As Myranda walked eastward, trying to put the anger of her confrontation out of her mind, she
questioned her choice. The advice of a person who knew how she felt about the war had nearly cost
Myranda her life the previous day, and here she was making the same mistake.
Her father would have frowned on this. Her thoughts turned to him. It had been even longer since
she'd seen his face than her mother's. She had to struggle to remember his features. He had been a
soldier, never home more than a few weeks before he was off to another tour of duty. He still found
time to teach her some of the most valued lessons she had ever learned, though. Even though she had
not been more than six when she last spoke to him, he had made sure she knew something of the real
world. He would tell stories of adventures he'd had, always with a piece of advice at the end. Above all,
he'd taught her to pay attention and to learn from her mistakes.
She shook the memories away. Those days were gone now, too painful to remember.
With her reminiscing over, the infuriating words of the priest quickly returned. Again, she
physically shook. What she needed now was distraction, anything to distance her mind from the pain
and anger.
"So, Bydell and Renack. Each the same distance from the church. What other towns have I been to
that shared a church between them? Lucast and Murtock . . . Skell and Marna . . ." she thought aloud.
She grimaced as the distraction proved inadequate to force the words of the priest from her mind.
"Bydell!" she forced herself to consider. "Where did that name come from? I wonder if it is by a
dell."
Myranda continued to force her mind onto this and other suitably pointless subjects for the
remainder of the cold and lonely trek. She had exhausted nearly every last meaningless avenue of
consideration by the time she sloshed into the smoky, dark interior of the Bydell tavern. The sign over
the door labeled this place The Lizard's Goblet, a name she wished she'd had to toss about in her mind
on the trip. The reasoning behind such a name could have filled at least a few minutes. The smell of
roasting meat and the tantalizing sound of wine being poured set her mind firmly on her empty
stomach.
The tables of the noisy room were all at least partially filled. As she scanned the establishment for a
place to sit, she could feel eyes staring back. Myranda's eyes passed the faces of at least a dozen men
far too young and healthy to be anywhere but the front line. They each had found some way, likely
underhanded, to avoid their obligation to serve. Now they sat, drinking and laughing in this place,
criminals for choosing life. Among the rogue's gallery of faces was a particularly suspicious-looking
person in the dark far corner, still shrouded in his gray cloak. Nearly every man in the whole of the
room wore a similar cloak, as the King had made them available for free as a favor to the downtrodden
masses.
When she finally located a seat she would be comfortable in, she moved quickly to claim it.
The seat she chose was at the counter where the drinks were served. The odd plate and knife
scattered about the bar assured her that she would be allowed to take her meal there as well. It was not
the most luxurious of chairs, but with a handful of empty seats between herself and the nearest denizen
of the bar to ease her nerves in such a rowdy place, it would do well enough. She sat and awaited the
tavern keeper's service.
Several minutes passed, punctuated by stomach rumblings reminding her of the fact she had yet to
be served. A glance down the bar revealed the keeper to be in a very spirited conversation with a gruff
customer he shared more than a casual resemblance to. She decided that they must be brothers, and
chose not to interrupt their conversation. Surely he would take her order soon. As this thought passed
through her mind, a particularly thick cloud of pipe smoke wafted past her face. It was all she could do
to keep from gagging. She turned a watering eye to the source of the offending fumes.
Behind her, an old man with a patch over his right eye let out a long, raking sound somewhere
between a cough and a laugh. The outburst lasted for a disturbingly long time, shaking his body as it
progressed. The long, thin pipe he gnawed on was lodged securely between two of the only teeth left in
his mouth. The half-rotten things had been used to clutch the stalk of the pipe so often they had parted
to make room for it. She winced as a second, far more powerful outburst spread his lips far enough to
confirm the solitary standing of the pipe-holding teeth. Another man sat at the table with him, staring
intently at her. He looked as though he had not slept in days. On his shoulder was a scraggly bird of
some kind. He whispered to it dementedly, prompting another long, raking laugh from his companion.
Sneaking another scan of the patrons of the tavern, she realized that most of the other men were
staring at her as well, a fact that made her more than a bit uncomfortable. Myranda turned back to the
bar. A trio of flies were enjoying the remains of the meal left by the seat's previous occupant. It was
seldom warm enough outside for flies to survive, so it was more than likely that these creatures had
lived for generations due to the lackluster housekeeping skills of the Lizard's Goblet's staff.
The flies drifted lazily off to their next meal when a particularly tipsy couple bumped into the bar
on their way to the stairs that were at Myranda's right side. The collision nearly knocked her from her
seat, but the couple merely stumbled up the stairs without so much as an acknowledgment of their
rudeness. There were half a dozen similar bumps and jostles before the innkeeper reluctantly headed in
her direction.
"Make it fast, missy, I am in the middle of something," said the less-than-hospitable man.
"What have you got over the fire?" she asked.
He sighed heavily as he turned to the kitchen.
"Goat," was his rather unappetizing description of the meal when he turned back.
"I will have some of that and some wine," she said.
"No wine," he said.
"Why not?" Myranda asked.
"Haven't had a drop in weeks. Very expensive stuff, you know," he said.
Myranda turned to a nearby table where a man was pouring himself a tall glass of the very beverage
she sought.
"Are you certain?" she asked.
"Wine is very expensive," he repeated. "People who cannot afford wine usually order ale."
Now it was clear. The wine was reserved for the better-off of his customers. He did not think she
could afford any. Judging by how this man did business, the price was surely prohibitive.
"Ale will be fine," she said.
He pulled a heavy tankard out from underneath the bar and held it below the tap of one of the