Daughter of Azeroth

51 | THE PIG AND WHISTLE

'So Logan walks in, right, like some kind of hero, wearing all his armour, and a big old gash across his head, carrying this girl in his arms, and says to me, he says: could I look after her for a few nights until she gets better. And you know how much I fancy him, right? I mean, he's so delicious, I just couldn't say no, but now here's me thinking, who is she and why is he making her my problem? And anyway what's in it for me? I mean, besides the silver he paid me.'

Idira opened her eyes. She lay in four poster bed covered by a threadbare canopy, heavily patched. Two tallow candles stood in cheap iron holders, their flames bobbing up and down, caught in a draught, sending up little gouts of black smoke. In the candleholders' drip pans, puddles of melted tallow shimmered, greasy. One candle holder perched on top of a scuffed, otherwise bare dresser, the other stood right at the edge of a rickety bedside table, its candle jammed into the holder at a crooked angle so its fat dripped down the side of a gouged and scarred cabinet and onto the stone-flagged floor.

The light from the candles made Idira's eyes hurt. She closed them again, sensing an awakening ache, a deep hollowness gnawing at her, suffusing her in grief, though she had no idea why. Something had happened. Something terrible. She struggled to remember. Whatever it was, it felt important. Flashes of memories, sharp as lightning appeared, incoherent, only to disappear just as quickly. She searched her mind, washed clean like the shore of the beach at low tide. Nothing.

From outside the half-open door came the clatter of crockery and the steady clop clop of someone chopping vegetables against a wooden board. Further away, laughter, singing, the merry strings of a fiddle, playing a jig. Someone called for more wine in a shouty, obnoxious voice. The delicious smell of roasting meat and the warmth of fresh baked buns mingled with the sour tang of spilled ale, all of it overlaid by the pervasive scent of tallow candles and wood smoke.

The voice continued, a little nasally, though it was softened by a pleasing lilt, with just an edge of tease, leaving Idira uncertain whether the woman's words were serious or in jest.

'Now don't you be looking at me like that Ryback, you know Logan's had me once or twice, well,' she giggled, 'more'n twice. And the last time, he even stayed all the way until the morning, although it might have been because he was so drunk, but still, don't you be telling me he's not thinking of taking things further, alright? But this favour he's asked of me, well, it takes the biscuit. Who does he think he is dumping some girl on me like that, without so much as telling me her name or what she is to him?'

Ryback, whoever they were, said nothing. The sound of chopping continued, steady and calm, like the hooves of a plodding horse.

'Anyway,' she continued, lowering her voice, conspiratorial, 'I don't like the look of her. She's got strange eyes. When Logan laid her on the bed, she opened them a little, and I swear on Lord Uther's grave her eyes glowed bright purple. Like nothing I ever saw in my life. Gave me the willies, it did.'

The chopping ceased. 'Don't you have tables to be seeing to, Elly?' a man asked, his voice gravelly and a little rough, like he drank and smoked a lot. The chopping started again, at exactly the same pace.

'Well! I never!' Elly exclaimed in mock outrage. 'What's got into you?' She laughed, though it sounded a little mean. Idira could hear the sound of crockery being loaded onto a tray, careless. 'Oooh, maybe our Ryback has a thing for our new guest. Maybe he wants to give her some Ryback sausage, eh? You do like it freaky don't you. I heard about you and that draenei healer, Maegan told me.'

The chopping slowed for a beat, then continued, a little faster and definitely much louder.

'Logan's girl is real pretty,' Ryback finally replied, obviously choosing to ignore Elly's taunt. He stopped chopping. An empty pot clanged onto the table followed by the scrape of a knife against the cutting board. A cascade of thuds as the vegetables tumbled into the pot. 'Curves in all the right places. Can see why he likes her, purple eyes aside.'