Chapter 2 The Thirsty Whale

When the Thirsty Whale came into view, a thought jumped into Gray’s head. “You told Oswin that Havik gave you that,” he said, pointing at the blackened eye. “It was not from the shield?”

“No, it was Havik, although my arm still feels like I have been kicked by a horse.” Vargin swung his left arm as if testing the ache, then caught the confusion on Gray’s face and hurried to explain. “Havik told me years ago that I was lucky you were not more like him. He said that if I tormented him the way I tormented you…” Vargin looked at his feet. “That Havik would have poisoned me or at least stabbed me in my sleep.”

He took a breath. “He told me to leave you alone because you were one of us, and because you were smart. He said that if you ever decided to do something about it, you would have no trouble doing so, and no one would ever be the wiser except for him. He said you spent a lot of time in the kitchens, and that if I thought about it, I would never enjoy another meal again.”

Realizing he had not explained the eye, he continued. “So when I yielded, I took away a just punishment that Havik and I both knew I had earned. When I stood up after you left, he punched me in the face for being craven.”

“When you stopped tormenting me,” Gray said slowly going back to the story, “it was not because the brothers had told you to stop, it was Havik?”

Vargin nodded.

They had reached the Thirsty Whale. The sign out front showed a large grey whale holding a tankard of ale in its lower fin, a spout of foam bursting from the blowhole. The air carried the sharp smell of salt from the docks, mixed with that of fish and the sour tang of spilled ale drifting from the open doorway.

Gray and Vargin stepped inside. The tavern was loud and crowded, filled with the clatter of mugs and the shouts of sailors fresh off the water. Their companions were easy to spot. Havik, Droan, and Basir sat at a corner table, playing dice with four sailors who looked rough and seasoned, the kind of men who had spent half their lives on deck and the other half in places like this.

Vargin muttered under his breath, “Spirits…”

Gray caught the concern on his face. “Basir doesn’t cheat, does he?”

“No,” Vargin said. “Well… I don’t think so.”

“If it is a fair game, I doubt there will be trouble,” Gray assured him.

Gray and Vargin walked up to the table. Basir had a small stack of coppers and a slightly larger stack of iron nagels. He was smiling; the man across from him was not. They were playing spots, each man throwing three dice and counting the spots, the highest total winning the bet. It looked as if they were using the same set of dice, which gave Gray some comfort, though he could not imagine where Basir would have found crooked dice anyway.

The dice clattered across the table and the sailor barked, “Ha! Fourteen. This round is mine.” Gray glanced at the center bowl, where four copper coins sat for the wager.

“Vanir might have something to say about that,” Basir said, unaware that his casual reference to the god struck heavy on all four sailors. He scooped up the dice and rolled them toward his opponent. Four, five, and six.

“Yes!” Basir thrust his hand into the air. He reached for the coins in the bowl, only for his wrist to be seized by one of the sailors.

“I know not how he is doing it, but this one is cheating.” The sailor sneered. “And he taunts us with our god, to rub in the salt.”

Basir, clearly confused, said, “But I am using your dice…”

If Basir thought that would calm the situation, he was sorely mistaken. Gray noticed Havik shifting his weight, positioning himself to grab a chair and ready himself for a fight. The adepts were not allowed weapons when they traveled to Silverspire. Brother Gil always said a weapon only created more problems. Gray questioned that logic now.

Gray spoke up.

“He does not know that Vanir is the god of the wind and sea. He only knows him as the god of wealth.” Everyone at the table looked at him. “He did not intend to dishonor your god.”

“How can he not know who Vanir is?” one of the sailors asked.

Gray stepped closer to the table. “Look at him. The closest he has been to the sea is sitting in a tavern throwing dice with sailors.” That took some of the edge off the men, though not the one still gripping Basir’s wrist, so Gray continued.

“You know there has been no cheating. You simply do not want to say what is happening here.” Both the sailors and the boys looked confused, although Gray could feel the tension easing. He waited, and finally one of the sailors asked, “What is happening here?”

Gray pointed to the man sitting across from Basir. “Vanir is unhappy with that one, and will remain so until he makes amends.”

The sailors erupted in denials. Havik shook his head and tightened his grip on the chair again. Basir’s eyes went wide with fear.

“I can prove it,” Gray said.

The shouting softened.

“I can prove it,” Gray repeated.

Silence settled over the table.

One of the sailors asked, “What?”

“I said I can prove it.” Gray removed the sailor’s hand from Basir’s wrist, scooped up the coins in the bowl, and handed them to Basir. He shooed Basir away from his chair and sat down. He reached into his purse and pulled out a small silver coin, then placed it in the bowl.

“Spots. Your three dice to my two,” Gray said calmly.

The sailors erupted in laughter. When they realized Gray was not making a joke, a seriousness settled over the group.

“Well, I will need to see your dice then,” the sailor replied.

“I have no dice. I will use whichever two you choose to give me,” Gray said.

The sailors conferred. It became clear the man could not cover the wager. One of the others offered to buy half the bet.

“I will not bet against another,” Gray said. “The wager stands only if the coin is loaned,” he pointed, “to him.”

The coins moved from sailor to sailor until a single small silver rested in the hand of the man sitting opposite Gray.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Gray asked. “It is never a good idea to challenge your god.”

The sailor straightened, offended. “You are wrong, boy. Vanir loves me. I am one of his most loyal followers.”

A couple of his companions raised their brows at that, each clearly thinking the same thing but neither willing to say it aloud.

Gray gestured toward the bowl, and the coin was dropped in place.

“You roll first,” Gray said. “If we tie, we simply roll again.”

The sailor picked up the three dice, shook them in his hand, invoked Vanir, and let them fall. Four, four, and a one.

He frowned at the single pip. A three or better would have almost guaranteed a victory.

“Nine,” the sailor said, bobbing his head as if trying to convince himself to be pleased with the result.

“Could you choose two dice for me, please,” Gray said as he handed all three back to his opponent. The sailor picked out two and passed them to Gray.

Gray turned to the sailor who had accused Basir of cheating.

“You accused him,” Gray said with a nod toward Basir, “of cheating. Would you like to roll the dice for me?”

The sailor held up both hands. “I want no part of this.” He looked to his friends left and right. “I might have been a bit hasty to accuse the boy.”

Gray held the dice in an open hand, displaying them for all to see. “I can get a serving girl to roll them. Because if I am accused of cheating,” Gray said, his eyes fixed on the man who had accused Basir, “it would wound my pride.”

His opponent cleared his throat. “I am sure we can agree that there has not been any cheating today.”

Gray nodded. He let his hand tilt forward. When the dice began to move, he gave them a small push. They struck the wood, jumped and bounced as they travelled, and tumbled to a stop in front of the sailor. A four and a six.

The sailors groaned.

Gray stopped a serving girl walking by and handed her one of the silver coins. “Six pitchers of ale, and a tankard of mead for myself. You can keep what is left.”

The pretty girl nodded and hurried off. The sailors were already standing, ready to leave.

“You are not going to help me drink the ale?” Gray protested. “You did pay for it after all.”

The girl returned with another at her side, each carrying three pitchers of ale. A third followed with a single tankard and placed it in Gray’s hand. In short order the sailors and the boys had all filled their tankards.

Gray lifted his own in salute. “To the hands that haul and the backs that break. May your storms be few, and your dreams be plenty.”

The sailors raised their tankards even higher. “Aye!”

The drinking began in earnest and continued for quite some time. Gray nursed his mead, making it last while the ale disappeared. The sailors told stories of the sea, loud and interesting, and then listened to a tale or two from the priory. Laughter rose and fell, tankards clattered, and the warmth of the room thickened as the night wore on.

When the ale was finally gone and the sailors needed to return to their ship, Gray stood and went to the man who had lost the silver. He grasped the sailor’s hand.

“I hope you find peace with Vanir, my friend.”

The sailor gave him a confused look but nodded before heading out with the others.

Basir and Droan were deep in their cups. Vargin was not far behind, slumped comfortably against the table. Havik looked to be in fairly good condition, though his eyes were bright with drink and his smile a little too loose.

Droan turned his attention to Gray. “How did you know Vanir was vexed with the sailor?”

Havik scoffed.

“I did not,” Gray admitted, but looked curiously at Havik. “I found the small silver in front of the scribe’s shop. Told Vargin today was my lucky day. So I figured the wager solved the problem either way.”

Droan frowned, trying to make sense of it, but Havik spoke first.

“If the sailor won the bet, Vanir has not forsaken him, and he is happy. But since he lost, and lost against the odds, well, sailors are a superstitious lot.”

Gray nodded. “I think we should get some bread into them before we head back, or the trail will get messy.”

Havik reached out and stopped the pretty serving girl. “Could we get two loaves of bread please?”

“Hey. Take your hands off her.”

A young man at a nearby table stood and started toward Havik. The three others at his table rose and followed. They looked to be sons of merchants, or perhaps lesser nobles, dressed well enough to suggest status but not enough to command it.

“Duffin, no,” the girl pleaded.

“What did you say to her?” he asked as he closed the distance.

Gray glanced at his group. Droan was standing, though barely. Basir was face‑down on the table, drooling into his sleeve. Vargin stepped up beside Havik, shoulders squared. This could turn ugly fast. Havik was quick‑witted, and Gray hoped he could smooth things out before fists started flying.

“I asked if she had ever been courted by a man.”

“No, he just asked for some bread,” the girl said quickly.

Gray noticed one of the man’s companions reaching behind his back, probably for a weapon. Gray edged toward him.

“Easy there,” Havik said. “If I were looking to bed someone tonight, I would be on top of your mother right now.”

The tavern exploded into action.

The man had indeed been reaching for a weapon. Gray stepped in front of him just as the blade flashed. He caught the man’s arm, feeling the knife cut shallow across his side. Pain flared, but he ignored it. Gray seized the man’s other wrist, yanked him forward, and drove his forehead into the bridge of the man’s nose. The man dropped the knife and collapsed in a heap.

Havik squared up against the young man he had insulted. Droan and Vargin entered the fray. A chair shattered against the floor. Gray took a step toward Droan and struck the man attacking him, catching him in the side of the head. The broken chair leg the man had been wielding clattered away as he fell.

Havik was winning his fight. Vargin was not.

That was when the guards burst into the tavern, steel flashing as they pushed into the chaos.

In short order the eight combatants were dragged from the tavern and taken to the Constable’s Hall. When they were brought in, each man was asked his name and house. When Havik stated he was from the Priory, the room went quiet. One guard nodded to another, and the second left without a word. The remaining guards shoved the men through the doors and separated them into two cells.

The cells sat opposite each other, separated by a good ten paces. Their walls were made of the same cold stone as the floor, each room faced by thick bars of wrought iron, pitted by rust and time, granting the guards an unobstructed view of the men within. Stone benches were set into the walls, unyielding slabs that offered no comfort, only a place to sit and watch the shadows stretch as the torchlight flickered.

Havik and Duffin stood holding the bars, hurling threats and insults as if they were catapults loaded with jagged stones instead of words.

The guards demanded order, but the shouting between the cells grew louder with every barb traded. After two warnings, a bucket of cold water was thrown across the bars to quiet them. It worked for a spell, until Havik needled the young man in the opposite cell with comments about his girl, then his mother. Each one delivered with just enough bite to draw a reaction. The boy’s temper rose until he finally snapped and began screaming threats and insults again. His outburst earned him another dousing, and the guards set refilled buckets outside each cell to discourage any further ruckus.

Havik sat down with a satisfied smile, glanced around the cell, and then frowned. “Where is Basir?”

“He was drooling on the dice table last I saw,” Gray said as he lifted the edge of his tunic to inspect his side. The blade had sliced the cloth and left a shallow cut under his ribs. “I think he slept through the entire brawl.”

“Is it deep?” Havik asked.

“No, but he ruined my favorite tunic,” Gray complained.

Droan stretched out on a bench and was snoring within moments. Vargin propped himself in the corner, slid down the wall, and drifted off almost as quickly. Gray studied the guard at the entrance, then the four men in the opposite cell. The one who had stabbed him sat hunched on the floor. His nose was clearly broken, and both eyes were swollen and darkening by the minute.

When Gray’s gaze returned to Havik, he found Havik watching him.

Havik grinned. “You gave the sailor his small silver back.”

The comment caught Gray completely off guard. There was no way Havik could have seen it. Gray had palmed the coin and pressed it into the sailor’s hand during the handshake as they left. The sailor had been surprised, but he had not looked down or said a word.

Gray stared at Havik, unsure whether to deny it or ask how he knew.

Havik only kept smiling, as if the answer were obvious.

“I did,” Gray admitted. “I did not want him thinking that Vanir would be vexed with him for long.” He paused, thinking it through. “It was a found coin anyway.”

Gray returned Havik’s look. He could sense that Havik wanted him to ask how he knew. So he decided that would be the last thing he did. Instead, he replayed his own actions, from the wager to the sailors leaving. The moment came back to him and he sighed and nodded.

“Yup,” Havik said. “Your hand never went back to your purse.”

That was what Gray had assumed as well.

“You are quite observant,” Gray accused.

“To see, one just need watch,” Havik said. “That was how I knew that every time I spoke to the serving girl, the bloody knave was rankled.”

Gray paused. Did he just admit to causing this entire confrontation?

He gave Havik a scowl. Havik leaned in, lowering his voice.

“When I made her laugh his ire rose, but when I touched her… his blood boiled.”

Gray stared at him, torn between disbelief and exasperation.

“You know that dagger was for you,” Gray said slowly. His anger rose with every word. To think Havik could have stopped the fight with a calm sentence was one thing, but to learn he had caused it, and wanted it, was something entirely different.

“I saw him reach for it, and you grab his wrist,” Havik said.

“What if I had not seen it? What if Droan or Vargin had been hurt badly? They were in no condition to fight.” Gray looked over at the two sleeping boys, their breathing heavy and uneven.

“No one was hurt,” Havik said defensively, and when he saw the surprise on Gray’s face he added, “badly.”

“If I didn’t stop that blade, it would have been buried in your side,” Gray insisted.

“If he came at me with a knife, it would have been the last thing he done,” Havik stated.

Gray stared at him. He recognized the look instantly because he knew it well. It was anger. Anger had carried him through the hard years at the Priory. It had kept him warm when the cold truth settled in that he was alone in the world. How could Havik possibly be angry? He was skilled and well liked.

Was it Havik’s plan to kill one of them, or more? Havik had spoken as if it were the simplest truth in existence, as if killing a man in a tavern brawl were no more troubling than smiting a fly. There had been no bravado in his voice, no boast. Only certainty.

And that, Gray realized, was what unsettled him most.

***

Light crept through the high barred windows, pale and cold. Gray shook the sleep from his head. He had drifted off at some point, into something that vaguely resembled sleep. A sour smell hit him hard. He looked over to find a pool of vomit between Droan and Vargin.

Havik was awake, sitting on the same bench as if he had not moved all night.

Gray stood and stretched, his stomach growling. Hunger sharpened the ache in his side. He walked over to rouse Droan and Vargin. Droan had a smear of sick on his tunic. Well, that answered that question.

For a moment Gray considered letting them sleep. Then he decided against it. If he was up, so were they.

A noise from outside the jail drew Gray’s attention. The door swung open and three guards entered. They unlocked the other cell first and hauled the young men out, giving them quick instructions before marching them away. Moments later the guards returned and opened his cell.

“You are being brought before the Constable. Keep quiet and speak only when spoken to,” the first guard said. He turned and motioned for them to follow. Two more guards fell in behind the boys as they were led out.

They walked down a short corridor into a large chamber. The merchant sons sat at a long table, pale and stiff, with a man standing behind each one, except for the boy with the broken nose. A woman stood behind him. To the left stood another table, and beside it stood Brother Gil and Brother Andrew, both watching the boys with unreadable expressions.

A man at the central lectern gestured for them to sit. He was an older fellow with a receding hairline and a neatly trimmed beard, his remaining hair brushed back with care. His tunic was finely made, the stitching clean and the fabric a cut above what most townsfolk could afford. A narrow chain of office rested across his shoulders, and he carried himself with the authority of someone accustomed to settling disputes and delivering judgment. His eyes moved over the boys with steady, practiced scrutiny as they took their seats.

Once Gray settled into his seat, he noticed the pretty serving girl standing behind the Constable, hands clasped tightly in front of her. Beside her stood an older man who looked to be the tavernkeep, his jaw set and his eyes fixed on the boys with a mixture of irritation and weary resignation.

In front of the lectern was a small table. On it lay a broken chair leg and a fine dagger, both arranged with deliberate care.

The Constable cleared his throat, took hold of either side of his V‑neck tunic, and asked, “Who will tell me honestly who started this brawl?” His voice was deep and practiced.

No one spoke.

The Constable let the silence stretch. Then he said, “I have already spoken with several people who were present at the Thirsty Whale. Every one of them told the same story. Still, I will hear it from your own mouths.”

His gaze moved slowly across both tables, waiting to see who would stand.

Gray rose. “I can, good Constable.”

When Gray did not continue, the Constable said, “Go on.”

Gray gestured toward Havik. “Havik of the Priory started the brawl.”

The boys at the other table almost cheered, only to be silenced by a hard look from the Constable. There might have been a groan from Vargin or Droan, but otherwise their table stayed quiet. The Constable looked confused.

“How did he start the brawl?” he asked.

“Well sir, he asked the serving girl for some bread so we could get ready for our ride back to the Priory. That was when he was accosted by him.” Gray pointed to the young man known as Duffin.

“He charged up demanding to know what was said, and Havik replied, ‘Easy there, if I were looking to bed someone tonight, I would be on top of your mother right now.’ Then he attacked.”

The Constable frowned. “Are you saying that Havik started the fight by insulting his mother?”

“Yes sir,” Gray said with a nod.

“You cannot break the King’s peace because you insulted someone’s mother,” the Constable explained.

Gray tilted his head. “No? Well then, I suppose he started it then.” He pointed to Duffin again.

Havik was fighting to keep the grin from his face.

“And what of the weapon?” The Constable lifted the dagger. “Who was stabbed?”

Gray put a finger through the hole in his tunic and lifted it, showing the cut and the bloodstained side. “I saw a flash of steel, and I barely had time to grab the wrist. The cut is shallow.”

The Constable looked back and forth between both tables. “Does anyone claim this blade?”

No one spoke.

He turned his attention to Gray. “Who stabbed you, son?”

“I was so intent on keeping it from entering that I did not see the face that wielded it.”

The Constable walked up to Gray. As he drew closer it became clear he was not a tall man. He stopped a single pace away so he would not need to crane his neck to look Gray in the eye. His face settled into a serious scowl, and in a low growl he said, “Are you claiming that someone tried to stab you, and you did not see his face?”

Gray opened his mouth to reply, but the Constable turned instead to Brother Gil. “Do your older boys have a problem with telling the truth?”

“They do not,” Brother Gil assured him. “I believe this one is trying to lessen a punishment.”

“Oh?” The Constable turned back to Gray and took a single step to stand right beside him. Instead of looking up, he grabbed the front of Gray’s tunic and pulled him down to eye level.

“He wants to do my job, does he?”

The Constable’s breath smelled of radish. It took Gray a moment to realize the man was waiting for an answer.

“No sire,” he said quietly.

The Constable released his tunic, and Gray straightened.

The look Gray received conveyed that he had another chance to set this right.

“I did not get a good look at his face,” Gray said, but quickly added, “but I am fairly certain I broke his nose in the fight.”

The woman behind the boy let out a gasp.

The Constable nodded. “I find that Duffin, son of Derrin, is responsible for all damages at the Thirsty Whale, as well as a fine of five silver for breaking the King’s peace. Each of his accomplices is fined two silver.” He turned to the tavernkeep. “Will this cover the expense?”

The tavernkeep nodded once.

The Constable moved to the other side and stood next to the boy with the broken nose. The woman prodded him to stand.

“Stabbing a man is a serious offense,” the Constable lectured. “The punishment can be anything from losing a hand, branding, or even a public flogging.” Tears streamed down the woman’s cheeks.

“What is your name, boy?” the Constable asked.

“Fluke, sire.”

“Does your family have gold to pay for your transgression?”

“No sire.”

If the boy’s family had been wealthy, they could have paid a fine. He might have been sent to work the docks for six months, or perhaps the night watch. With no gold, there was not much leeway left for the Constable.

“Why would you stab someone in my city?” he asked.

Fluke did not answer right away. He took a breath, collected his thoughts, and then began. “I was hurt pretty badly the last scuffle. I was determined not to be hurt like that again.” His voice was soft.

“Last scuffle?” The Constable’s eyes widened. “You have fought with these boys before?”

“Just him.” Fluke pointed at Havik.

The Constable’s brow rose as he turned to Havik.

Havik stood. “Early winter, those boys jumped me and Kopek. It was four against two. I needed to incapacitate one to even the fight. It was him.”

Brother Gil nodded. When the Constable looked at him, he explained, “I do remember a time when the boys came back in pretty rough shape. They did not offer an explanation.”

Brother Gil took a moment, looking as if he were pondering a decision. Then he said, “The Priory would be willing to put up the gold for the boy, if you choose to have him work the docks, the watch, or maybe… the Priory.”

The Constable rubbed his chin. “I was dreading the thought of taking a few of the lad’s fingers.” He fixed his gaze on Fluke. “The boy will toil at the Priory for the next six moons, with one day of rest for every seven. Understood?”

The boy and his mother nodded.

The Constable placed the dagger back on the table in front of the lectern. He lifted a solid wooden mallet, the kind used for formal judgments. “Fines are due by sunset tomorrow.” He brought it down three times on the lectern, each strike echoing through the chamber.

Brother Gil walked straight over to Derrin. “It seems we have a problem.”

Derrin removed his hat and bowed his head. “I will see the boy learns…”

Duffin cut in. “Pa, they are just gutter born tra—”

Derrin backhanded him so hard it knocked him backward, chair and all. He reached down, grabbed Duffin by the hair, and said, “If this one will not learn, he has a younger brother who can.”

He turned toward the exit without releasing his grip. Duffin had to crawl and scramble as he was dragged away by his hair.

The two other men led their boys out. When Gil met the woman’s gaze, she mouthed thank you and tried to smile. As she left, a man who looked to be a messenger rushed in. He whispered something to Gil, received a nod, and bolted back out the door.

Brother Gil instructed the boys to return to the Cathedral. They filed out quietly, the seriousness of the hearing still pressing on them. When they reached the barn, they found their horses gone. A novice directed them to the granary.

Father Ansel was waiting for them. He pointed to several tightly bound sacks. “Two burdens each. Wheat, barley, or oats. Four stones of total weight.” His face then broke into a gap‑toothed smile. “You will want to hurry if you plan to have supper.”

The boys exchanged looks of disbelief. Havik tested the weight of his sack and let out a low grunt. Gray hoisted his own onto his shoulder, the coarse burlap scratching his neck. Droan and Vargin struggled to lift theirs, still sore and unsteady from the night before.

“This is our punishment?” Droan muttered.

“No, we will not be that lucky,” Havik grumbled.

They began the long walk back to the Priory, each step slow and deliberate under the heavy loads. The city streets were busy with midday traffic, and more than a few passersby gave them curious glances. By the time they reached the gate road, the boys were sweating, breathing hard, and already feeling the strain in their backs and shoulders.

Gray gave Havik a look. “I hope you are happy.” Havik pictured Duffin being dragged from the Constable’s chambers by his hair and smiled. Yes. Yes he was.