Chapter Thirty-Four

"Ye might consider outfitting thyself in a less conspicuous set of clothes, lad. There aren't many barbarians in this city, nor any other, for that matter. Given thy quest, mayhaps ye don't want to stand out," Ludvic suggested, strolling along the main thoroughfare.

"The clothes ye wear look frail," answered Tarn.

Ludvic laughed, accepting his comrade's barbarous observation without offence and began to whistle a sprite melody, unconcerned they travelled along poorly lit streets. Having left his cloak in the inn, Tarn wore only his wolf-skin vest and short leggings that exposed his legs from the middle of his thighs to the tops of his snow leopard boots. With the hilt of Kalen's sword in clear view and a second blade slung from his waist, the common alley cut-throats averted their eyes, seeking easier prey than a heavily armed outlander, and the burly veteran who limped gamely at his side.

"There she be lad," Ludvic said, pointing to cracked and weathered shield above a faded grey door. An ancient and rusted sword was nailed across the top of the shield. "The Sword and Shield Tavern. The finest cave in town. The dice are even, the wine strong, and the wenches ready when ye are."

Upon entering the drinking and gaming housing, Ludvic stepped to the side of the door to let his eyes adapt to the smoke-masked light. Following Ludvic's example by stepping to the other side, Tarn was taken aback by the plethora of noises, never-before-seen sights, odours that assaulted his senses. He peered out across an ocean of boisterous activity; a slow thrum of excitement sped through him, speeding up his heart.

For the most part, native Galparians huddled around packed tables. A smattering of tavern women sat on their knees, laughing and drinking. Included among the native host, a collection of off-duty soldiers, hunters, woodsmen, and travellers like themselves, graced the tavern. More than a few heads turned to appraise him. One or two ogled him briefly, others curiously, and some with thinly veiled prejudice, before returning to their drinks and conversation. Serving wenches hurried from table to table carrying wine and ale. Every so often one cried with indignation; the recipient of a playful slap on the backside.

The clacking and rattling of dice blended with the other sounds as they were vigorously shaken in wooden cups, then upended and slammed upon the tables as if to guarantee the fortunes of the shakers. Hands clenched in wretched frustration pushed coins into eager palms before the cup was passed. On the far side of the tavern, opposite of the fireplace that burned in a hearth equally as large as the Redbull Inn, a polished wooden bar ran the length of the far wall. Sheltered behind the oak panels, the proprietor and his helper poured pitchers of wine and ale for the serving girls and filled orders for those who bellied up to the bar.

Tarn descended the steps and waded into the chaos, following Ludvic who was nearly swallowed from sight as he stepped down off the landing and into the crowd. At first, he tried not to push or rub or collide with anyone but soon found that an impossible task. Using his height and size to advantage, he shouldered his way through the tightly packed patrons, avoiding the puddles of vomit and ale littering the sawdust-covered floor, whose impossible task it was to absorb the offerings of overzealous celebrators and sloppy drunkards. Successfully arriving at a half-empty table along the back wall, only slightly wet from the splash of a rambunctious toast, he seated himself across from Ludvic, beside two other travellers who shifted over on the bench with nary a glance. An outlandish grin that belonged to a triumphant explorer who had just circumnavigated the widest sea spread across Tarn's face. From somewhere across the undulating ocean of tipping and rolling heads, a musician's flute fought the noisy tempest to be heard.

A serving wench, garbed in multiple layers of silk, magically breached the crowd and introduced herself as Becka. Becka's curly auburn hair fell around her shoulders in unruly waves, framing high cheekbones that accentuated a set of liquid-brown eyes. The corners of Becka's eyes turned up gently, granting them a catlike appearance. Her diaphanous, sheer attire cast silky shadows on thinly-veiled flesh beneath. The innocent act of leaning over to better hear Ludvic's words sent Becka's bosom jiggling back and forth, threatening to burst free of their gauzy confines, showcasing an ocean of cleavage.

"A pitcher of sweet wine, lass," said Ludvic, and tossed a silver piece on her tray.

Becka shot away in a swirl of silk and swaying hips, leaving Tarn to admire her departure. Ludvic laughed heartily. Unfamiliar with the wiles of the female gender, especially one who displayed her charms so invitingly, a crimson blush coloured his cheeks the scarlet hue of autumn apples. Becka's clothes left little to the imagination.

"Didn't I warn ye the wenches were fine? The dancers more so, but ye'll ogle nary a glimpse until the wine's loosened the silver from a soldier's purse," Ludvic announced knowingly.

Content to listen to Ludvic's description of the night's forthcoming attractions, Tarn nodded, acclimatizing himself with the multitude of sounds and sights the tavern offered up as entertainment to the uninitiated. When Becka returned, wine- and cup-laden, she bestowed Tarn with a wanton stare that removed all doubt as to what she offered in addition to the spirits.

"Bring us a dice cup, lass," Ludvic requested.

Becka held Tarn's amorous gaze a moment longer and then bounced off to comply like a sleek cat who had just caught the mouse, looking back once over her shoulder, smiling sweetly. A musky scent of perfume lingered in her wake, provoking Tarn's pubescent desires and hinting at mysterious promises unfulfilled.

"A toast," Ludvic shouted over the tavern noise. "To short wars, high pay, and long-legged wenches!"

Pewter mugs clashed. Red wine splashed over the rims, onto the table where it disappeared between the loose seams to drip on the floor. The flute player started a lively tune, full of pep and rising cadences; the tavern overflowed with boisterous laughing- and loud-talking patrons that quickened Tarn's pulse. He felt enthralled by the contagious electricity that rippled through the tavern's denizens. The moment his empty mug hit the table, Ludvic replenished its contents. Unwatered, tangy-sweet wine spread outwards from Tarn's stomach, warming his body. He caught sight of Becka agilely twirling and wending her way toward them. His pulse doubled. Adolescent urges stole his thoughts.

Amidst a shower of sheer silk that sailed around her in billowing, fluffy clouds, the alluring wine- and ale-slinger came to an abrupt halt at their table. She set the chipped dice cup and its ivory contents in front of Ludvic. Tarn's eyes traced a shapely calf, drifting along the curves of a tantalizing thigh that disappeared under layers of soft silk, before moving beyond to boldly linger on her full breasts, to at last greet her unwavering brown-eyed gaze.

"For a silver, ye can obtain a room. For a silver more ye can have me as well," she offered brazenly, batting her long eyelashes invitingly.

Blushing scarlet embarrassment, Tarn's cheeks flushed crimson-red. He'd never been with a woman. Before he formed a response, Ludvic rushed to his rescue, all smiles and laughter. "Upstairs with ye! Go on lad. Have thy way. Ye'll no be able to concentrate on the dice 'til ye free thyself of this wench's amorous designs. Haul her upstairs, but watch thy purse string," he warned, laughing anew as Becka bestowed him with a pouting look of indignation.

Tarn downed the last of his wine in a single gulp and then slung Becka, who squealed and pummelled his back in mock outrage, over his shoulder. He bounded up the stairs two at a time to the bedding chambers, laughing.

Ludvic's roaring laughter and hearty voice rose above the bedlam of the other tavern noises, "Don't tire her out lad. She still has ale to sling."

Sometime later, a more composed Tarn sauntered down the stairs with a flushed and dishevelled Becka clasping his arm. When Ludvic, half-drunk, viewed the happy expression on Tarn's face, and Becka's silken disarray, he howled approval, "Careful lad. Spoil one, and ye'll fall prey to all." Tarn seated himself across from Ludvic and poured himself a cup of wine amidst Ludvic's mirth. Becka plunked down beside Tarn and clung to him possessively. "Mitra, but I think ye tamed the wench! Let's see if ye can tame these dice as well."

Setting four wooden dice on the table, Ludvic explained the value of the eight sides and the various combinations that could be formed. Half an hour later, with Becka's experienced help, Tarn was betting silvers against Ludvic. Another serving girl appeared and they ordered another pitcher of wine and a cup for Tarn and Ludvic's companion.

Somewhere in the early hours of the morning, Tarn, Becka, and Ludvic, connected arm and arm, happily wound their way along the boardwalk singing an old battle song that Ludvic had taught them. When they reached the Redbull Inn, Ludvic disengaged himself from Becka's supporting arm, closed one eye, squinted through the other, and appraised the short flight of steps with the exaggerated exactitude of someone about to attempt an impossible feat. Halfway up the four steps, he stumbled, tilted on one leg with arms flailing, and fell sideways into the street, mumbling about stairs that moved.

Ludvic's colourful curses and face-down posture provoked his companions' good-natured laughter. They helped him to his feet. Tarn slung the drunken veteran over his shoulder and carefully walked into the inn with Becka on his other arm. Having successfully climbed another flight of stairs and woven down a darkened hallway without banging Ludvic into too many walls and doors, Tarn deposited Ludvic, who by now was snoring loudly in drunken oblivion, in his bed, and retired with Becka to his sleeping chamber for the night.