1 Meeting a doctor

A man with unusually short brown hair sat on the edge of the bed, stirring the coins on the sheets. They got progressively shinier, as the alcohol from their previous owners transferred from coin to coin, sometimes sticking together.

Vardimann Yeylin tucked the money into his belt wallet. It was finally late enough to go downstairs and grab something to eat.

The innkeeper was leaning on the bench, half-asleep. Vardimann poked him, knocking his chin off his hand. "I want food. You have anything in?"

The innkeeper glared, rubbing the bristles on his chin. "Someone who drank as much as you did should have died from alcohol poisoning."

"Then you'd have a chance to get your money back. Food."

His face darkened. "You're too early. We don't have anything ready."

Vardimann shrugged. "So much for that." He dropped some money onto the counter and left.

Tired travellers and their inns might sleep late, but at least farmers were up with the sun. As a result, the village green was buzzing with people setting up an autumn market. Vardimann strolled over to the fruit and veggies, buying an apple, a young head of lettuce, and cheese from an old cow. Money was not an issue. In fact, it made things a tiny bit boring for him. If It was a barter system, at least then it might be interesting to see what strings could be pulled there.

Unfortunately, even the smallest of villages believed in currency.

He walked past a rustic church and leaned on the corner of the house next to it. Silly people. Made out of wood and packed with clay, lovingly polished, an imitation of the grand churches in faraway lands depicted in the bibles. Giving away time, hopes, and money for something so empty.

Strings attached to nothing are easier to pull.

Vardimann ate his breakfast and watched the stream of people entering the church. He looked for certain features. Lightly tanned skin. A strong nose. Black or brown hair, with the occasional sandy blonde. Large, calloused hands. Undyed cotton, perhaps accompanied by some leather.

Nope. So much for that.

He wandered down the road, looking around the market for some entertainment.

Vardimann was browsing a cart of corn when he heard somebody growl, "come with me."

He didn't look up. "No thanks."

He was jerked back by the arm. It was one of his "opponents" from last night. (It wasn't really fair to call him an "opponent" as none of them had a chance of winning.) His eyes were red and he was built like a bull - one with a short temper. Vardimann wondered what would happen if he made him erupt.

With a "you're paying for that hangover!" the bull started dragging the other man down the street. Vardimann didn't mind. He was bored anyway.

But instead of an alley and some headache-mates like he expected, the bull dragged him to a covered wagon at the end of the market. There was a queue leading up to a man sitting on the tailgate. The bull shoved the other man at the queue and went to sit in the shade of a nearby awning.

The man was a doctor of some sort. He wore tough jeans and a woollen jumper. He was neither young nor old, or weathered older by rough work. He did not have the glib air and loud voice of a snake-oil salesman, nor the harking cries of a hedge witch. Rather, the man was serious, speaking clearly to each customer and sometimes handing them herbs or a bottle. He would not accept payment. His black hair was long and his skin was dark, and as he glanced up the line his darker gaze met those of his newest customer, an inner fire burning.

Vardimann felt a tingle up his spine. This was a man whose strings he could not pull.

The doctor looked away, yawned, startled at the slight drool that dripped from his teeth, and hastily wiped it off. Way to destroy first impressions.

A few customers later, a young woman came forward. Vardimann could see an obvious longing for the man in front of her. By that time, he was close enough to hear them. "I'm sorry, you're not my type."

Her head lowered morosely. Her voice was quieter. "Then… what is your type? City girls?"

He hesitated. "Not really. I like…" He looked her up and down, clearly trying to find a polite answer. She was quite buxom, yet slim waisted, (tight dress too!) so he didn't really have anything to complain about. The bull man leaned forward. "Perhaps he likes mature women who aren't too top-heavy! Move on!"

The girl looked at him, burst into tears and ran off. My "opponent" clutched his head.

The doctor rolled his eyes. "Marlo, get over here. You know shouting makes your hangover worse."

Marlo glared at his headache benefactor and jerked his thumb. Vardimann shrugged and went up to the front of the line. The others were pretty good about him jumping the queue, though it might have had something to do with one of them holding a particularly fascinating turnip. The maiden might not have appreciated it.

The doctor gave him a small packet of herbs. "He knows what to do with these. Are you a new friend?"

"The one who gave him the hangover." Vardimann gave him some cash from the previous night.

"Hmm." The man waved his hand away. "I know Marlo can hold his drink quite well. You must have been cheating."

"I don't cheat."

"Perhaps. Tell him he needs to get going or he'll be late for his sister."

When Vardimann passed the packet to Marlo, he was glared at and half-heartedly kicked in the ankle. He let him.

Vardimann looked up to see the doctor staring at him. The doctor called, "what's your name? You're an interesting fellow."

"Right back at ya." He gave a lazy two-fingered salute and strolled away in another direction.

Vardimann was so focused in being interesting that he completely forgot to ask for the doctor's name.