CHAPTER 2.07 – THORNWOOD: III
They walk on, Hugo distracting himself from Rian’s life by taking in Thornwood‘s sights. For as distracting as those can be. The problem with a planned community, it turns out, is dull regularity. The big man’s next target seems obvious, another town another smithy. Rebelling, his mind feeds him an image of Paulie as a blacksmith, broad enough to impress even the well-built woodsman. Or Polly, an amazon towering over the anvil. Feels himself blushing as he realises these musings key directly into his own fantasies.
He’s shaken from his reverie as they approach the forge, the smith a clean-shaven man with short blonde hair. Short being the operative term. The Paulie of Hugo’s imagination has been concentrated, distilled down. His solidity projects an impossible image that the smith’s broad as he is tall. Hugo estimates him to be about 5’ in height, sans tattoos nor any decoration to his attire. Leather trousers, boots and apron. The man appears to have noticed their arrival but remains focused on the metal he’s working. Apparently, his task is at a crucial stage.
The blacksmith freezes as Rian addresses him in what must, to Hugo’s ear, be Dwarvish. The language is made for poetry or song, tones resonating perfectly with his deep voice. Suddenly, ‘Paulie Smith’s’ true background spins into context. Hugo can’t recall having ever seen a beardless dwarf. He wonders if his intuition (or stereotyping?) dictates that one of his race sans beard would compensate with long hair. He reasons that his speculations in this direction need not be voiced. The smith looks furious, his eyes darting from Rian to each of them in turn as though expecting attack. Dwarvish, it seems, is equally well suited to expressions of anger as the broad artisan spits something clipped and barbed at the woodsman.
Rian looks embarrassed, gestures to his companions. “Orrin, I’m sorry. These are my friends; I trust them with my life.” Not-Paulie-Smith calms some, shaking his head slightly as though recovering from a fright. Hugo notes that the dwarf is scanning around for anyone beyond the forge’s light, but close enough to have heard. His brow remains furrowed.
“We were hoping to pick up a breastplate for Thae here.” The big man’s mumbling seems intensified by shame. As Rian indicates the half-elf, Hugo sees clear surprise on his friend’s face. He can’t recall any discussion of this errand between the group, wonders how much of this might be an attempt to recover from their guide having put his foot in it. A sale, he supposes, might be suitable reparation to a merchant.
Smith Orrin returns to his task, brows still knitted. “I’m busy, Rian. Come back tonight.” Nothing offered, no warmth in this roasting space. The big man stands frozen as the rest of them awkwardly turn to go, finally mutters a despondent apology before he follows them.
-x-
Anuk finally breaks the uncomfortable silence. Hugo’s too far in his own head, lacking a clear idea of what went so wrong. “Where’ll we stay while we’re in town, Rian?” He looks up at the girl, uncertain whether she’s heedless of the woodsman’s crisis of confidence. To his surprise, Rian jerks, pulled out of his stupor by purpose. A smile even flickers across his pained expression. Immediately, they’re turning towards the busier part of town, angling to the centre.
As they turn onto one of the settlement’s radial avenues, they’re clearly heading for the inn. It isn’t terribly large, but he imagines it’s in regular demand from representatives of the merchants’ suppliers and customer settlements. He reckons they’re not far northwest of the Kingsroad connecting Caladria to the capital through Oakbridge. But the town wouldn’t want to be a stopoff for casual visitors, he’s certain of that.
He notices Anuk giving him the eye as they approach the inn. As soon as he meets her gaze, she’s obviously trying to get him and Thae to leave Rian with her. That’s strange, he thinks. Still, he feels he has to honour his détente with the woman. Hugo curls his arm around Thae’s wrist as he announces: “Let’s go see what this place has to offer, friend Thae, shall we?” The half-elf graces him with a beaming grin, clearly recognising that something’s afoot. “Let us do that very thing!” He doesn’t care if the priest’s being facetious, the enthusiasm’s infectious. Rian looks nonplussed, gives them a small wave, allows himself to be dragged along in Anuk’s determined wake.
-x-
Immediately across from the inn stands ‘Skinner’s’, the most obvious shop they have seen in town. Hugo supposes this makes sense, the majority of the settlement’s efforts collaborating to furnish mobile traders. He wonders how the proceeds of the town’s profits are split, immediately feels a headache descending at the thought of how such a system could work equitably. The shop, as they enter, appears stuffed full, shelves stacked to bursting with supplies and equipment. At first sight, the only absences he can identify are fresh food, arms and armour.
They’re still taking in the jumbled space when an effusive voice rings out from behind the counter. “My lord, my lady, prithee welcome to Skinner’s. What have you need of this fine day?” Hugo and Thae look round, slightly stunned, as a portly middle-aged man sweeps towards them across the shop floor. Blustering through their stunned silence, the proprietor leans down to grab Hugo’s hand in a short but enthusiastic shake. This seems warm until Hugo’s hand is suddenly dropped and the man rounds on a perplexed Thae. Just as Hugo’s attention is pulled towards the shopkeep’s large, brushy moustache, it is applied enthusiastically to the back of the half-elf’s hand.
The man apparently thinks nothing of his behaviour, looking up into Thae’s eyes and winking broadly. He continues proudly: “I’m certain whatever it is we’ll have it, or my name’s not Harald Skinner!” Another moment of silence as Hugo contemplates personal space and Thae just stares on numbly. The man clears his throat. Apparently, they’re missing their cues in ‘Harald’s’ imagined script. He’s losing momentum as he lamely blurts: “Proprietor of this fine establishment...” Skinner raises his hands, and Hugo’s halfway certain he’s reshaping a ‘ta-da’ motion into a vague wave towards the stuffed shelves.
The proprietor’s hair was once dark, now succumbing to salt and pepper and something of a combed-over bald patch at back. He obviously cares for his moustache, given how accurately the thing’s been trimmed. The irony of life has greyed it much more completely than his hair. The merchant’s clothes are expensive and a little over-trimmed and -decorated. Particularly considering the relief with which he seems to be receiving customers.
He casts an eye towards Thae, trying to gauge his friend’s response to being pawed by this strange man. Thankfully, the acolyte’s Temple training seems to have been sufficient to rise above Harald’s many presumptions. All the same, Hugo feels a defensive resentment rising in his gullet. Leave forgiveness for the holy. The idiot barrels on undaunted, throws Thae a broad wink. “He should really buy you something nice.” The cleric’s eyes harden, one eyebrow cocking in Hugo’s direction. Thae projects a smile that could easily be misinterpreted as friendly and says flatly: “I DO deserve something nice.” The merchant looks delighted, oblivious to his friend’s gritted teeth.
Harald must be blinded by greed, Hugo thinks. That, or stupidity. Thae’s garb clearly reflects worship of a famously virginal goddess. True, Athena doesn’t demand similar from her clergy, but this fool’s chasing a sale the worst way possible. The clumsy assumptions, clearly unquestioned, mark the man as unworthy of Hugo’s understanding. And the halfling’s more certain of his guesses than the human can possibly be of his own. The discourtesy, the ignorance of boundaries, label him as a gossip. Fine, then. That’s how he’ll play it.
Hugo modifies his own blank expression to dour business, tone clipped as he utters “Mr Skinner. Our employer doesn’t look kindly on relationships between his agents.” He stares cooly into Harald’s eyes as he watches the implications of his statement hook the storekeeper’s interest. He’s sure the man’s re-calculating the nature and scale of the profit he might extract from them. Thae doesn’t seem to have moved, yet seems taller, more imposing. A bodyguard willing to camouflage the danger they represent behind jocularity.
A brief moment of silence as Skinner’s mind races. Good, Hugo’s in charge. “You must encounter most people who pass through here, yes?” The man’s eyes narrow but still evince a sparkle of greed. “Well, as a member in good stead of this community, I…” Such protestations of good faith, Hugo thinks, doesn’t trust this prick an inch. He shakes his head minutely. “My employer’s not interested in your community. We want some information regarding an outsider.” Oh, he can see the hooks taking purchase while the man tries pathetically to appear disinterested. “…I’m not sure I could possibly…”
“There’s a human man named Rian…” Hugo pauses as he sees a complex expression briefly rolling across Skinner’s face. He’s still trying to maintain a poker face but evidently has strong feelings about their friend. Hugo just can’t read in what direction. Still, in for a penny… “Believe he lives around here, Mr Skinner?” Again, a complex play of suppressed emotions, the man glancing behind himself into the empty shop. Could that be guilt?
Harald clears his throat, hand raising to tug a corner of his moustache, a tell of his nerves surrounding this subject. “Oh, him? He’s just one of the weirdos in the woods.” Definitely looks guilty, but Hugo’s done with this streak of piss insulting his friends. “Where does this weirdo live?” The man pinches fingers to short hairs as his mouth twitches, swallowing information. Looks like gears changing in his head.
“Your employer. If he needs this information, it must have value, yes?” A greedy idiot’s dumbshow of slyness. Hugo sighs, his disillusionment in the fellowship of man repurposed into stern negotiation. “He’s generous, not foolish. And not very trusting.” Way too late, Harald appends: “And, besides, what are his intentions with this ‘Rian’?” Hugo allows his contempt to show, and propels through gritted teeth: “Well, he’s dead so there’s not much more that can happen to him.”
The lie hits the merchant like a fist, and for an instant Hugo worries he’s misread the man. But only for an instant, as Harald recoups, truffle pig snuffling after the main chance. “You won’t get any information from the council, you know. It’s not just security for our customers, you know. Our trading routes are held secret for our own security.” “We have no interest in your community, sir. Just the location of this man’s hideout.” Hugo uncovers the pouch he palmed out of his satchel, allows the contents to clink in the motion. The man’s eyes lock upon it.
They watch the man’s angels and devils engage in brief combat. Three pops his nose out of Hugo’s pocket inquisitively. The squirrel’s instinct for the pinch moment of a scam is impeccable. But the winning side of the merchant’s moral battle was never in question. Harald Skinner again tugs his moustache, eyes steady on the pouch of gold. He says, almost in a singsong: “Well, if Rian’s really dead then…”
The three of them startle as, from deep into the shop, a female voice gulps a sob. A skinny girl, late teens or early 20s to Hugo’s eye, drops a mop and bucket onto the floor and hurries through the door behind the counter. He can’t make out much more than long dirty-blonde hair as the precarious bucket lands on its base, slopping dirty water over the floorboards.
Harald has the good grace to look profoundly guilty for an instant before greed and craftiness resume control of his features. “Sadly, my Pollyanna was Rian’s intended…” He leaves it dangling, but the meaning is clear. Hugo’s guilt at the unintended consequence of his ruse calms a little, watching the man utilise the girl to further his claim. Her grief, at least, appeared genuine. He can see that the game has soured in Thae’s expression too, but he’s too committed now.
Watches as the man digs further in, his own profits clearly in mind. “As Rian’s prospective father-in-law, I should accompany you.” A blink, momentary at best. Has Harald belatedly discovered his conscience? “To protect my girl’s interests, you understand?” Hugo understands much, he feels, sweeping past the revelation of Polly’s identity. His blood cools as he holds the man’s gaze.
“Then you had better arm yourself, Mr Skinner. You may need to protect not only your interests but your person.” The man’s eyes widen, become glassy with fear. Hugo scowls, asks: “You don’t believe that we were the cause of his death?” Watches the man’s fear pitch and kick. Takes chilled pleasure as he calmly intones: “We may well run into those who were.”
