Split the Difference

A Tale of Ace Gallagher Short from Book #4
by Jill D'Entremont

“Tabard… right… I need one of those…” Ace was muttering to himself as he shuffled through the bustling streets of Montrose. “At least they’ll give me armor and a… a helper person; and I’ve got my sword,” he glanced at his shoulder as the owl on his shoulder made a clacking sound with her beak.

A tall, bulky man with a deep black beard walked past them. His blood red tabard bore an intricately woven lion of golden thread, and it was vibrant even in the clouded light. A small army of squires and guards followed, also bearing swatches of the same red on their gear. He walked with authority, looking down his nose at everyone around him–including Ace–as he passed.

“I bet that’s one of the other knights,” Ace bit his lip, offering a finger to stroke Orfea’s chin in an attempt to calm her. “I don’t think I like him either.”

He continued to weave through the crowds filling the street, and he found booths set up along the sides selling a variety of wares. Flowers, food, earthenware, clothing, and other trinkets were on display as shopkeepers called out to the crowds, hoping for even a few seconds of someone’s attention.

“Get ye’ gear here!” A man with a thick Weivan accent called from a nearby booth. “Scarves, tabards, banners–show ye’ pride for ye’ country! Show ye’ pride for ye’ knight!”

Ace stopped and joined the others gathered at the booth, eyeing the selection or wares hung from poles along the back. He perked up when he found tabards in traditional colors of each country: red and gold for Daethos, red and blue for Northaven, green and white for Weiva, and lavender and gold for Valiant. He frowned when Kalgara’s gold and blue was not found among them, but he was not surprised. Despite the peace treaty signed after the war, Kalgara was still not considered part of Daethos’ reign.

But then, a tabard in a simple shade of red with a black stripe down the middle and along its edges caught his eye.

“Excuse me!” 

Orfea hopped onto his head as he squeezed between two women to reach the booth’s front table. 

“Aye, how canna’ help ye’?” The red-haired man stepped up to the opposite side, blinking when he found himself face to face with a barn owl.

Ace coaxed Orfea to step onto his hand, and he returned her to his shoulder before pointing to the back wall. “What country are those colors for?”

The man glanced backward, following the direction of Ace’s gloved finger. A smile tugged at his lips when he saw the red and black fabric. “Oh, that’s one for the Spades District in Southern Northaven.”

“The Spades District,” the gambler began to grin. “Of course.”

“Aye, my new seamstress just made it th’ other day,” he turned back to Ace. ”I assume yer’ familiar?”

“I was born and raised in Fortanya.”

“That’s th’ heart of it, all right.” The man nodded.

“Ill take it,” Ace started to reach for his money bag.

The man’s smile grew genuine. “Oh, thank ye’, sir. My daughter will be–I mean–”

“Your daughter is your new seamstress?” Ace paused when he caught the slip.

The shopkeeper shrugged with open palms. “Aye, just… tryin’a get her interested in th’ family business.” He turned back to the wall and pulled it down from the pole. He handed it to Ace and watched as he ran his thumbs along the black edges. “Since we moved here, she’s become enamored over Northaven’s districts. I think she just likes th’ emblems.”

Sure enough, Ace’s thumbs found a pair of small embroidered swords crossed over a black, leaf-like spade on the top right of the tabard. “She does very good work,” he said, setting the fabric down on the table. “This will be perfect.”

“Very good, sir. The tabards are thirty silver pieces.”

“Thirty?” His hands froze in place. He knew he didn’t have thirty–not since buying Orfea and food for them both over the last two days; still, he felt compelled to sift through the bag nonetheless–if only just to show he was trying. “...I’m very sorry, sir; I only have twenty-two. I didn’t mean to waste your time,” he frowned and started to hand the tabard back to the man.

The man held up his hands. “No–I’ll split the difference.”

“What?”

“I really want her to sell her first tabard,” the man set a hand on the cloth to stop its movement. “Fifteen pieces, and it’s yours.”

“Sir, at least let me give you what I have–”

“Fifteen,” he stressed. “It’s going to a good home. ‘Sides, ye’ll need provisions while yer here for th’ tournament.”

Ace smiled, then bent down to count out fifteen pieces. He handed them to the shopkeeper, who accepted them gladly. “Thank you sir, I don't know what to say.”

“I’ll accept yer name,” he reached out once his hand was free of the coins.

Ace grasped his hand and shook it. “Ace Gallagher.”

“Ace?” He repeated, cracking a wide grin. “It really is goin’ to a good home, isn’t it.”

Ace simply smirked.

“I’m Robert Murphy. My wife, there at the other end of the booth, is Charlotte. My daughter, Rose, is not here at th’ moment, but I’ll be sure to tell her she’s made a sale.”

“And tell her when I have more money, I will buy all the Spades District gear she’s got.”

Robert gave a hearty chuckle. “I'll do it. Enjoy th’ tournament, Ace; I assume you're rooting for th’ Knight o’ Northaven?”

Ace chewed on his smile. “Yeah, I sure am.”

“Well, I’ll wish th’ best of luck to Northaven tomorrow on your behalf!” He raised a fist.

“Thank you, Robert, I’ll...” he paused, “I’ll bet he'll need it.”

“And that’s one very well behaved bird ye’ve got there!” He pointed to Orfea. “I’ve been meanin’ to say so.”

“Oh, thanks,” he reached up to gently stroke the bird’s feathers. “She’s a good judge of character.”

Robert simply chuckled. “Good’ay, Ace.”

“Good day,” he nodded.

Ace returned to the crowd, again weaving around the groups of visitors, vowing to save the rest of his money for absolute emergencies. He almost immediately caved when he passed a booth selling sweet pies and savory pastry pockets–and the rumble of hunger in his stomach convinced him to stop for lunch. Thankfully, the meat-filled treat was only one more of his silver pieces, but the dwindling number in his money bag reminded him how much he needed the prize.

“I sure hope I can win this thing,” he again began to mutter to himself as he returned to the arena with his new tabard and dinner in hand. He took a bite of the pastry and then pinched off a bit of the shredded pork inside to hand it to Orfea. She swallowed it gladly.

“‘Cause, if not… well,” his focus turned inward, “I don’t think Athena’s going to give me another chance.”