11. Heartless Pete's Tavern

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The carriages that had torn through the streets a week ago had come to a permanent rest outside town.

Every day their chimneys had smoke drifting out. Sometimes, at dawn, figures ventured out into the forest, presumably for food and firewood. Sylvia took a mad guess and assumed the lunatics in town this week came from the carriages.

A month had passed since the raid.

She left the house in the afternoon and walked to the tavern. Rent was paid; thanks to refreshing milk, she got to walk down the street, work in the castle, and catch food on Lord Goddard's land for another month. She had a full stomach. Her throat was dry.

The tavern had two floors. At the bottom, people talked and drank beer. On the top, people talked, played cards, and drank beer. The walls were old, smelling of dew, rain, and piss. The place was collapsing. It was not unheard of for a stray cat to fall through the weak-straw roof and onto someone's table.

Sunday night, there were candles on the tables and backsides on every stool. Stinking beer engulfed the air. Azra was slung over the bar sipping from a large mug. Upon seeing Sylvia, his face displayed amusement.

'Evening Azra, drinking beer after a hard day's joust?' She raised a hand as his smile diminished. 'What did you get up to today? Archery? Armed combat?'

'I scrubbed down the stables with a sponge.' He let loose a sigh. 'Those horses have severe bowel problems.'

Bobby was hunched over the bar. The last time she had checked, her brother was sleeping in the shack, doing nothing. He must've followed the squires into here. Bobby tapped his fingers on the bar and paid close attention to Zair, planting on his shoulder. Her brother wasn't drinking, and good: for him, water from the local well was the only thing allowed. As long as he kept on tapping his fingers, she was happy.

Zair's face was buried into a mug, his last three mugs thrown aside near the wall, while Lou had grabbed a seat with his drink, taking slow, methodical sips. Even Wally was here: crouched in the corner, back against the wall, plucking a single string on his mandolin.

Seeing Wally, Sylvia skidded back and knocked on a chair.

'That's right,' Heartless Peter called from the bar, 'I went wild when I had my first beer too.'

She slid onto his bar. 'Great idea. I'd love a beer.'

'Where are your manners?'

'Oh, sorry!' She clasped a hand over her mouth. 'Please?'

He wore an eyepatch over his left eye. If someone new in town found themselves sitting on his bar-stool, then the story of him going to the highlands, losing an eye to Scots, and returning to set up his own tavern, never went without an overlong telling.

Pete poured her a beer and shoved it over so fast, the mug thumped her chest. She took a few gulps.

She pointed at Bobby. 'You best not be drinking.'

'Don't worry sister, you're the perfect example.'

'No, no,' she said, between gulps. 'I'm not having that. If anyone's going to be a bad example, then it's going to be me.'

'Yes you're drinking, quite a lot I might add.'

She raised the mug to her lips, drank from it, and didn't look at him.

'Because I'm older and I've fought off Scots…'

'I was right there with you fighting Scots, or have you forgotten?'

'And I've fought off wolves,' she said.

She finished her drink.

She felt her face lose its colour.

'Wait a minute,' Bobby was saying, 'sorry, did I miss something? When did you fight off wolves?'

She walked over to Azra where, in her state, he looked nicer than usual. He rested back against the bar.

'Azra, how are you?'

Silence.

She felt him staring over her head: into a room full of more-interesting drunk people; Zair, for instance, who was throwing his mug around while Bobby tried to restrain him.

Azra blinked, then scratched his nose.

She tried again.

'Hello?'

Pure cold-blooded silence.

'Azra?'

She tugged his sleeve — he yanked it back, and then taking a few fingers, straightened his wrist-cuff.

He wouldn't even look at her.

Sylvia walked over to the end of the bar, past Bobby and Zair. There, she finished another drink. She gulped it down in quick mouthfuls, the beer splashing over her chin and shirt.

Everyone had their faces inside mugs. People talked here and there, but everyone was drinking and attempting to forget month's bloodthirsty raid. Sylvia was trying to forget something else. With each sip, the wolf in the study grew fainter. The pain in her arm didn't. A titan-of-a-headache was going to roar away the next morning. Heh. Sylvia closed her eyes as the beer swam into her mouth. Imagine that roaring titan, spewing out hellfire — better than the stuff she'd most likely be spewing out tomorrow. The bar was descending into a blur, everyone talking slow, the lights getting hotter —

Wally kept on plucking the same note.

He stood up, walked forward, and pounced onto an empty table, landing with his arms out wide. Impressive. That said, Sylvia was the lone onlooker. Nobody paid attention or flinched — that would be an encouragement. Wally was not one for determent. He held his mandolin out, lowered his hand, and began a different, faster tune.

'Give me, give me, give me beer any day of the year,' he bellowed out, on top of his voice. 'I'm not going anywhere, I'm right here/ Give me beer any day of the year/ Oh please good sir, be a dear/ give me beer any day of the year…'

Heartless Peter's Tavern had cleared out, leaving only a few horrified tables. The other customers bickered in annoyance. Sylvia's squire friends slouched against the bar, unable to stop the horror on table 3. No point whatsoever. If anyone went up and told him to stop, he would just continue.

'Give me beer January, February, March, April, May/ Give me beer on June, July, August days/ September, October, November, December, give me beer/ Yes, even on a leap year, pull me up another cup and give me beer.'

Heartless Peter refrained from serving. He bent over the bar, his hands cupped, spiritually defeated. Tonight's business had gone into oblivion.

'Give me beer January 1st, give me beer,' Wally went on. 'Give me beer, January 2nd, give me beer/ Give me beer January 3rd give me beer.'

Sylvia slapped her hands on the bar. 'Please, may I have another?

Pete slapped a cleaning cloth on the bar.

'Sylvie, what happened to the little girl who used to point at Lord Goddard's carriage and scream "look, here comes the horsies!" What happened?'

Sylvia shook her head.

She strolled up to the table and watched Wally. Up close he was spectacular, poking his fingers at furious speed, concentrating wholly on the mandolin. His only audience, she watched him in fascination.

'When the full moon rises, there'll be big surprises/ I'll be lucky if the sun even rises/ when the full moon rises, I'll be alone again, whoa…'

He broke into another melody, working those strings, plucking them hard and tight. Then he looked left, just in time to see a beer mug smack into his face. Someone at the bar having suffered enough. She spun around to see Zair curling his hand, relishing his throw. Wally made an odd oof sound, then took a step sideways and tumbled off the table, into the floor.

For a few seconds…silence.

Then everyone began talking again.

Bobby sat, looking up at Zair the way Greek poets used to look up at the moon. She tapped his arm, pointing to the door.

'Brother, let's go.'

'But sister, I'm finally enjoying myself.'

'That's lovely,' she said, 'but we're leaving.'

She picked him up and dragged him across the bar, past Zair, Azra, and Louis who had risen from his chair —

'Sylvie, is everything okay? Don't worry, the music's stopped!'

She opened the door with a boot-tip. At dusk the town roads were dim, the hills sickly green, the skies pink in the sunset.

She released Bobby and walked to a corner of the road where she was alone to cry. What was that? Tears? Impossible to believe a month ago she had fought off a wolf.

She didn't feel so tough now.

Sylvia walked into the hills just as it was growing dark; any minute now, the moon would appear. Under her sleeve, she felt that scar on her arm itching again.