The Vampire & Her Witch

For days, an oppressive gloom had settled over Lothian March. The rains often came in the morning, filling the air with a sodden mist that seeped into everything, clinging until well past midday and casting a pall over the entire day. Tempers grew short across the march, and in Lothian City, the ale-houses quickly became overcrowded with people looking for a place to warm their bellies and escape the gloom.

Along one wall, a dark-haired youth moved with surprising grace as he dodged the press of wagon drivers, off-duty soldiers, and merchants that filled one of the most popular ale houses in the shadow of Lothian Manor.

His clothing was neat and well maintained with a dark maroon tunic that had been unlaced enough to reveal a hint of his pale, muscular chest and black breeches so tight that they left some patrons who glimpsed the youth wondering if he’d come to advertise ’services’ that the Church was known to frown apon.

Thankfully, few people were paying attention to the young man who seemed to fade in and out of the dark shadows at the edges of the ale house while someone at the bar was garnering significantly more attention, though if the young man was going to learn anything useful this evening it appeared that he would have to pull the man at the bar away from his currently floundering venture.

”I’m telling you,” a coarse man with a broken nose was yelling at the hostess behind the counter. ”I have two short casks, fresh from Blackwell City. Pear wine! Genuine Blackwell County pears, aged over a year. You don’t know how hard it is to get them all the way here when every wagon is loaded up full for the journey. A sovereign each is a steal! You’ll get a silver penny a cup or more for them.”

”Hogs piss,” the woman behind the bar spat, snapping a wet rag at the broken-nosed man. ”No one ’ere will pay a silver penny for a cup of anything. ’Sides, you think this lot can tell the difference ’tween hard apple cider and Blackwell Pear wine? Ey boys!” the woman shouted. ”Three snips for a cider, two snips for an ale, or a penny for some fine, lordly wine? Who wants t’ pretend t’ be a rich man t’night?”

”Booo!”

”Fer a silver penny, does the wine come wit you, Bonnie?” a drunken man at the bar said, raising his head up and fumbling for his purse. ”I’ll buy two cups if it buys your bed to go wit’ it!”

”Oy!” another man at the bar shouted, slamming a fist into the drunken man’s ribs. ”Don’t go is-sulting Bonnie that way. Five silver pennies at least! One for your wine, one for her wine, one for her bed, one for her...”

”Oy, shut it all of you!” Bonnie snapped, turning back to the broken-nosed wagon driver and pointing her finger at his weathered face. ”You’re a fool, Cen. If you wanted t’ smuggle something back from yer trip all t’ way t’ Blackwell, you shoulda brought back something common folk will buy. Or go try one of them fancy inns where the moneyed men drink. Why is you selling t’ me anyway?”

”Because the moneyed men in Cedar Square won’t buy wine without a stamp and seal,” Marcel said smoothly, sliding through the crowd to lean against the bar next to Cen. ”Laughed you out, didn’t they?”

”No, none of that!” Cen said, his face turning crimson with embarrassment as he recalled the way the polished servants at those upscale inns looked down on him as if they were lords themselves instead of common men like him. ”I’m just sweet on Bonnie ’ere and...”

”That’s enough, friend,” Marcel said, wrapping an arm around the man’s shoulder and pulling him back before Bonnie could snap him with her towel again. ”How about this,” he said, flashing a charming smile that made him look even younger and more coy. ”I don’t have two sovereigns to rub together, but I might manage a small bag of silver for your wine if it’s real.”

”A pitcher of cider and two cups,” the youthful-looking vampire said, winking at Bonnie and bouncing a silver penny off the counter before he turned back to the wagon driver. ”And I’ll hear your story of how you got this wine and smuggled it all the way here without getting whipped by Young Lord Owain’s wagon master.”

”You better speak the truth,” he added with a look that turned from playful to surprisingly dangerous in an instant before becoming playful again. ”Tall tales are only for bedroom deeds, not business.”

”No tall tales,” Cen said, stepping back awkwardly and trying to restrain himself from scrubbing away the feeling of the young man’s touch. After all, this might be the only chance he had to sell his wine before someone ran across his stash, and he’d already wasted two days trying to find a rich snob to buy it. It wouldn’t do to offend a man with money just because he was buggered that way.

”Just a good bit of fortune and the thought that something common there might be worth something here,” he said, tapping on his temple.

”Then let’s talk about your travels and toast to our dealings,” Marcel said as he took the pitcher and cups from Bonnie and guided the wagon driver to a table as far from the bar as he could find a place to talk. The shadows around the table grew deeper as he approached, but few, if any, were sober enough to notice. With a flourish of his long, drapy sleeves, Marcell gestured for the man to take a seat, pouring a cup of cider for each of them while adding a few drops of something extra to the wagon driver’s cup.

More than half an hour later, Cen’s face was flushed and he was struggling to remember what he had already said but the charming young man across from him had already placed a pouch full of silver pennies on the table and the conversation seemed to be going well, he just needed to keep answering questions about their trip and the wine would be sold in no time!

”So, you were saying that some of the merchants are going to be knighted?” Marcel asked, toying with an empty cup in his hand. By now, he had a rough understanding of how Owain’s negotiations had gone, and it seemed like Lady Ashlynn’s letters to the guild masters had achieved their goals and more.

Not only had Owain struggled to secure the support of the merchant guilds, but he’d also been forced to grant titles and lands to the four people that Ashlynn most wanted to bring to Lothian March.

Unfortunately, two of the four remained in Blackwell City while the others came to finalize the terms of the deal, but just knowing that Master Isabell, the engineer, and Master Tiernan, the ironmonger, were present would give Ashlynn a substantial advantage when she began to make her moves in Lothian March.

”They are, lucky bathtards,” Cen slurred. ”That Isabell, she’s real particular ’bout everthing, not one that you can take for a toss in the stables ya’ know? Last fellow what tried got her hat pin in his hand for being handsy because she’s a picky lady that don’t want just anyone or anything or... what was I saying?”

”That she’s very particular,” Marcel said, smiling as he refilled the other man’s cup. By morning, Cen would no doubt have a horrible headache, and he’d curse the day he let Marcel pour for hi,m but he was unlikely to remember anything beyond the fat bag of silver he’d received for his troubles. The few drops of greatly diluted venom he’d added to the wagon driver’s drink would ensure that his memories of the past few hours would fade like dimly remembered dreams once he finally fell asleep.

”So particular,” Cen continued after taking a gulp of his cider. ”She and that other fellow, maybe he’s the one ruffling her skirts, he’s a muscular sort for a rich man. You think she likes that type? The type with the big muscles under the silk shirts? You know I could put on a silk shirt and...”

”Cen,” Marcel interrupted. ”What was she being so particular about?”

”What? Her lands,” Cen said. Hadn’t he already explained this part? ”Lord Owain, he wants her to take her lands in Hanrahan Barony, nearest to Airgead Mountain. She wants to be close to Lothian City, away from the demons and the danger. I hear the Marquis his self had t’ step in t’ make her an offer, but she’s particular, right? Won’t sign anything until she sees her new lands. She and her muscle-silk man both, coming to inspect their lands.”

”I see,” Marcel said with a slight smile. If they were touring the countryside, there might be an opportunity to arrange a meeting... ”Tell me, Cen, will you be driving them around the countryside?”

”Me? Does this nose belong on your face? My face? The face of a man what drives fancy carriages for knights and nobles?” Cen rambled. ”No, that bastard Rudin gets to show the pretty lady around, and he doesn’t even have almost any muscles...”

”You’re a good man, Cen,” Marcel said, feeling like he’d reached the limit of what he could learn from the wagon driver. It was time to move on to his next target before he hid himself away during the daylight hours.

”Come,” he said, helping the drunken man to his feet. ”Show me where you stashed this Blackwell pear wine,” he added, guiding the man toward the door. The wine likely wasn’t very good by the standards of the Blackwell family, but after nearly half a year, he imagined that Lady Ashlynn would appreciate a taste from home. And who knew? By the time she arrived, he may even have arranged another gift from home for her if he could find a way to meet with Masters Isabell and Tiernan.

The night outside might have been gloomy and grey, but for Marcel, it looked as bright as pockets full of silver and gold.