Arc 4: Matters of Degree

4 – 1

“What, students, is the difference a flame that burns in the hearth and one that runs wild? What differs between the light of our blessed sun and that of the accursed moon? What is it that makes one loved and the other feared? I put it to you that, fundamentally, there is no difference. Fire, whether divine or worldly, burns. What we perceive as difference is simply matters of degree.”

– Luther Young, Former Lecturer at the Academy Arcane in Talent, City of Spells.

- - -

Parting ways with Clarke at the opened front of the Rest Luxuriant, Valdenwood's inn and tavern, leaves me feeling very drained and somewhat sad. It's rather as if, by leaving her, all that energy that today's festivities cost has come due in a single moment. Just inside the threshold I look back, only to see the dark swing of her hair swallowed by the deepening night. She does not look back, which serves to further sadden me. I'm not sure it would be better if she had, or worse. I's clear by now that as far as Clarke is concerned, I'm unsure of most things. Now that she's gone, it's even more irritating than before, and I haven't the energy to puzzle it out.

So tired I can feel it dragging down my limbs, I head further in. The Rest is doing well for itself tonight, going by the tables and bar full of people well on their way to full, slovenly drunkenness. The bar itself takes up the wall on the left, behind which stands a broad-shouldered woman of some age, her snow-colored hair drawn into a smooth bun. Stairs wrap up and climb over the bar, leading to what I assume are rooms on the second floor. Nine round, wooden tables, scarred by age and long use, fill the rest of the taproom. The noise is tremendous. The smell, even more so.

As I make my way to the bar and the old woman behind it, weaving through the staggering patrons as though it were a dance, an image drifts up from my memory's depths. It's of me and the fate I had imagined for myself: seated on a stool in a room as packed as this, aglow with golden lamplight, making a bard of myself for shelter, coin, and food. I had felt trapped, caged, when I first thought of it. Now, a shudder crawls down my spine.

Night after night after night.

I'd rather sleep with the eels.

There is not a single empty stool for me to sit at in front of the bar, so I take up a place at its end. From here I can see the long line of drunks, the sort who prefer to fall from higher elevations than those at the tables, stretch away from me. Their faces are ruddy, their eyes glassy, their mouths wet. I dislike their look as much as their smell; sweat and sour drink joined in horrid union. My grip on the strap of my satchel tightens.

The old woman brings a full mug to one of the people bellied-up to her bar. The drunk takes it, sips from it, and recoils, face twisting as if what she'd served him was filled to the brim with the sourest liquid imaginable. The woman folds her arms and sets her shoulders as he spits back into the mug, ready for the argument that ensues. His complaints strike and slide ineffectually off the stony set of her face. Her reply puts a stubborn furrow on his brow. His reply makes her raise her voice, loud and strong enough to cut clean through the noise.

“Because ye've had enough, ya daffy bastard! Ye can barely stand now, can't you?!” She rolls right over his attempt to argue further. “If I says ye've had enough, ye've had enough! Now drinks yer tea, pays yer tab, and fetch yer silly arse t'bed afore I thumps ye 'cross the noggin! Don't ye tests me now, ye knows I will!”

It seems he does, for the drunk does exactly as bid, though with a pout I'd only ever seen on the face of Tals when told or having discovered bedtime was upon him. After watching him take few, misery-faced swallows of tea the old woman rolls her eyes and turns, seeing me at the end of her bar. When she gets close, she hops down from the raised platform that had until then run unseen along the length of the bar. Doing so puts the top of her head well below my chin. The old woman looks up at me with a glint of curiosity in her steel-gray eyes and says, “And who are ya, nows?”

It's something of a shock to see, for the first time in my life, a dwarf. I blame that little shock, combined with the lingering discomfort and overall weariness, for why I say “You're a dwarf,” instead of actually answering her.

She snorts and folds her arms, showing a long-faded tattoo along a forearm. “Nice to see yer eyes work, whoever ye might be. This is my place, an' I'll know what yer doin' in it, now.”

With embarrassment mixed in along with the rest, it takes quite the effort to get my mind and words aligned. Face burning, I say, “Please, forgive me. My name is Zira, and –”

“Pleasure to meets ye, Miss Zira,” She interrupts. “I'm Agnes.” She waves at hand at me. “Go on.”

I do, “...and I was looking to rent a room for the night, as well as a bath.”

Agnes nods and says, “In the rights place, ye are. Got best o' both in all the Timberland. Ye've coin?” I tell her I do, and she nods again. “For the night, a beds will go for a pair o' coppers. A full baths is five, a bucket o' warm waters an' soap bar is three. What'll it be?”

- - -

How much coin do I have? Now that I think of it, I haven't counted a single piece of the little hoard in my satchel. Opening it to look inside some the tavern's yellow lamplight catches on the little bed of metal and produces a faint glimmer. There's a respectable amount of brassy-brown coppers, a three-diminished group of silvers, and still those three fat, shining golds. I reach in to retrieve the seven coppers that will get me a full, glorious bath and a bed, and stop when my fingertips touch the metal. This is all I have. It appears to, and may very well be, a considerable sum, but it is all I have. It had looked like a fortune when Mother and Father gave it to me, more riches than I would ever know what to do with.

It's easy to imagine handing over the seven and the luxury that would follow: a wide, round tub of wooden slats held watertight by iron bands. It would be large enough for me to rest my head on one end and stretch my legs out, just barely brushing the far side with my toes. Clean, sharp-smelling soap wrapped in a roughspun cloth, scouring the filth from my skin until I was finally, blessedly clean. I've earned that much after everything, haven't it?

I rather think I have. I take out the seven coppers and hold them out to Agnes, saying, “I'd like a room for the night, please, and a full bath.”

Agnes takes the little handful of coin into her calloused hand and sorts them, counting aloud until she reaches seven, then dropping them into a pocket with a nod. “Good choice,” she congratulates, “now, if ye'll bides here a moment, I'll fetch t'girl an' she can shows ye the baths.” Then she turns on her heel and bellows across the crowded taproom, “Edith! Get yerself overs here, I've a bar to run!”

A voice from the crowd calls back, “Alright, gran, I'm on me way!” Sure enough, the speaker puts word to deed and emerges. She's dwarven, like Agnes, though much younger. Their eyes are the same steel-gray, hers taking me in with a keen interest. Edith's hair is blonde and short, strands dampened with sweat. She turns her attention away from me and onto Agnes. “What d'ye need?” she asks, “I've a madhouse out there needs runnin'.”

“Leaves the runnin' to me for now and get this'un,” Agnes thumbs at me, “set up in the baths. Puts her in room six when she's done, hm?”

“Right,” Edith says, nodding. She looks to me and gestures for me to follow, “Come on, then, s'this way.” I follow Edith around to the foot of the stairs. She pushes through the door next to them and leads me down a hallway. The door swinging shut behind us cuts out most of the taproom's noise. “So,” she says after a moment, “what brings ye here, if ye don' mind me asking?”

The question jars my memory. The Royah clan, encamped on the city limits of Port Viara, is the only stop on my walking road that I must make, and it had slipped my mind. It's embarrassing. No, beyond that: it's shameful. It's been a long, trying couple of days, but that's no excuse. “I'm traveling south,” I answer. Edith nods, humming. She doesn't know I'm Royah, that I'm more a failure of one than a success at this point. She won't, either. “Port Viara,” I add. She nods again.

We stop outside a closed door with a rounded, shining brass knob. Edith gives me a curious look of raised brows over her shoulder as she takes a key to its lock. “On foot, eh?”

I shrug, following her in as she pushes the door open with her shoulder. “It's not that far.”

Edith shrugs and says something, but I'm not listening. I've found a gentle, sunlit heaven in the sight before me. A wide, circular tub wide enough for me to stretch myself across takes front and center. Next to it, a stool; roughspun washcloth draped over its seat. A basin, its washboard's metal ribs catching the lamplight, is set against the far wall. The whole room smells of hot water and soap, and I can hardly wait for Edith to leave. She clears her throat, drawing my attention. Oh, that's amusement on her face, clear as day. “Soap's in th' cabinet over there,” she says, pointing with her chin. “Needs anything else?”

A particularly ferocious itch ripples across my skin. I'm so close. “No,” I say, quickly, “thank you, I should be fine.”

Edith nods. “I'll brings yer room key here in a bit. Enjoy yerself.” Then, she leaves, closing the door behind her. Silence fills the room. I breathe in, filling my chest with the wet air, smelling hot water and soap. Then, I do as she suggests, and enjoy myself. I've earned that, I should think.