The Claycroft Tavern rose over the adjacent rooftops of an old Saltwater Army Barracks-turned homeless shelter and a successful clothier’s shop, built of big clay bricks from the north coast of Var Nordos. By the evening, when Farek made his way toward it, there were tables set up right across the whole stone-tiled street. Drinkers and gamblers lounged in big wooden chairs while women in scanty silk clothes weaved a metaphoric dance of hushed words and clinking coins around them. The guards did not work for the city; Claycroft could afford their own hired muscle dressed with short swords bristling at their waists and blue sashes dangling past their knees.
Today, Farek wore a baggy beige tunic and a black headband to keep his hair back, and he’d trimmed his goatee a little shorter. His family sword hung at his waist, the only part of his outfit that resembled his other appearances. His hand rested on it casually and he walked with more saunter than ever.
“Ten for admission, sir,” said one of the guards, a short man with a limp.
“Robbery,” Farek muttered, and passed the man his toll. He prowled up the wide, flat steps in front of the tavern and gazed at the grandiose entryway. There were no doors to speak of, just a massive square frame composed of four enormous sandstone blocks and two smalls ones above each support.
“Will you join me?” a woman asked Farek, as soon as he entered the building. Her shirt collar met so low he could see her belly button, and he could see a whole lot more than that.
“For a drink?” Farek asked, smiling. He already knew his answer.
The woman stepped closer to him. “No,” she said, with a bright smile.
Farek jokingly continued. “For a game of cards?”
Now she gave him a sigh, and a roll of the eyes. She was beautiful; there was no denying it. But Farek could, and had, wooed many highborn women just as beautiful. He certainly wouldn’t pay for it. The woman tossed her blonde hair and said, “No, not for cards.”
“Then no,” Farek replied, with a deeper voice than he had given her first. Her expression soured and she stepped back from him.
Farek strutted through the threshold of the tavern and was greeted by an even friendly reception. He shook hands with the stench of tobacco and soma and alcohol and sweat. He was sure more than the first two drugs were being consumed in this establishment—the first breach of Soros law.
But for now, Farek had only one question. He bought a beer from the bar and scratched his scalp as he waited. His mannerisms had to be different. Then he sat down at a table to play Ruler. Who owned the debts for the tavern?
Ruler was a good game and Farek was good at it. It was all about reading your opponent and reading the deck, and these were both things that he could do. The dealer layered cards each round, so they could build their hands to win before their rivals. Each round, bets were placed. Each round, there were more cards face up for them to work with. Rarely did the game last until all the cards were dealt, but when it did, they split the pot and played again.
Farek was good, and he knew he was. He had brought fifty Gallendris coins and within two hours had three hundred. He was hoping to win enough to be thrown out, so he could meet the boss. But he met the man first.
He was playing against two and the house dealer when a man with a big gut and a turquoise silk robe walked up. He pulled a chair up beside Farek, and smiled. “You’ve won a fair bit.” The man’s neatly trimmed beard smelled faintly of ale as he spoke close to Farek’s ear.
Farek glimpsed the corner of his cards and glanced across the table. “Fair? You think I won this fairly?”
The man blinked, with mouth agape.
Farek started chuckling, and the man began to laugh uncomfortably. For a moment the game continued. The dealer, a short woman with long braided hair, seemed much more stiff now. The newcomer watched the cards for a moment and then said, “What’s your name, friend?”
“They call me Keraf,” Farek said, without missing a beat.
“I’m Tog. Are you staying with us, Keraf?” the man asked. “It’s getting late; I’ll arrange for them to give you one of our finest rooms. On the house, of course.”
Farek knew he was just trying to get the high stakes winner away from the tables. “That’s very hospitable… The room seems like a bit much. And I’ve got some luck left, still. But I could take another pint of beer at our table. On the house, of course.”
“I see,” the man said, bristling. He looked across the tavern at one of the private guards and raised a finger. “I think it’s time for you to be going, Keraf. Unless you’d like to go get that beer, at the bar.”
Farek rolled a coin across his knuckles, back and forth, as he thought about it. “My, hospitality works quite different where I come from. From what I hear, you get beat up if you lose too much and beat up if you win too much in this establishment. So tell me, what’s too much? Your gut tells me you don’t know.”
Silence, for a moment, was broken only by Tog’s snort. His face flushed red and he looked across the tavern where the guard was slowly marching over. “Now, please,” he ordered, loudly. The guard doubled his pace.
The dealer and the other players had stopped playing and watched as the guard stepped to Farek and said, “Let’s go.” He grabbed Farek’s shoulder, for the lord of Soros was still seated.
As quickly as he could, Farek yanked his shoulder to the side as he rose to his feet and slammed the guard’s head off the table. One table leg broke. Cards slid across it and ale splattered Farek’s boots as the guard struck the floor. Farek stepped up close to Tog—the man stunk—and slid his knife free from his belt, placing it against the gut he had earlier referred to.
Tog stammered and cursed but spoke no words.
Farek looked in the eye. “You seem like the sort who doesn’t have many close friends. It could be your poor sense of hospitality, or it could simply be your poor sense in general.” Farek dug his knife a little harder into Tog’s silk robe forming a small indentation. “Too much poor sense can lead to some sticky situations and we wouldn’t want that now, would we?” Farek poked the knife a little harder for the third time. “My friends tell me—and, oh, I do have a lot that frequent the Claycroft—you’ve done enough to them. Don’t you agree?”
Tog’s face was pale, and he shook as he faced Farek’s aggression. “I do,” he mumbled. “I’ll be hospitable. Properly, I swear.”
“This looks like the start of a substantial friendship,” Farek said, and looked down at Tog’s shaking belly. With one hand, he sheathed his knife, while his other lifted his coin pouch of winnings. He shelved the bag onto Tog’s rounded stomach. With a smirk, he strode away, while Tog stared at the money on his torso.
Over his shoulder, Farek called, “And friends treat each other well.”