Page 4 of Wizards & Weavers
Dudley set his towel down and rolled his eyes. “The lightest beer on tap for the gentleman, coming right up. You watch yourself there, Braid. About thirteen more flagons of this stuff and you might find yourself catching a buzz.”
Braiden smiled. “Thanks, Dudley.”
Then he demanded another bowl of bar snacks. Dudley narrowed his eyes, as thin as those slits they left in castle walls, the ones they fired arrows out of. Braiden held his hands up with a placating, nervous grin. That usually meant it was time to order some actual food.
And so he did, his usual plate of sausages and potatoes, along with a few crusty slices of toasted bread. Dudley was right, of course. Here he was subsisting on bar nuts and breakfast food when he should have been paying better attention to his nutrition. Braiden glanced at his notes. Very important indeed for what was to come.
Dudley cleared his plate and nodded at the parchment. “So. What’s this you’ve been working on, anyway? I can tell you’re dying to tell me.”
Or dying for someone to ask. Dudley knew Braiden all too well. The man was old enough to be his father, and maybe thatwas why Braiden liked him so much. If he squinted hard enough, Dudley might even pass for a younger version of his actual father — Goddess Ybura bless his departed soul — perhaps just with a different style of mustache.
Braiden spread his hands out, thrilled for a chance to tell a tale. “Picture this. The first real opportunity for Beadle’s Needles to turn a fine profit in too long a time, and it doesn’t even involve the shop! So I was thinking, right, I could close it up for a few days, maybe even a week — ”
Dudley’s eyebrows met in the center of his forehead, a bushy mirror image of his mustache. “You’re not thinking about going into that godsforsaken dungeon yourself, are you?”
Braiden’s arms fell to his sides. He wasn’t expecting to have the wind taken out of his sails again in the same day, but good on everyone for trying.
“Are you sure you weren’t a wizard in your past life? You keep trying to tell everybody you used to be a warrior, but there you go reading my mind and spoiling my stories again.”
Dudley rolled his eyes so hard that Braiden could hear the sockets squeak. “You aren’t exactly difficult to read, Braid. And what, pray tell, are you planning to do in the dungeon? Are you expecting to get very far? How, exactly, is this ill-conceived plot supposed to turn a profit for you?”
Braiden sucked in huge lungfuls of air, making himself look bigger, more confident. Dudley didn’t mean to be mean about it. This was only him needling Braiden about the feasibility of his business plan. He clapped his hands together, then slowly parted them, letting magical threads of light linger between his fingers, a glimmering cat’s cradle.
“Magic.”
The man had never looked so unimpressed.
Dudley launched into a droning and very critical diatribe about the risk of losing life and limb in dungeon expeditions,how Braiden of all people couldn’t make certain for his own safety. Braiden tuned out around the part where Dudley wondered out loud whether he even had any insurance.
Removing his gaze from the rhythmic, slightly annoyed twitching of Dudley’s mustache, Braiden gave Dudley himself an appraising glance. He never did stop polishing those flagons, given a spare moment, and the way he rolled up his shirt always drew attention to his powerful forearms, huge like ham hocks. Dudley had long settled into and clearly loved the life of a bartender, but the man was built to wade into battle wielding a double-headed axe and a ferocious grimace.
Braiden’s eyes traveled meaningfully to Dudley’s old battle-axe, which was indeed behind him, mounted threateningly on an impressive plaque above the bar. Braiden hadn’t heard of Dudley ever needing to take Old Betsy down for a fight, but he chalked that up to the fact that no one had ever been fool enough to contend with the solid slab of meat and muscle who tended bar at the Dragon’s Flagon.
“Don’t even start,” Dudley grumbled, following Braiden’s gaze. “My adventuring days are behind me, and you know that.”
“I didn’t say a word,” Braiden said, frowning as he looked down at his notes. The wax seal of the council on the page’s other side was still there, a very rude reminder that he was still very much behind on rent.
And so it all circled back again, and Braiden remembered that there was work to be done. Important work. Recruiting work. He kicked his legs off to the side, swiveling around on his barstool, surveying the crowd that had chosen to patronize Dudley’s fine establishment.
The Dragon’s Flagon had attracted an intriguing assortment. At one long table sat a cluster of Gwerenese, a passionate people who dispensed their charm indiscriminately, so lovely with their dark hair and bright eyes. They were known far and wide fortheir music and their expertise as spellblades, wielding curved daggers in one hand and fiery fronds of magic in the other.
Soldiers of the Emerald Reaches clanked about in their cumbersome suits of forged armor, constantly announcing their presence with their large, noisy weaponry and their even noisier mouths. The mages of Il-venesse swanned in clouds of perfume and mystery, their fine silken garments and delicate jewelry at once concealing everything and revealing far too much.
Braiden averted his eyes when one of them turned too quickly, exposing a flash of leg and part of a buttock. Somewhat scandalous to the older Weathervale residents, maybe, but they never were the type of people to turn others away for their appearance or customs. If someone’s money was good and they didn’t cause any trouble, they were always welcome in Weathervale.
A burly orcish warrior sat with his back against the wall. He grimaced as he downed a flagon of the Dragon’s strongest, darkest ale. A young elf sat alone in the corner, nursing her drink with the hood of her cloak not quite fully covering her pointed ears and blond hair.
“Don’t you bother a single one of them, now,” Dudley growled, sensing that Braiden was about to do something potentially foolish. More like potentially fruitful, in his humble opinion. Braiden grabbed his flagon of ale and ignored Dudley’s mutterings as he left the bar to mingle.
The Gwerenese cheered and cursed in turns as they rolled fistfuls of dice. Braiden didn’t understand the rules of the game, nor did he really have the time to sit down and learn, but he couldn’t pass them by without at least asking.
Inside his chest, his heart pounded like thunder, as quick as a Gwerenese drum. Where was all this bravado coming from? Where had this side of Braiden Beadle been hiding all these years?
And then it struck him. It was the newness of it all. So many new people in town, none of whom really knew who Braiden was from the time before the dungeon.
He could be anyone he wanted, more than just the mousy shopkeep at a steadily drowning craft shop. He could choose to be anything. In that moment, he chose to be confident.
“Welcome to Weathervale, friends!” Braiden announced, raising his flagon.
