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Ah, finally leaving Lur and picking up with another character I enjoy.
Lur was convinced. He had no particular love for humanity in general and little concept of a future far beyond his lifetime, whereas he was willing to take any chance to find his mother, even something as crazy as this adventure. The dragon had led Lord Niam straight to him, after all. That was convincing, given the size of Deneba. Maybe it truly could find one woman in a city of thousands.
That night, he slipped out, found his way to the part of the city he knew, found a friend, and left a message for Paka that all was safe (by which she'd know he meant the box) and that he'd be back in a few weeks. Then he returned to the fancy inn, slipped back through the window, and caught a few hours' sleep before one of the servants roused him. Just as the sun was creating long shadows in the courtyard, he set out with Lord Niam's party, clinging to a saddle on the back of an ancient, patient horse and trying to look as if all was right with the world, as far as he was concerned.
Chapter 7: Geram
Ah. Now, this is more like it. Geram grinned happily, and a bit sloppily, as the crowd followed him and – what was the man's name? Pelne? something like that – out of the tavern and into the green. Feet trampled the grass as the men and women formed a ring around the two. Geram thought, The mayor isn't going to like that, and laughed.
Willing hands helped him strip out of his shirt. The chill spring evening made his skin shudder, but thankfully it wasn't cold enough to sober him.
A woman shouted, "Beat him, Geram, and I'll buy you a drink!", and a man shouted, "Lose and I'll buy you two!" Raucous laughter mingled with the fumes of ale and beer, and coins chinked as the usual bets were made. Geram shook his arms to loosen his muscles, stumbled a little in his intoxication, sized up his opponent, who was larger than him but also more drunk, and was completely happy.
The bruiser, whose name was actually Pebni, had fists the size and hardness of quarry rocks, but after Geram had taken a few hits, he could see the man was slow, as big men often were. Even with a few too many pints in him, he could dodge the punches and weave around the swings. If his own blows had little effect on the man, that was fine. It just meant a longer fight and more fun, and a good thirst afterward. He couldn't even remember what the argument was about now. That didn't matter. What mattered was the exhilaration of the fight.
They had been battling for about ten minutes, and Geram was just beginning to breathe hard. The other man was wheezing, but as Geram thought the fight might be won and that it was time to head back into the bar, Pebni surprised him by jumping at him with both arms outspread. Geram ducked back but stumbled again, and he was caught up in a bearlike embrace.
"Sorry, you're not my type," he protested, bringing a roar of laughter from the watchers. Pebni grinned, showing all his bloodied teeth, and began to squeeze. Geram yelped. "Keep that up, my lad, and you'll have my whole night's drinking on your head." Even straining back with all his strength, he could feel the bones of his back begin to creak.
But Geram had been raised on the northern beaches and, like many young men there, had spent some time with the pirates who sheltered in those lawless waters. He walloped Pebni on one ear, and when the man jerked his head to one side to avoid the blow, he sank his teeth into the earlobe.
With a yell that made Geram's ears ring, Pebni threw him down and held his injured ear cupped in a tender hand. Geram fell heavily in the grass; he tried to rise, but his feet slid out from under him, and he fell down again, laughing helplessly. Pebni tried to kick him, still cupping his ear, and Geram rolled out of the way, still laughing. He fetched up between the sandaled feet of one of the waitresses and looked up at her. "Sweetheart, bring me a pint," he begged.
Pebni grabbed his foot and dragged him back into the center of the improvised ring. To avoid getting his foot twisted and possibly broken, Geram kicked at the man's groin with his other foot, missing the spot he'd aimed for, but coming close enough that Pebni dropped his leg.
He tried to get up, but his head was spinning. He made it to his hands and knees. Before him, Pebni stood, fists bunched again, blood running in a narrow thread from the wounded ear. But the man was weaving where he stood, nearly as spent as Geram himself. Geram forced himself onto his feet, smiled, and gestured with both hands. "Come on, then. Get your piece of me."
Pebni charged like a bull. Geram stepped lightly out of the way and stuck out a foot, tripping him. The man plunged down and plowed a furrow in the grass with his chin. Geram winced sympathetically.
Pebni rolled over and said something obscene. Everyone laughed. Geram said, "Oh, come on now, it was a good fight and we'll call it a draw, shall we? Because, my lad, if that didn't put you out, nothing that I can do will do the trick."
"Had a lot to drink," Pebni admitted unnecessarily as he accepted Geram's hand to help him up. "Numbed me."
"A few more will put you right out. Let's go have some," Geram said, draping a friendly arm over the man's bulky shoulders.
A hand came down on his shoulder, firmly, and gripped. "I'd like to talk to you before you go back in there," a voice said behind him.
He turned, curious but willing. The hand belonged to a woman, but not a woman of the type he liked. This one had her hair cut short, and she was skinny and too old for him. Not to mention she was armed. "You the watch?" he asked, bemused.