The common room smelled, but not of spilled wine or drunken men. I sniffed suspiciously. No, I thought, it wasn't perfume, exactly, but something else light and sweet. More than anything it reminded me of wildflowers.
Such a scent didn't belong in a dive like Slab's Tavern. I ought to know. I, Ulander Rasym, owner of Slab's, took great pride in nurturing my bar's less-than-savory reputation.
Surreptitiously I glanced around at the evening crowd. Pirates dressed in brightly hued silks and bedecked with glittering jewels lounged in secluded booths along the back wall, haggling with local merchant-princes over the disposition of ill-gotten cargoes. Since the Great Lord of Zelloque had declared his city a free port, pirates had become common here. To my left, against the far wall, a dozen Coranian slavers in hooded gray cloaks threw eight-sided dice while stamping their feet and shouting with bravado. Meanwhile, at the bar, a motley assortment of thieves and cut-throats engaged in a boisterous drinking game--Queen's Ransom, I realized as their tankards slammed together in the Heroes' Toast. Even the solitary few nursing cups of wine at tables in the center of the room looked ready for a fight.
No, of all the lowlifes who patronized Slab's, none would reek of such a dainty scent. Nor were there any new women about, just my usual crew of barmaids and serving girls, and out of self preservation none of them would dare perfume themselves--they were black and blue already from too many unwanted pinches, pokes, and outright grabs from customers.
That only left one other possible source for the sweet offending smell: Slab Vethiq himself, the founder of my ignoble drinking establishment. Slab had died nearly a decade before, but that hadn't stopped him from taking an active interest in the bar; his ghost had caused more than a bit of trouble over the years.
Perhaps, I mused, things had been too quiet in recent weeks. Of course the bar had its usual nightly show of spirits--earlier this evening the severed heads of two dead sailors had appeared over the bar singing bawdy drinking songs until one of the barmaids chased them away with a broom--but there hadn't been any real trouble in more than a month. It was about time for Slab to put in an unwanted appearance to stir things up...
Nodding and smiling to patrons as if I hadn't a concern in the world, I strolled toward the back of the tavern where I kept my private booth. If Slab had indeed returned to interfere in my affairs again, I'd let him think his game didn't concern me. Then perhaps he'd grow bored, show himself, and make his latest demands so I could get on with my affairs.
Sure enough, as I slipped through the curtain into my booth, a ghostly hand appeared before me holding a bottle of my best Merindian wine. It seemed proof enough that I'd done right in feigning a lack of concern: Slab seldom appeared so quickly when he wanted something.
Next a ghostly goblet appeared, and Slab poured me a generous drink. The smell of wildflowers grew stronger.
"What do you want this time?" I asked him.
"A toast to your good health, Ulander!" said his gravely voice.
"That's one thing I'll always drink to." I took a hesitant sip. As I'd half expected, the wine tasted like warm blood; it took all my strength of will to swallow rather than spray it out across the table. I wouldn't give Slab the satisfaction of knowing he'd begun to bother me this time.
As I smacked my lips with pretend satisfaction, the rest of Slab materialized: the piercing gray eyes, the jagged dueling scar on his left cheek, the bearded chin, the one gold earring. As always, he wore splendid clothes: tonight, red silk breeches and shirt, with huge ruby rings on his fingers. As he conjured another goblet and poured himself a drink, the flowery smell grew cloying. I had to cover my nose with a handkerchief.
"Slab," I said, "you're going to ruin business with this stench."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I have come for your good advice," he said, "friend Ulander."
Slab had never called me "friend" even when he was alive and I'd been his loyal right-hand man. More than anything else he'd yet said or done tonight, that worried me. And he'd never bothered to ask--let alone take--my counsel in the nearly twenty-five years I'd known him.
"Advice?" I asked. I could only give him a blank, bewildered stare.
He smiled. I'd always found his smiles dangerous in the past, but this one looked merely silly. And just as suddenly I knew what had happened.
"You're in love," I whispered, awed in spite of myself.
"She's a most wonderful creature," he said softly. "What should I do?"
"See her, by all means," I said quickly. This could be the answer to all my prayers, I thought. It was hard to imagine Slab finding a friend, let alone a lover, but I would be the last to dampen the flames of such a romance. If some spectral woman would have him, then have him she would. Perhaps this was all he needed. Perhaps now he would now content himself to move on to the underworld and leave me and my tavern alone.
"Tell her," he mused. "What a marvelous idea. You will arrange it, of course."
I stopped short. "You don't mean--she's among the living?"
"Of course."
"How--" I began, at a loss for words. "Who--"
"She is called," he said with the softest of sighs, "Deana Caltonos qua Salian Ri."
A chill ran through me as he spoke her name.
"I must talk with her, Ulander," he continued, more forcefully now. It sounded almost a threat. "Bring her here. Tomorrow."
"But she's--" I began.
He shook his head in warning. Then he faded away.
I pressed my eyes shut and took another sip from my goblet, which Slab had had the good sense to leave behind. Its contents tasted a lot more like wine now, and I certainly felt the need to get drunk.
Deana Ri. Of course I knew of her; she was the Great Lord of Zelloque's younger sister ... and after him, the last of the Ri bloodline, since the Great Lord had yet to marry and produce an heir. Should anything happen to His Eminence Narmon Ri, Deana would ascend the emerald throne to rule Zelloque.
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