Demontech: Rally Point: 2 (Demontech Book 2)

by David Sherman

  “Well, in that case, I’ll have the Middle of the Forest stew. How about you, Spinner?”

  Spinner shrugged, he wasn’t hungry.

  “Make that two,” Haft said. “And another of these.” He hefted his tankard and drained it.

  “An excellent choice, Master Haft,” the maid said. “I’ve had some today and it’s exceptional. The Middle of the Forest stew is venison mari—”

  “Don’t tell me!” Haft raised a hand to stop her. “Please, I’m cosmopolitan enough that I like to be surprised when I order something I’ve never had before.”

  She smiled delightedly. “So do I, Master Haft. I’m sure you’ll like it.” She turned to get their order, turned back when Haft asked how she knew which of them was which, when Dommuz had only given their names without saying who was who. “Oh, everybody knows which of the heroes who slew the bandits in their own lair is which.”

  “Did you hear that?” Haft whispered to Spinner when she was gone. “She called us ‘the heroes who slew the bandits.’ ”

  “Let’s hope she didn’t speak too soon.”

  Haft looked at him oddly. “But we did. We went to the bandits lair and we killed them.”

  “Not all.”

  “A lot of them.”

  “Maybe not enough.”

  Haft shrugged. “Captain Stonearm thinks we did.” He turned his attention to the mandolin player and the singer. As cosmopolitan as Haft considered himself to be—and in some ways was—he didn’t really have a fine ear for the musical arts. The mandolin and voices sounded nice, but the love song they were crooning at each other wasn’t rousing enough to hold his attention. His eyes wandered.

  The walls of the room were painted in pastels; lavender behind the small stage, one side wall yellow, the other pink, the wall with openings to the kitchen was pale green and the ceiling a pale blue. Paintings hung on the side walls; forest glades, streams, a lake, and a meadow on one; the other held scenes of happy people eating and drinking in a public room, picnickers frolicking on a grassy sward, boys and girls playing the games of childhood, young lovers hide-and-seeking among trees, a hunter bringing down a stag, mute musicians making frozen music. Nowhere were weapons hung or painted, no scenes or implements of battle. The room was a peaceful place.

  Haft wondered whether such a bucolic setting really required the banning of weapons. He drank again of his ale and thought no man, no matter how rough and violent, could want to start a fight in such a pleasant place.

  “Here you are, masters,” the serving maid said. She had approached unnoticed and quickly moved bowls of stew from the tray she carried to the table, followed by a plate with a loaf of bread.

  “Thank you . . . ?” He looked into her eyes and gave her his most charming smile. “I don’t know your name.”

  “Oh! I am Maid Marigold.” She curtsied.

  “Maid Marigold! So lovely a name for so lovely a lass.” Haft took her right hand, free now that the tray was emptied, and lightly touched his lips to its back.

  “Oh!” She blushed brightly, took her hand from his not quite quickly enough to truthfully say she’d snatched it away, held it to hide her smiling mouth, and backed away a couple of steps before spinning about and hurrying off.

  “I don’t think the serving maids do that here,” Spinner said dryly.

  “Don’t do what,” Haft asked innocently, “accept compliments?”

  Spinner snorted. “Don’t act the dummy; you know what I mean.”

  Then the aromas of the freshly baked bread and the savory stew in front of them caught their attention and reminded them that they hadn’t eaten since the night before. They set to ravenously.

  Afterward, appetites sated, they contentedly sat back. Only a few crumbs of bread remained, too few for them to bother picking up and eating. Maid Marigold reappeared between them, fresh tankards in her hands.

  “Was the Middle of the Forest Stew to your liking, masters?”

  “It was every bit as excellent as you said, my lovely,” Haft said and patted his belly.

  “I didn’t even feel hungry before I smelled it,” Spinner said with a broad, satisfied smile. “That was the best stew I’ve had since, since . . . I don’t know if I’ve ever before had stew that good.”

  “Please let me know if you require anything else.” She deftly removed the bowls and plate, then curtsied and backed away, blushing.

  Haft lifted his flagon and drank deeply. He put the tankard down and belched loudly. “If I wasn’t suddenly so sleepy,” he said, and yawned as if to demonstrate how sleepy he was, “I’d try to find out just what was covered by that ‘anything.’ ”

  Spinner laughed, the laugh turned into a great yawn. “I still don’t think the serving maids do that here.”

  A short while later they were nodding. They’d had no sleep the night before or yet this day, and fatigue was catching up with them. Maid Marigold once more popped up between them.

  “Masters, you look so tired. Do you have a room above?”

  They opened their eyes and looked at each other. Both were so groggy the thought of saddling their horses and riding back to the company’s campsite held absolutely no appeal.

  “Can we get one?” Haft asked.

  “I believe so,” Maid Marigold said, smiling at him in a way that would have evoked a strong response had he been fully awake. “Wait for a moment, and please try to stay awake.” She touched each lightly on the shoulder as she turned away.

  She was back quickly with a male attendant.

  “Master Postelmuz will show you to your room.”

  “Thank you.” They slowly, unevenly got to their feet.

  “What do we owe?” Haft suddenly remembered.

  “Heroes run a tab,” Maid Marigold said with lowered eyes.

  Haft looked at Spinner and tried to grin, but was too tired to form more than a weak smile. He remembered to fumble a coin from his pouch to leave as a gratuity. He didn’t look to see what the coin was, but knew it wasn’t a mere copper penny.

  On their way out of the common room, Spinner stopped at a table where three of their Zobrans were dining.

  “We’re taking a room and spending the night,” he told them. “No one should worry that we’re lost.”

  A second attendant joined them with their weapons along the way. Their room on the floor above was more spacious than either was accustomed to, but neither was awake enough to appreciate that fact. Nor did they notice their beds were wider than the pallets they had slept on in other inns. They were both fast asleep, each on his own bed, before either removed any more clothing than his boots. Below, unheard by the soundly sleeping men, more people poured into the inn’s common rooms for dinner. The sun had not yet set.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  Some hours later, when they’d slept long enough to ease the worst of their exhaustion, they were jolted awake by a light rapping on the door of their room. The gibbous moon that looked in through the open window cast the room in sharp lights and shadows. They rolled out of their beds and groped silently for their weapons as they listened for a threat. The last inn they stayed in had looked friendly enough, but it held dangers they weren’t aware of right away. Eikby was surrounded by danger—they weren’t about to take any chances. It took a moment for them to remember where they were and where the attendant had put their weapons. They found them just as the rapping came again.

  Spinner called out softly, “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Maid Marigold,” a quiet voice came through the door.

  “I’ll open it,” Haft whispered. He gave his axe a test swing as he edged his way to the door. “You get ready to light a lamp if it’s safe.”

  “Right.” Spinner didn’t bother feeling for a lamp and tinder, if it was safe the serving girl was probably carrying a lamp to see by. If it wasn’t safe, he and Haft were better off in the deep shadows. He leveled his crossbow toward the door.

  Haft stood in moonlight to the latch side of the doo
r. He signaled he was ready.

  Spinner moved a hand into the moonlight and signaled back, he was ready as well.

  Haft hefted his axe with his right hand and edged into shadow. He reached for the latch and, with a fast motion, unlatched the door and flung it open.

  Soft candlelight spilled through the open door, but no rushing attackers came with it.

  “Who’s that with you?” Spinner asked from the deepest shadows of the room.

  “A friend,” Maid Marigold whispered. “May we come in, please?” She looked nervously from side to side along the corridor.

  “Quickly,” Spinner said.

  Maid Marigold darted inside with another young woman on her heels. She closed and latched the door before Haft could reach it.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed when they bumped reaching for the door. “I didn’t see you there,” she said breathlessly.

  The two young women stood uncertainly for a long moment just inside the room; Maid Marigold held a candle, her companion bore a sack that looked to be heavily laden. Haft leaned against the door. He wanted to cross his arms over his chest, but couldn’t with the axe in his hand. He settled for propping his free hand on his hip and grinning crookedly.

  “To what do we owe the pleasure of this unexpected but most welcome visit?”

  “Well, we, ah, we . . . ,” Maid Marigold said with a sight tremor.

  The strike of steel and flint interrupted her and they all looked to Spinner, who was lighting the lamp that stood on a small table between the two beds.

  The women gasped when they saw the window’s shutters were open. The unnamed companion rushed over and shut them. “We aren’t supposed to be in here,” she whispered.

  Haft’s eyes widened and he grinned broadly at Spinner—this could only mean one thing. “And who is your lovely friend?” he asked with as gallant a bow as he could manage with the axe still in his hand.

  “Oh! I’m sorry, I forget myself. This is my close friend, Maid Primrose.”

  Maid Primrose curtsied. “Masters,” she murmured.

  Haft bowed over her and kissed her hand. “Maid Primrose, my pleasure.”

  Her eyes widened and her mouth opened in an excited smile.

  “A lovely name for a lovely lass. But not too ‘prim’ I trust.”

  Maid Marigold turned pink and Maid Primrose lifted a hand to her face to hide a blush and a giggle.

  “Please, our manners!” Spinner said quickly to hide his own embarrassment. “Have a seat, please.” He stood and indicated the room’s two stools, one by the foot of each bed, which he now saw for the first time in the lamp’s glow. He wondered what else the room held that he hadn’t noticed when they collapsed on the beds.

  Maids Marigold and Primrose sat, knees close together, hands clasped on their laps, backs erect, heads high, Maid Marigold at the foot of Haft’s bed, Maid Primrose at Spinner’s, facing each other. Haft thought they looked quite fetchingly prim. He also thought a man would be hard pressed to choose between them by looks. Both were in the full flush of newly emergent womanhood, each would likely grow more stunning with the coming years. Their coloring was the only significant difference, and he had no great preference one way or the other on that score.

  He moved from the door and placed his axe near the head of his bed where he could reach it quickly if he was abed, which he was as soon as he sat down. Spinner also sat back down on his own bed, though where Haft looked ready, he looked distinctly uncomfortable.

  “We, ah,” Maid Marigold began, hesitated, tried again. “I think you’re very nice, the two of you. I mean the way you were when you came in the common room,” she said all in a rush. “You had just slain the bandits in their lair, and instead of being rough and crude like so many of the other fighting men who have visited the inn, you were so polite and, and—and nice.” She darted a glance at Maid Primrose. “And Maid Primrose did so want to meet you, you two heroes, when I told her about meeting you.” She paused dramatically. “You are heroes, you know.” She looked away and placed a hand against her face. “Oh, I’m afraid I’m babbling.” She looked back at Haft and leaned earnestly forward. “But one so seldom meets a true hero.”

  Haft leaned against the wall at the head of the bed and basked in her praise. “I don’t know about you babbling, but poor Maid Primrose has barely had a chance to say a word.”

  Maid Marigold blushed again.

  Haft looked to Spinner. “We didn’t bring anything from the common room, did we?”

  Spinner looked back blankly, not immediately knowing what Haft was hinting at.

  Sitting up, Haft said, “I’m afraid we can’t offer you refreshments. Unless,” he didn’t know the hour, other than it must be late if the serving maids were off duty, “the kitchen is still open and we can get something brought up.”

  “Oh, no!” Maid Primrose suddenly remembered the sack she still held. “Maid Marigold told me you didn’t bring anything and hadn’t sent for anything. So I brought these.” She opened the sack and placed its contents on the foot of Spinner’s bed—two bottles of wine, a loaf of bread, a quarter of cheese, two bunches of grapes, and four wineglasses.

  “Ladies!” Haft bounded to his feet and stepped toward them. “I hadn’t thought it possible for anyone to be more pleasing company than the two of you already were. You have proven me wrong!” He bent over each of them and kissed their hands.

  They smiled at him, openmouthed, in admiration, almost adoration.

  He stepped to the sideboard and deftly removed the ewer and basin from its top, replaced them with the wine, bread, cheese, grapes, and glasses. He twisted the partly drawn corks from the bottles, then patted his side where his knife would have been if he had put it back on his belt before lying down to sleep, but he hadn’t remembered to pick it up when the knocking woke him. He turned to Spinner, said, “Knife,” and caught the one Spinner tossed to him. With an almost theatrical flourish, he cut slices from the loaf and chunks from the cheese. As he turned to announce that refreshments were ready, Maid Marigold popped to her feet, reached around him to grab a bunch of grapes, plucked one, and slipped it between his open lips. Surprised by her sudden movement, he still managed to suck the grape in without swallowing it, then catch her fingertips with his lips before she withdrew them. Her eyes went so wide he felt he could dive in and swim in their blueness.

  “Oh,” she whispered.

  He was about to slip his arms around her waist when a faint noise from the beds made him glance that way. Spinner sat with his head bowed and a hand covering his eyes—the faint sound had been a half-swallowed groan. Maid Primrose sat ever so primly on her stool, staring back at him, looking like a wide-eyed, abandoned waif.

  Instead of what he had been about to do, Haft took Maid Marigold’s hand from his mouth, turned it over, and kissed its palm. He turned back to the sideboard and was pleased that he had enough control to pour wine into the four glasses without shaking. When he turned back, with two glasses in each hand, he kept his mouth closed until he could see he wasn’t going to be surprised again.

  Maid Marigold stood where she’d been, her eyes still wide enough to swim in, her hand unmoved from where he’d kissed it. Maid Primrose looked just as much the abandoned waif. The only change in the scene was Spinner was now shaking his bowed face behind his hand.

  “A glass of wine, anybody?” Haft asked in a jaunty tone.

  Maid Marigold blinked, seemed surprised to find her hand where it was, moved it to take a glass from his hand. He smiled at her, leaned forward and brushed his lips against her forehead, then stepped around her before she could react and bowed to Maid Primrose.

  “Wine, my lovely?”

  Hesitantly, she accepted the glass he held out to her.

  Then he strode between the beds, put one glass on the small table, snatched the hand from Spinner’s face, and thrust the other glass into it.

  “Drink up,” he snarled next to Spinner’s ear. “Get a grip on yourself, man. Think of why they came her
e. I want what they are offering.”

  Spinner pulled his head away, Haft grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. “I want it and you bloody damn well need it!”

  “I can’t,” Spinner said almost in a whimper. “Alyl—”

  “Won’t give you a tumble. You haven’t been with a woman since The Burnt Man Inn. It’s driving you crazy.”

  Spinner shook his head and mumbled, “No!” He didn’t mean he wasn’t “going crazy,” he meant he hadn’t “been” with Alyline that night. But he wasn’t about to tell Haft all he’d done was hold her.

  “Yes it is,” Haft hissed. “You’re not acting right. Now brace up and treat these lovely women right.” He straightened up and turned back to the women, beaming at them. They looked ready to bolt.

  “Please excuse us, dear ladies” he said hastily. “At this hour last night we were awaiting the beginning of a fight we didn’t know we’d live through. That stresses a man, and he sometimes acts oddly afterward. Spinner still hasn’t adjusted to the fact that he survived that fearful night and mighty battle.”

  “Oh, that poor man,” Maid Primrose said and half rose from the stool.

  “At times such as this,” Haft said, taking full advantage of her reaction, “a woman’s touch is the best thing to bring a man fully back to life.” He stepped out from between the beds.

  Maid Primrose took both the hint and his place at Spinner’s side, though where Haft had stood over Spinner and yanked on his hair, she sat against him and brushed a soft hand against his cheek.

  Haft took another step to Maid Marigold. Her eyes were no longer so wide, though she still looked uncertain about whether she should be there. He looked at her softly and lifted his glass to her lips. She looked into his eyes for a long moment before she took a sip, then lifted her glass to him. He smiled and took a sip. He leaned forward and kissed her gently on the forehead. She sighed. He lowered his face slightly and kissed her gently on the lips.

  She smiled and began to glow.

  “We don’t have to report back to work until midafternoon,” she whispered.