Page 57 of Eldritch
“That would be admitting a mythical beast is real.” Kazhimyr nudged Ravezio’s arm. “C’mon. We need to meet with the captain before sundown.”
“What happens at sundown? He turns into an orgoth?”
“He gets too damned drunk.” Kazhimyr led the way into the dark tavern, trailing his gaze over the motley crowd of villagers with their hollow eyes that watched the two of them, and rough-hewn faces that snarled as they passed. Even if Kazhimyr had visited the place before, that didn’t mean he was any more welcome.
The scent of ale, sweat, and vomit clung to the air, hitting the back of his throat.
“Godsdamn, chamber pots stink less than this place.” Ravezio held the back of his hand to his nose and cleared his throat.
“Quiet, unless you’d like a bit of sword practice.” Eyeing the captain in one of the booths, Kazhimyr led the way across the tavern, boots crunching over broken glass and peanut shells. The old captain’s bulbous belly barely fit between the table and the bench, where he sat with his head slightly cocked, eyelids shuttering. Already a few drinks in, Kazhimyr guessed.
The two Letalisz sat down across from him, startling the old man awake.
He shifted in his seat, but on recognizing Kazhimyr, he let out a long exhale that stank of rot and ale. “What d’you want?”
Kazhimyr gave a furtive glance around, checking everyone had gone back to minding their own business. “Bloodmark.” The official sealed papers that listed the extent of an individual’s magic, signed by royalty. All mancers, in particular, were required to secure one for travel into Calyxar.
“Can’t help you. The old mage got arrested about a fortnight ago.” The captain relied on a self-taught mage, who happened to be proficient in creating counterfeit and forged documents soreal, they fooled even the strictest port guards, or porthounds, as they were called. Of course, the blood magic described in the papers wouldn’t have been true. The guards didn’t look favorably upon the kind of defensive magic that Ravezio and Kazhimyr possessed.
“We have to get to Calyxar. It’s imperative.”
“I’m afraid you’re gonna have to seek out a royal signature.”
“That isn’t possible.”
“Look,” the captain said, rubbing a hand across his jaw. “I wish I could help. Could use the coin, but without him, it’s just not possible.”
“Any suggestions?”
“If you know an Elvyniran who happens to have blood ties to the island, some guards will let you pass on that alone. But good luck finding passage on the Qu’brysian Bay this time of year. Water’s too choppy. Even the most seasoned captain won’t chance it.”
“Fuck.” Kazhimyr sat back against the bench with a sigh. They did happen to know an Elvyniran with ties—two, in fact. Probably halfway to the island at that point.
“I need to get out of here before I forget my own damned name.” The captain pushed to his feet, stumbling a step before catching himself on the edge of the table, then plopped down six coins. “Good luck,” he said, giving a hard pat to Ravezio’s shoulder as he staggered off.
Ravezio groaned. “What now? If we can’t sail out of Qu’brysian, we’ll have to travel to Wyntertide.”
“That’sifwe can find someone to provide a Bloodmark.”
“I can get you passage.”
A voice from the other side of the booth had Kazhimyr frowning, and he peered around the edge to find a pale-skinned man tipping back a tankard. Clearly an Elvyniran, given the pointed ears that bore multiple ring piercings and stuck outfrom his medium-length hunter-green hair, though Kazhimyr couldn’t quite pinpoint his race. The strange accent, with its sharp elegance, led him to think the stranger might’ve been Valgathyan, but Kazhimyr had never known their kind to lack horns.
Frustrated that someone had overheard them, he turned back on his seat and exchanged a guarded look with Ravezio. Kazhimyr cleared his throat and nodded, urging Ravezio out of the booth before following him, and the two stood alongside the booth where the stranger sat sprawled over the bench, his elbow resting on his bent knee. The left side of his lip was also pierced with a silver ring that he ran his tongue across.
Two tankards waited on the table, as if he were expecting them, and he gestured for them to sit. “Please. I insist.”
After a quick glance around the tavern, Kazhimyr slid onto the bench first, not taking his eyes off the stranger, who pushed the tankards toward them. “I order my own drinks, thanks.”
“Of course.” Without diverting his gaze from the two Letalisz, the stranger waved his hand, and seconds later, the barmaid strolled up. “My friends here would like two new tankards. If you’d be so kind as to indulge.”
The woman was nothing but a shadow in Kazhimyr’s periphery, but her unamused “Of course” told him she was troubled by the request.
“I should’ve known better.” The stranger shrugged. “My apologies.”
“Are you accustomed to listening in on private conversations?”
“Believe me when I say, I’d rather not have heard it.” He sighed, tipping back his tankard and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Sharp hearing is a curse. I suspect finding a good counterfeit bloodmark will be difficult to come by, and should you get caught—the port guards shoot first and askquestions later. Fortunately, I have residency in Calyxar, and I happen to be traveling home.”
