Out-Dweller

2. Breaking Fast

2

Breaking Fast

Julian spat the last of his teeth-cleaning solution into his little washbowl, then straightened and smirked at himself in the mirror. He had almost become civilized.

He took a moment to lace up his boots—brown leather, weathered and comfortable, that came almost to his knees—then he pinned his badge of office, a silver fist grasping a set of scales, onto the breast of his dark green tunic and strapped on his sword belt. A moment later he was out the door, ready to face another day as the hammer of justice.

Or, more likely, the solver of middling disputes.

As he pulled the door to his small flat shut behind him and locked up, Julian reflected that life as Constable of Lydelton was not quite what he thought it would be. Hardly surprising, considering how he and Raedrick came into the job. But still, he had expected a bit more excitement, more challenge.

In retrospect, he should have known better. Lydelton, though prosperous, was not a large town. When the merchant caravans were not in town—and they were few these days—only a few hundred people, maybe a thousand tops, lived in the town proper. That did not make for much in the way of crime, at least among the locals. The rest of the Vale held probably double that number, but they were spread around enough that Julian hardly ever interacted with them; for the most part they took care of matters that needed taking care of themselves, and resented having their business butted into.

So Julian's days mostly consisted of sitting in the Constable's Office and making sure the place was kept up, making a stroll or two around town and checking in on the various businesses and residents, and preparing the weekly report to Mayor Brimly.

Hardly the epitome of excitement. But then again, it could be worse. A lot worse. Julian had seen more than his fair share of action and, for lack of a better term, excitement in the Army, on the front lines. Though it was more like moments of sheer terror between weeks of absolute boredom and frivolous make-work. The quiet life here in Lydelton was quite an improvement from that.

A narrow set of stairs led from his flat's doorway to the ground floor below. Julian took them two at a time and emerged a moment later onto the street outside.

His flat rested on the second floor of a small building on Cannery Street, two blocks from both Main Street to his right and Lake Glimmermere, with its multitude of fishing docks, to his left. The first floor of his building was dominated by his landlord's canvas shop, which supplied sails and other gear to the fishermen on their boats. Master Feldmyn did a steady business from what Julian could see, which explained why he lived in a good-sized house on the west side of town instead of in the flat above his shop. And why the rent on the flat was so reasonable.

Or it could have been Julian's status as a genuine local hero that lowered the rate, but he doubted it.

Julian turned right toward Main Street, but took the first right and walked several blocks down until The Oarlock came into view. Two stories tall and impeccably kept up, the Inn had quickly become Julian's favorite supplier of drink, food, and company.

He wasted no time, but strode quickly up to the main entrance and stepped inside.

As always, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the relative gloom of The Oarlock's taproom. The windows were few, and draped, letting only a small amount of sunlight within. Instead, oil lamps on sconces around the room lent a dim, flickering glow to the place. When it got colder, they would be augmented by fires from the twin fireplaces in the corners to his right and left, but for now the fireplaces were empty, barren.

A long bar stretched along the length of the wall to his right. The remainder of the room was filled with tables, most of them unoccupied at this early hour. A staircase in the rear corner led up to the rooms on the second level, mostly unrented at this point unless Julian missed his guess; it had been some time since a caravan, or any travelers, had come through the Vale. A set of swinging double-doors at the rear led into the kitchens, and off in the rear right lay a less obtrusive doorway that led out to the lower level privy.

It almost felt like coming home.

Julian sidled up to the middle of the bar, where a woman of late middle years, dressed in a simple brown dress and a white apron, was wiping down the taps with a pristine white rag. He had never seen Molli ever use a dirty rag for that job; he supposed the dust was likely too scared to come anywhere near her bar, as much a neat nick as she was.

Molli flashed a warm smile at Julian as he settled down onto one of the stools lining the bar. "You're late," she said.

Julian snorted. "It's not yet 8 o'clock." He glanced aside, toward the mantel overtop the fireplace on the right, where a large wooden clock ticked away the day's hours. The Gods alone knew where Molli acquired the gold to afford something like that; she sure was not telling.

Molli shook her head in response, then pulled a plate that was covered by an off-white cloth napkin out from where it had been resting below the bar. She slid it across the polished wooden surface toward him. "This has been growing cold for ten minutes," she said, and quirked an eyebrow at him. "You're late."

Julian could only spread his hands helplessly and give her an abashed smile. There really was no other response; she had him cold.

Molli looked gravely at him for a few seconds, then chuckled and turned away, toward where a pitcher that was beading with condensation sat next to the taps. She grabbed a goblet from a shelf above the bar and filled the goblet with dark fluid from the pitcher, then set it next to the plate, along with a fork and knife. "Eat up."

"Yes, ma'am," Julian said, inclining his head in supplication.

He whipped the napkin off and revealed his breakfast: lightly fried fish bits, fresh caught from the lake of course, alongside finely chopped and baked potatoes and a hard-fried egg. Combined with the cold-brewed tea in the goblet, it was everything his belly needed to be happy for a good long time.

Julian considered, for the hundredth time, that it would be better to eat slowly, savor every morsel. Somewhere in the back of his head, he heard his mother's voice saying that was more healthy. Or something. But in the end, the rumbling of his stomach won out, and in the space of just a few minutes half the food on his plate was gone. It was beyond delicious, as always. It pained him for a second that so little remained to eat. And then he set to again.

Molli spoke again at some point, but he missed what she said, so engrossed was he in the joy of breakfast well crafted.

"Eh?" Julian managed after swallowing.

Molli rolled her eyes. "I said, has Ilsa Rorickson come to see you?"

Julian raised an eyebrow and took a drink of tea to give himself time to think. Rorickson. Who was... Ah, the woodsman's wife. Her face came into Julian's mind: round, just past homely toward cute, not showing nearly the amount of care lines one would expect from a woman her age, with sharp green eyes and a narrow nose beneath light brown hair. He had only interacted with her and her husband a couple times in the months since he and Raedrick took over for the late Constable. They seemed decent enough, if a bit standoffish.

"Should she have?"

Molli pursed her lips slightly. "She was in here late last night, looking for Baelin. Caused a bit of a fuss."

Julian raised an eyebrow. "So?"

"Apparently he didn't come home last night. Ilsa all but accused Helena Winslow of helping her sister steal him away."

Oh brother. Another one of those problems. Julian sighed and dropped his fork onto his plate, the metallic clank making a fine counterpoint to the annoyance surging within him. "I'm not a bloody marriage counsellor," he muttered, scowling.

Molli smirked back at him. "Sure you are. Goes with that fancy pin you wear around." She gestured toward his badge of office.

Julian met her gaze levelly for a moment, then groaned and picked his fork back up. He went back to shoveling his breakfast into his mouth, the succulent flavors suddenly tasting a bit more bitter than normal.

It was going to be a bad day. He could see it already.