If any harm comes to my friend, I will . . . and she stopped there. What could she do? Unlike her brothers, she had no knowledge of arms, she was defenseless. If I escape this night’s intrigue, she thought, I will ask Orain to teach me something of the arts of fighting . . . but she laughed and shouted, “Well thrown, whang in the cat’s eye,” and flung her own dart almost at random, surprised when it landed anywhere near the target.
“Drink up, young’un,” said the man who had lost, setting a mug of wine before her, and Romilly drank recklessly. Her head felt fuzzy, and she stopped halfway through the mugful, but they were all looking at her, and against her better judgment, she finished the drink.
“You’ll have another game? My turn to win,” said one of the men, and she shrugged and gave up the dart. Her neck felt that cold, vulnerable prickle that she knew meant she was
being watched, somewhere undercover. What is going on in that room? Damn these intrigues!
Then Orain was at her side again, clapping her on the shoulder. “Aye, now you have the way of it, but you can’t yet teach an old dog how to gnaw a bone – gi’me the darts, lad.” He took the feathered darts, poised them, called for wine all around; she saw the excited glitter of his eyes. When the next pair took the darts, he muttered next her ear, “Next round we must get away; I’ve a message.”
She nodded to let him know she understood. The next moment Orain shouted, “What in nine hells do you there, man, your big feet halfway over the line – I won’t play darts with a cheating bastard like that, not even at Midwinter-gifts. I will make but not be cheated out of a drink or a silver bit!” and shoved angrily against the man who was throwing. The man whirled drunkenly and swung at him.
“Here, you lowland bugger, who do you call cheat? You’ll swallow those words with your next drink or I’ll ram them down your throat-” He connected with Orain’s chin, and Orain’s head went back with a crack; he staggered against the wall, came out swinging furiously. Romilly flung her dart, and it landed in the man’s hand as he swung again at Orain; the attacker turned, howling, and barged toward her, hands out as if to strangle her. She moved away, tripped on a barrel and went sprawling in the sawdust. Orain’s hand grabbed her, pulled her upright.
“Here, here-” the barman came over, scowling, separating them with rough hands. “No brawling, friends! Drink up!”
“The rotten little bastard threw a dart at me,” growled the man, shoving up his sleeve to reveal a red mark.
“You’re a baby to bawl at a bee-sting?” demanded Orain, and the barman shoved them apart.
“Sit down! Both of you! The penalty for fighting is a drink for the house, from each of you!”
With a show of reluctance, Orain pulled out his purse, flung down a copper piece. “Drink up and be damned to you, and I hope you all choke on it! We’ll be off to a quieter place for drinking!” he snarled, grabbed Romilly’s elbow and steered a drunken path toward the door. Outside he straightened up and demanded in a low, quick voice, “Are you hurt?”
“No, but-”
“That’s all right, then. Let’s make tracks!” He set a pace up the hill that Romilly could hardly follow. She knew she had had too much to drink and wondered, as she staggered dizzily after him, if she was going to throw it up. After a moment he turned and said, gently, “Sorry – here, lad, take my arm,” and supported her. “You shouldn’t have drunk that last cup.”
“I couldn’t think of anything else to do,” she confessed.
“And you saved my neck by it,” he said in a whisper. “Come, perhaps you can get a bit of rest at the monastery before – look,” he gestured at the clearing sky, “The snow’s stopped. We’ll be expected to show at the Midwinter-eve service, any guest at the monastery who’s not abed with a broken leg is expected to be there for their damned hymn-singing! And with the weather cleared, that rat Lyondri-” he clenched his fists. “He may well be there, large as life and twice as filthy, sitting smug in the choir and singing hymns like a better man.”