Cylus 7th Arc 722
For some reason, the Inn for Dinner seemed … different today. Off. Wrong.
Oberan strolled in with the chiming of a small bell above the door, only to be assaulted by that feeling. From behind the bar one of the serving girls glanced up from her work to bid him welcome, then returned to whatever she was doing. Removing bottles from their shelf to sweep non-existent dust away with a damp rag. Polishing the bottles some too, holding them against the light to check for shine and shimmer, make them catch the light just right. Then placing it back on the shelf in organized fashion, lined up straight like a military salute, labels all facing forward.
Busywork, Oberan guessed, just something to keep her hands occupied, combat the tedium and make time go by a little faster.
In fact, most of the staff did something similar. When entering, he’d spotted another girl sweeping floors atop the stairs. In the taproom, a third wiped tables. A pair of them behind the bar, a little ways away from the first waitress, had teamed up washing tankards and glasses. One to soak and clean them in soapy water, the other to rub them dry with a rag that’d seen better days.
As he wandered over to a table near the middle of the room, it somehow seemed more spacious than he remembered, more open. Floorboards squeaked softly under his feet, a sound that didn’t fit. A frown emerged. Had they always done that? It was hard to tell.
Without anyone in the room bar him, another stray customer or two, and the serving staff, the Inn oozed with unnerving quiet. Behind the bar, the girls chatted at low volume, and there was the occasional thump of bottles being placed on wood, or the ringing of a wineglass when the girl with the dishcloth dried it clean. But nothing that really chased away the quiet.
The few customers present preserved it too. Both were seated by their lonesome, one reading a newspaper, fluttering the large sheets when turning a page or straightening it with a quick shake when the paper sagged. He drank tea intermittently, porcelain cup chinking against saucer when he returned to his paper. The other man in the room played a solitary game of cards, sipping from a frothing mug of stout. Again, nothing to really break the silence.
Far removed from the usual din. Loud, boisterous voices, laughter, music, and many, many tankards being slammed down on tables.
Ah, but of course. In hindsight, it was really obvious.
“Can I get you anything?”
He’d barely sat down before the girl wiping tables sauntered up to him, glad to have something substantial to do.
“Whiskey, please. Daringtons.”
“Coming right up,” she said, before half-turning to the bar, and loudly repeating his order. The girl busying herself with the bottles gave a thumbs up and browsed the collection.
“Slow day today?”
The girl smiled. “No, it’s always like this. Mornings are busy, with all the guests needing to be served breakfast. Midday too. Lot of people come in for lunch. We’re rushing from table to table the whole time. In the between hours? It’s the opposite, as you can see. Things only really start to pick back up around dinner time, and last until closing. You’re about an hour early.”
“Oh, I see. That makes sense. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it this empty.”
“Not many people do.” She let out a brief chuckle, then shifted her stance, moving her weight from one foot to the other. “Like I said, few people come in during the slow hours. And if you’ve only ever seen the Inn at its busiest, well, it feels like an entirely different place. Lot of people seem to think we’re stuffed to the gills with patrons all hours of the day. We’d all have grey hairs if that was true.” Another chuckle.
Oberan allowed a hint of a smile to quirk his lips. “Good for business though.”
“For business, yes, but not for me!”
From behind the bar, the serving girl previously polishing bottles gestured, and the one chatting to Oberan excused herself for a few moments. When she returned, she smiled apologetically. “Seems we’re out of Daringtons. Someone ordered rounds by the bottle yesterday night, and didn’t stop until we were all out.”
“Must have been someone with deep pockets.”
“Some kind of ministry official, if I remember correctly.”
One with good taste, apparently. Oberan could forgive them for leaving no drop undrunk.
“It was probably some kind of celebration. Large group of them, drinking the same all night. Must have really enjoyed it. Maybe I’ll try mixing in kola syrup too sometime.”
On second thought, I’ll kill ‘em. Slow and painful. Drown him in his fucking syrup.
He managed not to sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose, though his easy smile stiffened. What was happening here? Had the Inn always been a breeding ground for whiskey barbarians?
“Anyway, we have other whiskeys available still. Holsmann Thirteen, Oakside Park, Doughal & Smiths, Wimmerson’s, Yaralon Purple,…”
The choice came easy, by virtue of the process of elimination. Holsmann tasted like burnt cigar ashes. Oakside prided itself on its 'crisp apple flavor’, but Oberan had never been able to discern where that taste hid. Probably within the assaulting stomach acid-like tanginess, in which case he really wanted to know what kind of horrid apples they used, or how they managed to mangle them so. If he had to describe Doughal & Smiths’s palate, he’d liken it to being punched in the throat first, and then being forced to swallow burning lamp oil. As for Wimmerson’s… well, that one was less blended whiskey and more bland whiskey.
Only Yaralon Purple remained. He’d never ordered it before on account of its price tag. Imported stuff from across Idalos usually had its value inflated quite a bit. Transport costs and all that. But if there ever was a time to try, it was now. The girl nodded, returned to the bar with a skip and a bounce, and plonked down a glass only a few moments later.
Perhaps he should have expected as much, but the drink was actually surprisingly purple. Sure it was in the name, but he’d figured it was just that; a name. Oberan squinted at it, a glare laced with suspicion and prejudice. Why was it purple? What was wrong with the usual amber color? Was this even safe to ingest? For some reason he expected its bottle to be round-bellied with a skull and crossbones painted across.
The putrid color, no doubt.
Its suspect hue aside, the liquor smelled strong, of hard alcohol, like any other whiskey. A hint of spice floating somewhere underneath. Oberan swirled it around the glass, gave it another whiff, closing his eyes for improved focus. Yes, there definitely was some combination of spices present in its bouquet, as the pompous posho’s bombastically called it.
Oberan took an exploratory sip, and froze the moment it came into contact with his tongue. Nostrils flaring, eyes clouding. He swallowed it quick, foregoing any savoring whatsoever, and dared not breathe for some time. When he finally did, he swore he felt his tongue go numb, unable to taste anything anymore.
This wasn’t whiskey, it was rat poison! Some vile alchemical concoction that made entire fields of lush grass wither and die when you spilled a single drop on the soil. A dart laced with this stuff could wring the life out of King Crocodiles, causing them to thrash and roil in agony for hours before they eventually, finally passed on.
With great effort, Oberan suppressed the violent rocking of his shoulders, shuddering of his body, and the contorting of all his facial muscles. Instead sitting there, still like a statue, wondering when the paralysis would set in, and how long it’d take for it to reach and stop his heart.
“Is it to your liking?”
Next to him, the serving girl still stood, smiling innocent and curious, and above all, polite. Oberan turned to her woodenly, somehow managing something resembling a grimace. “Well, it’s quite… special… Yes. Unlike any other I’ve come across.”
Though Doughal & Smiths did come close, in much the same way the pain of a papercut came anywhere close to that of being disemboweled.
“Everyone who orders it says the same. Is it that different from our own whiskeys?”
Around his mouth, some muscle twitched, threatening to pull a corner up into a wicked grin. An idea popped into his head, fully formed, too delicious to resist. “Oh yes, quite. You’ve never had it before? Would you like to try?” he said casually, sliding the glass her way. Smooth like a viper slithering through tall grass.
She glanced around, bit her lip. All her colleagues were still preoccupied with their busywork. Neither Velvessa or Mah’ludre were anywhere to be seen. “I don’t think I’m supposed to—”
“It’s been paid for,” Oberan argued, shrugging languid. “It’s not like you’re sneaking a sip from the bottle. But if you’d rather not…” He reached for the glass again, deliberately slow.
“Don’t tell my bosses.” She gave in, hurriedly grabbing the glass and bringing it to her lips.
“Not a word." He grinned.
She placed the glass back on the table just as quick as she’d taken it, nostrils wide, lips pressed tightly together. Several expressions warred across her face, thoughts and instincts clashing with etiquette and social norms. She glanced his way, betrayal in her eyes, and Oberan did his utmost to keep his grin on the inside.
Then she swallowed, and the worst part hit her. Made her face pucker in on itself as if she’d been forced to eat the lemoniest of lemons. There were tears in her eyes, and for just a moment –a tiny, teensy fraction of a breath—Oberan felt a twang of guilt. But mirth and schadenfreude pushed it aside instantly when she began to violently cough.
“Not quite my type of whiskey, I think,” she rasped. “The flavor’s a bit much for my tastes.”
“It’s rather … unconventional, isn’t it?”
She gave a quick, noncommittal response, then excused herself in the same breath. Citing a sudden, inexplicable hunch that she might be needed in the kitchen, she practically dashed behind the bar and through the kitchen doors. Oberan had no doubt she’d gone in search of water to wash the poison down.
He’d like some himself, really. By far the worst part of the drink –apart from its horrid aftertaste—was that its presence lingered inside his mouth. As if his tastebuds had been damaged beyond repair, and everything would now be flavored like Yaralon’s purple snake venom.
Alas, he could only wash it down with more of the same. The first sip was the worst overall, with the subsequent ones being… well, not better, but tolerable. Mouth already coated in the distinct taste, Oberan grew somewhat more accustomed to it, though he couldn’t really say he enjoyed Yaralon’s finest. It only made him terrified of anything the Yari deemed worse.
Safe to say Oberan didn’t order a second glass, and likely never would.
He nursed the sad excuse for whiskey over a rather extensive period of time, taking small sips until more and more patrons trickled in, and the girl who’d been sweeping the upper floor descended the stairs. Then he finished off his drink in one big gulp, turned the cup upside down on the table with finality, and prayed he’d not go blind.
Chair scraping over the floorboards, he left his table and walked up to the bar. Only one of the girls still staffed it, the others flitting about the room as it slowly began to fill up for dinner. The Inn wasn't nearly packed yet, and already the girls had to rush from table to table. He didn't envy them.
“By the by, would you know if Sophia is in?”
She glanced up in between tapping ale into a series of tankards. “Sophia? Not sure. I think she’s out. Usually comes back for dinner though, so it shouldn’t be too long if you’re willing to wait for a bit.” One by one she set the mugs on a tray, which another girl came to pick up. “Table four," she said, already getting started on the next order. It took her a few moments to recall what she'd been saying before the interruption. "Right, Sophia. If I see her, I can tell her you came calling, if you prefer? Saves you the wait if you've got places to be.”
He considered. “No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll wait for her.” He left the barmaid to her increasing workload, but rather than returning to his table –which had already been claimed by someone else in the few minutes he’d left it—Oberan headed up the stairs.
A narrow hallway separated two rows of doors, numbers etched into the wood. Two of these were occupied by Sophia and her cousin, located opposite of each other. Third door on the side of the stairs, so Nish had said, though she hadn’t known whose room was on which side. Something about hearing it from a friend of a friend of her sister’s, which had muddled the details a bit. Oberan didn’t mind, a one in two chance was plenty.
He picked a door at random, and tried the knob. Locked, of course. That much was expected. Not that it mattered very much at all. Pick in hand, Oberan glanced left and right, then jiggled it around in the lock for a few seconds. It sprung open with a sharp click.
Now this was obviously a man’s room. Not because of the chaos left on the desk, or the disheveled state of the bedsheets, but the pairs of underwear, dirty socks, and other clothes strewn about everywhere on the floor and carpet. For someone who invited guests over on the regular, Mr. Hot Cousin really didn’t bother keeping his room tidy. Then again, Oberan sincerely doubted whether the red-haired guest cared much about a messy desk, and the clothes could be stuffed in the closet within seconds.
Oberan rifled through the items on the desk for a few moments, browsing discarded papers, a bottle or three, and a rather interesting draft. Multiple pages long, with several lines scratched out, and multiple blotches where ink had dripped off an idle quill. He snorted, read the remaining pages too.
A soft scraping rung through the quiet, the sound of steel trying not to sing or hiss. The floor uttered a warning, not as much creaking as the moving a little under the weight of careful steps. Oberan grinned to himself, whipped around. Found himself face to face with a ruggedly handsome fellow. Good jaw, a bit of stubble, broad shoulders, muscular. Pointing a blade at Oberan’s throat.
“Who are you? Who sent you?”
For his part, Oberan grinned infuriatingly. “Ah, you must be Garson. I see the rumors about your looks are greatly exaggerated.”
Gareth’s scowl darkened. “Answer the questions.”
“Now, now, don’t be so hasty, grey one. You’ll find out eventually, don’t worry about it.”
There came no second demand for answers. Instead, Gareth --or Grayson, whichever was his real name-- brought his sword closer, its tip pressing in the skin of Oberan’s throat. Meeting the other man's hard glare, Oberan raised an arm. Taking it as a suspicious action, Gareth pushed the point a little harder in his soft flesh. Not drawing blood just yet, though it did start to hurt. While his grin diminished somewhat, Oberan didn’t quite look as concerned as he maybe should have. Smugness spread across his features instead.
“What the—?”
Mainly because suddenly he was the one holding the sword, aiming it squarely at Gareth’s throat, leaving Sophia’s cousin looking utterly confused. Of course he was. One moment he’d been in full control of the situation, the next the tables turned on him.
Oberan gave a little shrug. “Maybe I should have mentioned. I’m really good at this kind of stuff. Quick fingers and all that. They say I’ve got a gift for sleight of hand.” He stared past the other man, spotting movement in the door opening. A familiar face, and exactly the one he'd come to meet. “Oh hey, Jocelyn! Took you long enough. I’ve been keeping your cousin entertained in the meantime.”
