Page 72 of Seducing the Sorcerer
And if Squab blundered in to find him and the other patrons laughed, then fuck them. The horse could bloody fly. It had done a fine morning’s work. It had kicked a river-hex right in its horrible watery neb. Poor old Squab might be handsome as a sack of potatoes and troublesome as ten goblins, but he was some horse. Fenn would never be ashamed of him again. He took a long pull at his pint.
Although, Fenn probably deserved to be laughed at for thinking he could help Morgrim with magic. Him, Fenn Todd, helping the greatest sorcerer of the age. What a dolt!
But, no, that wasn’t fair, because Morgrim had been stuck with that river-hex thing and Fenn had helped. He’d more than helped; he’d saved Morgrim’s life. And Morgrim still didn’t trust him enough to tell him what was going on or accept further assistance. That was partly what was so galling.
Fenn took another long swallow. The ale went down easy. Wine at dinner was all very well, but there was nothing like a pint. And he had plenty of money. He could sit here until the sharp edges of things were blurred away and the day was gone.
He thought of Morgrim, sitting there on the black carpet amongst a host of old furniture, watching him walk away. Fenn didn’t think of himself as a stubborn man but he knew other people sometimes did. Perhaps he was in the wrong here? He didn’t usually try to ferret personal information out of the men he fucked. Usually because he didn’t care whether they were honest with him or not. So, perhaps he’d pressed Morgrim too hard? Perhaps he ought to go back and apologise and not ask questions again?
Ah, but what about Jasper and the lad’s desire to learn magic? Morgrim was too hard on the boy and that was a fact. Fenn took another gulp. Pint was nearly gone already. He put the tankard down and it made an audible click on the bar. Far too loud. Had he thumped it down harder than he’d meant? Was the ale stronger than it tasted?
He froze.
It had sounded so loud because the whole pub had gone silent. There was not a murmur, not a giggle, not a rustle of cloth or a gurgle of drink. Fenn had his back to the door, but he glanced up and took in the landlord’s stunned expression. So, Squab had come. No surprises there then. And in a moment the room would explode with laughter. Whatever, Fenn was finishing his pint. Let them stare, let them laugh. Sod them all.
A voice said behind him, “Fenn?”
Fenn whirled and nearly fell off his stool.
Morgrim stood there, grim and fierce as a fishing eagle, chin high, rigid with dignity. He had his staff in one hand and he gave off waves of unapproachability so thick Fenn could practically see them. Fenn glanced about the room at all the open-mouthed faces and remembered Morgrim saying “I don’t drink in public houses.” And yet, here he was, in one. And just after an assassination attempt too.
“Now, then,” Fenn said, too surprised to think of anything more sensible.
“May I join you?”
Morgrim sounded stiff and formal and annoyed to be asking, but Fenn saw the uncertainty in his eyes and the tension in his jaw. Morgrim genuinely half-expected him to say no, fuck off.
“Aye. ‘Course.” Fenn looked along the bar. Somehow, the people who’d been lining it had melted away. Fenn indicated the nearest stool and added, “Sit.”
Morgrim pulled the stool a little closer and sat, gingerly, like a man unsure of the etiquette. Fenn lifted his hand to the gawking innkeeper and raised a couple of fingers. Two more, thanks. The innkeeper hurried to bring the drinks and it was as if a spell had been lifted from the other patrons. There was an explosion of whispering and smothered exclamations.
“You wouldn’t rather be alone? You’ve only to say,” Morgrim said.
“No, I wouldn’t. You came to find me, then?” Fenn could hear the wonder in his own voice.
“I came to apologise.”
“Ah. Well, reckon I should do the same. Shouldn’t have pressed you so hard.”
“No. Your questions were fair. You saved my life and I’m still lying to you? I’m the one in the wrong. I’m sorry.”
He looked so stricken that Fenn said, quickly, “Accepted. There, it’s over. Hey, you all right? Wasn’t going to run out on you.”
“I know. You said so.”
“Right. And I won’t. Now drink your pint.”
Morgrim sipped the drink. He was wearing his black riding gloves, perhaps to hide his injured hands.
“Good, eh?” Fenn said.
There was a pleasant warm feeling in his gut and it wasn’t the beer. Morgrim had come to find him. Had apologised. If they’d been somewhere private, Fenn would’ve kissed him. A dozen times.
“Not bad,” Morgrim said.
“Do you good to try something different. Funny, you lived in that tower most of your life and you never came in here? It’s your local.”
“I don’t care to make a spectacle of myself,” Morgrim said, a bit prim.
