[piosenniel]

Lady Luck’s name was apparently Beryl, and when asked for her last name, the reply was always, ‘Best left unsaid.’ It tickled Archim no end that she fawned on him, but he was no young pup in love to believe she meant anything by it. Five of the patrons at the Pony had been rounded up from the Common room, and had followed her like rabbits mesmerized by a snake. Behind them, the less brave toddled, wanting to watch the action but keep themselves from heavy losses.

It was a slow afternoon at the Inn, and one corner of it was now commandeered by the boisterous group. The jingle of coin pouches mixed with the hard slap of the dice as they hit the wooden wall and rebounded. The follow up to this either a rousing cheer by the thrower and the men backing him, or a grumble of disappointment when the dice went sour.

The Innkeeper kept one eye constantly on the game, both to keep tabs on any rising tempers, and to see when the tankards needed refilling. So far, he thought to himself, as he hoisted the end of his apron and dried off a rack of glasses, the game has been friendly.

Four pitchers of ale had been when one of the players, a certain Hugh Bearman, from Archet, accused Archim of having crooked dice, and took a beery swing at him. Archim, temperate in his drinking when he played, leaned back lazily as the man’s fist breezed by him. Hugh was winding up unsteadily for another swing when the hammy fist of the Innkeeper clapped down hard on his collar. ‘That’s enough now, Bearman,’ came the gruff voice of the Innkeeper. ‘Sit down here, ‘til you regain some sense.’

The man’s seat was placed firmly in a chair, and the Innkeeper asked to see the dice. Beryl picked them up and handed them over with a languorous manner, her fingertips brushing the Innkeeper’s palm. He snorted and shook his head at her, ‘None o’ that now, missy. The good-wife’s at home and she’s enough for me.’

He looked the dice over carefully and weighed them in his hand. For all he could see, they threw true, but just to be sure, he put them away behind the counter, saying Archim could get them back later, and gave the players a pair of Inn dice with which to finish.

The game continued in a friendly manner, the winning throws shared almost equally among the players. Archim was happy. Here he sat in the midst of a quick, exciting game, a foaming pint of ale in one hand, a pretty girl on his lap, his arm about her in a familiar manner.

Graitwa was not pleased by the scene when he entered the Inn. He, too, like Fréa, had been out and about inquiring about any dealings the town’s tradesmen had had with other Men of the Mark. He stood to one side of the now drunken group, and waited to catch Archim’s eye.

Archim, for his part, had seen him but was trying to ignore his gestures. Not to be put off, Graitwa moved up behind his little brother and hissed in his ear. ‘I thought Fréa told you to stay out of trouble.’ Archim opened his mouth to rebut his brother when Beryl spoke up.

‘Don’t worry, big brother.’ She looked at him from beneath her lashes and flashed a smile his way. ‘You are the big brother, right?’ Graitwa flushed and stood up sputtering as she ran her finger down the front of his tunic.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said, her fingers now playing with the lanky hair of Archim as if it were precious strands of golden filament, ‘he’ll stay out of trouble. I’ll see to it. Won’t I Arky-warky?’

Graitwa rolled his eyes as Archim shrugged his shoulders at him and grinned. ‘It’s on your head then,’ he said staring icily at her. She blew him a little kiss and waved prettily. Graitwa’s parting comment was simply the sound of his boots thudding heavily and disapprovingly up the stairs.

[ August 28, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]