The Wizard's Heir by Devri Walls Page B

of oblivion. To his right sat the man Tybolt had come for.
    “Dain!” he shouted.
    The man jerked, spilling his drink all over his arm and table. Dain cursed a string of profanities. Tybolt marched over, pulled out a chair, flipped it around, and straddled it.
    Griffon looked up, scowled, and went back to scrubbing the bar top.
    “What do you want?” Dain growled, still shaking the liquor from his hands.
    “I ran into your boy this morning.”
    “So?”
    “So? Would you like to know where I found him?” He cocked an eyebrow. “I found him digging through Pete’s trash.”
    Even in his drunken stupor, that got Dain’s attention. “That fool boy!” he sputtered. “He knows better. What was he thinking?”
    “What was he thinking?” Tybolt lurched to his feet, grabbed Dain by the front of the shirt, and dragged him across the table. “He was thinking he was starving. He was thinking his mother is gone and his father is drunk in some tavern. He was thinking if he didn’t get some food he would die! That’s what he was thinking !” He pulled Dain’s face within inches of his own. “Now, go home and take care of your son before you find him hanging from the gallows. I gave him enough food to last you both a while, though why I bother to concern myself with your hunger pains is beyond me. And so help me, if I find out that you sold one solitary morsel of that food for any reason, I will slip into your house in the middle of the night and slit you from nose to navel. Am I clear?”
    Dain’s face had gone sheet-white. He nodded.
    “Good, now get out of here. I don’t want to see you near this tavern again until that boy can support himself.” He shoved Dain backwards.
    Dain landed halfway on his chair and tipped to the floor. He scrambled up and stumbled out the door.
    “Chasing off my customers again, I see,” Griffon said from behind him.
    Tybolt pulled a coin from his pocket and tossed it to him. “Just trying to keep little boys alive.”
    “At least someone is.” Griffon pocketed the coin. “You do more for this village than anyone, Tybolt.”
    “I wish people would stop saying that before they get themselves killed.”
    “Hanging is better than the Hold…and better than starving to death.” Griffon wiped down the table and grabbed the upended glass.
    “Better to stay alive,” Tybolt said.
    “You can’t save them all.” Griffon walked back to the bar.
    “I can try,” he muttered.
    Griffon looked at him.
    “What?”
    “You haven’t heard, have you?”
    Dread shot through him. “What?”
    “A few weeks ago you bought off an angry wife. At least that’s what I overheard.”
    “Jocelyn?”
    “That’s her. Accusing her husband of wizardry.”
    “Wizardry,” Tybolt scoffed. “Sam is no more a wizard than I am. She was angry because he’d had a fling with another woman.”
    “Pay her much?”
    “Enough. Why?”
    Griffon shrugged. “Sam’s scheduled to hang for Festival. She accused him the minute you rode out of the gates on your hunt.”
    Tybolt swore and grabbed one of the glasses from the counter, taking a swig. It burned all the way down, adding to his own fire. Tybolt spat. “Where do you get this swill?”
    “I take offense to your tone, Tybolt. I brew this myself.”
    “That’s right, I remember. In the forest in some secret distillery that neither I nor any other Hunter has ever seen before.”
    Griffon leaned an elbow on the counter. “Is this really what you want to talk about right now?”
    Tybolt sobered and slammed down the glass. “There’s nothing I can do to help him. Once he’s been arrested, it’s all over.”
    “And Jocelyn?”
    “I don’t want to talk about Jocelyn.” Tybolt scanned the tavern. “Where’s Gamel?”
    “Haven’t seen him tonight.”
    “He was drunk this morning and spouting off something about knowing where Alistair is.”
    “Alistair.” Griffon chuckled. “Gamel is crazy on his sober days.”
    “True.” And yet, his