Flight of the Renshai by Mickey Reichert

Author:Mickey Reichert [Reichert, Mickey]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: PENGUIN group

East of Dunford and north of the Southern Weathered Mountains, Calistin dragged into his first Western city, his tattered, filthy cloak rain-plastered to skin and jerkin and his hair in wild spikes. The sky had barely lost the sun beyond its western horizon, leaving a cloud-swollen haze that guided him through the muddy streets. He slogged between rows of simple cottages, their thatched roofs swollen with water, their inhabitants locked in against the weather. Bedraggled chickens huddled beneath the overhangs.

Calistin followed the sound of a creaking sign through the gloom, to a sagging wooden tavern. The sign itself had cracked and peeled from wear. Once, it had clearly borne a design, but only bits of paint remained, including the Common letters “T”, “V”, and “N”. Smoke curled from the chimney. Glad for a chance to rest and eat, Calistin tripped the latch.

The door swung open to reveal a cozy interior filled with nine round tables, a rickety wooden bar with stools, and an assortment of men. Two young barmaids wove through the crowd, and a barkeep stood behind the counter tapping the contents of various barrels into bowls and mugs. When he found no open tables, Calistin flopped onto a stool in front of the bar and studied the other customers.

The men ranged in age from older teens to gray-bearded elders. Most had leathered faces and callused hands, and their hair colors ranged from Béarnian dark to sandy blond or grizzled white. Many ate from coarsely hammered plates and drank from lopsided bowls. The odors of roasted meat, bread, and tubers perfumed the air.

The barkeep, a fat, bearded man with freckled arms, approached Calistin and swiped a dirty rag across the place the Renshai had chosen. It looked no cleaner when he finished, and the rag left a sticky film. Leaning forward, he smiled patronizingly. “So, boy. What can I do for you today?”

Calistin took an immediate dislike to the barkeep who spoke the Western tongue in the weird, high-pitched singsong people usually reserved for animals and infants. “You can get me some food and a mug of ale.”

“Ale?” The barkeep’s lids rose over eyes recessed like a pig’s. He laughed wildly, as if responding to some unspoken joke.

Deadly serious, Calistin watched the barkeep’s antics with waning patience.

Finally, the barkeep explained. “Aren’t you a bit young for ale, son?”

Calistin gritted his teeth, fighting a rising wash of temper. “First, I’m not your son. Second, I’m a man and perfectly capable of determining when I’m hungry and thirsty. And, third, I wasn’t aware ale had an age requirement.”

The barkeep stopped laughing. His massive elbows dropped to the counter in front of Calistin, and he leaned in. His breath reeked of alcohol and rotting teeth. “I find that children don’t handle their liquor well, and they often don’t have money to pay for what they’re asking for.”

Enraged by the insult, Calistin did not even consider the fact that the man had a point. He carried no coinage. He never had to worry

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