Airlean Tales

The Soaring Pig was a beaten, burnished tavern far into the knotted net of cramped, low-rise streets known as the underworld of Mythaven. Rust-bitten iron chandeliers swung over peeling round tables, at which hunched figures dealt cards and tokens with swift fingers. The entire room was thick with a veil of cigar smoke and grimy sweat.

Covered in a ratty cloak, Azalea slid carefully through the tables. She made sure to follow Karis’s light, dancing tread, stepping exactly where Karis stepped. This place was beyond her, and judging by the simmering gazes passing in her direction, one wrong move would land her a dagger in the neck. It was like toeing around a hornet’s nest.

Then again, most of the journey had been the same. The underworld of Mythaven was not a friendly place, what with herb-addled outcasts and opportunistic thieves lurking around every corner on their way in. Even in the sweltering warmth of the Soaring Pig, there was a sharpness and a tension in the way the customers poured their drinks and played their games.

It finally clicked when Azalea saw the golden gleam of coin change hands after a round of cards.

“A gambling den?” she whispered to Karis, eyes wide. She repeated, “This tavern is a gambling den?”

Karis chuckled, a delicate, tinkling sound. “More like a canary’s nest, I imagine.”

“Canary?”

“Money may change hands here on occasion, but watch.” She gestured subtly to a nearby table. “The game is merely a pleasantry. Rather, this is the place for mercenaries and informants to negotiate and claim the…ah, more clandestine jobs.”

Clandestine jobs. Like hunts, or theft, or murder. Just the sort Echo would take.

“Then that’s what you meant by a hunting bird?” said Azalea in a trembling voice. “A mercenary?”

Karis smiled. “Of a sort, I suppose.”

They moved further into the Soaring Pig. Past a table where a group of five flipped red coins onto marked squares. Past a table where two figures carefully exchanged goods concealed in leather boxes. All the way to the back, where two men in night-black cloaks were in a round of cards, deft fingers sifting through decks and tokens with equal finesse. One of them moved a hand to his knife as Karis approached, and Azalea stiffened, ready to react.

“A moment, if you would, Swan,” Karis said. Her elegant, refined lilt grated against the surrounding grime.

One of the men—the one keen to use his dagger—said something in a language that Azalea did not understand, smooth and melodic, with the thick vowels and rolling consonants. But the tone was far from friendly. It was hostile and demanding, jabbing like a barb.

The other man, who Karis had named as Swan, waved a hand and responded in cadence. Calm, unruffled, dead even.

The man with the dagger hissed something and threw down his hand, shouldering Karis out of the way as he stormed out the tavern.

There was a moment of silence. Swan played a card with a moon emblem, seemingly unperturbed. Karis fearlessly slid into the vacant seat across from him. Azalea shuffled next to her but did not sit.

“Well, that was a poor sport,” Karis said mildly. “How many times did you trounce him?”

“Not enough, apparently,” said Swan. The hood raised in their direction, and Azalea cringed, expecting the worst.

She met the ocean-blue gaze of the First Hunter of Airlea.

Azalea clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle a sharp gasp. Halcyon Yuden, at a backwater tavern in Mythaven’s underworld. He was no stranger to it, either; not with the way he handled a card deck, like his hand was born to shuffle and play.

“You scared off the venison,” Halcyon said.

“Don’t fret,” said Karis. “There’s more where that came from.”

He didn’t look up. He played a card with the emblem of a sun, then drew two more. Karis played a card opposite him. He played another, then slid the stack away.

“Fairwen secured a tip,” Karis said. “Fletcher’s Fry. A sea creature.”

Halcyon’s fingers stopped. He leaned back and regarded Karis evenly.

“Why give it to me?” he said.

“You’re the ocean specialist.”

“You could easily do it. If you wanted the points.”

Karis was quiet for a moment. Then, softly:

“There was another passing.”

Azalea stared at Karis. Halcyon’s gaze fell back on his hand. His fingers flicked; the cards reversed their order, smooth and silent.

“Who?” said Halcyon.

“The Fortieth. Beanstalk Botanist.”

He played another card and drew another card, but he was listening. Azalea could tell from the way he was leaning, the way he hesitated before each move.

“They’re passing too quickly, Yuden,” Karis said, playing a card and drawing a new one. “The gap between the top Hunters and the rest is too wide. The young ones need more training.”

“We’re not exactly great teachers.”

“Perhaps. But Death is a worse one.”

Halcyon was silent. The tavern’s dim hearth flickered once, twice.

He snapped his hand into a tidy stack and pushed it to the center of the table, face-down. It fanned out neatly. Hidden. Azalea couldn’t see what he’d pulled.

“Alright,” he said. He stood, the chair rattling slightly. “I’ll take it.”

Karis’s face flickered. She turned to Azalea, nodding her head towards Halcyon’s fading silhouette.

“Follow him,” she said. “Learn what you can. If there’s anything Hal knows, it’s how to fight in the ocean.”

Azalea nearly gasped. She would be shadowing the First Hunter, learning from him. A terribly precious opportunity, and one that she would savor.

“Thank you, Lady Karis,” Azalea whispered.

Karis waved a hand. “The best gratitude is to remain unhurt. I do not invest in things only for them to wilt a week later.”

Azalea paled. “Oh, I’ll, I’ll be sure to do my best.”

Karis blinked. “No, that wasn’t…oh, you little thing.” Her hand patted the top of Azalea’s head, just briefly. “Just follow Hal and do what you’re able, and everything will be alright.”

She left the tavern, brown cloak drifting behind her like refined silk. Azalea started to follow, but seeing Halcyon’s hand of cards, turned down and neatly fanned out on the table, gave her pause. Curiously, she turned them over and glanced across their revealed faces.

Thirteen of a suit, all in perfect order.