Then stepped half out of the stall and blinked sleepily at the men standing in the aisle. “Ancestors Witness.” A feigned yawn. “When did it get dark? Have I missed supper?”
The two raised their lanterns. One was older and larger, white-haired and neatly dressed. The other was in rougher garb, pimple-faced and wide-eyed.
The third—because if he was alone there’d be a third, wouldn’t there?—just stood there, staring at Bannan through narrowed eyes. He had halters over both broad shoulders.
And a sword at one hip.
“Fair evening to you,” replied the older man civilly enough. He appeared unarmed; under that loose fitting coat he could have a brace of pistols as well as knives. Or axes.
He could, Bannan decided, use Tir about now. Or Scourge for that matter.
Even Pimple-face had a short knife.
They weren’t sure of him, yet, in the dim light. A caution about to end.
White-hair, the leader or buyer, smiled. “I’m sure supper’s still to be had, young man. Take my advice, you’ll wash before asking for it.”
His best abashed grin on his face, Bannan made a show of brushing the filth from his clothes as he calculated the odds. The stable had thick timbered walls, and they’d closed the door. No chance a shout would carry to the stablehands outside. As for his foes? Even if they were fools enough to believe he hadn’t heard them, the easiest way to be sure would be to let him by, then stab him in the back. Or knock him on the head, if they felt more kindly disposed.
The silent man, with the grim look? He’d prefer the stabbing.
Nothing to lose, then. “You fine gentlemen are making a mistake,” he said cheerfully. “Between the railroad and the truce, there’s no demand for horses. Sheep, now. They’re your best bet.”
Pimple-face laughed. “Haven’t heard about the war? Where’ve you been?”
War? It was the truth he saw, but how could it be? When he’d left—why he’d left!—the Prince’s truce had bound Rhoth and Eldad to Ansnor, the price of peace, ending generations of border raids and far worse, being access to mines and rail for the Eld’s trains.
The stable’s warmth, the light playing on their hard faces, the swish of a horse’s tail, the smells, everything around him snapped into sharp focus as Bannan’s heart began to pound with dread. By an effort he didn’t dare show, he kept his tone level. “We don’t get much news up north. Who broke the truce? Ansnor?” With what remained of Vorkoun—for the treaty returned the portion of the city south of the Lilem to Ansnor, stripping border patrols and garrisons from the rest—first in her path.
And Lila.
White-hair raised a brow. “The truce holds, stranger. It’s Lower Rhoth shouting for reinforcements, including mounts. Mounts we—” with a nod to his companions, “—intend to acquire.” Too casually, he hooked his lantern on the nearest post. “Get in our way and die.”
He’d die regardless, from the smirk on the silent man’s face. “Manners require I warn you very fine gentlemen that Horst himself chose me as his replacement.” White-hair shrugged. Pimple-face swallowed.
The hitherto silent man spat. “That’s what I say to the old fool.”
“I wouldn’t,” Bannan said and bowed, fingers to the stable floor. Straightening, he did two things at once.
Launched himself at White-hair.
And whistled.
The whistle was short and quiet. It was drowned out by the anguished cry when Bannan drove an elbow into White-hair’s groin. As if he’d play fair, three to one. Following the man as he crumpled to the dirt floor, Bannan searched under the coat for a weapon. A boot stomped near his head. Before a second try, he was up and away, the hilt of a knife in his hand. Flipping it so the blade lay against his wrist, he used his empty hand to shove Pimple-face aside. The boy stumbled into the back of a horse who grumbled but didn’t bother kicking him. Just as well. He held the remaining lantern in shaking hands.
The boot belonged to the third man. Dropping the halters, he pulled his sword with regrettable skill. His very long sword.
Ancestors Unfair and Unworthy. Bannan flipped the knife again and threw it.
The sword batted it aside.
He’d never liked knife fights anyway. Win or lose, you were always cut by the end and the winner was whomever didn’t slip in blood at the wrong moment.
“It doesn’t have to end this way,” Bannan assured the swordsman as he took a step back. “We could go into the inn and have a drink together.” White-hair stopped moaning to spit out a curse. “Don’t say I didn’t offer,” the truthseer continued blithely and whistled again. A little desperately, truth be told.
The sword point drew a little circle in the air as his opponent closed the distance between them. Get on with it, he hoped that meant. Otherwise, it appeared a plan to disembowel him.
Bannan raised his hands. Where was the idiot beast? “You don’t want to do that.”
“Ancestors Witness,” the man said with a wide, unpleasant grin, “I most surely do.” He tensed, the sword straightened to point at Bannan’s stomach, then lunged!
The truthseer dodged into Perrkin’s stall and scrambled up into the grain trough. Where next? The rafters were in reach; so would he be. He started to climb into the next stall—imagining Tir’s face at this useless delaying tactic—when the gelding’s ears went flat, every muscle bunched, and he let fly.
Both back hooves hit the swordsman squarely, sending him across the aisle to smack a post with a meaty thud. He slid to the ground.
“Take that!” Bannan crowed as he dropped back into the stall. Perrkin, blood still up, bobbed his head and pranced. “More apples,” the truthseer promised.
The swordsman had been dead before hitting the post, a hoof having struck beneath his chin, breaking his neck. A soldier’s horse, indeed. Bannan swept up the weapon and turned to the remaining two.
Lifting the blade, he smiled cheerfully.
Pimple-face set the lantern on the floor and bolted from the stable as fast as his legs could take him.
White-hair, on his knees, stared up. “Well?”
He’d met a few thieves. The ones who’d happily roll a drunk for his purse. Those who’d slit a dying soldier’s throat for his boots. Mostly, their lives ended like this, caught and weeping, or defiant to the last. Bannan touched the sword’s tip to the floor. “What’s your name?”
“Ancestors Bloody and Bent.” Teeth showed. “Join yours!”
Holding the sword hilt, the truthseer squatted to bring their eyes level. The worn clothes had been fine, once. Tailored and costly. Even now, the thief kept his beard neat, the ends gathered within a chased silver bead, and his boots showed polish as well as wear. “Not so long a thief,” Bannan decided. “Merchant. Honest or not?”
“Honest, if you must know.”
“I do know.” The truthseer shook his head. “Merchant you might have been, but never an honest one. A smuggler’s my guess.”
The other’s lips tightened, but not in denial.
Tir wouldn’t approve. Tir, Bannan thought, needn’t know. He wasn’t a soldier anymore.
He stood, sword point down. “Go. On your own horse, if you can still ride.”
White-hair rose to his feet with a wince and a scowl. “If this isn’t some trick, let me take two. I’ll not leave Bliss behind.”
Defiance and a code of sorts. He’d made the right choice. “Agreed.”
In the end, seeing the other man’s discomfort—however deserved—it was Bannan who saddled the thieves’ horses, then hefted Bliss’ body over one and tied it securely. He pulled the dead man’s coat over his head. Heart’s Blood, he’d done that service too many times.
“Don’t let me see you again,” he told White-hair grimly, opening the stable door.
“I’m done with the north anyway.” White-hair took both sets of re
ins in one hand and touched the dead man’s coat with the other, giving Bannan a considering look. “Ancestors Witness. I hate to carry debt, hear me? For my own peace of mind, I should put a bounty on your head, villager, that’s what I should do.” The faintest of smiles. “But if I’d listened to ‘should,’ I’d not be here. Well, then.” His tone grew formal. “By my Ancestors’ Hearts, I or my kin will repay this debt. If you’re ever in Avyo and need an honest smuggler, go to the inn under the Ten Bridge at dusk. Wear something red and ask the barkeep for Byng.”
Avyo? He wouldn’t be there. Shouldn’t be there, even if he could, nor could Bannan imagine such a need.
Which didn’t matter. The man before him spoke truthfully; he sought to do the honorable thing. “Ten Bridge, dusk, red, Byng,” the truthseer repeated, as though committing what must be a closely guarded contact code to memory. “Now be off before I change my mind.”
Despite Byng’s fair words and intent, Bannan wasn’t inclined to take any chances. He stepped from the stable to watch the smuggler mount, gingerly, then ride away from the inn and Endshere, toward Weken and points south. That duty done, he went back into the stable, there being blood to clean from Perrkin’s hooves and the floor.
To find his way blocked by a large, sweaty mass.
“Now you show up?” he complained. “There were three of them, I’ll have you know.” Which Scourge would smell for himself. “Armed—” Bannan added indignantly, “—as I wasn’t.”
Voiceless, Scourge lifted a lip from a fang in answer. Scorn, that was, which he did deserve, having left his sword behind.
Scorn and an unflattering curiosity.
Bannan grinned and slapped the great beast cheerfully. “How’d I manage without you? Perrkin saved the day.”
The old kruar glanced toward the gelding and purred deep in his chest. Perrkin wasn’t the only horse in the stable to stir at the sound and whinny nervously. Scourge in a confined space with livestock guaranteed a sleepless night at best, panic at worst, but Bannan knew the cure for that.
He carefully didn’t smile. “One of the thieves ran off. On foot.”
Deep nostrils flared with interest.
“Kindly stand guard in case he comes back.”
The massive head bent, the long forked tongue out to sample the smear of blood on the floor, then the head tilted to aim a gleaming red eye at him.
Heart’s Blood, he looked wistful.
“No killing,” Bannan said firmly. “Chase trouble off and leave those with honest business be.”
Scourge stamped a great hoof to show his displeasure, but they’d played this game many times before; though he wasn’t above having his fun with stablehands, especially any who thought to “catch” him. That, Bannan thought with some amusement, would be their problem. As Scourge wheeled to leave the stable, doubtless to skulk nearby, he added, “Don’t be late, next time.”
An ear bent. By no means an apology.
But it would do.
Endshere’s inn, as suited the last public house on the Northward Road, was larger than warranted by the village alone. All travelers who came this far took their final chance for a warm bed, food and drink, and company by a fire. Many took advantage only to turn south the next day, daunted by the tales of that company, for what lay beyond Endshere wasn’t for the faint of heart. At first, the land was riven by twisted valleys, few wide enough for more than the rivers carving them ever deeper. Steep ridges cloaked in desperate trees and loose stone shadowed the road; leaving the road was a surety of being lost.
Beyond that challenging terrain, the land smoothed and opened, but the Barrens were aptly named. Treeless and windswept, what lived there moved—or died—with the seasons. It was said the midwinter storms could freeze a horse between one step and the next.
Not that anyone could say they’d seen such a thing, but then you wouldn’t, and live.
There were those who smiled at the stories and left the next day; those who listened, intent and fearful, but with no other choice. Endshere’s inn would welcome them back, those who came back, when they fled south again.
And add their stories to the rest.
Having delivered a warning about the would-be thieves to the stablehands, who were properly chagrined to have been caught out, Bannan cleaned himself at the pump and bucket provided for that purpose outside the kitchen annex behind the inn, then went around front. The lower story was stone, the upper of wood, both with abundant, deep-set windows. Two chimneys sent pale smoke into the chill night air, one from the kitchen and another, larger, from the end of the main building.
The inn possessed a generous porch stretching from side to side, overhung by a slate-shingled roof. A sign depended from chains in the middle, proclaiming this The Good Night’s Sleep; locals called it The G’night. Lamps had been lit in welcome to either side of the wide steps. Bannan took those two at a time, eager to be inside, and pushed open the carved double doors.
Would he ever stop pausing, ever so slightly, to gauge the temper of those inside? Ever not check for exits? There were, he supposed, worse habits. He made himself relax and smiled, seeing heads raised in his direction.
And a hand. Davi, seated at a corner table, waved him over. Just as well. The inn was filled to capacity, tin tankards crowding platters and bowls on every table. Bannan brushed shoulders and dodged elbows as he made his way through.
The high ceiling was blackened by generations of soot. Lamps hung from rafters and bracketed each half-curtained window, their soft yellow light twinkling eyes and burnishing well-polished brass. A massive fireplace filled the right wall, a cheery fire snapping in its shallow opening, though the room was too warm already for a coat. The words Friends and Wine. The Older the Better. had been inscribed, neatly, into the mantel. Atop, a trio of large brass platters leaned comfortably against the stone, and boughs of fresh cut cedar added their pungent scent to the aroma of food, drink, and those enjoying both.
A narrow stair on the left wall led to the rooms upstairs, two steps to a small, but well-lit landing, the rest going up behind oak panels. The table Davi had procured was against one of those; as Bannan approached, the smith rose to his feet with a broad grin. “Get what you want at the bar!” he bellowed, to be heard over the din of voices. “Allin’s buying.”
The truthseer nodded and turned on a heel, narrowly avoiding a huge tray stacked high with empty plates. The server behind the stack, a boy about Cheffy’s age, leaned precariously to the side to see where he was going as laughing patrons piled more and more on top.
Before the inevitable, Bannan took the tray and lifted it over the boy’s head to a chorus of cheers, the crowd as entertained by a bold rescue as disaster. “Where do these go?” he half-shouted.
Mopping his sweaty face with a sleeve, the lad gave him a shyly grateful look. “To the kitchen, good sir.”
“Bannan—” But the boy was off, darting through the forest of legs. The truthseer chuckled and followed more cautiously.
The bar ran along the back wall, with the door to kitchen to one side. Palma came out to meet him, wiping her hands on an apron. “We wondered when we’d see you. Fair festival, Bannan Larmensu!” she greeted with a warm smile. The serving boy peered around her waist and she pretended to pinch his cheek. “Thanks for doing my brother’s work.” The resemblance was plain, though Palma’s mass of black curls was tied at the top of her head with a red ribbon and the boy’s barely reached his neck. “Larah Anan, meet Marrowdell’s newest settler. You’ll not meet another who so loves his turnips,” this with a wink.
He’d been found out. Bannan chuckled. “Well met, Larah.” Unable to bow, he inclined his head. “Ancestors Blessed and Bountiful, that we are together again so soon.” For Palma Anan had come to Marrowdell a bride and claimed all their hearts, before returning home. This was her inn, and her family’s legacy.
Palma stepped aside when
Bannan refused to relinquish the tray, his own grip on the stack less than trustworthy, and laughingly led him to what was more trough than sink. Hams and roasts and plucked poultry hung from hooks overhead, along with braids of fat onions and bunches of spice. On the wooden table that ran the length of the room, gold-crusted puddings fresh from the oven steamed in their crockery beside racks of cooling bread. A crisp-skinned lamb turned on a spit in the fireplace while a stewpot bigger than Bannan’s arms could span simmered on the stovetop.
His lingering glances were noticed. “Hungry?” she teased.
“Famished.”
“Out with you, then.” With a flourish of her apron. “To the bar and tell Allin your fancy. On the house, mind,” with a mock frown.
Freed of the tray, this time he gave a short bow. “My thanks.” Bannan smiled. “And I’ve a package for you, from Master Jupp. I’ll deliver it in the morning.”
Eyes bright, Palma blew him a kiss from two fingers. “That, for not tempting with such a treasure while I’ve pots on the stove! Now off you go.”
The bar sat on a raised portion of the flagstone floor, the rise convenient to prop a boot. Five barrels supported the wide top, joined one to the next by smooth planks. Nicely turned wooden pillars rose above each barrel to meet the ceiling, proof that Endshere’s mill was used for more than grain. The top of the bar was a reddish wood, polished until it shone, and behind was a mirror the size of which Bannan hadn’t seen since Vorkoun. Getting that unbroken up the Northward Road had been a feat.
The truthseer leaned his elbows on the bar top to hold his place. When sure those nearest him were looking elsewhere, he slipped a finger into his collar and pulled it aside to see what the moth had done.
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