Rain fell on Soros for the tenth time of the new year. Slick wooden shingles trickled down along the ornate stone walls of the mansions on Coin Hill and fell from curved eaves to reflect lantern light like spears of light that reached heavenward. Everything seemed a little brighter, the edges a little softer, the night a little warmer—because Farek Gallendris, the wealthiest bachelor in the city of sorrows, had already a few drinks within him. Hand on his sword pommel and buckled collar keeping the water on the outside of his barkcloth brown coat, Farek paced along the cobblestone street from Coin Hill, where his family lived, toward his favourite bar: Norrey’s Pub.
“Milord,” addressed a guard as Master Gallendris strode past a crossroads. Farek’s moustache, goatee beard, and his long dark brown hair gave him away when he dressed it as he usually did each morning. He had always been clever at distracting his appearance by scuffling it up with his fingers or donning a hat, but it was a night on the town! Farek was expected to enjoy the nightlife and he did his duty well. He marched past the guard with a waved palm.
Norrey’s Pub wasn’t the wealthiest establishment in town, but it sat on the edge of Coin Hill, overlooking the Lower District of Soros and only inhabitants of the upper class were allowed inside. The torches in front of the single-storey house burned brightly despite the rainstorm, and Farek climbed the steps with a grin to the bouncer, Artoc. “Farek, welcome back. Have a good week?”
Farek shrugged and embraced the broad man’s forearm. “If you consider three days in the treasury, a day at a paper-strewn desk, and only one night with a woman… a good week…” For some reason, the highlight of his week had been looking out the window from the low-town warehouse and watching ships sail out across red Raider’s Lake. It wasn’t that he longed to leave Soros—in fact, he couldn’t quite put his finger on why he felt so captivated by the sight of ships like The Flying Hound setting out from his home to some exotic destination. He had resisted the expectation to share a drink that evening.
“Hah, broke a bloke’s arm last night,” Artoc said. “So your week is better than mine, little man.” Artoc called everyone smaller than him ‘little man’, no matter how important they were.
A shrug rose Farek’s shoulders and he said, “Just different jobs is all, Artoc.”
“Counting coins sounds better than counting teeth,” the bouncer muttered. “But I’ll take your word for it, little man.”
Farek shook his head and brushed past the acquaintance into the bar. It wasn’t a particularly busy night, but the single storey of Norrey’s Pub always seemed way larger indoors than it was out. A young man brushed past him, drunkenly stumbling against him on the way out the door and Farek felt his annoyance lumping in the back of his throat. People who couldn’t handle their drinks bothered him more than they should, but he was no stranger to drunkenness. It was expected of a lord of Soros.
“Brother,” called Simisar from a nearby window table. Farek ground his teeth together—only thing worse than having to walk down from his estate through a cursed rainstorm was to find his sister already there.
“Simi,” he said, quietly, not stepping any closer to her.
“Share a drink with me?” she asked. Simisar Gallendris wore her lighter brown hair behind her head in a knot and her bright smile couldn’t be contained by the wine glass she held in front of her. One of her girl friends sat adjacent to her, while an awkward and clearly uncertain young man sat across from them.
Farek smirked. “Hardly. Try not to get wasted, or I’ll have Jann send her guards to you.” His sister mocked an offended expression, but he interrupted her reply. “Yes, I won’t be carrying you up Coin Hill this time.”
“Fine. And likewise,” Simi said, and looked away from him. She was only feigning her anger, Farek was pretty certain.
At last, Farek turned back to the bar, where Norrey was serving up a tankard of beer for one of the regulars. He winked at Farek as the brother of the Mazaar sat down on a bar stool, but finished serving his patrons before coming over. In any other bar, Farek would be served first, as soon as he arrived. His older sister, Jannia Gallendris was Mazaar of Soros, and the only people in the entire world she answered to were the Three Matriarchs of Noress-That-Was.
But Norrey was a friend—perhaps Farek’s only true friend—and he knew Farek would be patient. When at last he came over, Norrey paused and regarded Farek with a wide grin. The man was three years younger than Farek’s thirty-five, but they had only known each other for about ten years. Norrey’s black hair was grey already, giving him silver streaks in the top of his short hair. He had a thick handlebar of hair around his mouth, and burly forearms covered in enough hair to put a bear to shame. He regarded Farek’s features with more surprise though, and his first question that evening was, “Where’d you get that shade?”
Farek couldn’t resist breaking into a smile, though it hurt the welt on his cheek. “I believe her name was Lory or Lora or something like that.”
“You haven’t even been in since last week, Farek! Where’d you find her?” Norrey asked.
“The harbour,” Farek said. He raised his finger to Norrey’s protestations. “She was a fine one, Norrey, not some riffraff from the red waterfront.”
“Tell me,” Norrey said. As he anticipated a story, he grabbed two small glasses from behind the bar and selected one of their favourite ewers from the heated counter above the fireplace. Sitting down on a cushioned stool across the bar from Farek, he poured them each a warm whiskey skin, while the prince of Soros began.
“I was watching all the ships set out,” Farek explained, “And just felt such a… an emotion, Norrey. I don’t know what it was. But I needed to feel it more, so I put down my quill and told the warehouse staff to reorganize the shelves—for the fifteenth time, doubtless—and I went for a walk on the wharfs.”
“Here,” Norrey said and slid Farek his drink. They both took a sip, respectively, and Farek continued his tale. He had met a young miss with soft caramel skin and a posterior to die for, a passenger on a ship bound for Starath. She had only agreed to talk with him in private if he bought her breakfast the next morning at a proper establishment in the Bank of Soros.
“I had to work in the morning, Norrey,” Farek said. “There was no way I could do both, and Jann was very specific that I could not skip the treasury meeting…”
“So?” his friend asked, taking a sip of his own whiskey. “You told her what she wanted to hear and she slapped you the next morning when you snuck out?”
“No,” Farek said. “She just liked things a little rough—I shouldn’t really show you the mark she gave me for sneaking out the next morning…”
Norrey burst out in laughter, shaking his whiskey down to the bar top and spilling a few drops. Farek shrugged with a pained expression and took a sip of his own, before his smile slipped through once again. Despite the topic of their conversation, Norrey was one of the few people that Farek could be himself with. He didn’t need to act like a wealthy bachelor or the brother of the city’s ruler or a partier, because Norrey didn’t expect anything of him. It made stupid stories like this one even the more enjoyable to recount. They took another drink, only to be interrupted by a newcomer to the Pub.
A man of at least sixty walked calmly through the front door. He looked calmly around the establishment and a small smile came to his weathered jaw, rising the jowls into an expression of good humour. He looked at the bar, and gave them both a nod.
“Good evening, old fellow,” Norrey said. Only people of wealth lived to an age like this man, as far as Farek knew. The common folk aged out of life in their late forties or early fifties, sometimes with a disease, sometimes with the wear and tear of their lifestyles and living situations.
But this man nodded to Norrey’s greeting calmly and moved gracefully to the bar, his immaculate burgundy robe hiding even his feet from view. He had sideburns, but no beard, and only wisps of white hair dangled from his head. “Good evening,” he said, in a clear voice. “I am glad there remains a pub at this location.”
“What’s that?” Norrey asked.
“I drank here often, as a young man. On the coins of your grandfather, Master Gallendris,” the old man sank into a seat two stools away from Farek.
The latter regarded the stranger with pursed lips. “Do I know you, sir?” Farek asked.
“Not yet,” replied the odd newcomer. “But I can remedy that with an introduction. I am Gravagan of High Raena.”
“Are you a traveller? I’ll offer you a free ale or mead of your choice, grandfather,” Norrey said, and grabbed a mug from behind the bar.
Gravagan raised his arm. “No, no, young one. I’m not here to drink, but I have important business to discuss with Master Gallendris.”
Farek looked aside to conceal his smile. Norrey saw his expression and smirked, forcing Farek to show his cards. “I’m sorry Master Gravan—er, Gravagan?—I’ve already had a few rounds before coming here, and I am here to drink. What’s this about?”
“History,” the old man replied. “And the future.”
“Sounds important,” Farek said, smiling. “I’ll tell you what—if you’re still in Soros next week, meet me here at the same time. I’ll drink a mite less and we’ll talk about whatever you desire. Everyone around here knows, Farek Gallendris drinks heavily after a long week, and half the people in here aren’t here to see me talk about history. No disrespect intended.”
“Hmm,” Gravagan said. “Very well. I suppose there’s no harm in delaying this one week. I will withdraw till then.”
“Fine,” Farek said, and turned back to Norrey. “That was strange,” he said, though the old man hadn’t yet left the Pub. Hopefully his hearing wasn’t as keen as his recognition skills.
Norrey poured them another beverage, this time chilled spirits from a long-necked beverage with a foreign label. The banking industry was dull enough to drive Farek mad, but the bizarre occurrences of the nightlife, as wasteful as he knew it to be, kept him on his toes. They shared the drink with a shared smile and did their best to not dwell on history.