Chasing the Prophecy

Deciding he would rather steer clear of confrontations with soldiers involved, Jason turned down a side street. On one side of the lane a line had formed near a dilapidated cart, where a bony woman ladled chowder from a deep vat. The beige concoction looked thick and chunky. It smelled delicious.

Jason had copper in his pocket, and he was hungry, but his orders were to proceed directly to the inn. He continued down the street, noticing other carts on the sides selling goods or food, although none were as busy as the chowder cart.

Not one building in the port area stood taller than three stories, unless you counted the pair of bell towers near the water. The structures tended to be low, square, and solid—some residences, some businesses.

After winding around for some time, and asking directions twice, Jason found Galley Street. It was narrow, grimy, and crowded, and it featured lots of inns. The air smelled of salt water and burned food.

Not long after reaching Galley Street, Jason found a battered board hanging over a nondescript entrance. Weathered and cracked, the light-blue board held the words “Salt Sea Inn,” hand painted in black by an amateur. The establishment looked narrower than many of the inns on the street, and among the least prosperous. The Salt Sea Inn had small, grimy windows, and the unremarkable door was six steps down from street level.

Jason descended the steps and entered. The common room reeked of fried fish, sweat, and wood smoke. Craggy men slumped at tables or at the bar, many of them alone. Jason saw no women, and no groups larger than three. He caught a few sidelong glances, surly looks that hinted he didn’t belong.

Without a plan, Jason would have backed out onto the street and found another inn. But he was supposed to find the curly-haired barkeeper and ask for a room with a view of the coast. That was how Bat had explained Jason would connect with Nia and the other drinlings.

Behind the bar a man with curly brown hair was wiping a mug with a dirty rag. A tiny hoop pierced one ear, and tattoos crawled across his wiry forearms. Jason crossed to him and leaned against the bar, hoping he looked less out of place than he felt.

“What’ll it be?” the barman asked.

“I need a room with a view of the coast,” Jason said.

The barman smirked. “Nothing like that here, mate. Ashley can show you what we have. Ashley!”

“One moment,” a female voice answered from the kitchen.

A man seated at the bar swiveled to face Jason. He had a droopy face with rough skin and three parallel scars on his jaw. Silver teeth glinted as he spoke. “What are you playing at, bumpkin?”

“Excuse me?” Jason said.

“Look at the manners on this one!” the man chuckled, brushing shaggy hair back from his brow. “You smell like dung. Run back to your farm, boy. This place is for men of the sea.”

Jason noticed that the comments had drawn the attention of some of the other customers. They appeared to share the sentiment. At best they looked amused by the prospect of trouble. Several expressions seemed hostile. Should he try to ignore the insult? Should he stand up for himself? He didn’t want to draw too much attention.

“I could use bodies in my rooms,” the barman intervened.

The man at the bar waved away the comment. “I can leave his body wherever you like. Go on, hayseed, scurry out of here. Last chance.”

“Morley, I can’t have you running off paying—”

“I’ll cover the cost of the room,” Morley barked. “Unless you’d side with a stranger over a regular?”

Everyone in the room was watching intently. The curly-haired barman shrugged. “It’s your money, Morley.” The barkeeper locked eyes with Jason. “You had better go.”

Jason was at a loss. He needed to connect with Nia. But if he started a fight, it could lead to lots of unwanted attention. Soldiers might get involved. Also, alone and unarmed he would probably end up dead.

“Is there a problem here?” asked a voice from behind.

Jason glanced back to find Jasher crossing the room. The seedman had already discarded his pots and pans. Jason felt relief at the sight of him, and also a bit embarrassed that he had messed up a simple task by seeming too out of place.

“What’s it to you?” asked Morley.

“I sent my servant ahead to book a room,” Jasher replied.

Jason took the cue and gave a shamefaced half bow toward Jasher.

Morley looked over at Jason and coughed out a harsh laugh. “Fine servant you found! What are you, brothers? Cousins? You two had better shove off. Take your comedy elsewhere. You picked the wrong inn.” Morley turned and hunched over the bar as if the discussion were finished. He picked up a bone off the platter before him and nibbled at the scant remaining meat.

Jasher approached the man calmly, his expression serious but not overtly threatening. Most other men in the room watched with interest, some hiding their attention better than others. Jasher stopped directly behind Morley. “Would you care to explain yourself?”

“To a farmhand?” The man spun and stabbed a dagger at Jasher. The seedman twisted, avoiding the thrust, and grabbed Morley’s extended arm at the wrist. With his free hand Jasher seized Morley by his shaggy hair and flung him to the floor.

Still clutching his dagger, Morley glared up at Jasher.

“Stay down,” Jasher warned. “Isn’t there enough trouble in your life without seeking more?”

“Who do you think—” Morley began as he started to rise. He didn’t get more out, because Jasher kicked him hard in the ankle, a quick sweeping motion that dumped Morley back onto the ground.

Jason managed not to flinch away from the sudden flurry of motion. He tried to watch the crowd in case somebody attacked Jasher from behind. He noticed a bottle on the bar that might serve as a better weapon than nothing if things escalated.

“Don’t try to get up again, or you’ll lose the option,” Jasher threatened. “Crawl out of here. Don’t provoke strangers. You never know who you’re speaking with.”

“You somebody important?” Morley mocked. “Growing some nice carrots this year?”

Jasher’s expression remained stern but controlled. “You assume too much, friend. I know what you are. I know what this place is. In your line of work, have you never played a part? Have you never dressed or acted out of character?” Jasher looked around the room in disgust. “How raw are the amateurs in this town if the patrons of an establishment such as this assume everyone is as they appear? Are we your first visitors from beyond the region?”