Gregory Yates

IT couldn’t really be a better night, thought Manuel gleefully, rubbing his hands together as he surveyed the crowded Seaman’s Flask tavern.

It was full almost to bursting point. Market day had just ended in Migralanio, and scores of finely garbed merchants and tradesmen had come flocking from their stalls and shops, eager to brag about the day’s dealings and purchases over good food and wine. Manuel liked them. They came with their pockets jangling, and staggered out decidedly less burdened. Though, it wasn’t that way with them all. A select few tended to come in grim-faced, and leave even more so. They were the ones who were down on their luck, the ones who hadn’t made great profits that day. Hardly drinking at all, they didn’t make for good business. Or good atmosphere.

People always seemed to enjoy the atmosphere in the Flask. And rightly so, thought Manuel. He had worked so hard - and for such long hours - to bring this place up to scratch. He had hired the best chefs Tilea could offer. He had purchased fine ales and wines, imported from all over the Old World. And now he was reaping the benefits; his little tavern had earned quite a name for itself in the mucky back streets of Migralanio, attracting a richer crowd than the typical inns around it.

Manuel glanced over to the other side of the inn, absent-mindedly rubbing at a glass with a worn rag. The soldiers at the long table were kicking up a fuss again. This time, over the words of a particularly rowdy marching song. Whilst some seemed to think it was ‘Ranald’s Farce’, others would insist that it was something far more obscene. And though Manuel had no place in the argument – all good barmen knew too well that disputes between fighting men were best left alone - he didn’t want his chairs damaged. He set down his glass and leant over to one of the doormen.

“Watch them,” Manuel muttered from the corner of his mouth, “I don’t want anything broken.”

The bouncer nodded, patting his pocket with a broken toothed grin. A muffled clinking sound came from within the tattered cloth, and Manuel instantly felt reassured.

He had hired Gunther from overseas, along with three other doormen – all as dirty and sneaky as one another. They had been sound purchases; the wily barman had found that they were not only good at breaking up fights, but they were excellent at ensuring that the culprits didn’t fight again for a very long time.

A thumping sound made Manuel turn back to the bar. A group of men were sitting there, banging their fists on the wooden surface. The barkeeper opened his mouth to tell them to keep it down, then stopped quickly. They were wearing the distinct blue uniform of the Tilean customs - the tax collectors of the rolling seas. Every trader knew them to be dangerous, if not deadly. One wrong word could get a man tried, and on the gallows by next morning.

Manuel forced himself to keep smiling. “What can I get you, gentlemen?” he asked.

“A better tavern!” called one of them – a podgy faced man, with an ugly scar tracing down his right cheek. The other officers laughed uproariously at his joke, slapping him on the back. Manuel waited placidly, willing himself to keep silent. However much they annoyed him, it wouldn’t do to upset them.

Eventually the mirth lessened, and a different man leant forwards, resting his grubby elbows on the bar. He was thinner than most, and his small, darting eyes possessed a malign intelligence that set him apart from the rest of his bumbling troop. A nasty grin played across his features, and Manuel stiffened. Long years of working behind a bar had taught him to watch out for this kind of customer. They only ever meant trouble.

“I trust,” the captain muttered in Manuel’s ear, “being a citizen of this town, that you are aware of the drinking regulations.”

The barkeeper gulped, and blanched visibly. He was aware of regulations, and had tried desperately to keep by them. But times were hard, and he had cut corners. Nothing serious – just a loose penny here and there, or a handshake in the right place. A trickle of cold sweat ran down Manuel’s neck. His heart beat furiously. They’re going to find out, he thought fearfully. They always found out.

Taking pleasure in the poor man’s unease, the captain continued.

“After all, no owner like yourself would be stupid enough to break regulations. Would they?” Manuel tried to stutter a reply, but the officer raised a gloved hand. “No, don’t say anything. Just bring my dashing men here some drink. Estalian red, if you have it – and make it quick.”

Manuel nodded furiously, his head bobbing as he ran to fetch the men their blackmailed wine. He could hear their jeers behind him, but he ignored them. As long as they stayed happy, he would stay in business. A few wines here and there were a small price to pay, now that he was in the Custom’s good books. A smile crossed Manuel’s face. It had turned out for the better, after all.

Walking over, he selected the cask for Estalian red, dipping in a wooden measure. It came out dry. For a second, panic took seized him. Then he remembered that he had a little left in the cellar. “Lucky, that,” he muttered to himself, smiling.

Another chorus of singing broke out from where the soldiers were sitting. It seemed – in the usual soldier way – that they were trying to outdo each other again.

“Ranald’s arse, Ranald’s arse! Only he could sell it!

To the lords and ladies, sir!

I ‘ope they don’t have t’smell it!”

A few drunken men glanced up, laughing and trying to join in. They soon lost interest, preferring instead their drinks and slurred conversation. Manuel carried on, winding his way through the little tables and chairs that dotted the room until finally, he reached the cellar door. It was open.

”Maria?” he shouted. Maria was one of the many barmaids that worked in the Flask. She was sometimes here, checking on the barrels.Manuel waited a few seconds. Then, receiving no reply, he strode in.

It was cool and dark in the cellar. The ceiling muffled the noises of the tavern heavily, and barrels, casks and kegs of all sizes lined the walls. Some of them were filled with ale, the standard stuff that he sold the most. Others, mostly the smaller ones, were filled with more expensive beverages; these were the ones Manuel was looking for. Whistling softly under his breath, he walked over to where the Estalian Red was kept. His footsteps seemed oddly loud in the near silence.

Not for the first time, Manuel wished that he could spend more time down here. Old age, combined with the hustle and bustle of bar work was beginning to take its toll, and Manuel sometimes longed for a quiet place to sit during the day.

“Perhaps I could learn to read,” the old barkeeper muttered to himself, leaning down and tucking a small flask under his arm. “Then I could make this my office!” He then chuckled, wondering what his wife, Margretta, would say if he were to voice such an idea. Probably not much, he thought. She’d be too busy trying to throttle me.

A shifting sound behind him dragged Manuel from his musings. He turned, half expecting to see Margretta in the behind him, a disapproving glare across her face. However, he saw nothing but an empty doorway. Probably just the rats, he thought. He turned back to the casks, muttering under his breath.

There was another shifting sound, followed by a click. Manuel stopped in his tracks, and turned back to the entrance.

“Darn ra-“ he began, before stopping quickly. Standing in front of him, in the doorway, was a ragged looking man in his late twenties, holding a crossbow in a pair of gloved hands. His face was obscured by the dark.

Manuel dropped the flask, raising his hands frantically. “Don’t shoot!” he cried.

The man in the doorway nodded, still keeping his weapon ready. Then, stepping forwards, he spoke.

“Are you alone?” the intruder asked. Manuel nodded emphatically, his eyes flicking to the door. If only I could distract him for just a second…

Pain exploded in Manuel’s side. He cried out and fell to the floor, curling up into a ball and shutting his eyes tightly. A few seconds passed. Finally, the man spoke again.

“Get up. I didn’t shoot you.”

Manuel opened one eye cautiously, peeking up at him.

The man was not a common criminal as Manuel had assumed. Instead, the barkeeper found himself looking up at a pair of piercing blue eyes, set deep into a gaunt, handsome face that was cleanly shaven - save for a little stubble on the chin. Normally, Manuel would have marked him off as a merchant. But his clothes were patched, and ripped badly at the seams. It didn’t make sense.

“Who… who are you?” Manuel asked, sitting up.

“Be still!” the man shouted. He waved the crossbow again, but this time he seemed uneasy. Almost nervous.

“Is somebody after you?”

There was a pause. Then, the man lowered his weapon, glancing around. “Have you got anywhere I can hide?”

“Will you shoot me?”

“No. Just…please. Tell me where I can hide.”

Manuel jerked a thumb in the direction of the crates. “Over there.”

The man nodded, and dashed off to the back of the room. Manuel waited for a few minutes. Then, deciding that the man had no intention of killing him, he grabbed his cask and edged slowly over to the door, closing and locking it behind him.

“Mio dio! That was close,” he said to himself, breathing heavily.

“Was it now?” said a voice. Manuel turned to see a strange looking man behind him, smiling. His eyes were a deep brown, and his features were well shaped. A mass of black curls hung over his face, spilling out onto his neck. He looked fairly well dressed, too; he wore a black jacket, hung loosely over a white shirt with black leggings.

And, with annoying familiarity, Manuel saw that the man was pointing a crossbow at him.

“My name’s Alfonse Tihler,” the stranger carried on, “And me and my brother here are looking for a man named Bertrund. ”

Manuel gulped. His eyes were still on the crossbow. “Your brother?” he asked, trembling.

Something sharp poked Manuel’s back. He turned his head slightly to see a pair of green eyes, staring at him from a rough, scarred face that was cropped by a tangle of dirty blonde hair. He looked decidedly less friendly than his brother.

“The name’s Klaus,” the man said, without moving his weapon. “Now answer my brother!”

Manuel nodded weakly and turned back to Alfonse. “Who…who is Bertrund?” he asked.

“A man we are looking for looking for. We saw him come in this way a few minutes ago,” Then, seeing Manuel’s state, Alfonse rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t piss yourself. I’m not going to hurt you. Unless you really aggravate me.”

Manuel whimpered. Alfonse sighed, lowering his crossbow.

“Just tell me where he is.”

“In there!” Manuel gestured wildly at the door.

Alfonse studied him for a second. Then he turned and nodded at Klaus, making a few hand motions. Klaus gave a small grunt of acknowledgement.

Manuel opened his mouth. “What are you going to-“ he began, before Alfonse cut him off with a raised hand. He raised a finger to his lips – Manuel noticed that it was his middle one - and placed his other hand on the cellar door handle, turning it quietly.

All was quiet inside. Alfonse peered in, his eyes scanning the room. There was nothing to be seen inside, save for the many crates and packages that lay littered across the floor, and the greats kegs of ale that lined the shelves. There was no sign of the intruder.

“You better not be lying,” Alfonse muttered, “Or I will kill you. I can’t see anyone in here.”

“I’m not lying! I swear!” whispered Manuel.

Alfonse motioned for him to stop. “I think I hear something…”

A whooshing sound came from the shadows, and Alfonse pushed Manuel down onto the floor, swearing loudly and ducking. A bolt clattered off the wall behind them, and Manuel saw a figure dash run out from behind a crate, towards the doorway. Alfonse dropped his crossbow and dived, tackling him to the ground. There was a brief struggle as the two of them scrabbled to their feet.

“Give up, Bertrund!” Alfonse growled, leaping at him. The man stepped to the side, and lashed out with his foot suddenly, catching Alfonse in the shin. He let out a yelp of pain, stumbling and falling to the floor. Manuel winced.

Bertrund laughed. “I think not, Tihler.” He said, stooping over and picking up his crossbow. “I’ll be leaving now.”

Ignoring Manuel completely, he strode – still laughing - out the doorway. It proved to be his last mistake: Klaus stepped out of the shadows, ramming a thick spear into Bertrund’s back with force. There was a cracking sound as the man’s ribs broke.

“Now you know,” said Klaus, withdrawing his spear with a sharp tug. “Not to mess with us.”

Bertrund’s body crumpled, and hit the floor with a dull thud. The crossbow fell from his lifeless hands.

“You…killed him?” Manuel stammered.

“Of course we did,” Manuel turned to see Alfonse getting up, rubbing his leg. “It was either him or us. We chose him, naturally.”

“But why?”

Alfonse turned to Klaus, who was currently stripping Bertrund’s body of valuables. “What do you think, Klaus? Shall we tell him?”

Klaus gave a non-committal shrug. Alfonse sighed, and leant back against the cellar wall. “He’s like that sometimes,” he muttered under his breath. He closed his eyes, still rubbing his leg.

“Well?” asked Manuel.

Alfonse opened one eye. “How much is a story worth here?”

“A fair amount.” Then, thinking better of it, Manuel added: “If it’s good enough.”

“I’ll tell you then. But you have to promise not to tell any authorities. Notoriousness like ours doesn’t come easy, you know. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Watch, or whatever it is you have here, were after us right now.”

“Don’t worry. Nobody in this tavern would go to the Customs.”

“Well,” Alfonse brushed dust off his clothes, “We best go back in, then.”

* * *

A few minutes later, after he had been suitably refreshed, Alfonse stood upon a table in the Seaman’s Flask, his crossbow still in his hand. A crowd of folk were gathered round him, eager – for they had heard about the incident in the cellar - to listen to his tale.

“Friends!” Alfonse shouted over the noise. “You must be quiet – or you will miss vital details of our tale!”

The noise died down, to little more than a few excited whispers. Alfonse tossed his hair to the side, and carried on:

“Good! I can begin. The story I am about to recount to you is a twisting one, full of shocks, secrets and surprises! But you must be assured that this is all true. Every last event. Remember this, as you listen. It is the story of me – Alfonse - and my brother Klaus. It concerns-“

“Get on with it!” cried someone from the crowd.

Alfonse stopped, and bowed. ”Very well then; I will begin.“ he said, smiling.

“It all started on a boat…”

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