The tavern was crammed, bodies packed so tight I could nolonger see the scatter of tables, and the roaring fireplace was little more than a dim glow against the far wall. Someone had wedged the front door open to let smokers come and go with their pipes in hand, though by the sharp scent of burning herbs thick in the humid air, I was fairly certain half of them were no longer bothering to step outside; I grimaced at the thought of washing that stink from my mother’s beautiful rugs.
A handful of musicians had claimed a cosy little spot in a nook by the fire and were playing rousing tunes on fiddle, pipe and bodhrán. Half the crowd seemed to know the songs and roared the lyrics cheerfully back at the musicians, little clusters of haphazard jigs breaking out here and there beneath the glass baubles that still twinkled with my own fire.
“Where did they all feckingcomefrom?”
Sorcha’s smile was broad, eyes wide and brightest blue as she turned her head to speak to me. If I hadn’t been so busy trying to memorise the last five orders shouted across the bar, I would have dropped to my knees and given thanks to the Dagda for her youthful energy. Gods knew I could not have handled this sudden landslide on my own, despite having wished for it so bitterly.
“No idea,” I called back, stuffing a handful of coins into my apron. The little coffer we kept behind the till had overflowed to the point that Sorcha and I were taking coin and stashing it in our pockets. To the point where I could mentally strike off half the repairs on my list — perhaps I’d start with the hole in the thatching above the door, or the broken handle to the cleaning cupboard.
But before I made any decisions, I’d need to find a a moment to dart out back to lock some of the money safely away. I’d been waiting for a lull that had yet to come and the weight of the bronze and silver pieces were beginning to drag against my waist.
The patrons had given up with any sort of queuing system, some of them just yelling their orders across the bar at us as though it would get them served faster.
“Can I get two pints of mead and a whiskey?” One voice rangout above the others.
I made a vaguehold ongesture in their general direction and kept pouring, half-turned to Sorcha as I worked.
“They can’t all be from Stormsby?”
“They’re not.”
It was Brennan who answered her, leaning right over the bar to be heard. He went red the moment she turned to him, but her eyes lit with warmth and interest, and when she passed him the pint in her hands, he fixed her a shy smile and went on.
“Most of them are stuck here, with the roads locked down. Everyone in this room has been interviewed over the last few days, and a lot of them werereallyput out over sleeping in tents for Yule, so the Captain told us to offer them all a drink on the King’s coin.”
Up to that moment, if asked where the Captain was I am sure I could not have answered — so I couldn’t explain why, at Brennan’s mention of him, my eyes flicked across the room and found him in the centre of the crowd, leaning against a wooden beam with a tankard in hand. He was deep in conversation with Tanner of all people, listening intently as the old man grew more and more animated, thriving under his rapt audience, his arms spread wide in demonstration. The Captain nodded very seriously, his lips flat and brow furrowed thoughtfully while Tanner performed an odd sort of revolving waltz on the spot. On the second rotation of the little dance, the older man stopped short, catching my eyes on them from afar. He gave me a merry wave, a big broad sweep of his arm above his grey head, and I saw the Captain glance up a split second before Sorcha caught hold of my arm.
“Careful!”
I jolted back to myself, attention snapping to the overflowing tankard before me as Sorcha pried the jug from my hand. I’d been pouring absently, mead now sloshing over the edges of the cup, running in sticky rivulets down the inner shelf of the bar and pooling in the white fabric of my apron.
“Shit,” I hissed, and Sorcha gently ushered me away with arag in hand.
Across the bar, Brennan bared his teeth in a wince.
“Whoops.”
“Whoops indeed,” Sorcha said mildly, a hint of knowing laughter threaded through her words. “If we run out of mead, they may revolt.”
“Two pints of mead and a whiskey?” The insistent patron chimed in again.
I risked a glance up, to the centre of the crowd. The Captain had been waiting for it; he grinned back at me and lifted his cup in greeting. My face flamed. I turned abruptly away and unlaced my sopping apron, which sagged in my hand under the weight of the coins. Where the hell was I going to put them now?
“Shit,” I said again.
“Go get a fresh one,” Sorcha said, already back to distributing the pre-poured pints. “We need the coffer emptied anyway.”
“But how are you going to –”
“Dagda’s arse, could Ipleaseget two pints of mead and a whiskey? I’mgaspingover here.”
I gestured at the exasperated middle aged man who was practically climbing the bar in his desperation for a drink. “They’regasping, Sorcha. Are you sure you can manage?”
Across the bar, Brennan perked up. “I can help. Can I help?”
Beside him Nicholas, the newest Kingsman, took this as his cue to slide Brennan’s pint slowly toward himself and slink off with it, disappearing swiftly into the crowd. Brennan didn’t seem to notice, but he certainly took note when Sorcha beamed at him and inclined her head.
“Come on then,” she said.
