Laughter exploded against the beams, glasses clashed, someone sang off-key while stabbing the air with a half-empty tankard.
In «La posada de los muertos» it smelled of sour beer, every kind of food, cheap tobacco, and the sweat of a hundred men who had gone far too long without taking off their armor.
The light of the lesser sun—that pale, sickly orb that never set and which the men hid from so desperately in that place—slipped through the cracks and collided with the paraffin lamps inside the establishment, making shadows dance on the stone walls; shadows that seemed to come alive, as if the heart of those small flames harbored ancient souls, trapped there by death itself.
At the longest table, scarred by cigarette burns and old knife slashes, an old man in high-command red armor counted chips with one hand and a grin that barely fit on his face.
"Ha, ha! Royal flush! Too easy, kid. Better luck next time," he bellowed, and his voice tangled in a cloud of smoke that smelled of slow death.
The young soldier who had just lost flung his cards down in fury.
The old man scooped up the chips, flicked ash from his cigarette, and his rusted medals clinked against the metal of his breastplate, keeping clumsy time with the off-beat lute someone was hammering in the background.
"Excellent game," said a voice behind him. "I expected nothing less from Commander don Patrival de Cervantes..."
"Eh?!" don Patrival exclaimed in surprise.
Patrival spun his chair with a creak.
"Or should I call you 'Ace'?" the voice continued.
"What idiot dares interrupt the commander?!" Don Patrival tapped the table lightly and turned, trying to look dramatic.
A young man with short reddish hair, wearing the regulation uniform of the royal army, stood behind him. His eyes—blue as ice—watched with a calm that would raise the hairs on anyone's neck.
"Oh, you're the soldier..."
"Cristóbal, 'Cris' Crosswell, Commander."
"That's it! Cris! We finally get a chance to talk," the commander declared, excited and dripping with sarcasm. "You can call me Pato like everyone else... I'm honestly surprised you're awake. It's very late—only a few are still up... or some aren't quite up anymore, ha ha!"
Cris showed no expression; he shifted his gaze toward the men eating, chatting, and dancing to the music with the establishment's girls.
"Anyway, welcome to the ninth division. You have no idea how happy I am they assigned you to us. Come on, don't be so formal—sit down, a spot just opened up..."
Cris never took his eyes off the cards on the table; his face looked carved from stone. Don Patrival waited; the silence between them weighed heavier than the air in that tavern thick with sweat and smoke.
"And yes," the old man went on. "Of course it was a great hand. And I always win! Ha ha. Want to try your luck too, kid?" Patrival's smile widened, but his dark eyes held the same spark from the beginning. "Your father never beat me at this game, but maybe you can break the streak."
The silence stretched on, broken only by the cheerful songs of the soldiers in the tavern. Finally, Cris lifted his gaze; his eyes locked onto his commander's.
"Hey, loosen up. You don't have to bet anything. Just a friendly game with this old man," Patrival added, starting to shuffle the cards with expert hands.
"Commander, don't you think it would be a good idea to leave? We've been here for hours and we haven't even covered half the road to Campo de Flores," Cris said; his voice was cold as a sword's edge.
"Hmm... You're probably right... But this is the first time these folks have stayed up late in centuries, most of them are already passed out, and... honestly... going door to door waking everyone doesn't sound practical. Come on, sit down, soldier. That's an order; the king won't mind if we arrive a little late."
Cris held his stance for a moment before giving in and forcing a smile that looked painted on. He sat across from Patrival, joining the men in a moment of wordless understanding.
"Ha ha! That's it! Someone bring a beer for the soldier right now!" don Pato shouted, raising his tankard toward the soldiers around him. "Your father would be very proud! His son is now a member of the royal army!"
A roar of cheers echoed through the dining hall, celebrating the arrival of their new comrade-in-arms.
"Tell me, soldier, first things first—do you know how to play cards? Any game, doesn't matter," don Pato asked in an almost mocking tone. "It's the initiation rite: getting destroyed by the commander in a game to join the ninth division."
Cris raised his eyes to his commander.
"My father tried to teach me," he answered, genuinely interested in the conversation. "Though I was too young to remember it all."
"Your old man tried to teach you this drunkard's game even when you were a kid?" Patrival laughed. "Did he ever tell you I was the one who taught him? Of course, I was just a recruit back then."
"I'm not sure, Commander," the young man murmured. "He didn't usually talk about his work."
The commander's smile hardened; it seemed Cris had thrown the first stone.
"Well... I don't blame him. He had a hard life. Commander Crosswell was a great man," the old man said, searching for a spark of emotion in Cris amid the nods from the others around the table. "A hero through and through, and my commander, of course; he taught me everything I know. Did you know that? He was everyone's hero, the only one in the division decorated by the king himself."
"And a lot more than just his commander too!" Sevén added—one of the higher-ranking soldiers.
Patrival pretended not to hear.
"With all due respect, Commander," Cris changed his tone. "Don't talk to me about him; he didn't have a hard life by choice, and neither did the family waiting for him. The king is the main one responsible for why I'm here."
"I should watch my words from now on," the commander thought.
The commander stared at him, searching the young man's face for something he couldn't quite find. Finally he sighed and nodded, setting the cards down under the watchful eyes of his men, who had gone still as statues. He picked up the huge forgotten tankard of beer in front of him and took a deep swig. His smile faded in the face of Cris's uncomfortable silence.
Patrival leaned forward, elbows on the wood.
"I'm sorry, kid..." he said in a low voice; his hand began to tremble with every memory. "I know it's not fair. Sometimes it seems like us—the ones who survived, the ones still down here—celebrate while... others just leave empty spaces."
"What the hell could you know about me? Or about my family?" Cris exploded. "I'll make the royal family pay for every last stale crust of bread we ever had to beg for!"
Somehow, Patrival wasn't surprised.
Some of the soldiers at the table began to stand, leaving the new recruit behind, though the music still kept the mood light.
"Well, better leave them alone," Sevén explained as he got up along with the rest of the men, who could barely stay on their feet.
"I... I'm really sorry, Commander..." Cris murmured.
Patrival, resigned, let out a long, heavy sigh before turning his attention back to the cards.
"Don't even think about it." Patrival looked at him seriously, and his voice softened. "I'm the one who's sorry; I didn't mean to bring this up, especially not the first time we talk, but I also don't want you thinking you're alone in this. I know why you're where you are. Everyone here... we've all lost someone. But if you want to be part of this, carrying that name... it's because there's still something of him in you. Something valuable."
Cris lowered his gaze; his eyes trembled—he couldn't keep looking his commander in the eye.
Patrival leaned back in his chair with legs spread, slowly pulling out his tobacco and lighting it with expert hands:
"How's the rest of the family doing?"
"I really prefer not to talk about that."
"A porcupine, just like the old man. I guess silence is an answer too."
He paused, took a drag of smoke, and added with half a smile:
"All right then, like I was saying about the cards..." Don Pato cleared his throat. "Yeah, speaking of the devil, your old man was terrible at it. So if you're just as bad, at least he didn't leave us anything useful there."
Cris finally let out his first genuine smile; Patrival saw it as a breath of glory, a huge victory he had just won.
"Thank you... Commander... I..."
"Not another word. Come on, sit next to me; you'll learn the hard way—that is, by losing to me."
Cris obeyed immediately and moved closer.
"How old are you, soldier?"
"Twenty-six."
"Too old."
Cris laughed; he still looked too shy to say what he really wanted to say.
"Okay, this game is about faces. See this?" don Pato asked, lifting a card for Cris to see.
"A face?"
"It's the king card. One of the best you can have. It goes with a lot of things. But—" Patrival set his tobacco in the ashtray "—if you make that 'sour face' every time you see a king in your hand, everyone will know what cards you've got."
Cris, visibly confused, took a moment to think.
"I understand, Commander. I guess you're right," the young soldier replied, taking the deck from Patrival's hands and examining it carefully.
Looking closely at the cards, Cris noticed some had peculiar designs.
"What horrible designs," he spat.
"I got them in the city of Valoria a few years ago."
"That explains it," Cris exclaimed. "Everything they make in that country is horrible."
The commander looked up, laughing at the recruit's first real show of confidence.
"Anyway, I'm an unbearable old man, son. You know what? Do me a favor," the old man murmured. "Go to the bar and bring this old man another beer. The one I've got is disgusting."
"Yes, sir," Cris replied.
"And bring one for yourself too; it's on me. You won't want to be sober when I wipe the floor with you at cards."
The young man smiled faintly and stood up. Patrival took the chance to wipe down the table a bit—covered in tobacco, beer dregs, and dust.
At that moment, the dining-hall door burst open with a crash that rang like thunder. The noise stopped; every eye turned to the figure entering: a young man almost as tall as the doorframe, with extravagant, disheveled pinkish-red hair. He wore pointed purple metal shoulder plates that gleamed under the lesser sun's light. His elegant white shirt was fitted beneath a tie of the same shade as his pauldrons. His black cape billowed with every step. His eyes—matching the pink of his hair—swept the room with an angry expression.
"Hmpf... Speaking of faces..." the commander muttered, rubbing his eyes with his fingertips.
The young man had come armed; a long, old, rust-covered sword was gripped in his left hand.
"What is he doing with a royal army regulation weapon?" Patrival thought. The clamor had died; only murmurs remained. He wasn't the only one who recognized him.
Though the staff at the entrance greeted him enthusiastically with deep bows, the soldiers only watched warily as he advanced between the tables without returning a single salute.
The pink figure walked to the center of the inn, looked around, until his eyes met don Patrival's. He headed straight for the commander's table. Patrival, resigned, stood up at once.
"But if it isn't Prince Mateo 'The Gambler'," the commander exclaimed, bending in a brief, painful bow. "Greetings, Your Majesty."
The soldiers in the dining hall exchanged glances; only then did they rise to salute the prince.
"Commander 'Ace'," the young man replied in a firm voice, ignoring the rest of the soldiers. "Do they still call you that?"
The prince took the seat where Cris had been sitting.
"Not much anymore—it's pretty old by now, I'll admit," the commander clarified with a serious face, sitting down again under the watchful eyes of everyone in the establishment.
The prince raised an eyebrow in mild disbelief.
"No kidding," Mateo exclaimed in a mocking tone. "Well, I very much doubt they gave you 'Ace' the day before yesterday. How's your hand?"
"Eh? Fine," Patrival exclaimed in surprise, raising the stump of his left arm. "We've got a medic in the division—Julian. Best doctor I've ever met. He made sure I didn't die from the scratch."
"If you say so. Good thing you didn't lose your good hand."
"Well, my dream of becoming a writer is still alive."
"Good luck with that," the prince laughed timidly.
Patrival remained impassive.
"Did you come alone?"
"I see you still have your eagle eyes."
"Hmm..." Patrival frowned. "It's dangerous for the king's heir to wander around here without protection..."
"Save the formalities," Mateo interrupted, visibly annoyed. "Why are you talking like we don't know each other? You know I don't need protection—not even the walls of the palace of Lamora. Here I am. I'm alive."
"I don't doubt it, Your Majesty, but going out alone—and especially in these parts... It's a miracle you're still alive..."
"It's not the first time," the prince interrupted. "Only a coward needs someone else to fight his battles for him."
The old man sighed.
"Yes, I remember what the king told me about that..."
"No kidding. Do you hold a grudge over it?" Mateo shot back, smiling.
The commander stared straight at the prince, raising one eyebrow high.
"You said it yourself—I'm too old for that, Your Majesty."
"I never said any such thing."
"Even so, it's an honor to have you join us today," don Patrival replied. "Though unfortunately, I don't think I speak for the rest of the division."
Mateo glanced around. Only then did he seem to notice the tension. The soldiers were irritated—something that didn't appear to bother the prince much.
"Your Majesty, the weapon you're carrying..." Patrival began.
"What about it? I knew you'd ask; you took long enough."
"It's strange to see the prince with a regulation army weapon. Why do you have it?"
"That's none of your business, is it? With all due respect," he said, idly playing with the chips on the table.
"You're right, Prince. I'm sorry. We're a bit tired; it's late and at least I haven't slept at all."
"Oh, right. I was going to ask you about that, Commander. What the hell are you and your men doing here? Wasn't the entire army supposed to meet up in Campo de Flores?"
Some soldiers stood up abruptly. Don Patrival didn't answer right away. The room filled with indignant murmurs.
"Watch your mouth, kid!" someone shouted.
"We're not afraid of you, Mountgarten!"
"The highborn brat's got a long tongue again!"
Prince Mateo stood and shouted:
"What are you all howling about?! If anyone's got a problem, come say it to my face!"
The commander rose quickly.
"You don't need to worry. No one would dare lay a finger on you, Your Majesty," he whispered.
"Worry, you say?" Mateo exclaimed, turning his gaze back to the soldiers watching them. "And why not? Are these pansies of yours afraid of a highborn little boy?"
"Because you're the prince..." Patrival spoke as if explaining something obvious.
"Then why are they in a tavern? I'll beat the faces off anyone who holds back just because of that!"
Then the dry sound of boots cut through the tension. Cris was returning with a single tankard of beer in his hands. His steps were steady; his face, impassive.
Everyone looked at him. Even Mateo raised an eyebrow.
"Thank you very much, son," Patrival said, taking the tankard. "And yours?"
Cris didn't take his eyes off the prince.
"I really wasn't thirsty."
The prince frowned, thrown off by the interruption.
"Take a seat, Soldier Crosswell," the commander ordered.
"Looks like someone else took my place without asking," Cris replied sharply.
"Doesn't matter—there are more seats, soldier," Patrival said seriously. "Sit down."
Cris, surprised by his commander's sudden sternness, obeyed without a word and sat right beside him.
"Crosswell?" the prince asked, completely taken aback.
"Cristóbal Crosswell, Your Majesty," Cris answered with such impeccable courtesy it bordered on offensive. "Son of Dário Crosswell. A pleasure to meet you. How is the family?"