Honor-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book III ]

14

Uachi cast an eye around the crowded ale house and said, "Will you walk with me, Diarmán?"

Diarmán gave him a crooked smile and an appraising look from under his long lashes. In the low light cast from the candle on the table, those lashes were golden. "Set my expectations, Uachi: is it just information you want?"

Confused, Uachi knit his brow. "What else?"

With a subtly disappointed expression, Diarmán stood. "Come on." He reached underneath the table and picked up a pack. Then he struck out for the door, weaving his way through the crowded tables. Uachi shouldered his own pack and followed.

As they passed a table crowded with rowdy patrons, something pinged off the back of Diarmán's head. Uachi snatched it from the air out of instinct: it was a scrap of bread, rolled into a hard ball. Diarmán turned, and another piece bounced off his cheek. Uachi looked in the direction whence the missiles issued and saw a ruddy-cheeked woman sitting on a man's lap, laughing.

"Come on, Uachi," Diarmán muttered, closing his hand around Uachi's wrist. Uachi shook him off.

"Go on, pig," the woman said. "Get out."

"Manál derach," Diarmán said under his breath. "Uachi, I can see you're itching for a fight, but I'll be disappointed if you wreck that handsome nose of yours for my sake." He turned away and headed toward the door.

"Wench," Uachi spat. With a scowl, he followed Diarmán, wondering what the beautiful fool had done to win the ire of so many people.

As soon as they crossed the threshold into the cool night, Uachi breathed a sigh of relief. The roar of the people behind them was dampened by the door when it swung shut, and Diarmán was wasting no time in moving away from the ale house. He had started down the street, and Uachi followed. He kept one hand on his dagger and his ears pricked. He didn't think Diarmán was dangerous, but he wasn't keen on surprises.

"The men who gave you that bruise aren't going to come looking for you again, are they?" asked Uachi, now wondering if Diarmán was unpopular all across the countryside.

Diarmán muttered something under his breath.

"What was that?"

Diarmán stopped walking. He turned to Uachi and said with exaggerated crispness, "It wasn't a band of ruffians, Uachi, it was a child throwing stones."

On another day, in another place, with another man, Uachi might have laughed at that. The thought of a grown person being so abused by a child would have struck him as funny. Here, though, it struck him as unsettling. Instead of pursuing the subject, he switched tacks and asked, "What's manál derach?"

"Something you should never call a lady." Diarmán's taut expression melted into amusement. "So, my friend: what is it you wanted to talk about with less company?"

"Do you have lodgings? Somewhere private?"

"No." Diarmán looked up at the darkened sky. "I've a bedroll and a sore back, a lone traveler's lot."

Uachi looked around. There was no one on the road at this hour, but he could never be certain who was listening. He lowered his voice. "This place Aólane, where is it?"

"It isn't very far from House Olarian, where that bitch pretender is holed up," Diarmán said. He turned from Uachi and started to walk again. "If you're from Penrua you likely content yourself with ignorance about the broader world, but you may have heard of her. She styles herself the High Queen, but if she's a queen it's of nothing but lies and sh—"

He staggered back so suddenly that he collided with Uachi.

"What the—" Uachi, acting on instinct, pushed Diarmán forward by the shoulders. "Watch where you're going!"