• All smiles froze on our faces, then faded to an intrigued frown, eyes watching intently. To the leftmost center of the place was a long counter with wooden stools lined in front. Presently, two men were sitting with their backs facing everyone except the man behind the counter, who was serving drinks to some men at the other end. As the bartender pushed the drinks across to his customers, his eyes remain trained on the two. Why the interest in these two? Behind them was a couple of other men, and one was in middle of a sentence when we walked in, causing us to hear just enough to gain a healthy interest.
    “. . . our seats. I would ask kindly that you move, but I’m not in a friendly mood.”
    He was a man who had wrinkles from work, sweat, and squinting into the sun as it beat upon him during the long hours of labor he no doubt tarried at. He was red-headed and his sideburns went all the way down to a beard with a connecting mustache. Like everyone else in this town, he had a blade hanging at the left side of his waist, though his hands were only resting at his sides– as of now.

    I felt an arm brush against my shoulder and turned to see Kamar walking passed me with his eyes turned to their corners to see me behind him, silently beckoning me to follow.
    At the nearest table, Naiko already sat, arms folded across his chest and eyes watching with interest. Mia followed at my side toward the table, both of us still glancing at the ensuing conversation.

    Of the two men at the table, the one on the right had purplish hair, rather short in the back and trimmed so that it came down to a reasonable point at the nape of his neck.
    Pinned to his shoulders with golden eagles was a white cape with gold trim. It had three deliberate, vertical ripples to the length of it as it fell almost to the floor. His head began to turn. Everyone in the room waited. It continued to swivel with agonizing slowness until finally he revealed the left side of his face, his chin lined up with his shoulder.
    Unfortunately, his hair lengthened in the front and fell over that whole side of his face, so all we saw was a finely trimmed tuft of hair that was short near his eye and increasingly longer at the front of his ear.
    Nevertheless, we could see something of his eye, and it appeared to be only a slightly darker purple than his hair.
    “May I ask,” he said, so neatly and with such meticulous delicacy that what little bustle was left in the room died virtually immediately, “why you choose to disturb me when a very suitable position is a mere three paces to your left?” His lips moved in such a way as to wrap around each word and, rather than spew it forth, place it delicately into the air and allow it to float toward the recipient.

    “He’s a nice one,” Naiko whispered to Mia while leaning across the table with his forearms bracing him underneath his chest.
    “Hardly,” she replied with a bit less conviction in her voice than the word seemed to denote.
    “No?” I glanced at her, missing the sarcasm.
    Kamar felt it his duty to be the most sarcastic at any given place, so it was no shock when he spoke, “Of course not, Atari. No girl in her right mind would--” his lips parted, showing white teeth against his dark skin in a fierce grin, “– take a man prettier than herself.“
    What, I wondered, was he talking about? Naiko chose to turn back to the fight– the other fight– rather than catch the glower Mia shot at Kamar with such force that it was possible to feel the air split as it passed.

    The man’s hand was on the hilt of his sword, now; knuckles white with strain as his fingers attempted to crush it in his palm. “Because, my good man,” he spit the words through gritted teeth, “it is my seat.”

    Naiko shook his head– what manner of childishness was this? He shifted anxiously in his chair, hoping that the man sitting would win the scuffle that was probably soon to ensue.

    With a deliberately slow, controlled blink, the purple-haired man spoke, “Ridiculous,” he said the word slowly, as if to call the man a ‘buffoon,’ only with more syllables.
    Then, as if the guy was not standing directly behind him with his hand on the hilt of his blade, he returned back to his drink.
    Outraged, the man jerked his sword from the scabbard, flung it up above his head and threw it downward in a perfectly vertical slash.
    The man sitting to the purple-haired man’s left was sitting less elegantly, shoulders hunched, ruffled blond hair splayed out over his cranium. His sword was bound to his back with a red leather strap that wrapped across his right shoulder, over his chest, and latched to the bottom of the scabbard just behind the waist. The stool he sat on had a wooden ring around the center of the legs as added support, and because the owner, as I learned later, was growing weary of the legs breaking off of the chairs.
    The blond-haired man had his feet up on that ring, giving a good view of a pair of thick, brown leather hunting boots that came up to the shins and had long straps that wound randomly around them, as if whoever was doing the winding was not particularly worried about neatness.

    In the same instant that the outraged man drew his sword, his buddy beside him, who had not done anything prior, moved to his left, drawing his own blade. My chair shot away when the back of my knees hit it as I leapt to my feet, more out of reflex than because I could actually do anything. Kamar drew his knife and raised his hand to throw, but Naiko, calm as humanly (or Draknianly) possible, reached out and placed his palm over Kamar’s knuckles. Mia sat still, eyes widened.

    Moreover, the blond-haired man reached back an arm, turned toward Purple and, in one motion, pulled the sword out of its sheath, bringing it all the way behind Purple’s head a split second before the red-bearded man’s blade hit. The sound of metal on metal rang through the pub, then the slither of steel as Blond stepped out of his chair, sliding their blades together until their crosspieces locked. He pushed forward, forcing the man to take a step back, and – this is where the impressive move occurs – while Red-beard was still in mid-backpedal, Blond twisted his body to the left and slammed the side of his elbow into Red-beard’s face. Red-beard, in turn, stumbled to the side and caught himself with both hands on the side of the counter where blood drops splattered.
    Meanwhile, Purple stood, spun once, and as if by magic, was wielding his sword with the point of the blade and side of his body facing his opponent. After giving a couple of slight, downwardly angled strokes with his wrist, he took a step forward and lunged straight.
    His enemy, wielding his own blade with two hands, and presenting the entire front of his body, pointed the tip of his blade down and pushed Purple’s thrust to the side. Immediately, he took a step, bending at the knees, drawing his blade back in much the same way one would swing an axe at the trunk of a tree, and swiped at Purple’s waist, releasing the blade with one hand as it tore through the air.
    Rather than retreat, purple took several rather quick paces forward and, blade pointed 90 degrees downward, blocked the swing with the base of his sword, just above the trave.
    His opponent was startled– the battle had ended. Purple lifted the blade back up expeditiously and pushed it gently against the man’s belly. The man dropped his sword with a dull clatter that quickly silenced under the weight of the weapon. Now, they both stayed in position, both on one knee. Blond turned toward his friend and took a step forward, “Run him through, Asimoth.”
    Asimoth slowly controlled a blink, released a sigh, gave a light, elegant shake of his head while his eyes were still closed, then slowly lifted himself to his feet. His cape rippled gently; his blade lifted toward his victim’s neck, “Isaac, why must you be so terribly violent?”
    Isaac smiled and rolled his wrist around, making the tip of his sword circle about, “Asimoth, why must you be so proper? Use contractions every once in a while!”
    “We of royalty rarely use such curt wording,” Asimoth responded dogmatically, his blade still drifting near a now-sweating man’s neck.
    “Royalty? Hah! I know a beggar who has more royalty in his blood than you,” Isaac rebutted, and although they were arguing, I sensed no tension or anger betwixt them. The place regained its chattering atmosphere and people ignored the red-bearded man crawling out of the doorway.
    “It is hardly blood that matters,” Asimoth stated, turning slightly and letting his hand fall lower; the blade, in turn, was now pointed toward a less desirable area than the neck. Tears were starting to well in this man’s eyes.
    “Hey,” I said, ignoring my own business and minding theirs as I stepped forward.
    The man who was called Isaac looked at me and smiled. I smiled back. He continued to smile. My smile widened, and his did likewise.
    I was beginning to forget why I walked over, and as Kamar came up beside me, Asimoth settled back into a stool, one leg crossed over the other and hands locked together in front of his knee. In this position, he watched the proceedings. Kamar glanced at Asimoth, then looked at Isaac, “What are you going to do with him?” He jerked his head toward the man who was – no, wait. Where was he? I looked over to the door in time to see him burst out in a sprint.
    I said, “Never mind.”