"Good evening, Mistress Aliana,” greeted Maldoch. “Somebody send for a weatherman?"
The snippet of illumination widened into a revealing shaft as a matronly figure stepped into the doorway. “Sulca, you old dog."
The wizard chuckled. “Flattery will get you everywhere."
"Cut the chitchat and come inside to give old Lian a hug."
Maldoch excitedly crossed over the threshold. Timidly following, Garrich entered a warmly lit hall with neatly whitewashed walls and lush blue carpet at distinct odds to the begrimed exterior of the dwelling. He watched amazed as the crotchety mage freely embraced the plainly friendly gentlewoman.
"I trust my lodging has been kept in good order, Aliana."
"You needn't worry. You'll always have a place to room in at my boarding house. I only wish you'd get into the habit of using the front door.” Disengaging herself from Maldoch, Aliana turned her welcoming eyes onto the youth. “And who do we have here?” she purred. “A mysterious stranger in black. My, how intriguing."
Awestruck best described Garrich's first meeting with a woman, and what a noticeable example Aliana was. The landlady looked in her late fifties, judging by her glossy auburn hair flecked with grey done up in an elaborate bun and the tracery of wrinkles evident beneath her heavily powdered face; a rouged face that retained a strong vestige of the stunning beauty she must have showcased in her youth. The crocheted shawl wrapped around her bare shoulders did nothing to hide the matron's generous bosom accentuated by a scandalously low cut, corseted gown of crimson satin. Her dazzling green peepers flaunted a man-eating look to them, which Garrich failed to notice since he could not tear his ogling eyes off her voluptuous cleavage.
Maldoch introduced the hooded boy as Lenta, a recently apprenticed weather forecaster. “He's painfully shy, on account of a disfiguring acne problem.” The mage jabbed an elbow into Garrich's ribs. “Say hello and don't stare, boy. It's terribly rude."
Garrich mumbled a bashful greeting to the handsomely endowed landlady.
Flashing a winsome smile the youth's way, Aliana returned the salutation and said in a suggestive tone, “I could make him overcome his shyness, Master Sulca."
"Of that I have no doubt, Aliana. You could charm the pants off Drey Wynsorr himself if you had a mind to."
At mention of the officious Chancellor of the Realm, she spat in a very unladylike manner. “I wouldn't touch that tight-fisted windbag for a hundredweight of full govreans."
"That's an awful lot of gold to turn down, considering the man has unlimited access to the treasury."
"Sometimes even I can't be bought, Sulca. Will you be staying long?"
"Just a few nights. We're actually in town for the coronation."
"You and half the realm. You're lucky I haven't let your room. Out-of-towners are flocking to Alberion like sparrows to a bread crust, placing quite a squeeze on accommodation. There's a general feeling of unspoken panic gripping the city."
Maldoch arched a bushy eyebrow in curiosity. “You don't say."
"It's a perfectly natural reaction. Crown Prince Lindan is just a boy and many fear he is too young to rule. That anxiety is reflected in the Mercantile Confederation. They've been selling their royal contracts to any and all bidders out of a fear that their biggest mark will soon be drying up."
"As usual, you seem to have an astute grasp of things, madam."
"Old customers keep me informed. Bankers tend to be paranoid when it comes to losing money and nervous tongues wag faster than a hungry puppy's tail. I'll be showing you to your room then."
"There's no need. I know the way. The usual rates apply I assume?"
"My prices have risen. One night's lodging will cost you a half shorrin."
Maldoch nearly choked. “That's double the normal charge!"
Aliana was unmoved. “You can thank our esteemed Chancellor's lapdog for the hike. He raised taxes last month."
The old traveler muttered an oath but nonetheless raided his depleted purse for a week's worth of silver coins, long ago getting into the habit of paying for lodgings in advance. “Come Lenta,” he brusquely commanded after obliging Aliana.
Squeezing past the busty matron taking up the narrow confines of the hallway, making sure his blushing face remained unseen in the shadows of his cowl, Garrich trailed after his master striding down the passage.
"Shall I have my maid bring you a bite to eat?” Aliana asked after them.
"If it's no trouble,” Maldoch called back.
"You're in luck,” she said, heading for the kitchen. “We had leg of lamb tonight."
"At least it's not mutton,” Garrich muttered thankfully.
Finding the ground floor room a comfy affair with flowery drapes and a huge double bed, the disguised Goblin dumped his haversack on the thickly carpeted floor and disrobed as Maldoch latched the door shut behind them. Garrich then unbelted the sword strapped to his back and flopped on the bed, bouncing up and down on the springy mattress. Never had he lain on anything so soft before. The beds back in Falloway Cottage were lumpy army surplus made for practicality not comfort. “Who is that woman?"
"Aliana is a former madam.” Maldoch's jaw tightened from the look of stupidity blanking Garrich's blonder mug. “I'm not one for sugarcoating distasteful truths, boy. Mistress Aliana was a renowned brothel keeper and in her heyday a most sought after courtesan. She ultimately tired of that life and took up a legitimate occupation—running this here boarding house.” Jangling the dwindling contents of his purse in his wrinkly hand, he mused, “Though I swear she's turning a bigger profit as an honest woman than she ever did on her back as a strumpet."
Garrich's face reddened from getting more of an education courtesy of the crusty old wizard than he bargained for. Sprawling luxuriously on the sumptuous bed, the youth wondered aloud, “Have you a familiar place to stay at in every Anarican town?"
Depositing his carryall on the carpet next to the boy's before negligently tossing his staff on the bed alongside the guarded broadsword, Maldoch eased his aged body down to wearily sit at the foot of the bed. “Pretty much. I find it helpful to lodge in the same rooms wherever I go. Not so much for the convenience, as for the gossip."
"I'm not sure I understand,” proclaimed Garrich.
"Conversation ranks only behind observance in the learning game. Take Olben. The sole innkeeper at the crossroads, he gets to see and hear about everything that goes on down there, including whoever is passing through. Aliana is a similar gold mine of information. With her contacts amongst the nobles and merchants of the capital, she has her finger on the pulse of the realm. Why should I wind up footsore from slogging all over town when a casual chat will reveal any fresh news."
Understanding dawned on Garrich in terms his father had tutored him in. Reconnaissance and intelligence were key factors in military planning. “That doesn't explain the beds,” he challenged.
It was Maldoch's turn to be confused. “What do you mean?"
"Back at Olben's inn you had a regular room with a single cot. Here you've got this wonderful double bed."
The wizard grew cagey. “A man has certain pastimes, boy. Must you ask so many blasted questions!"
A knock at the door announced room service and spared Maldoch further embarrassment. The pair dined on rump chops served with baked potatoes and vegetables smothered in rich brown gravy, followed by a slice of mouth-watering rhubarb pie for dessert. Both welcomed the home cooked meal after weeks of plain eating out on the road. A mug each of fruity cider completed their repast.
When the maidservant returned to clear away their dishes, Maldoch got up off the bed and grabbed his staff, intending to follow her out.
"You going somewhere?” Garrich said with some surprise, throwing off the bedcovers he had hidden under pretending to sleep while the serving girl was in the room. The hour was getting late for gallivanting.
"I've got business to attend to that can't wait. Lock the door behind me and don't open it for anyone. And
put your cloak on again. You ought to get into the habit of preparedness. Fast getaways are sometimes necessary in my game. I'll be back for you come morning.” The hastening wizard was through the doorway and gone before Garrich could object.
Snipping the door key locked, he snuggled back on the bed and dozed. Trekking for days on end, sleeping rough out in the wilds, Garrich intended to take full advantage of this heavenly mattress. A soft rap on the door roused the drowsy youth before he had time to properly fall asleep. Yawning, he asked, “Who is it?"
"Aliana. I thought you might like some company, Sulca."
Sitting bolt upright, Garrich floundered like a drowning man. “Ah, my master has stepped out for a moment, Mistress Aliana."
"Pity,” came the reply. The buxom landlady's muffled voice held a note of profound disappointment. That evaporated when in the next instant she suggested, “You could invite me in to keep you company, young Master Lenta. The nights are getting colder and I'm a great teacher, if you get my drift."
Sinking fast, Garrich squeaked in a nervous voice, “Thanks, but no."
"Oh.” Aliana's disappointment was back. “If you change your mind, my room is the last door at the end of the hallway,” she offered, “and my bed is twice the size of any other in this house."
Jumping off the bed, pressing an ear to the solid wooden door, Garrich listened as the willing matron's slippered footfalls receded down the passage. Gleaning what the rascally wizard meant by his pastime, he guessed Maldoch was out in the city divining some comely maiden's personal weather. Pacing the opulent carpet nervously, the youth eventually sat back down on the bed, hands clasped before him. For some reason he had unusually sweaty palms.
Wide awake, the prospect of being stuck in this room when the hub of the entire realm lay just beyond its brick walls depressed him no end. City life excites any rural visitor and Garrich was no exception. “If it's good enough for the old bugger to take in the sights of Alberion tonight, then it's good enough for me,” he reasoned.
Tiptoeing up to the curtained wall, Garrich drew back the drapes and stared out the window into the night. The darkened lane, unlit except for the halo of a lonely street lantern on the corner, was deserted. Donning his travel cloak, he unlatched the window and gave it a keen push: it swung outwards with a betraying creak of protest. Taking a steadying breath, Garrich pulled his hood up and climbed out into a wider world.
The reality was rather a letdown. Alberion's Poor Quarter housed the city's laborers and those businesses that served their needs, including the seedier professions. Whorehouses squatted alongside disreputable taverns a stone's throw from the dwellings in which the capital's carpenters and tanners, coopers and wheelwrights lived with their families. Aliana's boarding house was one of the few block-work structures in this district and, as brick was a costlier building material than timber, her sturdy place a testament to the modest wealth accumulated from years of being on the game. The various cut-price trading stores adjoining the retired madam's establishment were ramshackle affairs of wooden planking and flaking paint fronted by faded signs promoting an assortment of cheap wares from second-hand clothes to work tools.
Garrich crept out of an alleyway and turned into a dead end street leading straight to a dingy alehouse. Celebrations for the upcoming coronation were starting early by the sounds of the carousing coming out of the open windows to the crowded taproom. Put off by the bawdy songs and general drunkenness of the tavern's patrons, he backtracked. Raised in the boondocks meant the rustic youth was unused to the hubbub of civilization.
Wandering down a nondescript lane, Garrich found himself in the mercantile district and immediately noticed a marked difference. The cobbled streets were broader, cleaner and better lit, the windowed shop facades of polished stone for the tailors, dressmakers, and fine goods traders reflecting the higher quality of their products and bigger profit margins. These middle class shop owners frequently lived in apartments over their premises, so as Garrich sauntered down the footpath he passed beneath thin patches of homely lamplight filtering down from shuttered windows. Wreaths of dark flowers frequently adorned the paneled doors, marking the period of mourning the city continued observing for the late Prince Jannus Holbyant. Carrying on, the sightseeing youth eventually reached the verge of the outlying neighborhood nestled in the low eastern hills skirting the lake city. The tree-lined avenues rising gently out of the upmarket stores belonged to the opulent marbled homes of the merchant bankers—the nobility of the working classes. Grandiose, even decadent expressions of the gulf between the haves and the have-nots, to Garrich's sense of military frugalness instilled in him by his foster father the flashy residences seemed extreme in the least.
"If this is urban life, I'll stick to the backwoods,” he muttered.
The hourglass trickled to four hours past midnight, Garrich strolling through the slumbering city for the better part of the night. Aside from the snoozing beggars and homeless curled up in the gutters and shop doorways, the sleepy streets remained largely empty. But now Garrich began encountering foot traffic. The early risers of the city were stirring. Yawning fishermen making their way to the lakeside jetties where moored smacks waited for the daily sail that would see the local fish markets supplied with fresh catches. Surly teamsters trudging their unhappy way to the stabling yards to hitch up braying mule teams to creaky wagons hauling loads to and from warehouses in Jarde and Karavere. Sleepy deckhands stumbling down to the lakeshore landing stages where they crewed haulage barges that plied Ohnab Streaming between Alberion and Woldsham.
Glimpsing enough of the big city to know he was a fish out of water and remembering Maldoch stressing the need for anonymity, Garrich decided to wander back to Madame Aliana's. His one regret was not happening upon the esteemed Regal Military Academy where Tylar Shudonn instructed for so many years. That really would have brightened his otherwise gloomy exploration. Briskly retracing his steps, he was crossing from the merchant district back into the Poor Quarter when the delightful aroma of baking bread filled his nostrils. The bakeries were in full swing producing the loaves and buns hungered for by the masses and the tempting smells wafting from the ovens made Garrich ravenous; he had by now walked off his roast dinner. Busy imagining the breakfast Aliana's cook was sure to be preparing for the boarding house lodgers, the distracted youth rounded a corner and clumsily bumped into two men.
"Whoa there, mister! Where are you going in such an all fire hurry?’ one of the guys he collided with coarsely demanded.
"To my lodgings,’ replied Garrich, peering at the shadowy figures. ‘So, if you'll excuse me.'
"Not so fast,’ said that same abrasive voice, his irritability now carrying a note of intrigue. ‘Step into the light, mister, so I can have a better look at you.’ Before he could refuse Garrich was manhandled into a pool of yellow cast by a nearby street lamp.
His abductors each stood over six feet and were dressed identically in striking red tunics buttoned up at the front with shiny silver buttons, immaculately white trousers, and calf-high boots of polished, black leather. The smart ensemble was topped off by a blue peaked cap sporting the emblem of an embroidered golden crown with the silver letters PC sewn on the front. A truncheon hung jauntily from the ivory waist belt each man wore and was offset by a shoulder strap supporting a laden pouch. The uniformed pair had an official look to them that worried Garrich.
"You don't look like no night watchman heading home,’ commented the speaker.
Garrich noticed slight differences to his companion. Burlier than his rangy, clean shaven partner, he wore an inverted V of gold stitching emblazoned on his sleeved forearms and a handlebar moustache of ginger hair, plus exhibited the unmistakable bearing of authority.
"What do you reckon, Namson?’ the obviously higher-ranking man said to his mate. ‘Does our friend here smell of thievery, cloaked like that and galloping out of Merchants Row faster than a bolting horse?'
"I reckon so, Senior Constable,’ his partner replied
, gripping the handle of the truncheon dangling at his side.
Suddenly working out whom these men were, Garrich exclaimed, ‘You're law officers!'
"Are you trying to be funny, mister?'
"Maybe he's just plain stupid, Senior Constable Pickerd.'
"Or maybe he's a smart aleck looking for a good beating.’ The superior officer of the Prince's Constabulary unhooked his belted truncheon and waved it threateningly before Garrich's cowled face. ‘Drop the hood, mister. I wanna have a looksee at your ugly mug.'
Having no quarrel with the Prince's policing force, Garrich complied.
The mustached copper scrutinized the youth's oddball features with his steely gaze. “You Elvish, boy?"
"Yep."
"Aren't you a tad short?"
"You ever seen an Elf before?"
"No, can't say that I have. I'm only going by the descriptions from hearsay."
"Then I'm the right size. My father's a trader way down in Yordl. My mother was a Lothberen living over in Janyle. They had a brief, torrid fling, with me the result. The old man's no giant, so I inherited his shortness and mum's funny looks. Her family strongly disapproved of the liaison and whisked her back to Elfland straight after the birth, leaving me to get raised in Yordl.” Garrich waited. After dyeing his ward's ebony hair blonde, Maldoch had coached the young man to be confident in his disguise should they be separated and he stopped and questioned. A convincing performance made any deception work. The only drawback to the bluff was that Garrich was not a natural liar.
The Senior Constable snorted in contempt. “Half-breeds! What brings you to the capital?"
Garrich shrugged. “Work. There isn't much opportunity for a young man down south.” Another part of the wizard's cleverly concocted cover story.
"That explains why he didn't recognize our uniforms,’ construed Namson. “We haven't got a station down in Yordl."
Pickerd lowered his menacing truncheon and hooked it back on his belt, his suspiciousness fading. “What's your name?"
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