Page 173 of Of Empires and Dust
Rist took another sniff over the mouth of the skin. It did smell a bit sharper than his dad’s mead, the scent of honey a bit more pungent. He took a deep draught.
That was a mistake.
The first taste on Rist’s lips was an overly sweet slap of honey, followed by a sour burn the likes of which Rist had never experienced. He spluttered, spraying the mead in all directions.
Magnus jerked backwards to avoid the mist of spit and mead, sweeping his arms out of the way. “Ah, for fuck’s sake, lad. Do you need a fucking bib?”
“Sorry,” Rist choked, pressing his hand with the skin to his stomach and holding the other over his mouth. “I wasn’t expecting that. That’s like honeyed spirit.” He puffed out his cheeks, relieved the shock was slowly ebbing from his body. “Shit. Magnus, are you trying to kill me?”
“Don’t tempt me.” Magnus made a motion to push Rist from the ledge. He was joking, of course, but something about Magnus made Rist think the man was only ever one intrusive thought away from following through with something stupid. “Now, come on. You’re joining me on patrol.”
“Ah, leave me be. I’m happy here with my book and my… mead?” He held up the skin tentatively. “It’s not my night anyway, and Garramon’s not let me breathe all day.”
Magnus leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the window. “Rist, when I say patrol, I mean walk about the city getting drunk. I’m not asking Brother Havel, Imperial Battlemage. I’m asking Rist, uncoordinated, one-eyed Varsundi donkey.”
“You know, when you want something, you’re supposed to be nice to the person you want it from.”
“Agree to disagree. Now, put that book away and let’s see how quickly this piss gets us walking like a one-legged tree.”
Rist didn’t bother to point out that trees didn’t have legs, one or otherwise. He gave Magnus the benefit of the doubt that the man already knew that. But it still took all his self-control not to do so.
Rist discoveredthat the answer to Magnus’s question of how quickly the mead would have them walking like one-legged trees was just less than an hour.
“You know,” Magnus said, snatching the skin from Rist – the second one he had produced from his satchel. Third if they were counting the skin he’d thrown out the window, which Rist wasn’t. “This shit isn’t that bad.”
He took a swig from the skin and shrugged. “I mean, I’ve had a lot worse. Did you ever taste Anila’s ale? The one she tried brewing in a big wooden barrel? By The Saviour, that genuinely tasted of cat piss – and don’t ask how I know what cat piss tastes like.”
Rist took back the skin. “When did she do that? When did she even find the time?”
“Agh.” Magnus threw his arms in the air in what Rist supposed was meant to pass for another shrug. “I can’t remember the specif… spicefic… spocifisipic…” He stopped in his tracks, taking a long, exaggerated breath. “Specific. Damn, I hate that word. Always trips me up. Although, might also be the mead. I can’t remember thespecifictime, but it was just before the Valtaran rebellion. The first one, I’m pretty sure.”
“Magnus, the first Valtaran Rebellion ended eighty-five years ago.”
“Well done, Rist. I always knew you could count.”
Rist pursed his lips, taking another sip from the skin. It didn’t burn anymore. “Magnus. I wasn’t born then.”
“And?”
“How could I have tasted Anila’s ale if it was brewed sixty-five years before I was born?”
“Ah… I suppose you couldn’t. Didn’t quite think of that.” He pursed his lips and scrunched his nose, snatching the skin back from Rist. “I forget you’re only a toddler.”
Rist shook his head, looking at the stars that were tinged pink by the light of the moon. “In Ilnaen, Emperor Mortem said that Efialtír wished to walk among us.”
“If we are so lucky, lad. If we are so lucky.”
“How would that even be possible?”
“Fuck if I know. That’s why Fane’s Fane and I’m me.” Magnus grabbed Rist by the shoulder, pulling his attention down from the stars. “We’ve already discussed your coordination being similar to a donkey’s – and now you’re drunk. It’s probably for the best if you walk with your head facing what’s in front of you. As funny as I think it’d be to see you fall down a set of steps, I don’t much fancy having to carry you back up them.”
They walked for a while, drinking and talking – mostly nonsense, but it was nice. It was probably the first time in a long time Rist’s mind had just drifted to nowhere in particular, and he felt at ease. That was, of course, until he realised he was at ease and his mind promptly refocused on whether or not his parents were dead.
Even with the sun below the horizon, the streets were far from empty. Men and women pushed past, finishing out their day as the pedlars and hawkers on the side streets set down their stalls and patrols marched past. Groups huddled around the doors of taverns and inns, clouds of tabbac shrouding them, the sounds of music drifting from within.
“You would think there wasn’t a war,” Rist said as they passed a couple kissing against a wall, both still holding a cup in one hand.
“Life doesn’t stop, Rist. What do you want them to do? Sit in their homes and weep?”
