.

.

.

Dearest Readers, a quiet and rather domestic chapter for now because the one before and after are… something. XD

.

THE HIDDEN SWORD

Book Two: Wandering Water| Chapter 50: Serve and Pour

.

A hole bigger than the pocket itself.

Such would be the cost of a room and meals in the Friendly Arm Inn as she had unfortunately learned after shuffling out of the Temple of Wisdom in a better state. Little wonder that years ago when they made their way north to the Gate, Okami had decided for them to camp out there instead of paying for a night here.

Sitting alone at a side bench in the common room, Irse ground her jaw while peering into the sad fistful of coins in her pouch. So much for her brilliant and undeniably practical plan to hang around the inn for a couple of days and question its denizens and guests about having sighted Okami in the woods and the roads.

But what would he do in a pickle like this, she quizzed herself. The answer flashed in her mind, a memory of a ship by the river and a barter of labors. That's it. Emboldened, Irse marched up to the counter where the inn's proprietor tended to his business. Who knew, perhaps the shrewd-looking old gnome might give ear to her offer?

But then again, bargaining sometimes proved a hit-or-miss with her. Just ask the pile of dust that used to be Merchant Hagskins.

"Mister Mirrorshade, Sir?" she called to him, suddenly feeling diffident. "About paying for my stay, I don't have much coin with me. But-" Irse added abruptly, finger raised. "I'm willing to work any chore if you would spare even just a corner in the stables for a night or two."

As for the meals, she would just have to try her best at making the saddest mooning eyes at the cook.

Bentley paused from scribbling on a logbook, shaggy brows up in skeptical appraisal as he leaned over the counter. He pinched the side of his bifocals, sliding them up the bridge of his great upturned nose. "An elf lass looking to toil in a humble wayside den for a pallet and a morsel? I must say, not the most gainful of trades pitched to me, and I've been in plenty not even worth a crumb of wax from the candle."

Wincing at the forthcoming rejection, Irse cracked her knuckles. Only one more chance left to sweeten the deal. "I forgot to mention, Sir, that I used to be a blacksmith's apprentice. Weapons and armor and general patching up of anything falling apart. How about that?"

Though round like teacup saucers, Bentley's eyes narrowed like the beadiest string beans. "Fixing everything, you say? Even bent knives and a leaky roof?"

Irse grinned at the challenge. Why, who else in the realms is an absolute expert when it comes to squiggly steel and holey roofs?

.

.

Should've had twice of today's midday meal. Irse clicked her tongue as she surveyed her makeshift workstation - a shed against the wall with a firepit and a table piled high with broken things.

For a place that appeared to be a former battle-ready fortress, the Friendly Arm oddly didn't have its own smithy. On the other hand, there had never been any need for one until now. One of the guards mentioned a blacksmith coming up here every other tenday from a village about a day and a half's march south. But less than a month ago, the man had stopped visiting. Perhaps he had fallen ill, became suddenly preoccupied with other things, or avoided troubles in the road. Her curiosity piqued, Irse had been thinking about asking them more of this person but the sudden arrival of a group of patrons had taken his attention and she figured it best to get to work in the meantime.

Now, thanks to this other smith's sudden absence, Irse found herself with a bit of a backlog. Still, a good trade and better than nothing - elbow grease in exchange for free meals and a cot in the women workers' quarters. More than those was the chance to ask about Okami and question every living soul within and coming in the Friendly Arm. As a consideration to the Mirrorshades, Irse promised to herself that she wouldn't pester the guests too much.

Finally, some real work. Nothing like good o'l hands-on labor to help put her mind off the gnawing worry over her former mentor. Humming, Irse resumed sorting through pieces of armor, some odds and ends, the weapons carefully laid aside in a separate heap. She cast a chapfallen glance at the firepit and the rack bearing only a single hammer, a pair of pliers, and a chisel.

Oh, to be back in their own smithy where she already had everything she needed.

But as they always say in Dearg – if you only got three sticks, then build a cabin. Heartened, Irse rubbed her palms and set herself to the task at hand.

Dents on a pikeman's pot? Easy peasy, just hammer it out from the inside of the helmet back to its former shape or at least to something serviceable, even if it ends up looking like a misshapen cauldron. But then, the soundness of this spot had already been compromised. Reinforcing it from the inside with a small patch of steel ought to do the trick.

Missing links in a hauberk's shoulder? Grab the pliers and weave in the replacement rings. But wait, no spare links just lying around? Don't sweat a stew, just skim a few from the hem of the same chain shirt, preferably at the back. Besides, what are the odds of getting an arrow in the bum anyway?

Holes in the shield? Without a proper forge, annealing was out of the question. Or she could simply braze the gap with a metal patch. Hopefully, that should stand up to a few more blows, at least until they decide to let a dragon chomp on it like a cracker.

"But this funny blade here," Irse absently murmured to herself while regarding the strange injury of one particular sword she pulled out from the pile.

Not bent but broken. Halved not by the cut of a stronger and sharper foe, but by the touch of the iron plague. Its exposed cross section laid bare the corrupted core where the remaining steel mingled with the copper-colored decay. Lightly tapping its edge against the table produced more of the reddish like rust, except it degraded too fast or disintegrated unexpectedly. Is this even natural?

Maybe the old folks said it right. The very earth in Nashkel had been cursed by the gods.

.

.

Finally, the last of the heavy drinkers left the common room, not for being nearly moondark, but because the bar was already closed for the night. Perfect time to be checking on the chains of one of the chandeliers before they slip or snap and fall on somebody's head. Or worse, on their supper.

Luckily, said fixtures in this inn were simple hammered metal bands with smaller rings for candle cups, and nothing like the grand and delicate ones with crystals and prisms. No need for deft hands tonight.

"It does look a smidge too tilted," Irse murmured to herself, grasping a ladder while staring up at the offending candelabrum that had been pointed out earlier by one of the patrons. Guess he didn't just imagine the hot candlewax dripping on his head.

Within the hour and with a bit of tugging and maneuvering, the chandelier was righted once more and Irse climbed down the ladder. She was readying to leave when one of the patrons banged his fist on the table, catching her attention.

Seeing who it was, Irse fought the urge to groan. None other than a half-orc sitting alone in a corner booth, the one the barmaids have dubbed Sir Lord of Blood and Slaughter and Extra Sharp Edges.

Surly, ill-tempered, and constantly threatening to eviscerate anyone who so much as wandered into his breathing space. Not once did she catch the serving girls griping about having been the target of his eloquent abuse. Even taken to flipping a coin among themselves to pick the unlucky one to serve him his next meal or drink, or clean his room. Irse had already asked him about Okami, receiving an angry 'no' and a lengthy tirade to get out of his sight or suffer his wrath reserved for the fearful sheep deserving of the cruelest carnage and other such dastardly drivel.

"You, elf," he called to her imperiously. "I will have a word with you."

"Yes, sir. Anything you need?" she replied with a stiff smile.

The half-orc eyed her with disdain. "What I have no need for is your pitiful simpering. What I need is for another flagon of ale to be set before me. Now."

If one of her eyes didn't twitch, her right hand surely did. "Well, the bartender's ended his shift and the barmaids have already retired for the night."

"Then what use are your hands? If you cannot shut your mewling mouth and lift your timid feet to run and fetch my drink, then begone!"

Taken aback, Irse scowled. Quite sure that serving the patrons wasn't part of her duties. How dare he talk rudely to her like she was his servant? Maybe she ought to give him a piece of her mind and…

"Tomorrow then, I will tell that doddering gnome of your incompetence. See if he still counts you worthy of a wage."

At the threat, fanciful visions of smashing a chair over his head were replaced with a more horrifying scenario – one of free food and bed replaced with the cold and cramped makeshift jail cell for assaulting a paying customer.

"Of course, sir. I'll bring your drink right away," she pronounced through gritted teeth.

Just her luck, the cask of ale at the bar was empty. Grousing, Irse headed further back into the kitchens and found one recently tapped. Drawing a tankard brought back to mind those days spent as a child with Imoen, tailing Winthrop around the inn. While he puttered behind the bar, the girls would claim a corner as their own pretend taproom, don their tiny frilly aprons, and act out with empty bottles and chipped mugs, both the part of the gnarly barkeep and the soused patron.

She eyed the refilled tankard. Didn't Winthrop always jest about the less reputable taverns at the Gate? Where fights break out at the drop of an ale, and where the crustiest wenches serve drinks to bad customers with a little extra something stirred in?

Irse rubbed her chin, a giddy grin spreading on her face. Mistress Gellana kept the tinctures and herbs in the temple infirmary, and it shouldn't be hard to find their hiding place. But then, sneaking into a holy place to swipe a purgative didn't seem right, even for a lesson in proper manners.

But why even go through the trouble when a gob of spit should do? Hacking in the best imitation of Kagain's throaty manner, she lifted the tankard to her mouth, about to dribble into it, when a prick of shame suddenly poked her in the side. Alarmed, Irse stared into the mug.

Okami would never do something as petty. Even with the most uncouth and fussiest customers, he had always been fair and genuinely courteous.

And what was Gorion always so fond of reminding her? An act of spite harms the doer more than the receiver.

"Ughhhh," she muttered, eyes rolling petulantly. Why do consciences grow quick like mushrooms, anyway?

.

.

"That took you long enough."

"My apologies for the delay," Irse replied in her best imitation of what she hoped was Okami's tone if he had ever wanted to strangle someone so badly but wouldn't.

Grumbling, the half-orc seized the tankard, frowning as Irse laid down a second mug of ale before him.

"Is this generosity on your part? Or a pathetic attempt to gain my favor?"

"Neither," Irse replied, irritated at the lateness of the hour and having to still be here. "Only because you might want another, but the bar's already locked up. But you know, you could try and not be rude to the serving girls and to everyone else."

"Kindness is a foolishness that serves me no purpose."

"Oh, so it would kill the big and scary man to be a little nicer," she mocked. "Then you may as well make these last until you leave, because I'll tell them not to serve you anymore if you so much as mouth off your stupid threats again. Even if I have to answer to Mister Mirrorshade for it."

He slammed the mug on the table and rose from his seat, towering over the elf. Unperturbed, Irse didn't flinch, calmly lowering the tray to her side.

"Who are you, insolent meddling wench? Perhaps if I give you a glimpse of –"

"What? Your sword?" she spat. "I got one too. It's long and sharp and its blade is black."

"But not as black as mine," he roared, bending down and reaching for something under the table.

Drawing his weapon! In a snap, Irse dropped the tray, and her hands flew to her side.

To the Kogitsune that wasn't there.

She froze, still disbelieving while patting at her thigh and clutching at nothing with her fingers. Equally dumbfounded, the half-orc stood still and glaring into his likewise empty hands.

In the spur of the moment, they had forgotten about having surrendered their weapons. Both mortified, elf and half-orc awkwardly glowered at one another, and the other sullenly plopped himself back in his chair while Irse retrieved the discarded tray from the floor.

Well then, what were the odds if their swords had been put into the storeroom, side by side? Like a pair of angry puppies yapping and snapping at each other.

The ridiculousness of it bubbled from her thoughts, spreading from a grin on her lips, to a barely controlled snicker, finally rolling into outright hysterical laughter. Forgetting the presence of another, Irse found herself chortling and shaking for a goodly breath, the sudden levity an unexplainable but oddly welcome release from the prior days. Eventually she finally stopped to wipe her eyes.

"And to think I offered them coin to let me keep it when I don't even have enough for a room and a plate," she said, rubbing her nose.

The half-orc pointedly ignored her, possessively drawing the mugs of ale to himself. Shrugging, Irse turned on her heels, about to walk away when –

"Elf."

She whirled to face him again, reflexes snapping as her arm quickly shot up and caught an incoming projectile. It smacked against her palm with a familiar clink. In her hands she found it to be a small pouch of coins, the opening loosely tied, showing a glimpse of both coppers and silvers, evidently more than the price of the drinks.

"My thanks, sir," she stammered, surprised.

Still scowling, the half-orc eyed her for a moment, bobbed his chin up as if in acknowledgment, then looked elsewhere as he took a sip from his first ale.

With a grin and a bow, Irse turned and walked away, steps lightened by a strange yet welcome sense of satisfaction.

.

.

Rubbing at her strained back, Irse stretched the other arm with a gratified grunt at having completed the final task for today. Earlier she had come up here in a corbelled turret along the keep's rear perimeter wall to replace some broken shingles on its pointed roof.

A short break before climbing down seemed like a good idea, and so she sat by the edge, one leg dangling lazily while resting her chin on the other curled up knee, watching the surrounding woods. Dusk would be falling soon, heralding the end of her second day in this place. Another day of disappointment and probably not the last.

Initially it had seemed so simple and easy to ask around and wait for news. But no one had met Okami along their way, nor heard or knew of anyone who might have seen him. Seeking a lone man in the wilds of the Sword Coast was turning out a lot like sifting for a grain of sugar in a sack of salt.

Even her current vantage didn't help in furthering her gaze. Nothing else could be sighted from here other than the unending forest and wilderness stretching endlessly to the horizon. If only she had a magical spyglass whose vision could pierce through anything, and a place as high as the spires back in Iriaebor.

The memory of that morning on the tower brought a sad smile to her lips. Up there it had felt like the top of the world, where the roads behind her were clear and known, and the horizon ahead was bright and infinite. But down here, every path seemed cloaked as if the very realms conspired to shroud the only thing she sought.

Unable to suppress the frustration, Irse cupped her mouth and yelled, "Teacher!"

Teacher? She chuckled, but it sounded bitter to her ears. Not anymore by his own words.

Deeply inhaling again, Irse leaned into the wind. "Okami," she shouted. Still nothing, of course.

Maybe if she used his surname as well. "Munechika Okami!"

No one answered. Not even an admonishment from a patrolling guard, yet for good measure she glanced over her shoulder. Empty, the keep grounds remained and not a surprise for most have already turned in for the evening to continue their work inside.

But why fret about disturbing anybody? The world could fall deaf and silent for all she cared, if it would mean he might hear. If with that, he might listen.

"I'm here! Please! I'm right here!"

Shoulders sagging at the futility, her hands fell limp on her knees, eyes beginning to sting as she blinked furiously. Once more Irse cupped her mouth.

"Please, I'm here! And-," she paused, feeling her chest dragged down with a leaden weight, yet once more drawing breath to gather strength for the coming words.

"I'm sorry."

Over and over she cried, until the words faltered into nothing more than a whisper to the wind.

"I'm so sorry."

But the forest only echoed back with stifling silence. Irse cleared her throat and rubbed her eyes with the base of her palm. Resigned, she picked up the toolbox and made her way back to the ladder, casting one last glance at the deepening red of the eventide sky and the fading gold of the dying sun.

.

.

.