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oxen.”
    Mulldoos raised his mug again and lead the toast. “To Rokliss, then. Dumb whorelicker that he was.”
    Everyone else joined even, even Lloi, though with less enthusiasm. “To Rokliss.”
    The Syldoon really did seem to have an unhealthy fixation on all things whorish. Their breed of camaraderie was crude, coarse, callous, and whatever other alliterative pejorative I could summon. Cruel? Perhaps. But there was another quality there as well. Or lack of one. There was no preening or pretension at the table. Their rough humor made no excuses for itself.
    Most of the patrons I’d penned for were doing their best to elevate themselves, to impress, to solicit the attention of the caste above. And though it was difficult to admit, even to myself, but my own experience was little different—growing up a bastard, I was always conscious of what others thought, and did my best to overcome any prejudice and earn as much approval as possible, especially since my own livelihood depended on me pleasing and placating my benefactors.
    The Syldoon couldn’t care less what anyone thought of them, and that was refreshing. If gross.
    Perhaps with a patron like the captain, I could focus on events for once, on history unfolding, on something truly significant.
    I was thinking on that when I heard some commotion to my right. The curly-haired Hornman who got into a scuffle earlier was banging on a table, yelling, “Gods and devils, man, you think I want to throw my life away for that bastard? And we don’t have to. That’s what I’m telling you. Incompetent, cockless bastard.”
    I jumped at the word, though he clearly hadn’t been talking about me.
    The Hornman next to him looked around, and realizing his friend was attracting quite a bit of attention, laid his hand on the man’s shoulder to try to quiet him down. The curly-haired soldier slapped it away. “Lay off.” He looked around the inn, eyes red with drink. “You think I give a horse’s shit what any of these bastards think? I don’t. They can rot. The lot of them. The whole lot.”
    A woman nearby whispered angrily to one of the men at her table, who promptly shook his head no.
    The surly soldier noticed this silent exchange. “Your skinny bitch there got a problem?”
    The man ignored the glaring woman. “No, Hornman, no. No one here has a problem.”
    “Good. That’s good.” He tapped the hilt of his sword. “That kind of problem only got one kind of solution.”
    A tall soldier with wild yellow hair said, “Our friend is drunk, he means no harm. Didn’t mean no offense to the woman nor yourself. Our apologies.”
    The curly-haired man turned on his companion. “Apologies? Don’t you apologize for me, Scolin, you whoreson.” He started to rise out of his chair but Hornmen on either side restrained him.
    He tried unsuccessfully to pull free. “Off me, you poxy bastards! Nobody tells me when to, who to… when to speak. You hear me? Not you, not no man, and for certain, not no uppity wife of no cuckolded prick like this weasel.” To the woman again, “That your problem, skinny bitch? Not getting enough good cock?” He grabbed his crotch. “That problem I use the other sword for.”
    So much for refreshing.
    Syrie appeared at their table. “Now then, now then, what’s the problem here? Mugs empty again, that it?”
    The curly-haired soldier grabbed a mug off the table and turned it upside down, emptying half a mug of ale onto the floor. Syrie jumped back to avoid the splash as he said, “That’s right, you ugly calf, empty again. Fill it.” One of the other soldiers laughed.
    Scolin said, “Don’t pay him no mind, missy. None at all.”
    She grabbed her skirts in one hand and knelt down, pulling a rag from her apron. “Not the first time these boards have tasted ale.” Her voice was pleasant enough, but her eyes were narrow and her jaw tight. She finished wiping up what she could and stood up. “Now then, maybe some hot food would help soak