Despite its story-book setting, nestled on the bank of Galamaas River, The White Stag was a rundown establishment, even on its best days.

A low ceiling—and a poorly ventilated chimney—trapped the smoke from the log fire, the pipe-smoke, and smells of ale and spirits, which, when compounded by the poor hygiene of some of its patrons, made it a place of acquired tolerance.

The wooden bar, tables and chairs, and side-booths, all showed signs of both age and maltreatment from the various drunks and fights they’d seen over many a year. The head and antlers of a long-ago hunted white stag—now stained a hideous yellow colour from years of tobacco smoke—hung on the wall behind the bar.

Dull orange light, from several lanterns hanging from the ancient ceiling beams, struggled to bring any form of brightness through the thick clouds of smoke emanating from the cheap, poor quality tobacco. There was always a most miserable atmosphere. Even the frosted windows, with years of ingrained smoke on the inside, and filth from the muddied streets outside, seemed intent on keeping the daylight out.

The upstairs was no better. Six dingy bedrooms lined either side of the first floor; in constant occupation as the local working girls entertained their clients for as many hours as they could attract custom. Here, too, personal hygiene was an insignificant consideration and only those with the strongest constitutions, or the most desperate of sexual needs, ventured into these rooms, such was the stench from the carnal activities of the occupants.

The White Stag was also a major source of custom for the local doctors, with fight and stab wounds, food poisoning, and venereal disease all being a common cause for treatment. The medical practitioners, of course, had no effective treatment for the constant stream of gonorrhoea or syphilis, and relied heavily on toxic metals, such as mercury, arsenic and sulphur to provide seemingly convincing treatments. These applications were merely a charade, often resulting in serious side effects, with many people dying, particularly of mercury poisoning. The continuing treatment required by these side effects meant, of course, additional and ongoing business for the quacks, so few were too upset by the lack of a cure.

Aevin’s eyes were drawn to the door as four soldiers entered the tavern. He supped his ale, watching as the commander strode purposefully to the bar. A few words, a pointing gesture from the barmaid, then the realisation that he was the reason for the soldiers’ intrusion. His back stiffened as he raised himself in his seat—the usual corner booth, away from the snide comments and the suspicious questions.

The poor light in this corner gave him the privacy to enjoy his ale whilst avoiding any unpleasantries with the locals. They were no more inclined to friendliness toward him, than they were to the despised military men. They grudgingly tolerated his presence. Many felt a righteous superiority over him; a sanctimonious snobbery at his fall from favour. A smugness always filled the faces of anyone who spoke to him; taking a satisfaction in knowing that he got exactly what he deserved. Probably.

The ageing commander was of average height and build, despite the bulk of his mail and breast plate making him look larger. His sweat-drenched hair and frowzy appearance suggested a man under immense stress. It was obvious from the stubbled, unshaven face, and the worn appearance of his uniform—not to mention the unpleasant body odour—this was a man who had been on duty some considerable time. All the soldiers, in fact, looked exhausted following days of searches and arrests, but all remained vigilant of any trouble. The quelling of the initial riots may have brought an uneasy truce, but they had done little to calm the mood of the majority; the ordinary, the poor. These were dangerous times for exhausted soldiers of the crown.

“Aevin Ras… The Legist and Logician?” the commander snapped, making sure the whole tavern heard and saw the interaction. The soldiers’ entrance had brought an unpleasant, unfriendly silence into the bar, and the mute audience eagerly soaked up every word of Aevin’s brief exchange with the group’s commander. Eavesdropping, listening for any confirmation for their loathing and mistrust of both men. He looked down at Aevin with a sneer. Not even a common soldier had any respect for him, it seemed.

“I am,” Aevin replied.

The commander thrust his hand out, nodding at the rolled up parchment he was holding. “This is for you, Ras.” Aevin took the scroll, smiling sarcastically at the surly messenger.

He turned it in his hand, scrutinising the seal. It was not one he recognised. “Who is it from?” asked Aevin.

It was the commander’s turn to smirk. “You have twenty-four hours, savage-lover,” he stated bluntly. “Long live the king!” He then turned to his escort and nodded toward the door, making to leave. He paused and turned back to Aevin, waiting for the obligatory response.

Aevin smiled. “Yes,” he said, “long live the king.”

“Twenty-four hours,” repeated the commander. “Long live the king!” he shouted as he and his companions disappeared into the street.

‘Bastards!’ cried a lone dissenting voice as the hostelry door slammed shut. ‘Fuck the king!’ cried another. Aevin grunted to himself. The bravado in not being recognised always encouraged the loudmouths; those who had all the answers; those who would show the king’s men ‘what was what’… but only when they were out of earshot.

He looked around the barroom, a bitter, sardonic laugh held inside as the revellers returned to their drinking. The talk, mumbled and secretive as it was, was now all about him and his visitors. No doubt all were now resolute in their belief that he was nothing more than a crown informer. Why would anyone, if not involved with the crown, receive a hand-delivered parchment from the military?

As each face took a furtive look over their shoulder at him, he just smiled, nodded his head, and raised his tankard to them. The looks they returned left no doubt how they felt about him. It never occurred to any of them that the contempt they had for him was nothing compared to the contempt in which they were held by the ruling class. He was a man caught between two cultures; neither of which wanted him; neither of which he wanted to be part of.

He cast one more glance at the scroll and finished his ale, despite the taste having soured since the soldiers’ visit. His eyes sought the barmaid and, raising his tankard high above his head, he gestured his desire for a top up. She neither smiled, nor gave any form of positive response, but, within a couple of minutes, she’d appeared by the side of his table.

The tankard thumped down onto the old worn wood, ale slopping over the lip. “Do you think I’ve nothing better to do than wipe your arse, Aevin?” she chided. “Get your ale at the bar next time, like everyone else.”

“Do you really want a scene every time I want a refill, Mayra?”

“I s’pose not,” she conceded. Her eyes fell upon the message still unopened in his hand. “Aren’t you going to read that? Must be important.”

Aevin placed the scroll on the table. “I’ll get around to it in time,” he replied, scanning the barroom once more. “I’m sure there are more than a few in here interested in its contents.”

“Mmm,” hummed Mayra. “At least they didn’t arrest you.”

Aevin winked at the woman. “Not yet, at any rate.”

Mayra collected the empty tankard and laid it on her half-full tray. “How have you been, anyway?” she asked. “You haven’t been in much lately.”

“That’s not concern for me, is it, Mayra? You better not let any of that lot hear you, they’ll tag you as a pariah, same as me.”

“Best not linger, then,” she laughed. “I’ve got my reputation to think of.”

She turned with a whoosh, her skirts flying in a spin. Mayra was possibly the closest thing Aevin had to being a friend. At least she smiled when she took his money, which was more than any of the other traders in Galamaas City did. Oh, they’d happily relieve him of his coin, but civility? No, they had none of that for the ‘savage-lover’.

He mused, with a rueful smile, on how one piece of advice… one opinion… had turned his life upside down and left him without family or friends. It had also left him without justice or closure; his wife and son murdered; his respectable position at court a thing of the past. He was a prisoner of Galamaas City—barred from leaving its gates—living a solitary sentence; a miserable life full of suspicion. And now, it seemed, he was of interest to the military once more.

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Declaration: just started a new WIP and this prompt fitted in with a chapter that needed a tavern. Happy days 😊