"There is a large gathering in the courtyard gardens," she said, pointing him to the window. "It could be an opportunity."
Lorin gripped the bars and pulled himself close to get a full view below. The sun, on its way to setting, cast long shadows and warm orange light across the cobblestones where dozens of people stood around two large tables. The group mingling near one table shone with fine garments and jewels, which all glinted like dew on flowers. The other table seated many more guests, but they were dressed in ragged and dirty clothing as they ate the food served to them with little socializing. All-in-all it was a mixed crowd with humans making up the majority of the well-dressed guests. The handful of slim elven figures stood out with a distinguished presence, talking among themselves or admiring the gardens. It was a subtle but tangible aura, and the crowd flowed around them like rocks in a river bed. A few dwarves were mixed in with that crowd as well, but a loud group of them sat next to each other drinking, singing, and eating. They were at the more lavishly adorned table, but were having a time good enough to topple a tavern.
The ones not sitting and eating, aside from the constant flow of serving staff, were talking in small clusters or looking toward the raised stage that joined the heads of the two tables. Lavish ornamentation dressed the table and six occupied chairs were on the front of the stage facing the crowd. More food was plated out between the ones seated there than Lorin had seen in the past few years. Behind that, the stage was raised up for another table filled with food, but this table had one chair, though Lorin thought “throne” would be a more adequate term. Carved from a massive jawbone, it was set with inlays of jewels, silver, gold, and countless detailed skulls of animals, monsters, and a few humans, elves, and dwarves. It radiated intimidation over the whole gathering, though it sat empty. The guests looking toward the head table, however, weren't focused on that, but looked on the man seated below in the middle of the table. Varron was sitting with an easy smile while holding the gloved hand of a beautiful woman in a white and black interwoven dress. Lorin's arms shook and his knuckles were ashen white as he, unknowingly, tried to crush the bars.
"Little prick," Lorin said, though the words came out with more spit than enunciation.
"Then she will be disappointed," Ashmere said.
Lorin looked at her in confusion before realization crept in. "This is a wedding."
"No. As far as I can tell it's a greeting or engagement party."
"She looks terrified. Varron must be holding her or her family hostage."
"She looks happy to me."
"Varron is too smug for her not to be under his thumb." With that, Lorin left the window and walked to his cell.
Ashmere followed him with her eyes and said, "What are you doing?"
Lorin remained silent while he uncovered his cubbyhole and pulled out two arrowheads still attached to hand-lengths of broken shaft. He tested the edge and then tied one to each wrist, hidden under his sackcloth sleeves. With them in place, he looked up to Ashmere and held up one finger.
"I am going to kill him."
"What's your plan?" Ashmere asked, then smirked when Lorin raised a second finger.
"I'm going to kill him."
"That's a goal not a plan."
"No, that has always been the plan. His death is why I live." Lorin's voice had grown louder, and he started to walk down the hallway.
"Should I give you a rope instead, then?"
Lorin stopped walking, but didn't turn.
"You're just going to kill yourself out there," Ashmere said as she leaned out her doorway. "So why take such a long walk?"
"I am not—"
"Yes you are! If you go out right now you will maybe draw some of his blood—maybe—but you'll be cut down before those drops hit the ground."
Lorin turned, raising his voice to match her tone. "You've asked your three questions, so how about you answer mine? You woke me saying this was an opportunity, didn’t you? An opportunity for what if not to kill?"
Ashmere remained silent for a time, letting the air cool while her eyes scanned his face. Lorin's breathing slowed before she said, "An opportunity to observe and stalk prey, to learn the weaknesses to exploit when attacking a dangerous foe."
"There isn't a need to watch more. It would waste a perfect opportunity when he is distracted and not expecting the attack," Lorin said. He rolled his shoulders to loosen some of the tension in them.
"He is expecting an attack, there are—"
"Eight guards around him: two behind the stage, three to either side, not to mention the four mixed in, if you can even call it that, with the other guests."
A glint of surprise and pride shown in Ashmere's face before it was whisked away when she said, "You'll die."
"Now is my chance. I missed it when it mattered, but I won’t this time."
"There will be another chance, there always is if you're patient. Don't let your past mistakes mislead you into suicide."
"You have praised me for using my family's memory as a tool in a fight, so why not use it now?"
"In a fight emotion, energy, and instinct are what drive one to victory. A hunt is different—it needs time, knowledge, and discernment."
The calls and shouts of the dwarves through the window kept silence at bay, but the two didn't say a word for a long time.
Lorin turned back down the hallway and knelt at the large door out of the cellblock. Ashmere watched from her doorway as Lorin picked and unlocked the door. Then, he lifted it to let it open without a sound and took one step out.
"Varron is one of the people that killed your wife and children," Ashmere said. "What of the others? With you dead who will bring justice on them?"
Lorin hesitated, said nothing in reply, and closed the door behind him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Left, right, down, left and he would be at the door to the courtyard. Easy. Expect now, the halls were alive with shouted commands and rushed footsteps; the smell of salted meats and steamed vegetables filled the air, and shadows on the walls danced from torchlight. The interior felt foreign. The comfort of routine had been replaced with stomach-twisting unease. There always was a hint of danger—being out of his cell was never a safe decision—but at night only he and Ashmere walked the halls. There was real imminent danger now that had to be faced. This was his chance, but that didn't stop the pressure from building.
Lorin took his first few steps away from the door and peeked around the corner. Clear for now, though any of the echoing steps could turn to his direction, and the bustling sound of people came from his usual route to the courtyard. Lorin looked to the right, seeing a closed door at the far end and an open door on the right side of the hallway. His stomach flipped once as he crept along with one hand sliding along the wall for balance. Halfway down the hall, he stopped and stood up. He pictured the scene—a bright hallway with a ragged man crouched trying to hide like a toddler. It was not the way, if he was caught, that he wanted to look. Strolling the last few steps to the door with his head high, he peered in. Wooden steps descended through a narrow corridor that turned at the bottom and hid the stair's end. With careful steps, light as his bare feet could make, Lorin descend and rounded the corner.
He was greeted by a dimly lit room, twice as large as the cell block and filled with wooden barrels. Two torches brightened the room enough for him to see a path between the rows of ale, wine, and salted foods, but it was too dark to read the faded lettering stamped on the barrels. Once Lorin stepped off the wooden steps to the stone floor, he turned and looked up at the ceiling. He knew his cubby hole opened into this room, and even though it was hard to spot, he did see one small rock pushed out slightly from the rest of the wall. Lorin smirked and looked over the room once more before walking up to one of the tapped barrels along the wall. The face of the barrel looked to have dwarvish lettering, but their meaning was lost on Lorin. A tasting cup hung from the barrel and Lorin poured himself a drink. The foam started to settle, but then a voice m
ade Lorin freeze mid-sip.
"Eh! That's the good stuff," the deep, slurred voice said. "They notice when that stuff goes *hiccup* missing."
Lorin's heart had seized and his fingers tingled, but he held his composure and turned to the voice. It belonged to a bearded man reclining in an uncomfortable-looking position behind a few barrels. The man's hair was wild and long, but his face looked washed, albeit tinged red, and he wore the same outfit the waiters tending to the guests outside were wearing.
"They won't miss a cupful," Lorin said and took a swig. Sweat had instantly seeped out on his forehead and he felt a large drop fall from under his arm. He sloshed the remaining liquid around in the cup and held it out the man. "But a good drink should always be shared." His hand, and the cup—to Lorin's amazement—did not shake.
The man's eyes widened with his grin and, landing like wet laundry, he fell from his seat. Lorin smiled and nodded to the man once he staggered to his feet and grabbed the cup.
"I knew yous was a good man *hiccup* the moment I saws ya."
Each word felt like an assault against Lorin's sense of smell, but he managed to fight through and smile.
"Who am I to say you're wrong?" Lorin said, taking the cup back.
"It's the beard. You can always trust a man with a beard—a beard that's free and wild."
Lorin touched his face, which right under his nose had grown a respectable few finger widths of coarse hair. He ran his fingers through it, then through the considerable length of greasy hair atop his head. An awkward silence almost set in before Lorin said, "If that's the case, we bearded brothers should have another." And Lorin filled the cup to the brim, and after taking a small sip, he held it out. The man reached for it, but Lorin held it just out of grasp. "Though I do have a question."
"*Hiccup*"
"May, I borrow your clothes?"
The man's eyes narrowed and he tilted his head, which made him lose his balance and fall against a barrel. "Why would yous be wanting my clothes? You’re not one of them weirdies, are ya?"
Lorin chuckled and handed the cup to him. "No, brother, but you deserve to stay and drink, and I would be more than happy to fulfill your serving duty for a time so no one comes to look for you."
Lorin could see the thought wading through his mind. The cup was emptied and refilled before the man said, "Sorry *hiccup* I can't do it. They handed these out for us volunteers and saids we could keep em. It's the best coverings I gots, so I can't part withem."
"Volunteers? You aren't part of the estate workers?"
The man looked longingly at the empty bottom of the cup as he lifted it high over his head. "Now we is—for the night, at least. Lord Varron's orders, those who could act real polite-like work the night and get free clothes and food. Did you forget that already? Here *hiccup* I thinks you've had enough to drink for the night." The man then took Lorin's arm and began to lead him to the stairs. "You've lost the clothes and smell like you fell in pig shit. *Hiccup* Don't lose this one." The man put a steel bracelet into Lorin's hand. "I can hold my liquor so I won't be needing that, but you, brother, you need to watch how much you drink. Dressed like that and without a tag would get you placed in the lottery right quick."
Lorin took a few steps up the stairs, then turned back to the man leaning against a barrel. "Thank you, brother, I'll return the favor when I can."
"Don't worry *hiccup* about it. Bearded brothers need to stick together, and the ale needs to be guarded by the best." The man raised his fist above his head and walked back to his corner.
Lorin made his way back up while looking at the bracelet he had been handed. It was a simple chain with one flat disk linked in that had 'Server' etched in the metal. He slid it on his wrist, but before he reached the top of the stairs he heard a happy and very drunk man yell from below, "Say hello to Mother for me!" Lorin chuckled and closed the door behind him.
Back in the hall now, Lorin looked to the closed door to his right and the continuation of the hallway past that. It was a new area that he hadn't explored, but that didn't mean it was worth exploring right now. Instead, Lorin went left back toward his cell's entranceway and the path he knew would take him to the courtyard. The bracelet felt reassuring, but whether or not it would work still left a flutter in his stomach. He made it right and halfway down the usual path before meeting a new face. It was a middle-aged woman dressed in a server's outfit and carrying a pitcher in each hand. Lorin, mid-step down the stairs, stopped in place when she appeared and began to climb toward him. She gasped and looked shocked when he cleared his throat to get her attention.
"You scared me," she said, her voice younger than her features.
"One of the elves send you to get em a piglet?"
Lorin nodded.
"You won't be the last. They love playing with any human they can." She motioned with her pitcher-laden hands. "The dwarves are running a little low, but these were for backup, so I got some time. Follow me and I'll get you cleaned up."
"Thank you," Lorin said in an exhale of relief, then followed her down. She was fast, but Lorin kept pace; they passed six other servers and two guards in their rush. Not one of them took a second look. They reached a large room furnished for function with two livestock troughs in the center filled with cloudy water.
"Strip," the woman said, setting her pitchers on a counter and tying an apron on herself.
Lorin paused for just a moment, but then stripped down to nothing, hiding the arrowheads in the bunch of dirty clothing, then he stepped into a trough.
"Good thing you changed," the woman said, smelling the sackcloth he left on the counter. "If your uniform had smelled half as bad as these, you would've stunk up the whole party." She tossed them to a pile of other dirty laundry and grabbed a brush. "What crimes did you get caught for?"
Lorin tensed. "What do you mean?"
"Your scars, you must be an awful thief the amount of times you have been whipped, and… you've been hung?"
Lorin relaxed, then tensed again as the stiff-bristled brush rubbed his back raw.
Between brush strokes the woman said, "I'll give you some advice—don't steal around these parts. Whipping isn't a punishment here; all crimes go to the lottery, which means execution by axe unless you're lucky. Although, these scars don't make you seem all that lucky."
They did not speak for the rest of the bath, though Lorin did get the sense she was enjoying brushing every part of him raw a bit too much. Once he dried off she handed him a new set of clothing after checking his bracelet and gave him a hat to cover his wet hair. Then she was off, pitchers in hand, leaving him alone to change.
The sandals he was given were made from worn leather and strapped comfortably to his feet. The rest of the clothing, however, must've been made to cover a man the size of a bull. A single pant leg could have been a narrow skirt for him, and the button-up shirt would be better suited to setting sail than looking presentable. The moment he stepped out into the courtyard he would be noticed in his sea of fabric. It was one step closer to blending in, but the voice inside his head, which sounded a lot like Ashmere, wasn’t happy. He grabbed his arrowheads from the discarded clothing and hid them in his sleeves again before stepping out of the room.
Putting on the best impression he could of the other servants—hurried desperation and tolerance—he set down the hall ahead of him. A woman with dark hair pulled tight in a bun carried a platter with a half-eaten turkey carcass from the courtyard. She almost ran into a short, balding man who was carrying a rack of lamb glossed up and ready to be eaten. Not a word was said, but the look between the two was loud enough. Lorin's stomach protested not following the balding man as he passed him, but he focused and followed the bob
bing hair bun. She led him to a kitchen filled with the numbing noise of shouted voices crowding each other out. Platters of food ready to go were placed beside the door he entered, and he watched the hair bun lady dump her platter into a large bin piled up with scraps. She scraped off enough food into that pile for a family to eat well for a month. Before he could see more, a bald dwarf with a white beard pressed tight against his chin and neck by a net walked up. "Stop standing around, dumb-ass. You're in the way."
Lorin looked for words, but none appeared.
"Another dumb one," the dwarf said, rubbing his eyes. "Here, grab plate. Take outside. Move ass." He handed Lorin a tray with a roasted duck nestled atop mixed greens and sent him out the door he’d entered. Lorin stumbled out and carried the platter down the hall, turning to the right when he could. The door outside was open ahead of him and the pale blue-gray light of dusk brightened the hall. Lorin moved away from that door and entered the one just before it. He had to find some better clothes.
The room he entered was lavish and larger than the whole cabin he had built for his homestead. Its walls were covered in tapestries, suits of decorative armor, and trophy heads of local wildlife. Though dark and quite the room felt off. Lorin's skin had crawled when he first stepped in the room, and when he set his platter on a small end table he felt his hand tremble. The dark had grown to be a comfort to Lorin, but in this room the dark felt crowded. The eyes of the heads seemed to follow him around the room.
This room's aesthetic was so great a change from the plain stone corridors of the servants’ halls that this had to be part of the Baron's living quarters. Lorin didn’t know why he was in this area of the building. A better fitting uniform would never be in here. This area was closed off to shift focus on the courtyard. Stealing some of the finer clothes and posing as a guest crossed his mind, but it wouldn't be a smart plan. Well-dressed guests garnered more attention than a lowly servant, even a wildly misdressed one. He walked back to the platter and door, playing the situation over in his head. What could he say to excuse the caravan’s worth of fabric falling from his gut? Weight-loss? Pregnancy? Would anyone even care? He hoped it wasn’t that big of a problem.