ONE A CONVERSATION IN STILLNESS
I walked into the tavern in search of the most important thing in the world.
A story.
And I ended up swept into the most dangerous one of all.
* * *
The worst sort of prison held the Three Tales Tavern.
An emptiness.
A stillness.
And that is always meant to be broken.
It hung like a cord gone taut, quivering and waiting to snap. It was the quiet of held breaths, wanting for a voice, but ready to bite at any that dare make noise. It was the soundlessness of men too tired to speak and with an ear to hear even less. And all the stillness of an audience waiting for the play to begin.
The perfect stage for me. And I had just the thing to rouse them—ensnare them. But all good performances need one thing, and mine required a drink.
The tavern’s lone mirror glinted from behind the counter with the hazy light I’d seen accompany mirages. It pulled my attention past the oiled and polished floors, away from the pitted, but solid wooden beams holding the place up, and to the counter.
I made my way over to it and sat down—alone.
The barkeeper took note of that, staring at me over the rim of a glass he polished with mechanical coldness. He looked to be in his middle years. His hair carried more streaks of chalk and iron than it should have at his age, thinning along the top. He had a soft, slightly protruding belly, not aided in appearance by a brown shirt gone tight around his waist nor his barrel of a chest. His eyes were lined with creases that could have come from both too much time in the sun and frequent smiling.
Though, he wasn’t smiling now.
I eyed the barkeeper, adding another layer of stillness to the place. The air thickened into something chewable as I let curiosity flood the elderly men sitting in the far corner. They watched me with the interest only those with too much time on their hands could muster, which is what I wanted.
I know how to work my audience—build anticipation like feeding wood to a fire.
Layers.
I added another film of intrigue when I reached over my shoulder to grab one of the journals bound to my back. I tugged it free, thumbing it open to pull free a sheet of paper. Producing the pen was a simple thing, but I added a flare by rolling my wrist as I retrieved it from the folds of my robes. To those unskilled in sleight of hand, it looked as if the pen had sprung from my palm.
Theatricality and showmanship go a long way in making an impression. And the long case I’d set down to one side would do just the same.
Curiosity. It filled them now.
The slender piece of horn and silver inlay sat as an old comfort in my hand. A hollow thing with a narrow reservoir to hold just enough ink for my needs. I scrawled slowly, smoothly, across the sheet.
The barkeep watched with feigned disinterest, blanketing the place with another form of stillness. He shuffled over a few steps until he stood before me. The man passed off the action as if he needed to place the glass he’d finished cleaning somewhere nearby.
I knew better and made use of his act, pushing the sheet of paper in his direction. I looked up and smiled—waiting.
The barkeeper glanced at the sheet, then blinked and stared past me to the trio of patrons in the back. Another moment of stillness slipped by before he relented and plucked the paper between a thumb and forefinger. His eyes were the color of morning fog over water, a bleak gray masking the faintest hints of washed-out blue. They hardened into cold slate as he read over my note. If he took umbrage at my odd request, he didn’t show it.
The man turned to pull a wooden mug from a brass hook hanging overhead. He took a measured step to the side and flicked the tap of a cask, waiting as a liquid the color of wet earth poured into the mug. The barkeep shut the valve and turned with a quarter step to place the drink before me. He stood and loomed like a figure of stone, wanting to know just as much as the men in the back what came next.
I kept them waiting as I pulled the mug toward me. It was one thing to order a drink. It was another matter to ask for one without a word, much less pay. It had the intended effect.
Hollow moans echoed through the tavern as chair legs scraped against the floor.
I looked toward the source of the noise without turning my head. The three men in the corner had all moved to face me now. I returned my attention to the contents of my drink. I’d asked for tea. He’d given me an ale.
I didn’t say anything. I know when I’m being pressed—tested. And I know how to play back. Most innkeepers do not want to deal with prickly performers, easily slighted and twice the trouble than they’re worth in coin. I shrugged my cowl free, letting it fall along my collar as I tipped the mug back.
Notes of cinnamon, cardamom, and woodruff sparked against my tongue. The faintest touch of anise made itself present through the clearness and crispness of the drink. I took care not to smack my lips or exhale a pleasurable sigh at its taste.
Stillness.
I continued to build it until I could almost hear the men’s hearts pumping in agitation, answering their buried questions: Who am I? Who is the stranger in the red cloak and cowl? What rests within the case at my side?
I took another sip and waited for them to break the quiet that lingered before I’d even come in.
The barkeeper hovered before me, staring with the clear intent of wanting recompense for the beverage.
He’d get it and more.
One of the men sputtered. “It moved. His cloak moved on its own.”
It did. And the silence broke.
Another of the men, old enough to be someone’s grandfather, brushed aside wisps of white hair from over his eyes. “Swore the thing was … bleeding for a moment.”
It was.
I let them gossip. And when I shifted in my seat, resting my staff in plain view, their whispers grew all the louder.
“Man comes in silence, doesn’t spit so much as a word. Staff and cowl. Mess of books on his back,” said one of the men.
All true.
“Only heard of one man like that. Hear it that he keeps his words inside him—deep, like a burning fire. When he speaks, everyone listens like magic. Can’t no man turn away from his tales. He’s that storyteller.”
I grabbed my staff, spinning in place and slamming its base against the floorboards. A thunderous crack echoed through the tavern and my voice boomed with it. “I am.”
And stillness returned in the beat between words.
I seized it. The pauses now belonged to me. And I decided when to break them.
One of the men fidgeted, grinding the tip of a worn boot against the floor. He wore dark breeches and a matching shirt. His coat had seen better days, the seams littered with dangling threads, some frayed. Dust from the road marred its already dull gray color. The man looked to be carved from driftwood left in the rain and cold to crack. His face was old leather, dark and lined. He bounced a leg in anticipation.
“I am the Storyteller. I’ve entertained the duke of Tarvinter with tales of daring and heroism. I’ve collected the world’s secrets, forgotten stories, greatest legends, and tonight … I’ll share them with you. But, every storyteller needs a willing audience. So find me one if you want an earful you’ll never forget.” I bowed, rolling my hands in a flourish.
The three men ran for the exit with more energy in their step than someone half their age could have mustered.
I turned back to the barkeeper, smiling in earnest and tipping back more of the ale. The next sip earned me my repressed sigh as I pulled the mug from my lips. “That’s good.” I hooked a thumb over a shoulder toward the door. “And, that’s why you gave it to me for free. How many people do you think they’ll rally for tonight?”
The barkeeper placed his hands against the counter. “Folk in Karchetta have been starved for outside news—stories. Place will be packed tonight.” A hint of light filled his eyes. “Busy. Customers willing to spend money. Wanting entertainment. I hope you live up to your reputation.”
I raised the mug. “I always do.”
The bartender snorted. “You’re just as bad as the woman.”
I arched a brow, waiting for him to explain.
He looked over to the staircase to our side. “You’ll run across her, no doubt. Has a mouth—fire in her. Not quite sure why I haven’t booted her out myself.” The barkeeper grabbed a rag, idly polishing a spot on the counter while regarding me.
Quiet returned, but I’d had my fill of that. “You said people are hungry for word from outside. What of news here? By the look of the people, I’d say it’s grim.”
The barkeeper pulled the rag away from the spot, frowning as he stared deeply into it. “You don’t know?”
It’s a rare thing for me not to know stories, the happenings of and in the world, but there are those moments. And I sought something more important than the local gossip.
I shook my head.
He exhaled. “There’s a reason the Three Tales is without any stories of late. Etaynia has enough of her own keeping people’s attention. The prince-elect was murdered over a set ago.”
I did the mental calculation of days the region used to mark a notable passing of time. It came out to fourteen, and two of those comprised a month here. Sets of days varied through countries along the Golden Road. No standardized monthly cycle existed as of yet, and the political tension between some countries made it nearly impossible to get there. I waved for him to continue.
“His younger brother took his place as an efante, but the election will be held again. The other household princes used the death to plead the church for reconsideration. Seven efantes are back to fighting, worrying people of what’s to come. But it’ll be the same. Prince-elect to king. Once that happens, people will breathe easier. There’ll be more room for stories, I hope. Never know what the next man on the throne will do, and one prince or two already have their eye on joining the wars sprouting up around the world.” The barkeeper resumed polishing the indiscriminate spot on the counter.
Copyright © 2022 by Ranbir Virdi
