Water slopped down the side of the wooden tumbler, over the exposure—cracked hands and on to the greasy bar top, pooling rather than soaking into the wood.
The sailor drank the water in heaving gulps. The bartender turned to the next out- stretched tumbler and poured a second portion; another sailor, a man draped in filthy once-white rags, with the same wild look about him as his fifteen companions. Around the room they all were, being served water as fast as the help could pour, every man of them downing their drinks with a choking speed.
Havair couldn't figure it out. He had been minding the bar at The Merwench a week after he first arrived in Rycher twelve years ago. And never had he seen the like. In his time, he had seen many ships' crews come here to celebrate the end of a difficult voyage. Many of those had been like this one, he was guessing; ship lost at sea, provisions low or gone, all hope lost.
When those crews came pouring into Havair's bar they were raucous and swaggering on the way in and drunk and swaggering on the way out. Those were good nights all around as the sailors gave thanks in their special way, and The Merwench made a healthy profit. Those sailors would spend their breath between draughts telling the serving girls all about their harrowing adventure.
After shuffling in like mist-fed death this lot asked for water. Try as he might he couldn't get one of them to say more than, "water." Myrlee and Sharna kept looking at each other over the heads of the sailors as they poured cup after cup of water. Sharna turned from her table with her customary spin and skip away, anticipating the pinch at her bottom. When it didn't come, she stopped and looked over her shoulder at the table, then at Havair. She looked more than a little spooked to him. He wasn't sure he didn't look the same to her. He would have put a stop to it all by now if one of them hadn't plunked down a frayed pouch full of silver coins. Three more shaking tumblers were held out in supplication. Havair searched their faces as Sharna poured.
"You," he said, pointing with the pitcher spout at the one on his left. "I know you Mate Brolin. You caught a berth on Captain Stoutoak's ship, the Wave Crusher. Why, that was over a year ago! Are you men from Wave Crusher's crew?"
Brolin did not raise his eyes to look at Havair, he simply held out the tumbler. After a moment he spoke, his voice croaking like the others in a way that made Havair's stomach hurt. "Water… please?"
The room became as quiet as a mist-covered graveyard. Even Myrlee and Sharna stilled at the sudden change in the room. Every one of the sailors had stopped their slurping and coughing and mumbling calls for water. Every one of them had gone very still, as if trying hard to go unnoticed. Brolin continued looking at the water pitcher, still held pointing at him. Suddenly his eyes jerked up to search Havair's face, then leaped around the room, his head following, his hair whipping behind. He moved off the stool at the bar, backing away, head swiveling as he strove to keep everyone in site. The tumbler fell, bouncing along the floor.
"No," he said in that croak. Havair wouldn't have wagered a twisted copper on it being possible, but the room became even quieter, the sailors even more still. "It doesn't matter now." Brolin's statement came out as more of a question, raising at the end. "We're home, you see?" He spoke to the deaf backs of his mates, then looked up at Myrlee. Her eyes were wide and her knuckles where white from where she gripped the clay pitcher in both hands. Havair figured it was going to break any moment.
"You. You weren't there. You're beautiful." This shift in his manner was startling. His face melted, emotion reddening his cheeks. Brolin took a step towards her, his hand raising in front of him. From the position he held his hand, it could be opened to caress or closed to throttle. Havair shook free from the spell of fascination and moved around the bar. He figured Brolin was too far gone to trust around one of his girls.
Brolin jerked away from him with a scream. Backing away, raising his arms to cover his head, he stumbled into the corner of the room and slumped to the floor, shivering and whimpering. Havair watched for a moment, then turned to the nearest cluster of men, still as statues.
"What in the name of all my misted ancestors is going on? I've had enough!" Havair lifted the closest man up by his shirt, dangling him off the floor. He started shaking him, overemboldend by the men's reticence, nerves frayed by the strange events of the day. "Take your blooded coin back and get out of my bar!" The sailor's head flopped back and forth, his eyes looking steadily at the floor. Myrlee and Sharna huddled near the bar, crying in fear of the men and their boss.
"Do be good enough to put down my man, barkeep, and you may get your explanation."
Havair turned his head, still holding the unresponsive sailor over his chair. Standing in the doorway was a man he knew well by reputation. Toping his own six-foot frame by half a foot, burly in the chest, smooth shaven and black haired was Captain Stoutoak, master of the vessel Wave Crusher and sometime leader of the Captain's Company, an informal business arraignment among many ship's captains.
In contrast to his crew, the captain looked not as if he had just survived a harrowing sea journey but as if he was ready to begin one. He was clean, first off, and dressed in what looked like new clothes. His boots were even polished. He stood with one hand tucked in his sash, the other lazy at his side.
Havair slowly lowered the man into his chair. The sailor remained still.
"Captain Stoutoak! Rumor was you...well, there's about a dozen rumors, but none of them has you alive. I'd be happier to see you if your crew wasn't acting more dead than alive. They've scared my girls, so I'll never get any work out of them for a week!"
"Good man; you see the rumors lie, as rumors do," said the captain. He paused for a moment, eyes reflective. "How is it said? 'A rumor is like a whore's promise of love: the foolish man believes both.'
Regardless, here I am and here is my crew. Your answers will come as the night wears, Havair. You see, I remember you, Havair. I have called a meeting of the Captain's Company, and I have asked them all to come here. I wish it for you and your girls to serve us at our meeting."
Stoutoak moved to the bar, waving Havair to move around behind to pour him a drink. Myrlee and Sharna still stood arm in arm, watching without understanding. Havair moved to stand across the bar from the captain. From there, he could see the entire bar and room, from the wide entry, to the small stage, to the booths along the back. Everywhere he looked, filthy men sat stone-still in their chairs, or at the bar, or standing near the stage. Some held tumblers full of quivering water, which they eyed longingly. In the far corner, Brolin remained hunched over, covering himself with his arms and hands; but he, too, had become still. Havair poured a drink and placed it in front of the captain, who took it and sipped. With a curse, he spat his mouthful on the floor.
"Water? Damn me if I haven't had enough water to last the rest of my life. Pour me a whiskey."
