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***

The air inside the Duke’s Head pub was sweltering, and the sounds of many voices all competing to be the loudest assaulted Ira’s eardrums as he made his way among the tables, trying to spot the telltale signs of Jarno. Usually it wasn’t very hard to find the Northman—he was always given a wide berth by the smarter drunks—but tonight he didn’t see any sign of him. He eventually gave up and seated himself at the bar, ordering a mug of ale. He didn’t care much for the beverage—he preferred more straight up and “honest” liquors—but he didn’t want to disappoint—or anger—the innkeeper, who gave him a look of approval and a somewhat friendly nod while passing the wooden mug.

Ira sipped his drink and looked around, still hoping to see a sign of Jarno. The Duke’s Head was unusually crowded tonight, even for a Friday. He had tripped over numerous legs and passed out bodies on his way towards the bar, and he had heard several people mention something about an airship crashing in the mountains to the south, close to Imon’s Pass—the large pass that served as the only way into Rydan from Marabad.

He tried to ignore the chatter, but found himself idly listening in on a conversation going on between three old men at a table just behind him.

“—and we all know what the means, don’t we?” asked one man.

“Yeah,” said another. “Those slanty-eyed fucks are musclin’ in on our territory again!”

“I can’t believe the king is allowing this to continue,” said the third. “First airships, and now bloody Mechanists…what’s next, Imirnans and their heathen ways?”

“Y’know, I heard the king ‘imself is a Mechanist,” said the second man, spitting out the word “Mechanist” as if it was poison. “S’probably why he killed his dad—so he could start some sort of revolution!”

“And the Marabadians are still trying to get us to trade with them, sell our gas to them,” said the first. “But we ain’t giving ‘em anything. The slanties can—“

Ira shook his head in disgust took a deep sip of his ale, finally succeeding in drowning out the three men by listening to the merry shanty that was being sung by three very drunk airmen on the other side of the pub. He didn’t know the words, but the melody was quite catchy, and there were roars of approval and thundering applause when it ended.

“Sorry I’m late,” said a deep, slightly dejected voice next to him. Ira groaned inwardly and turned to face Jarno, who had sat down on the stool next to his. “Had to deal with some…people.”

“Thought you were standing me up for a second there,” Ira joked, signalling for another mug of ale for Jarno. He didn’t bother asking the Northman if he had gotten a job—the mixture of annoyance and hopelessness in his voice was enough to draw the conclusion that he hadn’t. Before Jarno had a chance to, he slapped a pair of coins on top of the bar, paying for his drink.

Jarno looked offended for a second, but gave Ira a grin and a nod. “Thanks,” he said, taking a deep draught.

“No luck with the artificers, then?” Ira asked.

“Nah. They wanted someone with skills. Someone who could carve the eyes out of god or something like that,” Jarno answered, glaring at the wall of liquor behind the bar. “Didn’t know what it meant, but something blasphemous like that can’t be good for your health.”

“You couldn’t do it, huh?”

“Nope.”

“Too bad.”

“Hmph.”

They drank in silence for a while. They usually did. It reminded Ira of the very first night he had met Jarno at the Duke’s Head a few years back. The Northman, disappointed with the lack of job offers, had gotten so roaring drunk and rowdy that Ira—who had just been a sergeant back then—and a few men had been called in to deal with the situation. After a brief but violent scuffle, the watchmen had given up and joined Jarno for a bit of a binge. After that night, Ira had just started to gravitate here on Fridays. Jarno did the same.

“You know, Jarno,” Ira said. “We could use someone like you in the watch. Big, strong, intimidating…heh, you’d clear the thieves out of the market district just by showing up for work.”

Jarno didn’t look at him, but a faint smile spread on his lips. The parts that weren’t covered by his beard, anyway. “Every week you make me that offer, captain,” he said slowly.

“And every week you decline,” said Ira. “And I always ask—“

“Why,” Jarno finished. He finishes his ale and looked at the watchman. “And I always tell you that I am—“

“Sick of fighting, violent struggles and having to carry a weapon, yes,” Ira said.

They had gone through this exchange so many times that they even knew each other’s lines.

“And I think,” Jarno continued, “that the fact that I sold my sword to some bastard last night was the definite proof of that.”

Ira sipped at his ale. This was new. He didn’t like it when someone changed the script.

“I’m sorry, captain,” Jarno said. “But I will never take a job where I have to fight again. I’ve seen enough of it to last me several lifetimes. I appreciate the offer, but no thanks. I will find a job here sooner or later, believe you me.”

“If you say so, Jarno,” Ira said, ordering another pair of ales. He hadn’t planned on getting drunk tonight, but the pitiful sight of Jarno was too much to bear and he wanted to replace it with a drunken, happy Jarno instead. “All I’m saying is that the offer still stands, no matter what happens.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

***

Ira eventually lost count of how many mugs of ale were consumed that night, but he was in no condition to stand, much less walk, when he had finally had enough. Rising to his feet—and nearly knocking the man next to him over—he patted Jarno on the shoulder.

“We-el, I gotta g’to bed, J’rno,” he said, tongue twisting, tripping and generally refusing to cooperate. “G’tan early p’trol t’morrow.”

“Right,” Jarno said, seemingly unaffected by the amount of alcohol he currently had coursing through his system. He steadied Ira before pointing him in the direction of the door. “Door’s that way, cap. Have a good night.”

“Hupp!” Ira exclaimed and stormed towards the door, disappearing outside a few minutes later (he tripped a couple of times and had to fend off a drunkard who got a bit too hands-on).

Jarno smiled to himself and finished off his last ale for the night. He could stand to have a few more, but he was broke. But he was also too drunk to stand in general, and the only reason he could speak coherently was because he had years of practice in the art of drunkspeak. He liked the captain. He was one of the few people in Misira who treated him like a human being.

“Another ale?” the innkeeper asked. Jarno shook his head.

“I’m good,” he said.

The innkeeper went back to cleaning mugs and tapping new drinks for the customers. The pub was much quieter now, the majority of the noisy drunkards having either passed out where they sat (or stood, in some cases) or having gone home. It allowed Jarno to actually think—which was usually a bad idea.

Five years. Five godsdamned years he had been wandering around Rydan after descending from the north, trying to find honest and civil work. And what had he been met with? Scorn and suspicious glances, nervous looks as he entered a shop or smith after seeing a “Help wanted” sign. And that was just in the villages, towns or cities he had been allowed into. Many had just denied him entrance period. He had heard so much about how Misira, the wondrous capital city of the once glorious Empire of Rydan, was a great place to get a new start, a blank slate. But no, it was just as bad as everywhere else—if not worse. And now he was stuck in this shithole, all because of the Isolation.

“Time to go to sleep, I think,” he told himself quietly, closing his eyes in preparation for rising from his stool.

“Ho there, friend,” a voice to his right suddenly said.

“Ho there, indeed,” said another to his left.

Jarno opened his eyes. A pair of young men in military uniforms had seated themselves on either side of him. Their shaven heads and wide grins made him shiver. This was not going to end well.

“If it’s a fight you want, forget it,” he said in annoyance. “I’m not in the mood to kill anyone tonight.”

“A fight?” asked the first soldier, looking outraged. “Far from it, friend.”

“Indeed,” said the other. “We were just wondering if you would like a drink.”

“I said I didn’t—a drink?” Jarno looked from soldier to soldier, glaring at them. “Is this some sort of trick?” he asked suspiciously.

“I’m sorry, we didn’t properly introduce ourselves, did we?” the first soldier asked.

Jarno shook his head, not really interested in knowing their names, but if there was a possibility for free ale…

“I am Sergeant Karn, and this is Corporal Galarian,” said the first, motioning to himself and the other. “And you are…?” he prompted.

“Jarno,” Jarno replied. “Jarno Heikinnen.”

“A pleasure,” said the sergeant. “Now, how about those beers, eh? Barkeep!”

“You boys in the army?” Jarno asked, trying not to seem too unfriendly. He felt ill at ease around these two. They were too pleasant, too…clean-shaven to be real soldiers. It was probably some sort of trick. They were probably planning to rob him or something. He grinned inwardly. He wished them luck; he was probably the poorest man in the city right now.

“That’s right,” said the corporal, not even touching his mug. “Eighth Battalion, garrisoned up on the plains, close to the Foggy Peaks.”

Jarno had to think about the name for a few seconds. “Foggy Peaks? Aren’t you a bit too far south?” Misira and Foggy Peaks were hundreds of miles apart.

“Oh, no, we’re on a leave of absence for good behaviour,” said the sergeant jokingly. “Got a couple of weeks off, we figured we might as well spend them in Misira, hopped on a passing airship, and here we are.” He bumped his mug into Jarno’s. “A toast to vacation, yeah?”

Jarno drank to that. And another. And another. His vision was wobbling by the time they hit ale number four, his defences finally breaking down against the onslaught of the alcohol.

“So you’ve really fought up in the mountains?” Corporal Galarian asked, looking a bit tipsy—or that’s what Jarno thought, at least. It was difficult to see clearly at the moment.

“All my life,” Jarno replied, gulping down the contents of his mug. “Ever since I was ten.”

“Thatsh amashing,” said Sergeant Karn, who clearly didn’t know how to hold his liquor. “How come you’re down here, then?”

Jarno paused, trying to keep himself from falling off his stool. He wasn’t about to admit that he had been searching for a job in Rydan for five years. “V…vacation,” he said, grinning at the sergeant, who grinned back.

“Heh, I can undershtand that!”

“So you…you’re here for a while, then?” Galarian asked.

“Rest of my life, if I can,” Jarno replied.

“You know, we could use a guy like you up in the Eighth.”

“Oh, no…”

“Now, now, corporal,” said Karn. “We’re not here to recruit. We’re here to drink. Barkeep!”