Page 3 of Trial of Bronze and Blood
“And just like you to hold that against me.”
Ovi laughs too loud for Dru’s comfort. “It’s clearly the only place in this shithole of a village with anything to drink. You made the right choice.”
“It’s not safe to stop this close to the border of Namicus,” Dru argues. “Not while they resist the Imperium. We should do what we came here for and get out.”
“But I haven’t heard a proper tabernae song in so long,” Ovi whines, ignoring Dru’s concerns. As she often does.
The bard strums the lute softly, deftly, a contradiction to the rough intonations of his voice—though no one else seems to notice,or they don’t care. From a distance, he’s an attractive man with a strong jaw and striking hazel-green eyes. But the longer Dru watches him, the more the truth of his profession reveals itself: the gauntness of his admittedly handsome face brings attention to the slight bruising beneath his eyes, one of the teeth inside his mouth appears dead, and his blond hair hangs loose in a matted mess. Even his clothes have seen better days.
The plague of the Imperium before her eyes: an artist suffering for his art.
“There’s nothing proper about this song, Ovi—it’s banned by the Imperium.” Dru leans forward, elbows biting into the table. “And we can’t afford to get arrested.”
A short, round woman with white wiry hair sets a pair of clay cups in front of them and walks away without a word. Blood-red mulsum wine sloshes up the sides, staining them. The heady concoction of honey and spices wafts up from it, begging Dru to take a sip. She could certainly stand to take the edge off after the week she’s had.
Ovidia juts out her lower lip. “But the wine’s here. We can’t leave now.”
Dru grimaces but once again decides not to argue. She never wins anyway, not when Ovidia’s involved.
While Ovi remains enraptured by the song, Dru picks up on a conversation from the patrons behind her, barely audible over the bard’s shrieking.
“Have you heard Anziano is bringing the Valorem Blood Trials back?” one man’s gruff voice asks, loud enough for her to hear him clearly.Interesting. The Imperium doesn’t often receive news of Anziano, the only country left on the known continent that’s managed to remain unconquered.
“What’s it to us if they are?” a woman’s voice answers. “Let ’em kill each other.”
“There’s supposed to be Imperium involvement this time.”
Another male voice cuts in. “I’ll believe that when I see it. There’s no reason for the Imperium to involve themselves in such savagery.”
The others hum in agreement before going back to their drinks, carrying on as if the Imperium hasn’t been involving themselves in the affairs of “savages” for centuries now. Dru clenches her hands to keep them from doing something she’ll regret.
As the bard keeps on, she takes stock of the crowd. One sweep of the room confirms every patron here is an Imperium soldier. It makes sense, given the location, but she continues to keep up her guard all the same.
At least with all these soldiers here, we won’t be arrested for listening to a pre-Imperium song.
Looking closer at the uniform of the nearest soldier, she recognizes two red eagles on one of their sleeves. She sighs in relief, her wariness slipping away: they’re mere foot soldiers, which means no ranking officers with the authority to arrest them. These legionaries will get in just as much trouble—if not more—for being here.
Continuing her inspection, she finds herself drawn to the darkest corner of the tabernae. It’s occupied by a man who sits so still that he might as well be made of marble. The deep hood of his black cloak obscures his features, calling more attention to him than he realizes. A dark blue tunic peeks out from beneath the cloak, the golden pommel of a Gladius sword sparking in the low lamplight.
No wine cup or candle graces his table, nor is there an empty plate of food to be found. Either he hasn’t been here long, or he’s denied every amenity Tabernae Ebrius offered him.
Shoulders rigid, arms crossed, he faces away from the bard, his attention on the door. But, peering over her shoulder, the threshold bears not a soul.
When she looks back, he’s gone.
Dru blinks rapidly, her gaze searching the immediate area, but nothing changes: the man has disappeared.
Confusion muddles her thoughts as she grips Ovi’s arm, murmuring, “Where did that man go?”
Ovi’s attention on the bard doesn’t stray. “What man?”
Dru tempers her voice. “The one in the corner—who wasn’t eating or drinking.”
Finally, Ovi looks at her, intrigue glittering in her dark green gaze. “It’s not like you to show interest. What was he wearing?” She moves to stand. “I’ll find him?—”
Dru reaches over to clamp a firm hand down on her friend’s shoulder, holding her in place before she exposes them by searching the crowd for a man she can’t be certain she saw.
“Ever heard of lying low?”
