The Tales of the Wanderer Volume One: A Book of Underrealm (The Underrealm Volumes 4) Garrett Robinson (poetry books to read TXT) 📖

She trounced Ciaran, right there in his home. She slammed his head on his desk, scattering parchments and missives he was in the middle of, and then she threw him into a bookshelf that fell over onto him. She dragged him out from under the mess, and then she drove her knee into his gut and struck him across the face, splitting his lip. Then she let him fall helpless at her feet.

Ciaran was stunned for a moment. But as he regained his senses, he gave her a savage grin from the ground, blood staining his teeth.

“How dismayed I am to learn I was right about you,” he said. “Assaulting the mayor is a grave crime. I could have our constables take you away to jail you in a city. But I think I shall be merciful. I shall merely levy a fine upon you—and your master. It will be substantial, of course, commensurate with your wrongdoing. How I hope you and Duana will have the coin to pay it.”

Mag’s eyes went wide, and her hands went slack. What could she do now? She could hardly kill Ciaran. His actions might be base and treacherous, but they were hardly worthy of murder. He was not truly evil, like Kaita, but only an up-jumped snake who enjoyed power and dominance over others.

And in this moment, he had won.

Ciaran watched all these thoughts play across her expression, and his face grew crafty.

“Of course, such a fine could be hard to lay upon you,” he said. “If you were to flee from Shuiniu forever, for example. I wager you could get away with it. It might take me time to summon a constable. And it would hardly serve the town to fine Duana if you were no longer here to share in the punishment. The tavern master might even see fit to purchase from her again if you were no longer in her employ.”

The message could not have been more clear if he had written it into a contract. Mag was to leave and never return. All Ciaran wanted was for her to be gone. He had no grudge against Duana except through Mag. If Mag left, forever, then Shuiniu would return to business as usual.

At least for a time. For peace never lasts, with men like him. They are always hungry for another victim. Anyone weaker than they are, to give them a false feeling of strength.

But Mag did not know that, and she had little choice. So she took a step back from Ciaran, who was still on the floor, propped up on his elbows. He knew he had won, and slowly he levered himself to his feet. He wiped his bloody mouth on the back of his sleeve.

“You will never see me again,” said Mag, her voice shaking. “At least not here. I do hope that we meet each other somewhere far away from Shuiniu. It will be my pleasure to teach you another lesson then, though you will be too stupid to learn it.”

Ciaran spat. “Get out. Before I rescind my mercy.”

Mag left, never giving a backward glance to Ciaran or his house. She took her time wandering through the streets of the town, for she knew this would be the last time she would see them. In too short a time, she found herself back in Duana’s brewery. Duana was drinking a mug of her own brew, drawn from the last batch she had made before the purchase of the tavern.

She looked up, and she must have seen the dismay on Mag’s face. Quickly she tried to stand from her stool, but she slowed halfway up, wincing at a pain in her leg.

“Mag?” she said. “What is wrong?”

“I … I have to go,” said Mag.

Duana’s face fell, even as her eyes filled with understanding. “You went to see Ciaran, you dark-damned—”

“Too late for chastisement,” said Mag. She swiped at a sudden mist in her eyes, though she tried to make it look like she was only wiping sweat from her brow. “And too late to warn me not to do it. Ciaran has banished me. If I try to stay, he will levy a fine against us that we cannot hope to pay.”

Duana slammed her mug on the table, sloshing some of the ale over the side. “Dark take it, Mag! You should have known better—”

“I know,” said Mag. She said it quietly, but still, it cut Duana off as if she had shouted. And as she looked upon her master, Mag could no longer hold back the tears, and they poured steadily down her cheeks. But she managed to hold her voice steady. “I am sorry. I could have … I do not know, but we could have thought of … of something.”

That was as much as she could safely say without breaking down, and so she stopped. And seeing her distress, Duana sighed. She went behind the table and poured another mug of ale, which she placed in Mag’s hand. Mag drained it before Duana could sit back down, but she went to fill it on her own, and Duana settled into her chair.

“Well, never mind any of that,” said Duana. “As you said, it is too late to chastise you or to urge another course. What is done is done. And … and in the end, this is likely for the best.”

Mag’s head whipped towards her, a hurt look on her face. “You … want me to go?”

“I do not want it,” said Duana. “But what we want, and what is best, are not always the same thing. You know you are unusual, Mag. Everyone in town knows it. It is one reason Ciaran has always hated you—for he is petty and trivial, and so utterly unremarkable, and he sees the chasm of difference between the two of you.”

“You are more skilled than I am,” said Mag. “You cannot