When he'd suggested they take a walk, he'd said it with every intention that they leave together. But apparently Fallon had plans of her own.
Without so much as a half assed goodbye, the former leader was off of her stool and out the door. Nov waited with no small amount of restraint; he had to stop his fingers from tapping and knee from bouncing. At least a couple of their hunters needed to go after her before he could follow suit. If he left now, not only would they have no way of affirming that his guesses had been right, but they'd give themselves away as an obvious pair. Better to let the hunters think Bitzer was more or less alone, however small of an advantage that would provide.
Still drooped over his now empty mug, the Sunberthian feigned another swig and noted how the two meatheads who'd entered last were guzzling down their beer. They left not ten ticks after Fallon. Meanwhile, the first bloke gave Noven a cursory glance before leaning back into his chair. Clearly, he was smarter, taking the time to at least assess whether or not this Dillain fellow was going to see Mistress Red Wolf home.
Another serving wench passed by. Not wasting the opportunity, "Dillain" caught her gently by the hand to get her attention. It was probably one of the more polite ways she'd been stopped that evening. Perhaps overly polite, as expected from a non-local. Probably the son of some well to do merchant out to add some spice to his life by defying his parents' wishes.
"Forgive my rudeness, miss, but there's something I must ask. If it's not too much trouble, that is," the mask of Dillain said in way of greeting and explanation, an embarrassed, sheepish smile playing across his dark features. Beneath the mask, Noven was counting the chimes between now and the moment Fallon had stepped out, careful to keep the scar on his right cheek hidden from view. Though he knew he had no hope of imitating a Zeltivan accent, he'd been around the uppercrust during his excursions with Matthew and Kaie long enough to pick up on their basic mannerisms. They were polite to a fault, but only when they wanted something. Every word was shaped by an agenda or motive. Or maybe five of each, depending on how adept the elite was.
That, and he'd had every day since arriving as a fugitive to hide his Sunberthian origins as best he could. The man was not one for the delicacies of intrigue, but there had been little choice, and some effort was better than none. A trained ear would be able to pick him out in an instant. Fortunately for him, a mere serving girl at a bar known for Kelp beer was unlikely to smell the nuances even if they were rotting right beneath her nose.
The lass seemed peeved at first, but with that bold wolf woman's exit there seemed to be several less patrons demanding things, and the young man sounded ever so sincere. "What is it, mister? Best make it quick. I've got work to do."
"Of course, I don't mean to interrupt. Just...you look like someone I know. Someone I met along my travels.”
This piqued the girl’s interest. Propping her serving tray against one hip and a hand on the other, she eyed him levelly. The posture accentuated her curves.“Was she pretty?” There was no naiveté in the way she asked. Only bluntness and a hint of amused curiosity. Noven took note of this, but Dillain remained blissfully oblivious. Almost two chimes in. I should go soon. He looked to one side as if struck by nostalgia, during which he quickly glance at the remaining players. The gambler was currently pulling in his wins and calling it a night, much to the dismay of his mates. The other serving wench in the bar had just slapped down two mugs of beer, but she was waving around her apron not two ticks after and the barkeep shooed her off. Which left only the first man, who remained in his seat, carefully staring at nothing.
Four down. One to go.
"Oh, more than pretty,” Dillain answered, returning to meet the girl’s gaze. He gave what he hoped was a wistful sigh. "She was beautiful in the way of painters and poets. Are you sure you don’t have a long lost twin somewhere out there in the world?
The serving girl smiled a genuine smile this time. “I bet you say that to all the ladies.”
The gambler was first to go. He joked around with his friends for a moment longer before pocketing his winnings and pushing himself out the door. Serving Wench #2 wasn’t far behind, bursting from the kitchens as any tired working girl would after a long shift. And still, the first man remained where he sat. Drinking nothing, doing nothing.
"Absolutely not, miss!” Dillain refuted as emphatically as he dared. Nov didn’t want to draw more attention to himself, but he needed to be convincing. "You are the first I’ve told. I…don’t have much luck with the ladies. Not a good talker like my brothers are.” The Sunberthian surprised himself with how easy these lies were coming to him. He’d never known any life other than the one given to him in the slums, and somehow here he was, fabricating details faster than he could stop them. He was an inexperienced liar at best, a horrendous one at worst. Nov had no idea if he was even doing a good job, and the consequences of his lies were beyond speculation at this point. He knew only that he needed to stall just a little longer.
The girl squinted at him in mock suspicion. Then she collected three empty mugs onto her tray without so much as looking down and set the whole thing on the bar. Next thing Nov knew she had hopped onto the stool to his left, chin resting on one hand and green eyes sparkling with mischief. He could see wisps of strawberry blond beneath the cloth that held back her hair. “So, Dillain. Tell me more about this great beauty I look so much like. What was she to you? Girlfriend? Wife? Mistress?”
"Uhh…” Shit. He hadn’t planned this far. Hadn’t planned anything to begin with. Time was running out, but it seemed like the girl had no intention of letting him off the hook quite so easy. He’d opened his big, fat mouth and now there was no way of taking back his lies. He needed to leave, now, so that he could follow the other two from a safe but visible distance.
"How about a trade. You tell me your name, and I answer your question.” Nov pulled that one straight out of Sahova’s book.
The serving girl smirked. “And here I thought you said you weren’t good at talking. Alright then, Dillain the Traveler, you have yourself a deal. My name is Mayline, but my friends just call me May.” She seemed like she was going to tease him a bit more, but something was off. Brow knitting, the playful smile on her lips died as she cocked her head to one side. “What’s wrong?”
Blinking, Dillain shook his head. They were old wounds, but the similarities hit him like an ice cold lance all the same. "Nothing, miss. Mae. No, wrong May...I have to go. My father…appointments…er, I just have to go.”
“Hey, what of your end of the bargain?” she demanded, one hand catching his sleeve.
Noven looked her dead in the eye. "She was a good woman, a kind one. I loved her. And she died for it.”
Mayline let go of his sleeve, sadness and a hint of fear clouding her face.
Then he was gone, disappearing through the doors and into the Zeltivan night. Not long after, the last hunter followed after him, a final link to their line of pursuit. Up at the very head would be Fallon, Nov knew. He just hoped that whatever she had planned went smoother than his debacle of an attempt. Even as he picked up on the last two pursuers and followed doggedly in their footsteps, he removed both his gloves and tucked them safely in one of his pockets.
Whatever awaited him ahead, he was ready. If not for his sake then for Fallon’s. For everyone who had once called themselves a Scar.
