around, enjoy the entertainment, purchase some food. We might talk later.”
The announcer declared an intermission.
“You want anything?” Jason asked.
Aram shrugged his bulky shoulders. “If you’re paying. You have enough?”
“Sure.”
“Hey, Sandra,” Aram called.
“What?” answered a barmaid.
“This character wants to buy me a triple order of sand scuttlers prepared Weych-style.”
Several heads swiveled to look at Jason.
“Did he just come into an inheritance?” Sandra laughed.
“Something like that.”
“He want anything?”
Aram looked at Jason.
“I’ll take an extra order of what he’s having,” Jason called.
“You got it, Your Majesty.” She winked.
At a nearby table, one man roughly overturned the chair of another, depositing him on the floor. The fallen man bounded to his feet and pushed the other guy, growling a threat. Faces near the pair turned toward Aram. The big man coughed loudly into his fist.
The pair of would-be combatants looked up, stricken, all anger vanishing from their expressions. They appeared ready to run.
Aram jerked his head in the direction of the door. The two men nodded politely, then pressed through the crowd, followed by a few of their comrades.
“You want to go watch the fight?” Aram asked. “Should be decent. They look evenly matched.”
“I’d rather stay away from trouble.”
“What do you know. An ounce of sense. Let’s commandeer their table and wait for our meal.”
Several people were heading toward the vacated table, and a husky man had already laid hands on a chair, but they all backed away as Aram strode forward. Jason claimed a seat across from the enormous man. There were chairs for four other people, but nobody joined them. The noisy room was not conducive to conversation, so they sat in silence. Aram watched the crowd, paying no attention to Jason.
