Wytchfire (Book 1) by Michael Meyerhofer

of stew and set it down in front of Rowen. She brought bread as well. The ale had loosened Rowen’s worries and quickened his appetite, and this second bowl of stew tasted even better than the first. This time, the stew came with fresh bread crusted with a sweet but unfamiliar spice. While Rowen ate, the old woman brought him a third mug.
    “He says join him when you’re done.” She nodded toward the Soroccan. Rowen blinked, finished eating, then took the third mug of ale and rose unsteadily. He was not drunk yet, but his legs felt loose, and he nearly tripped as he made his way toward the merchant’s table. As an afterthought, he fished a leaf of sweetbitter from his satchel, hastily chewed, and swallowed.
    The man stood at his approach. He was taller than Rowen had guessed. The man extended one hand, his plump forearm decorated with gold bracelets, and shook Rowen’s hand in a grip like iron.
    “I trust you enjoyed your meal! The fare here is not extravagant, but Dyoni knows I’ve had worse since I left home.” The man’s voice was thick with the staccato accent of his people. He added, “Forgive me if this table is too close to the fire. The heat reminds me of home.” Despite all the empty mugs on the merchant’s table, he still sounded sober.
    Rowen sat, spilling some of his own ale in the process. The Soroccan did not seem to notice. But Rowen saw that in addition to heaps of empty mugs and bowls, the man’s table was littered with coins! Like most merchants, this man was prepared to travel anywhere. Most of the coins were copper, but Rowen saw a few silver cranáfi too, along with some bronze ones bearing the galleon insignia of Sorocco, even a handful of iron crowns from Dhargoth, stamped with the sigil of a dragon. Unlike the comical dragon painted on the sign outside the inn, though, the Dhargoth’s dragon was a ghastly thing impaled on a long spear, its maw open and screaming.
    The Soroccan said, “May I ask your name?”
    “Rowen Locke.”
    The Soroccan merchant smiled. “I hear an Ivairian cadence. Are you as far from home as I am?”
    Rowen hesitated. The ale had loosened his tongue, but he had no desire to share his entire history with a stranger. “Not quite. My family moved to the plains before I was born. I grew up in Lyos.”
    The Soroccan seemed to sense Rowen’s unease and did not press. Instead, he touched his own chest with one well-ringed hand. “I am Hráthbam Nassir Adjrâ-al-Habas.” He bowed. “By Dyoni’s grace, you may call me Hráthbam.”
    Rowen bowed too. “Al mos haláka.”
    Hráthbam’s dark face broke into a wide grin. “You speak my language?”
    “No better than a child of your lands,” Rowen said. “I used to be a sellsword. I learned enough to get by.”
    Hráthbam grinned. “It is true: our children often have the vocabulary of mercenaries.”
    Rowen bristled then forced himself to smile back. He lifted his ale. “Thank you for this. And for the food.”
    “Of course. Call it an advance payment.”
    Did he already hire me, and I forgot? If so, I’m drunker than I thought!
    The merchant laughed at Rowen’s expression. “I need guards. I’ve been lodging here two days, hoping someone of mettle would pass through. You are the first I’ve seen wearing a sword.” The Soroccan rubbed his green eyes. “I must apologize. I usually drink wine. Or hláshba . Anything else fogs my wits.” He laughed and emptied his mug and then used one silk sleeve to wipe his mouth. “Straight to it, then. I hired two men when I passed through Phaegos, but they turned on me—would have cut my throat if I hadn’t cut them first.” Despite the statement, the mirth in his voice remained unchanged. “I’m tired of waiting. So I’ll pay you what I took back from them: one hundred coppers. Two men’s wage, at least. And all you have to do is keep me breathing and unbloodied for the next month. Maybe less if the road favors us. After that, if I still need you, we can