Act of Will by A. J. Hartley Page B

probably housed guests sheltering from those very markets.
    After drawing the wagon up to the front, we dismounted and scraped the mud from our boots. Then Orgos tried the door and led me in.
    Now, I was used to the smoky, stone-flagged, fleapit taprooms of the town from which we’d just escaped. Bars, to me, meant noise, raucous laughter, spilled beer, semifriendly gambling, and the occasional brawl. The Wheatsheaf, by contrast, dripped with class and a slightly embarrassed silence. It was obviously an eatery for merchants before they ventured into the cultural desolation of the Hrof wastelands or, for that matter, those of Cresdon. The floor was tiled with a glazed and patterned ceramic featuring the ears-and-leaves motif we had seen outside. Very fancy. There were windows of leaded glass all around the room, and as a result the entire chamber glowed, pleased with itself. There were tables set for dinner decorated with dainty vases of flowers. No dartboard. No pools of vomit and urine. No whores.
    At the far end of the room by the cold hearth of a carved fire-place sat Mithos, Renthrette, and Garnet. They had changed out of their peasant clothes and wore light cotton fabrics which looked like they would breathe well, even under armor. The barman sent a boy with Orgos to tend to the horses as I hung my armor up with the rest and ordered a pint of best.
    I took my mug, sauntered over to the table where the others sat, swinging the crossbow roguishly by its strap, and cast Renthrette an easy smile. She might as well have been wearing her armor, because it glanced off and fell in some dustless corner. I sat beside her anyway and made sure she noticed the sword I was wearing. I thought it made me look pretty sharp.
    “Isn’t it a bit early to be drinking?” she said.
    “Drinking?” I repeated, momentarily baffled. “This is beer.”
    “It contains alcohol, doesn’t it?” she said. She had a slightly prissy attitude that annoyed me.
    “Not like whiskey,” I said, shrugging. “But a bit, yeah. So?”
    “You’re a child!” she said.
    “I’m eighteen,” I said, straightening up. “What is it with you people?”
    Mithos gave Renthrette a look.
    “In the city, everyone drinks beer,” he said. “All classes, all ages. It’s their primary source of nutrition, which, given their markets and the condition of the water supply, is probably as well. It’s liquid bread.”
    She wrinkled her nose at me. I framed a pointed smile and sipped my ale. It was excellent, but at three coppers a pint you would expect that.
    “I still think it’s disgusting,” she said. “A child drinking—”
    “Listen, lady, I’ve been working for my living since I was five,” I said. “I am not a child and haven’t been one for a long time. And how old are you, Grandma? Nineteen?”
    “Twenty, actually.”
    “How incredibly ancient,” I said. “I’m surprised you can still walk.”
    She shrugged and looked away, her face tipped slightly up as if she was trying to ignore a bad smell. I just stared at her. I didn’t know what to say anyway. She annoyed me, was all. With an effort, I turned my attention to Mithos, who had been talking.
    “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
    He sighed pointedly and repeated the question. “How did it go?”
    “How did what go?”
    “Your passage out of Cresdon. Was it successful?” he concluded with a little impatience in his voice.
    “No,” I said flatly, “they only let me through on the condition that I would turn you in immediately. There are two platoons of Empire troops waiting outside.” I grinned. “Only joking. Yes, it was successful. A piece of cake.”
    They looked at me silently. No one laughed. In fact they didn’t seem overjoyed that I had made it out at all. There was a lengthy pause and then Orgos rejoined us. Sensing the tension around the table as he sat down, he smirked at me. Mithos looked pensively into his beer and said, “Well, Master Hawthorne, you are out of the