Tylan Hallaw
The inn by the harbour was always busy. Traders came from all corners of the world, and it was thirsty work manning ships to see the shoreline – a task which earned them each the occasional right to be in their cups. Pirates and smugglers oft frequented the establishment, looking to get drunk before tiding the night in one whorehouse or another.
Tylan pushed through the swinging doors. The Shore Cabin knew no other name. Its innkeep was a withered, spotted old man with a talent for listening silently as loose-lipped men poured forth bitter grievances, pushing out tankard after generous tankard, until his patrons left with an unsteady sway in their steps and a wallet considerably lighter. It was midday, but the sun was beating down fiercely, and sea-worn men had come to the Shore Cabin seeking cool refuge. The inn was crowded with merchants in silk, smugglers in leather, and bearded pirates in well-fitting garb, bought with loot and treasure. Tylan had to spin around a buxom girl, skillfully balancing tankards, narrowly avoiding a soggy collision. He gave the innkeep’s daughter a tip of an imaginary hat, and she winked back. She was not a day over six-and-ten, but attractive, and a woman to many who passed through. The inn was fit to burst, but there had always been a table for Tylan no matter the time or day in the Shore Cabin.
“Tylan,” the innkeep said, clapping him fatherly on the shoulder.
He returned the gesture. “Kvothe. You and Margarette are doing well?”
“The inn is busy, lad. Of course we are faring well!” Tylan was one-and-twenty, yet Kvothe never failed to refer to him as a boy with peach-fuzz. Though Tylan was indeed clean-shaven and perhaps looked younger than his years would suggest, he was no longer four-and-ten. But Kvothe always seemed to forget, despite Tylan’s reminders. He grinned up at the boy who towered over his crooked figure now. “Five years, and people still come here whispering about Lord Stowaway.”
Tylan bristled at that. Kvothe was as wrinkled as the elephants who performed and juggled in town, and he had a memory like one as well. Most townsfolk had let the name and story drop at his suggestion - at times delivered stony and cold, at times amidst chuckles and drink, depending on what the situation called for. At least, where he could see and hear. It had taken an age to make people forget Tylan's moniker was Lord Stowaway, and Tylan was not about to let the frail old innkeep take a sledgehammer to his work. He did not welcome trailing eyes and whispers as he strolled across ports and decks. No more than he would a second nose on his forehead. “A toast to their efforts,” he jibed, with a convincing smile that did not reach his eyes. “Though they are like to be in vain, for neither of us have spotted him before, despite our residence here, no?” He followed this with a sharp, meaningful glare at the innkeep. But Kvothe was not daunted.
“Ah, Tylan.” Kvothe laughed. “You dart about in the shadows so much, you convince yourself you have turned thief. What do you fear, boy?”
The light, Tylan thought drily, deciding that Kvothe needed a more direct speaking to before the message could be hammered home. He hesitated. He might come on too strong, and Kvothe might decide he would like nothing to do with Tylan's surly moods. But the man had a heart better than most, and he did not easily cast aside his kith. If Tylan took this risk, it would be with fair odds. He did not - after all - roll the dice if uninsured. “Heed me, Kvothe.” His light-hearted manner dissipated abruptly. The words came low, were growled, and the smile the innkeep wore finally sobered. It brought a smirk to Tylan’s snarling lips. “Do not stir up interest in the legend. Leave the stories be.”
Kvothe shuddered his shoulders and sighed wearily at Tylan, the way a disappointed father might bemoan his son’s ignorance. It was this depth of kinship that - though false - told Tylan his gambol had paid off. “As you wish, Tylan. Though I cannot imagine why a lad such as yourself would deny himself of the riches and women that come with the prestige. The females here have just as much salt in their blood as their men do, and legends excite them.” Kvothe pat his cheek firmly and tossed him a conspiratorial wink. Tylan allowed a smile. The old man was at the last of his wits and life, but he had always treated Tylan kindly. And he served the best ale this close to the harbour.
“The gold, I would only squander,” Tylan chuckled, swiping a tankard from Margarette as she passed and taking a drag. “The women – ” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Well, I have plenty more years, haven't I?”
“As long as you do not get yourself killed first. I heard of the havoc you wreaked in the marketplace.”
“That?” Tylan waved a careless hand. “Think naught of it.”
“The merchant will not.” The conversation had taken a cautionary tale. As much as Kvothe was an elephant, he could also be an old dam, wagging a tongue at him. “He has the wealth of the West, of influential blood and ilk, Tylan. Do you not know better than to steal from the nobles?”
I didn’t steal. Tylan clenched his fist under the table where Kvothe could not see. I stood too near his table, smelling of fish from the day's catch, and the man assumed the worst. But the smile he donned was smooth and cocksure, betraying no such thoughts. “If this is what nobility has become, then the rats on Davos’ deck had better be knighted on the morrow.”
Kvothe shared a hearty laugh with Tylan, and offered him another tankard. Tylan grinned at the wizened face, knowing full well that he could drink the night away, and not owe a single groat. But he refused the drink, and toasted Kvothe with the one he held, barely brimming. "I must be on my way, Kvothe. You don't mind if I borrow your tankard for the night, do you?"
Tylan skipped out of the inn, exchanging the muggy air of the Shore Cabin for the ocean's crisp salty breath. Narrowly had he escaped Kvothe's damage. "The man does not know best," he mumbled as he loped easily down the path to the harbour, watering the grass with ale. People stared at him, but it was the waste that drew their eyes, and not some empty title that would have hung over his head like the hangman's noose if he hadn't spent meticulous nights and weeks dismantling any association between him and Lord Stowaway five years previous, after the incident. If he could, he would obliterate Lord Stowaway, scrub his essence off the face of the world.
As it was, Tylan was having difficulty remaining - anonymously - Tylan Hallaw.
He had reached the seaside. He could feel the sunbaked sand beneath his toes, burning him something fierce. He dragged one foot back, widened his stance, and flung the empty tankard into the ocean. It flew in an arc, disappearing into the sapphire blue depths with little more than a splash. Then, he turned on his heel and stalked away, knowing Kvothe would not be wroth at a missing tankard. He had plenty at his inn after all, and he especially loved a good legend.
