Thumpirity-thump. Thumpirity-thump. The sound of the bartender’s fingers drumming upon the oak tabletop filled the Slaughtered Lamb. For a week he had watched the woman sit locked to her chair in the corner, never leaving the sanctity of her anonymous tomes behind. Now, she being the only patron of his tavern tonight, his fingers drummed harder, waiting for the figure to do something. Anything. He grinned wider and wider as he watched Anisse twitch in her seat, until, able to stand the rapping fingers no more, she abruptly stood from her chair and approached him.
“Would you kindly stop that?” the woman gritted out from between her teeth, her soft voice touched with darker intent. Like a true gentleman, he offered his devoted patron a hot bowl of lamb stew, knowing it would calm the spark of fire in the eyes he saw deep inside the shadowy cowl. The white-knuckled grip she held upon her precious tomes started to lessen, and he knew his victory was near.
“Sit down and eat and I might, Miss,” he winked at Anisse. He even added extra potatoes to the dish! With an exasperated sigh, the woman took the bowl, sliding a few silver coins over to Jarel in a brash manner, and then tramped her booted heels back to her table.
“Forgot your drink, dear.”
Broth spilled upon the woman’s table as she almost dropped the bowl. The look she now gave Mr. Moor made his smile grow wire tight, a giddiness flowing through him. Stirring her cold glass of tea with a spoon, the cubes inside tinked against the glass, sounding off like little hollow chimes. He was quick to slide the beverage to her hands, which he studied with a quick glance of his eyes. The small hands were dry, and pale, her nails slightly dirty. She was a nailbiter, from what he could tell of their shortness, for she certainly didn’t manicure them. Jarel seemed to pride himself on knowing his guests, especially ones who made a home of his tavern.
“I don’t believe we’ve had a proper introduction!”
“No, we’ve not,” was the simple answer from the hooded woman. He laughed as he took the spoon that she thrust back into his fingers.
“Well, you could tell me your name perhaps, yes? Yes!” He was much too cheerful to work in such a place.
“And why should I do that?”
Jarel was clever. He had to be to keep even the most suspicious customer coming back, at least for the stew. It was a stubborn streak Anisse had noticed first-hand.
“I tend to have a nice little repore with the Masters down below, milady. Imagine how nice it would be for me to compliment your studies to Sir Darkbinder, hmmm?” came the good-natured reply. Yes, much too cheery. “Of course, a name would do you well.” The man waved his hand around dimissively. “Telling him that the ‘lady in the dark robes is an absolute wonderful student’ seems to be rather…bland a description, doesn’t it, my dear? So a name to fit that pretty face would do you well! And I bet you’re a pretty one, beneath all that doom and gloom, yes?”
“…ngh…”
It was all she could come up with, the bartender’s lips moving too fast, his words overwhelming. Rarely did her brothers and sisters talk so much within the Cult. All their thoughts were transcribed by the Speaker, for he knew all that should be known, and no other words had been needed before. Idle chatter was as pointless as an Acolyte’s name, which now this odd, cheery man also asked for. She struggled with the name, as she hadn’t used it in so long, never having earned the right to be recognized by it. Her lips parted to speak it, to draw it out of the corridors of her memory, stacked alongside the foggy glimpses of a childhood she no longer needed.
“Anna…” she breathed out, and it felt good to say it.
No comments:
Post a Comment