The Start of an Unusual Pairing

‘Get oot will ya? We ain’t servin’ yir kind heer.’

‘Okay, so when do you serve my kind?’

‘Niver. We dinnae serve weans, ye smart-moothed brat.’

She had already gathered quite the audience. The patrons of this rather fragrant establishment had set down their tankards and abandoned their cards. There was even a small fellow carefully spooning coins away from a prize pool off at the corner table.

At least someone was benefiting from her embarrassment.

She flicked her braid over her shoulder and twisted it around. Taking a pin from amongst the golden curls, she tied it up. She turned it. Once. Twice. Thrice. Securing the bun into place and waiting for her hand to warm before she addressed the barkeep again.

‘And why’s that? You certainly seem content serving the dogs.’

The sound of chairs scraped across the slated ground, but she didn’t care. She was too focused on the fat man behind the counter who had stopped twiddling his towel around a tankard’s rim.

Feet started to shuffle, and that caused her to shift. The barkeep hadn’t moved and this eclectic clientele hadn’t taken to her comment.

She swallowed, putting a hand on her hip with a flourish of her wrist. ‘Well, what’s say you?’

The barkeep had a bellowing laugh, hers was less so. A wisp of air passed her lips, a sigh that disguised itself as a feeble chuckle.

‘Awricht then lassie,’ he laughed, setting the tankard under a tap. ‘Ye get one drink, then yir oot, unnerstood? Now whit the rest ye eejits gawking at?’

Surprisingly the barkeep’s words calmed the pack, putting them back in their seats.

The noise returned, but eyes still stared at her as she made her way up to the bar. Sideways glances and furrowed brows made her question if this was even worth it. Now that she was asking herself that, she knew it wasn’t.

‘Whits yir poison, lassie?’

She slid a couple copper pieces across the counter. They were her last. ‘Whatever this gets me.’

The wrinkles ran over his forehead as he raised an eyebrow. He said nothing else though, pouring the rest of the pint in his hand and handing it off to one of the dower men slugged over the countertop. Then he took her money, biting each coin before he dropped them in a jar behind the bar. She found herself fidgeting, rapping against the wooden panelling as she watched him slowly pour another pint. It felt like a lifetime before he set it in front of her.

She toasted him. ‘Cheers.’

Now came the hard bit. She turned back to the tavern floor and scanned the room for an empty chair. There were a few, but most of those few sat between the soured faces that scolded when she passed.

‘Hey, do you mind if- No? Okay.’

‘Hey, is this- Oh it’s taken, no problem.’

‘Hey- Never mind.’

She couldn’t even get the question out before they turned her away.

Slowly she nursed the tankard. It was certainly the cheap stuff, the sediment from the bottom of the barrel. It had the faintest taste of honey, but she would be quick to describe it as vinegar, not mead. But there was no point in letting the head settle and bubbles fizz out whilst she tried fruitlessly to acquire a place at a table. She took another sip.

‘If you keep drinking, you’ll need to find a way to afford another.’

The voice was foreign, even more so than her. There was a purr that followed every pause and when they could, each sound was exaggerated. This was not their first language, that much was obvious.

‘That’s what I’m looking for, mind if I join you?’

She was thankful she finished her sentence before turning to face them. If she hadn’t, it just would have been rude to stop mid-sentence to stare. At least this looked more normal; at least this looked like she was merely waiting for a response.

Resting high against the side of the empty chair was a long shaft of a heavy crossbow, its limbs tucked away under the table and between the chair’s legs. Its owner sat just round from it, chewing on the snub of a holly leaf cigar. Broad shoulders and a hunched back were wrapped with a shabby blue shawl and deep brown leathers blended with the tabby fur that covered any exposed flesh. They wore no shoes and, flicking beneath their chair, a long tail dusted the floor. Their ear twitched, as did the whiskers upon their face. A claw reached for the crossbow, and using its tucked limbs, they pulled out the chair.

She toasted him with a nervous smile and sat down.

They clung onto the cigar, letting out a cloud of spiced smoke as they spoke, ‘What do they call you?’

‘What do they call you?’ she repeated.

‘Cat is what they call me. Rhas is what I am called. Where do these roads take you, fiery one? Care to answer me this?’

‘Away,’ she said.

She slumped in the chair, not even realising how low she had gotten until she had to peer over the edge of the tankard to see Rhas. He didn’t seem to pry any further, but that didn’t make her feel any better. The academy was nearly a week away, through the mountain pass and along a trail that was almost impossible to pass now that the snows were settling in, but it still felt so close. She tried to take another drink, but there was nothing left to drink.

‘I too am going away. I strive to reach the Warrens before nightfall for I do not wish to stay in this place. If you wish, you may follow.’

Rhas ground the butt of the cigar against the table and stood up. He grabbed the crossbow but didn’t sling it over his shoulder. Instead, he used it as a cane, steadying himself as he limped from the table.

‘Why would I follow you?’

Her question stopped him, if only for a moment.

‘You wish to get away. It is your decision. You may follow, but you might or you might not, I cannot tell you which you will decide.’

And with that, he left her alone, hobbling from the tavern.

She rested her head on a hand and tilted the empty tankard back and forth in the other. She watched the light glint off the tarnished metal and thought about what the cat had said. The Warrens were pretty far. The sun was already high in the sky when she came into town, and the journey to reach the Warrens before nightfall was almost an impossible one. Almost.

She shot up. Leaving the tankard spinning on the tabletop as she darted for the door.

The town’s streets were bustling but it wasn’t difficult to find a big cat amongst the faces of humans and elves as well as the stout statures of gnomes and dwarves. He was heading southward. She saw the tabby coat and the blue shawl passing the buildings and against the greenery of the surrounding forest.

The Warrens could be far enough.

She ran through the crowds, bumping and bashing into passers-by. Thundering onto the loose gravel roads and struggling to find her feet as she saw him searching through his pack. He had another cigar between his teeth, and it would seem no way to light it.

Taking a moment to catch her breath, she straightened her robes and tightened the knot of the cloth belt around her waist. She fixed the loose strands of her hair and sniffed, clearing the dust from the back of her throat. She took a breath and walked towards him with a smile. ‘Need a hand?’

He stopped fiddling and tracked her as she came by his side.

‘You decided to follow?’

‘I did, now do you need a hand?’ she replied, feeling her hand warm and quickly snapping her fingers. In an instant, a small flicker turned into a small flame, as the magic danced in the air above her hand. She reached up and he hunched down, lighting his cigar upon the flame.

‘You are skilled in the art?’ he asked, taking a long draw and puffing out the spiced smoke once more.

‘I am, and I’m called Lissa. They don’t call me anything different.’