Page 74 of Feral Guardian
“I need a few to rub together for a bath,” I say with a shrug.
The guard grunts as if it’s not worth fighting over. He opens another slat lower on the door that has a little cup attached to theother side. I can see a few coins already glimmering inside it and take note of the gilded crest of a lion on the front of one. A Fynren silver.
I reach into my pocket and palm a smaller stone, willing it to become a Seter silver. I drop the coin in the bucket and the guard slaps the slat shut. There’s a loud clunk from the other side and then the door whines open.
Alastair leads me inside, keeping me pressed against him like he might lose me otherwise. The warmth of his body is like an anchor, keeping my thoughts from drifting away into darkness. I know Alastair does not like his magus ability. He’s ashamed of it, I think, but, gods, it makes me feel safe when I see that red gleam in his eyes. The beast beneath his skin will do anything to protect me.
The houses are taller here, two and three stories, with businesses on the bottom. The signs read tailor, baker, alchemist, and more. We’ll definitely be able to restock here before we go, and Iwillhave my soap.
“Alastair,” I whisper up at him. “Did you see the Fynren silver in the bucket?”
He nods once.
“Are you concerned about it?” I ask.
I know he must be worried about Trask. He’d not been with the pirates and had escaped Alastair’s wrath when my guard had to choose between chasing the traitor and coming after me.
“Many Fyns may be traveling through here. This is a summer trade route,” he says.
Summerbeing the operative word. It’s still spring.
The shops and businesses have closed for the evening, but the sounds of revelry draw us toward the tavern near the center of the village. It’s a three-story building of dark brick and wood construction.The sign hanging out front just reads “Igor’s” with several hash marks after it. A family business where all the sons are named Igor?
There’s a trough out front and Alastair loops Kor’Tar’s reins around the post. I palm another decent-sized stone and create two silvers and a gold from it. Alastair grunts when I open my hand and show him the money but doesn’t protest. Perhaps he’s past the morality of it.
We enter the tavern and I’m instantly hit with warmth and more of that sour-smelling Seterian beer. The primary light sources are the two fires: one burning at the customer end, and the other burning in a deep hearth behind the bar. Several of the long wooden, bench-style tables have candles sitting atop them, illuminating their scuffed and splintered surfaces.
The crowd is mostly men and very few women—all very obviously whores. They sit at the tables drinking the sour ale and eating bowls of stew with bread. There are a few private alcoves around the room and a bard’s stage near the hearth.
On the stage is a man turning a hurdy-gurdy to his own melody and a woman striking a fiddle beside him. They might be lovers if the look in their crossed gazes tells me anything. There’s a small floor where a few customers are dancing to the surprisingly pleasant tune. My feet carry me toward the dance floor. It’s been so very long since I’ve heard music derived from love and joy.
“Oiy!” The barkeep snaps me from my trance, and I turn with Alastair toward him.
“Are you Igor?” Alastair asks.
“I am,” the man with a full head of bronze hair says. He flashes a winning, full-toothed smile, and I know now why there are so many hashes beside the sign. It must be his body count.
“We’re travelers in need of a place to stay,” Alastair says.
“We’re full up for the night,” Igor says, pouring another ale.
“We’ll work for it,” I say. “Please? The floor will do.”
Igor’s blue eyes fall on me and his smile turns softer, warmer. “Yeah, sweetheart, you can work for it. You can share my room—”
“No.” Alastair thumps his fist on the bar, shaking every glass violently. “She will stay with me.”
I know I’m his ward. I know he’s to protect me because of a prophecy. But fuck if my legs don’t wobble just a little bit at his show of possession.
Alastair clears his throat and straightens up as the red glow in his eyes dims. “We’ll sleep near the hearth. We don’t need a room.”
Just one of Igor’s bronze eyebrows shoots up. “Oh, you will?”
“Or we can return to the wilds,” I say. “But seeing how you’re losing out on coin by not having a wench run your drinks and dinners, I think you need us.”
I peek around the corner of the hearth and see just one woman slaving away in the kitchen. Dishes are piled up in the metal wash bin beside the fire, and she’s furiously chopping beets for another pot of stew.
“Looks like you need a dishwasher, too,” I comment with a broad grin.
