Chapter 25

CHAPTER 13 Shouting and the distinct sound of ceramic shattering against stone snapped Tristan out of his reverie.  He’d wanted a quiet moment alone to think and a cup of wine to quench his thirst, and the back room of Wanderer’s Tavern seemed as good a place as any to pass the evening in quietude. Another object hit the wall with a clang, the shrill echo carrying throughout the entire tavern. A pewter plate or bowl, Tristan guessed. He sighed, sipping the last drop of wine from his tankard before pushing his stool back from the bar. Duty called. He brushed past the velvet curtain that separated the back room from the main taproom, and swore. Chairs and tables were overturned, shoved into corners except for the occasional wooden chair leg that had separated from its seat, lying haphazardly on the floor like an overgrown rolling pin. The tavern’s patrons, thirsty for blood, formed a tight, writhing circle, jostling one another to get a better view, oblivious to the shards of broken crockery at their feet. They shouted and jeered, drinking in the violence as readily as they did their wine. Tristan elbowed his way to the front of the crowd, ignoring the curses hurled at his back. Two men, beaten and bloody beyond recognition, circled each other warily, chests heaving with exertion. Tristan had never before seen such a pair of mismatched fighters. One of the men, whose face would never be called handsome even if it weren’t bashed in, was a large, powerful giant, standing nearly a head taller than Tristan. Small, dull eyes, made smaller by swollen cheekbones, stared unintelligently at his opponent. The giant’s opponent was a scrawny thing, as short as he was tall. His topknot hung low and crooked on his head, and wet clumps of hair were glued with sweat and blood to his forehead.  The man—no, the boy—couldn’t have been more than fifteen. “That boy is going to get himself killed,” Tristan hissed. “Oh, no,” said an excited voice beside him. “I would’ve thought so myself, but the little fellow is holding his own. Those shiners on Jack are his doing. I haven’t seen such a good fight since ol’ Turner caught George Bishop with his daughter in the stables.” “Why hasn’t anyone tried to break up the fight?” Tristan demanded. The man beside him laughed merrily. “The little fellow is crazy. You couldn’t pay me to get within two feet of him.” “You’re only three feet from him now,” Tristan pointed out. “And I am grateful for every one of those twelve inches. The boy has a death wish. He came in here and immediately started insulting Jack. Said Big Jack was the unwanted get of a whore.” The man laughed again, admiration in his eyes. “He told Jack his mother tried to pay him to tup her.” “So the boy provoked the fight?” “Aye, Jack was just sitting there, minding his own business and drinking his ale. Though I can’t say he didn’t deserve it. Jack’s not the nicest of men, but most are afraid to confront him, seeing as he’s so large. Like I said, the boy’s got a death wish. Never seen the —” The man’s voice was interrupted by a thunderous roar from Big Jack, who charged at the boy headfirst like an enraged bull. Despite his visible injuries, Jack’s opponent easily sidestepped the attack. Somehow, the boy had the peace of mind to worm one hand around the giant’s forearm while his other hand gripped Jack’s lapel. With a certain sense of inevitability, Tristan watched as the boy expertly angled his knee to help gravity take its course. Jack landed on his back with a grunt. The boy was on him before he had a chance to react. The small fellow straddled Jack’s chest and boxed him in both ears, hard. His next swing broke Jack’s jaw with an audible crunch. “Alright, lad, that’s enough,” Tristan said, stepping into the informal arena. The boy ignored him, raining blows up and down the man’s torso. “I said, that’s enough.” Tristan grabbed the boy by his shoulders and hauled him off Jack, who made a feeble-sounding gurgle. “You don’t want to kill him.” The boy muttered darkly under his breath. “What was that?” Tristan asked sharply, spinning the boy around to face him. He blanched, and a hot combination of fury, concern and shock spread through his body like wildfire. “Gods damn it, Sam!” *** Tristan exploded the second they walked into Sam’s room in the Courtier. “By the teeth of the seven gods, what did you do to your face?!” he bellowed Sam winced, and then winced again at the pain the slight grimace had caused her. Good gods, her face hurt. “What part of ‘the duke wants us to dine with him’ did you not understand? Or is it that you were hoping to impress him with some wild tale of your bravery in battle? How did you even get your eye socket to turn that unnatural shade of purple?” Tristan ranted, pacing the room back and forth like a caged animal. “You were supposed to look respectable, not like you got into a bar fight. Are you blushing? You did get into a bar fight, you stupid, stupid boy!” “I’m sorry,” Sam said contritely, schooling her face into a meek expression. She hoped she at least sounded apologetic. “Sorry isn’t good enough.” Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed deeply, twice. “The duke is a very important man to the Paladins, Sam. And he’s a very important man to me.” “Why?” Sam blurted. Her father had always seemed more self-important than important to her, though she had to admit, he had kept her somewhat sheltered. “My reasons don’t affect you. Needless to say, I wanted—I want to impress him. And I told you, did I not, that you are a reflection of me. Sam, have you seen your reflection lately? I swear, it’s like you mistook your face for your shield.” Sam scuffed her foot against the carpet. “Sorry,” she repeated, meaning it this time. She hadn’t thought about what this dinner with the Duke meant for Tristan, for his career. Tristan sighed, and stared at the ceiling. She thought he might be counting. She did that, sometimes, when she was trying to regain her patience. “Are you okay?” he asked finally. “If I were the man I ought to be, I would have asked that first.” Guilt gnawed at her insides. “My face hurts a bit. Nothing time won’t heal.” “Good, good. We’ll figure it out in the morning, when both our tempers have cooled.” She nodded, her eyes trained to the floor. “Okay.” “I’ll call for one of the maids to bring you some ice. It’ll help with the swelling.” “Thank you.” She wished he’d go back to being angry with her. “Good night, Sam,” he said, walking towards the door. “Oh, and Sam?”