It was the winters like these that made young Rathi eternally grateful that he, unlike so many other orphans, had a roof over his head. Truly, was there any better a place to be allowed to take shelter than an inn? When the blizzards raged outside and the temperatures dropped enough to freeze the flesh to a man’s bones, the hearth inside the Gilded Crown was still radiant with heat and light, and the hearty scents of cooking food never stopped wafting from the kitchen. Sure, maybe the tables stayed sticky no matter how many times he scrubbed them down, and maybe the sawdust scattered on the floor turned to something near the consistency of mud if he wasn’t quick enough about refreshing it whenever flagons toppled and spilled, but at least he was warm and fed. Sometimes he even got to add a coin to his pocket, whether it was handed to him or he had snatched it from the sawdust before its original owner noticed it was missing!
The chance of finding any tavern dead and empty was about as likely as the sun deciding not to rise the next morning, but winter really brought the Crown to life. It was the only gathering place for miles along this particular stretch of the Tradesmen’s Road. It was only a light flurry that currently powdered the afternoon sky outside the windows, but the chill in the air and knowledge that the next waypoint was leagues off was more than enough to convince travelers to head inside for the Crown’s hot stews and honeyed mead.
Little Rathi busied himself happily around the common-room, not because he truly enjoyed the work, but because anything was better than having to suffer the cold without fire or shelter. He wiped up spills, spread fresh sawdust from the giant sacks of the stuff in the pantry, and made sure that the wrinkled qaron resting her ancient bones by the fireplace — her days of being the inn’s fearsome watch-beast long behind her — always had water in her bowl.
As he worked, he also eavesdropped. Nobody noticed little Rathi, with his dirt-smudged face and sawdust caught in the pale ringlets of his hair. He slipped in between callused elbows, ducked under mugs being waved enthusiastically in the air, did his work, and found his entertainment — and sometimes more coins — in the things he heard while the adults talked over his head.
There was an especially entertaining reason to listen closely today. One of the Crown patrons had caught most of the eyes there, inspiring the rest to gossip to each other.
“He passes through every year about now,” said one. “Whatever circuit he’s walking, he doesn’t change it much. Keep using this road and you’ll get used to seeing him.”
“Eh, he’ll listen to you if you’re offering him some work,” scoffed another snippet of conversation, “But otherwise you can have a better chat with a brick wall.”
“Noticed that medallion of his, though? It’s to Yli, the Joyful One. What do you make of that?”
“Probably stole it. Nothing joyful about him.”
At another table, Rathi heard: “That ain’t no knight. I seen a real knight before, shiny-armored and everything, and he ain’t one. You so blind you can’t see the imp on his shoulder? Only warlocks deal with all them kinds of bodhi-things.”
“That’s because he’s a warknight, you half-wit. Warlock-knight. Are you so blind you don’t see the eyes on that demon-sword of his? It’s sure watching you, you know…”
And elsewhere: “I hear he worships the Tyrant, Shob. Sure looks like he might, don’t he?”
“Yah. Wouldn’t he be off at a garrison somewhere if he called to the Drawn Blade like the rest of them?”
“Oh he’s no caller to Kuo. Never seen him draw that blade ‘cept to shine it.”
Elsewhere still: “I think his family is Tolore. That’s what’s on his belt, anyhow, ‘ccording to the barkeep.”
“Naw, he’s Aers. Jerek Aers. Sure don’t look like a fellow with traceable family, do he? Everything he’s got on is all beat up and don’t match. Maybe he killed a Tolore once. Can’t be much of an achievement, though, ‘cuz that’s not a name I’ve ever heard.”
“Aers, neither…”
The man being discussed, this Jerek Aers, sat alone at the bar. Even while seated and brooding over a flagon, he was obviously a tall and well-built man. Rathi was honestly a little surprised he hadn’t chosen to sit at one of the corner-tables of the inn, where shadows fell and afforded at least a semblance of privacy, like every other patron that wanted a warm meal but to not be bothered by anyone else. Or perhaps, Rathi considered, he just didn’t care about the gossip, so he didn’t bother trying to avoid notice — if it was even possible for a man like him not to be noticed, especially considering his imp and his sword.
Retrieving a fresh scoop of sawdust from the back room, Rathi decided a closer look was in order. Nobody else ever noticed him skulking about their elbows, so why would the warknight be any different? Rathi wasn’t going to bother him, anyway. He just wanted to see this ‘Jerek’ close up. The boy had only won himself into the graces of the innkeeper last fall, so he hadn’t been around before to see this warlock or warknight or whatever he was.
Under the pretense of spreading more sawdust around the barstools, Rathi started along the line of seated patrons, scrutinizing the dour man as he got nearer. Jerek’s attention seemed wholly on his drink, ignoring the roar and chatter of the busy inn around him. He looked mean to Rathi, mean and halfway to old with a heavy brow and face worn by time, but it was the sword and the imp that really caught the boy’s eye — and everyone else’s!
Rathi d never seen a warknight or one of their demon-swords before. He knew each sword was supposed to have a powerful bodhi inside to help the warknight cast their magic, but that was about it. He had never seen a sword as big as Jerek’s either. The blade wasn’t particularly wide, but it was so ridiculously long he had trouble imagining it as much of a weapon. It looked terribly unwieldy and surely it was useless once a foe got really close, right? It hung across Jerek’s back in an odd sort of scabbard that didn’t even sheathe it completely — only the first foot or so of blade beyond the crosspiece was enclosed and the rest was bare. It made no sense. The cutting edges of the blade were unprotected, exposed to the elements, and how could one even draw a blade of that length from behind their shoulder, anyway?
Slipping nearer, the boy peered up along its length, looking for the eye he’d heard mentioned, and spotted it up by the crosspiece. It was a stylized sort of engraving, as if an artist had chiseled it with as few strokes as possible. Rathi did have to agree it looked like it was staring out at the common room, though he wasn’t sure he’d say it was watch—
Suddenly the eye looked down at him and winked. Or maybe only blinked. Hard to say, with only one eye visible. Nevertheless, engraved or not, it moved and Rathi jumped, scattering sawdust everywhere, including over himself. An amused, scoffing snort reached his ears, and the eye looked away again.
Guess it was watching things after all. The warknight himself, on the other hand, either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care to look.
Rathi tried to steady his breathing, looking down at himself. The over-sized tunic and pants he had been given were filthy with sawdust now, and by contrast the wooden scoop in his hand was empty. With a sigh, the boy started brushing himself off.
As he was doing so, something dropped to the floor near his feet, sending up a tiny puff of sawdust. Rathi blinked at it in surprise. It was small, round, pale in color…
“Um…”
Now he looked up, discovering a funny-looking face peeking at him from around the warknight’s far shoulder. It belonged to the imp.
The people of Liune tended to be leery of bodhi, who were warily regarded as the magical servants of the warlocks that summoned and bound them, but if all bodhi looked like this imp did, Rathi couldn’t see why they were so feared. It was smaller than even a child like himself, thin and gawky, with over-sized ears and a gap between its top two teeth, which showed as the creature gave Rathi an embarrassed smile.
It pointed a tiny, claw-tipped finger down at the dust. “Could you, um… maybe pick that up for Grig, please?” it asked. It had a muted, nasally sort of voice, the kind like Rathi was used to hearing from people with stuffed-up noses.
Surprised yet again, too much to think before he obeyed, Rathi did so. The little shape, when he fished it from the sawdust, turned out to be a nut of the kind the innkeeper kept in bowls along the bar, free for patrons to snack on. Pinching it carefully between thumb and forefinger, as if it were a small treasure rather than a dusty snack, Rathi stepped around to the warknight’s other side.
The imp wasn’t actually on the man’s shoulder, but seated on the bar. Its feet were as poorly proportioned to it as its ears were, hanging over the edge of the bar and dangling in the air. It had one of the nut-bowls cradled in its lap and smiled sheepishly as Rathi came around, staring at the winged creature in open fascination. Maybe it wasn’t scary-looking, but it was still weird!
Even stranger was the feel of a tiny hand plucking the nut from between his fingertips as he held it up to the little bodhi. The imp’s shy expression blossomed into a happy grin.
“Thanks!” it exclaimed in its odd little voice, polishing the nut on its shorts, then popping it in its mouth. The single nut was practically a whole mouthful for the imp.
Rathi wasn’t aware he was still gaping at the creature and its ridiculously bulging cheeks until the warknight moved. The boy looked up, startled all over again, to find scowling face of Jerek Aers turned down towards him with one thick eyebrow arched. For a moment Rathi then gaped up at him, instead, and they might have stared at each other indefinitely if the imp hadn’t spoken again.
With its tiny hand, it reached out and patted the warknight’s shoulder with the sort of familiarity allowed only to drunks and old friends. “It’s okay, Boss, he helped Grig!” the imp beamed around a mouthful of nut-mush.
“Gods only know why,” replied a snide voice, but it wasn’t Jerek. Rathi’s head snapped to the side and once again found the sword was staring at him.
“Be nice!” squawked the imp, as Jerek wordlessly turned his back on Rathi, returning to his drink. “Grig likes him!”
The demon-sword rolled its eyes, then found Rathi with the one again. “Off with you, child,” it sneered, though Rathi had no idea how it could speak at all. Did it have a mouth as well as its eyes somewhere? “Were you never taught that it’s impolite to stare? Keep it up and I shall be forced to make a personal acquaintance with your intestines.”
Rathi shook his head, getting himself out of his stupor just to frown in confusion. “Uh…what?”
The sword’s sigh was drawn-out and scornful. “In case you hadn’t noticed, child, I am a sword, while you are a soft and vulnerable fleshy sort of thing. You put it together.”
As Rathi attempted to do just that, the imp slammed his bowl on the bar beside him, scattering several of the nuts, and jumped to its feet. From there, it leapt onto Jerek’s shoulder with a flutter of its miniature wings and wrapped its hands around a stone at the end of the sword’s pommel. It was a crystal of some sort, perfectly spherical and the deep red of heart’s blood.
“Grig said be nice!”
The sword’s visible eye rolled upwards, glaring at the imp with clear malevolence. “Get your greasy little hands off of that, you insignificant whelp!”
It seemed like the imp was about to start gnawing on the crystal, whatever it was for, just before Jerek reached back to his shoulder. The motion was calm and measured, but when his hand clamped around the imp’s waist, the strength evident in his large hand made it hard not to imagine that the little bodhi was about to be squeezed in two. The imp squeaked as it was pulled from its perch and the warknight held it before his face, the lines of the man’s scowl even deeper than before.
The imp wilted immediately, hunching over on itself like a beaten dog. “Sorry, Boss.”
“Filthy little beast,” hissed the sword, as Jerek placed the imp back on the bar without anything more than that glare. “My lord, I have been contaminated. Do spare a moment from your alcoholic vices to wipe our oath-stone clean, would you? There’s a good fellow.”
This was, without a doubt, the strangest exchange Rathi had ever witnessed, and he probably wasn’t the only one staring, for the volume of the common room behind him had dropped several notches. But then then strangest, strangest thing of all, was that the warknight reached over the imp, scooped the scattered nuts back into the bowl with one hand, and placed the bowl back in the creature’s lap. Only then did Jerek dig into a pocket, produce a scrap of rag, and reach back to polish the pommel-stone of his demon-sword.
The sword closed its eyes, the imp slowly went back to shoving nuts in its mouth, and Rathi was still staring. Then the loud clearing of a throat drew his attention to the far side of the bar, where his generous benefactor, the innkeeper, stood.
“Come on, lad, back to work,” the man rumbled, pointing back at the tables.
Rathi gave himself a shake all over, as if he’d just awoken from a dream, and hurried to obey. Warknight, sword, and imp remained silent, as if nothing at all had just occurred.