Hristomarth bowed low, doffing his hat. “Diverse greetings and salutations appropriate to your philosophy!”
The monks looked up. One with a copper nose ring, waved at his fellows for caution and turned to Hristomarth. “We are devotees of the Axioms of enlightened Tophe,” he said. “However, no particular greeting is more theologically appropriate than any other. The seventy-ninth axiom.”
“The seventy-ninth axiom,” intoned his brother monks.
Nose Ring nodded. “What may we do for you, traveler?”
“I meant to inquire about your plans for the evening,” said Hristomarth. “Ghosts and owls are no small matter. In numbers there is safety.”
The wyrmlings all nodded sagely, somewhat overdoing it in Hristomarth’s opinion.
The monk grunted. “Our intent was to spend the night in the inn above us. The road to Lodara’s freestyle competition has been long. Relief from our varying afflictions would be welcome, even for just an evening.”
Hristomarth drew back among the wyrmlings. “Afflictions?”
“Aching bunions!” cried a monk.
“And the chafe of our robes,” added another.
Nose Ring gestured for silence. “So you see, an evening’s rest would be appreciated. A bath even more so. Unfortunately, we do not possess sufficient funds—forty-five obels is an outrageous sum!”
Hristomarth relaxed. He had the scheme now. “Sympathy is easily achieved,” he said, voice dripping with false concern. “And yet, what if a solution were at hand?”
Nose Ring composed himself. “Oh?”
Hristomarth crooked a finger for the monk to lean closer. “A single vacancy remains above, though there are easily half a dozen of us.”
The wyrmlings set up an outcry.
“A dozen! Roughly a dozen of us.” He glared at the reptilian monsters before turning back to Nose Ring. “The vacancy is indeed set at a ruinous price. But what if I were to propose an arrangement? One where we can share in the comforts above? An evening’s hospitality commonly allows for a seat beside a fire, a bath, a meal, a bed. There’s nothing in the proprietor’s restrictions preventing us from taking advantage of these comforts in shifts.”
Nose Ring stroked his beard thoughtfully. “An interesting proposal. Hearthside warmth is bountiful, and so long as one goes first, shared bathwater becomes a trivial concern. On behalf of my brother monks, I accept! We have only fifteen silver obels among us—I assume you have enough to make up the lack?”
“Ah,” replied Hristomarth with an apologetic shrug. “Not as such, no.” He waited until Nose Ring’s features had become sufficiently crestfallen before continuing. “However, I believe that it could be obtained…”
The monk looked up at him, followed his pointed gaze at the coterie of Suuthi cultists closer to the tree.
“Oh,” he said. “Well, opportunity should be cherished wherever it is found. The fifty-fourth axiom.”
“The fifty-fourth axiom,” intoned his brother monks.
“Besides,” continued Nose Ring, “you do possess the shifty demeanor and reptilian association of a dubious roadway vagabond. In such an endeavor, this must certainly bear fruit.”
He winked exaggeratedly. Hristomarth forced a smile. After more conspiratorial chuckling, coins were counted over, and Hristomarth moved on.
“See?” said Hristomarth to the weary wyrmlings as they walked. “The con is simplicity itself. Now that the monks are involved, they will wait all evening for a return we won’t make.”
The Suuthi were more industrious than the monks. They saw to their mounts and daubed devotional blue tincture across their eyebrows. A few dug a fire pit in the bare earth. Their quiet conversation fell away completely at Hristomarth’s approach, eyes widening at the wyrmling pack trailing on his heels.
“Diverse greetings and salutations appropriate to your philosophy,” said Hristomarth.
One of the cultists shook his head with a smile. “You Charkese are always so complicated. Why can a simple ‘hello’ not suffice? I am Falad. What do you need?”
Hristomarth tried not to grimace. “Hello, then,” he continued, holding his hands out innocently. “I only wished to inquire as to your plans for the evening.”
Falad raised a painted eyebrow. “Sleep, of course. Rooms and a hot meal in the wayhouse above would have been appreciated. But we are not so desperate to spend forty-five obels that we don’t possess. It will not have been the first evening spent contending with fell wildlife.”
A malevolent hoot echoed across the field.
“Sympathy is easily achieved,” said Hristomarth, ducking and glancing about a little. “I had wondered if you or your companions might be open to a solution in this manner, that we might partake even partially—”
Falad held up a hand. “Hold. If you think to propose pooling our resources to share the room above in shifts, I must decline. We were taken advantage of with such a ruse at the last roadhouse we visited.”
Hristomarth paused. This was a less than ideal development.
A backup plan was needed. Glancing about at the assembled theologians, it came to him. There was one request no self-respecting cult of Hegres could ever deny. “You misunderstand,” he said. “I only wanted to learn more about the beliefs of your sect. Surely we could each contribute coin to convince the proprietor to allow us a place to chat in the taproom?”
Falad instantly brightened. The other Suuthi chatted animatedly among themselves. “At last!” he said. “A reasonable attitude in this cold, unenlightened land. So many of the locals hold the worst superstitions and misinformed opinions of the valuable service we provide! Would they complain so much if the Great Beasts rampaged again? I think not. But you! You already travel our path, endeavoring to restrain a pack of diminutive and unruly creatures. I would be pleased to educate you on the more elaborate tenets of our faith.”
Hristomarth glanced down at the wyrmlings. They stared back, weary but impatient. Greasetrap gnawed tentatively on Hristomarth’s boot.
“Yes,” replied Hristomarth. “Quite.”
Coins were counted over, and Hristomarth promised to return after speaking with the innkeeper. With what had been pilfered from the Tophic monks, there was just enough to pay for an evening’s respite from the road. A bed. A real bed! The thought made him almost giddy.
Two figures in spider-silk robes blocked his path to the stairs. Philosopher Dovardis was conversing with the man who had been earlier ejected from the roadhouse. “Greetings, Worthy Hristomarth,” Dovardis said with a wave. “This is my companion, Relisolde of the Conclusionary Mode.”
Hristomarth edged around them hastily. “Greetings. Best of luck with the owls.”
An outthrust arm blocked his path. It was Relisolde, holding a bright silver obel. “Bah!” he cried. “That shrieking harridan who runs this iniquitous den is deaf to all reason. She refused my conjecture on Dizzleworp’s Third Theorem as insufficient payment for accommodations! Thus, the Conclusionary Mode forces me to accept that my one good obel is best spent purchasing a pitcher of strong ale. Traveler! Be so good as to run this errand for me. I fear the admirable Dovardis is tainted by my association.”
The coin disappeared into Hristomarth’s palm so quickly it might have never been. “Gladly,” he lied. Then he was up the stairs, the wyrmlings letting out a collective groan at the climb. Behind him, the concerned voices of the Tophic monks informed Hristomarth that he’d timed his escape just right.
THE SNAP OF THE HEARTH joined the clink of tableware and the murmur of low conversation. Succulent fat off a hot roast scented the air. Hristomarth squeezed between two glowering diners to take up a position at a table along the taproom wall near the entrance. They returned to their card game, only to be interrupted again by the wyrmlings rushing underneath the table.
If the inn had reeked like a stable and been filled with barking toads, Hristomarth still would have been pleased. The Mayfly’s accommodations were excellent. Comprised of a two-story t
aproom encircling the great oak’s trunk, cleanly trimmed branches supported lanterns all the way up to the roof and added pleasant illumination to the crackling fireplace. The bar spread out from the hearth along one wall, with a staircase rising behind it to the private chambers and common room.
Really, Hristomarth had just two quibbles. The venue was a bit cramped with grimy travelers of all sorts sitting cheek to jowl. And the proprietor herself glared at everyone and everything as she delivered viands across the floor like her customers were an unwanted infestation.
“Black Vault Below!” swore one of Hristomarth’s tablemates. He peered around the edge of the table, only to jerk back as the wyrmlings poked their heads up to peer about hungrily.
“Krasic?” asked his companion.
“A moment,” Krasic said, turning to Hristomarth. “Your pets overrun my leg room.”
“Absurd,” Hristomarth said cheerfully. “Their occupancy in no way breaks the agreement we each share regarding the accommodations. A seat at this table was promised to each of us—a seat we have. The space beneath? Only nebulous assurances. Were you a maimed soldier with no legs, the result would be the same! Endeavor to reach this state of understanding—peace of mind can only follow.”
“There’s a fat green one gnawing at my boot.”
“Finish your story,” said Krasic’s companion, “or I’m going to bed.”
Krasic glared at Hristomarth, then kicked Greasetrap away and turned back to his friend. The wyrmlings pointedly shifted their attention to Hristomarth. Under the table, Greasetrap moved to chew at Hristomarth’s boot.
“Our scheme has paid off,” he told them. “A soft, warm bed and a comfortable evening are ours, with no unpleasant consequences possible.”
A shadow fell across the table, that of the glowering proprietor. She held a much-battered wooden bowl, which was plunked down in front of Hristomarth with all the deference of a bedpan before the house drudge.
“Your meal,” she said flatly.
Hristomarth stared. The bowl contained a porridge of rapidly cooling slop made from what looked like burned wheat mash and bits of fatty bacon. A single wilted onion lay across the top—garnish or ingredient, the result was the same. Hristomarth prodded the bowl dubiously. “What is this?”
The proprietor ground her teeth. “Your evening meal,” she replied.
“This is inedible!” Hristomarth cried. “I’ve paid for ruinously expensive lodging. I expect the quality to match!”
She folded her arms. “The price was set to prevent boorish competition, as well as to maximize my profits. The proceeding was fair! What it wasn’t was a guarantee of more than basic accommodations. It follows that tonight’s provisions are determined by availability.”
Hristomarth could only gape. “No one else eats such slop!” He gestured wildly about the room. Every other table was crammed with braised fowl and slices of roast.
The proprietor seemed unmoved. “As I said, availability. You have the last bed. Which also means you sup on whatever remains in my larder. Now enjoy your repast. I call it Whatever I Cared to Scrape into a Bowl. If you have further opinions on the matter, feel free to dunk your head into a stream outside and repeat them at length.”
She stormed away as Hristomarth half rose out of his chair and shoved the table indignantly. His tablemates paused their chat to glare at him, to which Hristomarth replied with a forced, brittle smile. They shook their heads before returning to their game and conversation. Hristomarth only noticed that their plates held the bones of a pleasant repast.
A wooden clink grabbed his attention. The wyrmlings were nosing at the bowl, reptilian faces managing to express disgust in a variety of ways. They looked up at him pointedly.
“What?” Hristomarth demanded, sitting back down. “You heard her. This is what I must eat tonight. Note the use of a personal pronoun. You may hunt for mice or something.”
The wyrmlings looked at him flatly. Then they shared a look among themselves before slinking back down underneath the table. Their leashes trailed like snakes as they crawled off to find fortune elsewhere in the room.
Hristomarth was too hungry and annoyed to feel alarm. At least there was a bed waiting in the common room upstairs. A soft, warm bed. He just had to find some way to stomach the meal before him first. Maybe if he scraped the cold grease off the onion and ate it separately?
The front door of the roadhouse banged open to admit a glowering Rostoc. Behind the bruiser echoed a chorus of angry shouting, cut off as he slammed shut the door. A cold worm of apprehension crawled through Hristomarth.
“What’s going on out there?” demanded the proprietor, appearing suddenly.
Rostoc held up his hands. “Everyone downstairs is all riled up. They demand rooms, seats by the hearth, ale for the road. A few just request a balm for owl bites.”
“We’re full,” she snapped. “And I require the balm for myself.”
“I know, I know. But I’m going to have to spend all night dissuading them.”
The proprietor grunted sourly. “Fine. Don’t let anyone up. I’ll leave you something here, beside the door.”
Rostoc nodded his appreciation. He cracked his knuckles and went back outside into a cool evening filled with the clear cries of Tophic monks, Suuthi cultists, and two philosophers. The proprietor shut the door and stalked off, leaving Hristomarth to squirm. After a few moments, Hristomarth found relief again. The quiet chatter was comparatively peaceful, enough that he clearly heard the clattering of the wooden bowl holding his dinner.
Greasetrap had devoured it. The wyrmling clung to the edge of the table with both chubby forefeet, craning his neck further and further as he struggled to lick the dish he had inadvertently pushed away. Not a single streak of fat remained inside the bowl.
“You larcenous little horror!” Hristomarth managed. “That might have been halfway edible once I’d removed the onion.”
Greasetrap looked up at Hristomarth, his long forked tongue hunting for stray bits of greasy wheat on his chops. Then his eyes bulged and a massive belch erupted from his maw.
The stench hit Hristomarth like a blacksmith’s hammer. He gagged, blinking through tears, his ears now wet with melted wax. A blast of dragon fire would have been less distressing.
Eventually, when he could breathe again, Hristomarth sat back up. The wyrmling was just beneath the table, sitting on his haunches, peering hopefully about. Both of Hristomarth’s tablemates waved their hands in front of their faces as they turned their chairs away pointedly.
Hristomarth pouted. Now what was he going to eat? Another bowl of greasy slop wouldn’t be forthcoming. At least outside there might have been a meal of roasted owl. All he had right now were increasingly urgent hunger pangs.
The proprietor appeared at the adjacent table just beside the door, where a pair of patrons had recently vacated. Grumbling to herself, she swept their detritus away and replaced it with a tankard of rich, foaming ale. This was followed by a platter topped by half a roasted chicken, its breast pierced by a fork and a knife.
Greasetrap sniffed at the air, letting his nose turn him around. Hristomarth stared in outrage. The harridan had lied! She had plenty of decent food left. And she was obviously hoarding it for herself and her knuckle-dragging door guard.
Well. A roast fowl would suit nicely before heading up to his bed.
Hristomarth waited until she’d left. He glanced at his tablemates, now facing away and wholly absorbed in some tall tale. The only one watching was Greasetrap, drooling thick ropes of saliva all the way to the floor as he stared at the chicken.
It was the perfect scheme. Hristomarth leaned over and took a hasty draught from the tankard. Then he grabbed the knife and cut free the drumstick, thigh, and wing, moving the rest of the chicken to his own bowl.
A shout just outside the door interrupted him, accompanied by the tromp of boots. Hristomarth hurriedly slid his pilfered meal to the other side of his table, away from suspicion and wyrmlings
both. The door banged open, and Rostoc backed his way inside, shaking his fist and yelling something at those down below. The shouting was closer this time, angrier. Hristomarth thought he heard his name.
Rostoc slammed the door shut and turned about, revealing a dark bruise forming over one eye. His glower only darkened as he noticed the platter and the tankard. “She grows stingier and stingier,” he muttered, taking up the drumstick.
Hristomarth pretended not to watch as he ate, to listen instead to his table mates. Across the taproom, the low chatter was punctuated by the crackling of the fire and the occasional sounds of wyrmling-induced drama.
The thump of many boots echoed up the stairs outside. Rostoc sighed wearily, dropped his drumstick, and stormed through the door.
At least the door guard was gone. Now he could eat in peace. Hristomarth turned for his bowl, only to find it rocking back and forth as Greasetrap licked the interior. The wyrmling had snuck beneath the table to the opposite side.
“Agh!” cried Hristomarth. He grabbed at the bowl and hauled it free. The only thing left within was stinking dragon spit and a few spots of chicken grease. He glared at Greasetrap. “That was mine.”
The wyrmling belched again.
Hristomarth eventually blinked away the tears from his eyes. Enough distractions.
Checking for observers, he pilfered another draught from Rostoc’s tankard. Cool and refreshing, it was just as good as he’d hoped. He looked to Greasetrap, who sat back on his haunches now, both chubby forefeet up on Hristomarth’s leg as he watched hopefully.
“The well of opportunity has run quite dry here,” Hristomarth said. “Endeavor to be more like your siblings. They’ve gone afar to seek their fortunes and seem to be doing well.”
An indignant shout and a burst of flame on the far side of the taproom hinted at the truth. Greasetrap refused to look away.
Hristomarth surreptitiously snatched the thigh from Rostoc’s plate. He had it halfway to his mouth when something banged on the landing outside. Panic shot through Hristomarth, and he looked for somewhere to hide the pilfered hunk of meat. Nothing came to hand. He was forced to hold it down and out of the way beneath the table. Greasetrap immediately pounced, snatching and swallowing the thigh in one gulp. Hristomarth raised a fist and opened his mouth to roar a curse, only to be cut off by the door banging open.
Rofolio's Scaly Circus Page 9