The High Road to Tarton would have been easy on Plunket, if it weren't on such an incline. It was gradual, but insistent. There was no downhill. It wasn't as alpine a place as Lurester at the base of the southern mountains, for example, but sufficiently high enough for a cooler climate than Botre Village.
There was a large forest of mainly coniferous trees just outside the bounds of Tarton. This was the main source of income for the town.
All around the edges of the tree line were little mounds and divots in the grass. Yakob didn't have to inspect them as he approached - he knew what they were. Tar pits. The townsfolk would use the pine trees of Tarton Wood to cook tar, then barrels would be sold and transported across the Empire of Mauria.
They only had to worry about the beasts that plagued the forest.
As Yakob drew nearer to the town, he observed the rising columns of smoke from the chimneys[1] of the brick houses. The streets were wide. Pedestrians, carriages, and riders shared them alike. Every house had slanted, tiled rooves. No thatch here, not like home.
Yakob had arrived at the perfect time. The Trenmir interview was set for the following day. This allowed him some time to settle and plan before walking into the belly of the beast.
Yakob directed Plunket to the seedy part of town. Arria's twenty copper chimes was more than he would have packed himself, but it still wasn't much in the grand scheme. He went looking for a familiar tavern: A place by the name of Tar Pit.
...
There was a dingy stable to the side of the Tar Pit. It was dirty and Plunket seemed to take offense at the idea of staying in such a place. Yakob noticed her reticence and decided to tie her to a post by the water trough. She was still close to the stables, but distant enough for others to know this mule was better than the common riff-raff over there.
He gave her a pat on the neck and pushed his way into the tavern. The saloon-style doors swung open with a creak and Yakob was assaulted by a blast of foul air. The place was aptly named. It was sticky, dark, and stinky. Patrons of the tavern were chatting loudly, chugging from tankards, or hunched over tables and murmuring through alcoholic stupor.
The tables were close together, so much so that Yakob had to elbow his way through drunken idiots, getting close enough to taste the yeast on their breath. Waiters and waitresses dodged around them nimbly, holding platters of frothy ale above their heads. The tavernkeeper stood behind the bar at the back of the building. That was Yakob's destination.
Unfortunately, there was a large group of men blocking the way. He couldn't get around them.
"Excuse me," Yakob said, trying to make his voice heard above raucous laughter. "Hello?"
One of the waiters slid past, turning his body so that he could squeeze between the oversized bellies. Yakob shuddered at the thought of a similar action.
"Sorry," he said, "Just trying to get past."
He was ignored again. Yakob saw that he would just have to steel his resolve and follow the waiter's suit. He gripped his chimes, taking deep breaths. The men were sweaty and loud. He felt the heat from their bodies as their presence seemed to grow and overshadow him. It was all on his head, of course, but his breath became ragged. Shaky.
Yakob shook his head and slapped his cheeks. He gripped the chimes in his pocket, and focussed on the weight of the amethyst necklace laying coolly under his tunic. He bent his knees, and charged. Yakob thought it might have been too much power, but he quickly realised it wasn't enough. He bounced right off a layer of fat and landed on the sticky floor.
The man turned to look down on him. His drunken cheer twisted into a scowl as he observed the scrawny boy that seemed to have just attacked him.
"Here boys," he said to his companions, "Little mouse is lookin' for a fight now, ay?"
"I'll watch your drink, Skarn!" one of his friends called out. The others laughed at the sarcasm. Yakob didn't think it was funny, but ale seemed to lower people's standards for humour.
Skarn set his tankard down, spilling the piss over. He rolled up his sleeves. His fingers were stained from working with tar, presumably.
"No, wait," Yakob said, "I don't want any trouble. I was just trying to get past you."
Yakob tried to get up. He knew it wasn't good to be on the floor if a fight started.
Skarn stepped forward and slapped him across the face. His arms were big, and there was a certain power behind the blow. Yakob fell back to the ground. It stung. His eyes watered.
"Say please," Skarn said.
Yakob's cheek was flushed. It was difficult to say whether the slap or embarrassment produced the more prominent effect on his colour. Yakob's heart was racing. He looked into Skarn's eyes. He had a lazy one.
"What for?"
"You hurt me, mouse. You gotta say sorry. Then say please if you wanna get up."
"I'm sorry," Yakob said immediately, swallowing his pride, "I didn't mean to hurt you."
Skarn held a hand to his ear, waiting for the second part of his demand.
Yakob shook his head and tried to stand. That was too far.
Skarn tried to slap him again, in the same spot. He was slow. Yakob dodged it easily and got onto his feet. Skarn's eyes lit with the fury of a man swatting flies that he just couldn't catch.
"Trickshy lil' mouse," his voice slurred.
"I really am sorry," Yakob tried negotiation once more. His pleas fell on deaf ears.
Skarn approached with menace. His hands were balled into fists. Yakob had wounded his pride. There was no way out of this situation. Yakob bent his knees and raised his arms like he used to do when he fought with Amos as a boy.
Skarn crashed forward like a tidal wave. He was directionless, swinging wildly, stumbling. Yakob danced to the side and pushed him, sending the bigger man into another group's table. Skarn fell onto it and spilled their drinks. They looked at Skarn, sprawled, then up at Yakob.
The second group of men started chanting. "Fight. Fight. Fight." They pushed Skarn off their table and towards Yakob. The rest of the Tar Pit patrons joined the chant. Tables were quickly shoved to the side and a circular space was cleared. Yakob was ringed in with Skarn.
He could win this.
Probably.
Skarn roared like a wild animal. He tore his shirt off. It didn't rip cleanly, hanging on by a few threads. He was an unimpressive man - fat and hairy. Yakob was intimidated nonetheless.
Skarn lumbered forward, taking care not to fall this time. He didn't want to look silly in front of all these people. Yakob retreated as much as he could, until his back was to the line of people forming the circle. They shouted and jeered at him to fight, stop being a coward, be a man. One of them shoved him forward, sending him tumbling into Skarn's reach.
Skarn took the unfair advantage with glee. He struck downwards at Yakob's face with a meaty fist. It connected with a crunch. Yakob was on the floor again. Blood. Pain. Tears. He curled into a ball.
"Get up!" Skarn kicked him. The wind rushed out of his lungs. Yakob stayed where he was, the insults piling on top of him from the sidelines.
Skarn was impatient. He picked Yakob up and set him on his feet. Then he slapped him. It was humiliating.
Yakob could make him slip. He could blind him with his magic. He could throw acid from nothing, he could fill his lungs with water, draw the blood from his veins through his skin. No one would know it was him if he was subtle...
But no. He was here to join the Trenmir. He couldn't risk exposing himself, not in a place like this. Not yet.
From blurred vision, Yakob studied Skarn's face. He committed it to memory. He would be back. Later. Stronger.
He drew saliva into his mouth with that horrid retching noise, and elected to spit in Skarn's face. The globule landed in his eye. Skarn simply wiped it away, his lazy eye focussed on Yakob.
"Now you've done it."
Skarn pushed Yakob back, sending him off balance. He strode forward, sobered by the insult. With that powerful arm, he sent an uppercut into Yakob's jaw. His teeth slammed into each other, and he swallowed something sharp. He started coughing, bloody.
Skarn redoubled his efforts. He wound up for another strike, ready to send Yakob into sweet unconsciousness.
It never came.
The crowd dispersed noiselessly, ashamed. Skarn was pulled away. Yakob was left on the ground. He was bloodied and crying.
"He's learned his lesson, lad," said a rasping voice, "Now here's yours. Get out."
Skarn tried to protest, tried to get his friends to help him. No one wanted to stand up to the husky newcomer. Yakob heard Skarn stomp away. His heavy footsteps receded, accompanied by low grumbles. The saloon doors at the front of the fine establishment swung open and shut. The Tar Pit returned to business as usual, willing to forget the transgression of a disappointing fight.
A kind face appeared in Yakob's vision. It was the tavernkeeper that Yakob had been trying to reach before Skarn's... intervention. Makes sense why no one argued with him. No one, especially not drunkards, are willing to argue with the man pouring drinks.
His moustache was waxed into a stylish curl, black and full-bodied. It was the only coloured hair he had. Everything else had been ravaged by time and left with motley silver, grey, and white.
"Petr," he introduced himself with a booming voice, declaring his presence to those around. "Proud proprietor of the Tar Pit. Pourer of piss, and none the poorer for it!"
He extended a large hand to Yakob, offering to help him off the floor. Yakob took it with a grunt. He was unsteady on his feet, and almost fell right back over. Petr placed a hand on his shoulder, holding him steady.
"I'm Yakob," Yakob said, then belched. His innards threatened bile to follow.
"Ha! You're a brave boy, getting into brawls with bigger bruisers."
"Wasn't trying to fight. Just wanted a room, but he was in my way."
"Truly! Tired traveller, do you try for a temporary stay in Tarton?"
"…Yes?"
"Terrific!" Petr clapped his hands and led the way to the bar. The patrons of the Tar Pit parted around him like a school of fish around a shark.
"Wait one moment," Yakob said, his brain still reeling from Skarn's blows, "Do you always speak in alliteration?"
Petr rounded the counter, ignoring a woman pleading for ale. At Yakob's question, his face dropped from casual glee to stern and serious.
"I was cursed to always confuse the common folk. My comments to be continually comprehended only by those possessing higher cognitive capabilities."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."
"Dastardly Drai."
"Yeah, haha…" Yakob's heart skipped a beat, so he tried changing subjects. "So, about that room?"
[1] One might expect the smoke to result from the tar pits. Tar pits do not actually produce smoke as the fire needs to be kept away from the pine wood or it will burn and create charcoal instead of tar. They do, however, produce flammable gases like methane.