Mara's Tavern

Mara's Tavern had a definitive smell to it. It wasn't necessarily an unpleasant smell, but neither did Arthur strictly consider it pleasant. It smelled loosely of wind and waves, but distorted, like an oil painting left in the rain. It was soaked into the oaken rafters and creaky floorboards, even giant barrels that lined the back wall. It had a way of seeming unpleasant - as things that are just barely pleasant have a way of doing - but you acclimated to it quickly. Like a day that was just a little too warm, or a roast with just a little too much salt. It was just kind of there. To Arthur, it smelled like home. At least he thought it did.

Mars's tavern was a patchwork, scrubbed together from the leavings of Madrigo. No two tables were the same. Some were made of stone, others of oak, or driftwood, or even brass or forged iron in a few cases. A few were large enough to have served in a lord's banquet hall, others felt cramped with just two people sitting across from one another. The chairs were no better. High-backed, padded chairs out of a lady's sitting room, sat next to three-legged stools, and rickety, folding contraptions that strained under the weight of some of the heavier patrons. None of the lamps hanging around the room matched; the floor was a hodgepodge of different kinds of woods cut in disparate patterns, widths and lengths; and where the walls had been repaired dozens of times, white washed carpentered wood met rough hewn timber at uncomfortable angles.

Luckily, the patrons of Mara's cared very little for glamorous ambiance. It was a special crowd that was catered to here, and no complaints were ever had about the decor. At least not by the regulars.

Tonight, the tavern was well over half full, despite the late hour. Arthur recognized many faces scattered around the room: Trolley, the Moffet, Jack and Riley, Hildor, Bren Yellow Hands. The latter two nodded, from opposite sides of the room, as he entered. Bren was quietly talking to two young, well dressed men. Hildor, of course, sat by himself, drinking.

He waded through a sea of hushed voices, laughter and song toward the far end of the room. Despite it's gruff  look, Mara's was a quiet, laid back hole in the wall. Belon, who ran the place, made sure that the atmosphere was always conducive to those who need to conduct business: quiet enough that you could hear who you were talking to, but loud enough that others could not.

As he approached, the bartender looked up without missing a single sweep of his cloth inside the mug he was working on. "Well, well. You finally turn up." He sat the mug down and picked up another from the pile without looking. "You're a popular man these days, you know. People have been asking about you almost since you left."

Arthur sat on one of the mismatched stools. "Good kind of asking or bad?" He let his pack slip to the ground to a dull thud and the muffled clink of chain.

"Hard to tell. Some of the worst people have the best offers; and some of the most pleasant, upstanding figures want nothing more than to take you away in chains for something you never even did wrong." He grabbed another mug. "It's hard to tell just from the people and how they ask, even for an old trained eye like myself. But all that being the case," he stopped cleaning and put a big arm on the bar, "I'd say no more than half wanted to hurt, maim or kill you." Her finished with a big smile.

Arthur couldn't help but smile back. "Well, those are pretty good numbers for me, Belon. In fact, only half the people in the world hating me would seem quite an improvement at times. I've always assumed it was pretty much everyone." He gestured toward the bartender. "With the exception of some good friends, of course."

"Ha! Glad to be in such... prestigious company." He emphasized the word like he needed Arthur's help to decide if it was the correct one.

"You should be, it's a very select group."

"Oh really?"

"Absolutely. Why, aside from you, there are no more than five or six other people in the whole world... At any given time of course." Belon gave him a quizzical look and began cleaning again. Arthur just shrugged. "What? It fluctuates." He grabbed one of the newly cleaned mugs, and walked around to where the barrels stood behind the bar. "You can't expect me to keep friends forever." He said, while his cup filled.

"Is that so?"

Arthur took a long drink. "Well, except for the ones that give me free ale of course."

"Who ever said it was free?"

Arthur did his best to look hurt. "Now, didn't I just get done saying we were friends?" Belon shook his head but kept quiet.

Arthur finished his ale quickly and slid the empty mug into the pile with it's ill-matched compatriots. "I'm supposed to meet someone here. Or rather was supposed to meet them here, a few days ago. My last trip went a bit long. Anyone say they were expecting me?"

The bartender wiped his forehead with the once white apron that straddled his wide girth. "There was one fellow, rented a room upstairs. Asked about you every day for the last week or so. Second room on the left. Not sure if he'll be there. Seems to keep strange hours."

"Thanks, Belon, and just put the beer on my tab." He said as he gathered his things and headed for the stairs.

"No reason to. What's one more farthing that I'll never see?"

"That's the spirit." He said with a smile and ducked into the stairway.