The innkeeper, a haggard man with stooped shoulders, brought hearty trenchers of venison and leeks to Tris and his companions, together with a large pitcher of ale. The man winced at the crash of breaking pottery in the tavern's kitchen, and shook his head.
"Always happens right about now," he muttered.
"Sounds like you've got a problem with your serving girl," Harrtuck commiserated, downing half of his ale in a gulp.
The beleaguered tavernkeeper sighed. "I wish to the Goddess it were." Overhead, a door slammed and heavy boot steps clunked across the floor. The thin man wiped his hands on his stained apron and scurried back to the kitchen.
Tris shivered, feeling a sudden cold. He looked up, as a familiar prickle started to raise the hair on his neck. Though he saw nothing, he could feel a spirit's presence, an angry ghost flitting just beyond his sight.
"Thin crowd for a cold night," Soterius observed over the rim of his tankard.
"Aye, and it's not the fault of other inns," Harrtuck replied. "Naught else for at least another hour's ride."
"It's not as bad a place as some," Tris mused. "I wonder why-"
The crash overhead made the tavern guests jump. Either several travelers were having a row upstairs, or part of the roof just caved in. Tris glanced towards the innkeeper, but the man merely rolled his eyes in resignation, muttered something to himself and went on with his work, determined to ignore the noise. Out of the corner of his eye, Tris caught a slight movement, like a shadow there and gone.
"Damn!" Harrtuck exclaimed, jumping to his feet to escape the cascade of ale that spilled from his overturned tankard. A serving girl appeared at his side with a cloth, gushing apologies and wiping up the spill. "Never saw my elbow anywhere near the damn thing," Harrtuck mumbled as he daubed the ale from his cloak.
"No problem at all, my lord," the innkeeper assured him, pressing another tankard into his hand. "Don't trouble yourself about it. I'll take the first one off your tab," he fussed, bustling away with the empty mug.
Tris and Soterius exchanged glances. "Odd fellow," Soterius said, glancing towards the bar where the innkeeper conversed with the cook in hushed tones. "Unless the guests upstairs settle down," he added, "we may not be getting much rest tonight."
Carroway finished his songs and accepted a tankard passed to him from one of the appreciative guests. With a disingenuous smile, the minstrel struck up a conversation with his benefactor, one that Tris was certain would provide far more information to Carroway than the bard would share. The other guests, realizing that the entertainment was over, rushed to finish their meals and take their leave. Carroway's companion, seeing the others about to leave, hurried to join them, leaving the four refugees the only remaining guests in the common room.
"They look like they're in a hurry to go somewhere for so late at night," Harrtuck commented.
Tris glanced towards the dark windows. "Should we be concerned?" he asked under his breath as Carroway propped his borrowed lute in the corner and came to join them. Once again, a fleeting shadow flickered in Tris's side vision. The bard had made it only half way across the room before the instrument slid to the floor with a twang and a disconcerting crunch.
With a pained expression, Carroway ran back to retrieve the instrument. "I don't understand," he said, puzzled, as he lifted the lute and turned it in his hands. He turned back towards Tris and the others. "I set it down carefully-it shouldn't have fallen," he said, looking down at the ruined instrument, its broken neck hanging by its strings.
"I'm sorry," he said ruefully to the innkeeper, carrying the instrument towards the bar. The innkeeper snatched the lute. "Accidents happen," he said quickly. "If you're finished with your meal, I'll show you to your rooms."
Just then a young boy burst through the door and ran towards the innkeeper. "Papa, come quick!" he huffed. The innkeeper bent to listen to the boy's hurried, whispered account, leaving Tris and his friends to exchange worried glances. After a moment, the innkeeper straightened.
"My son tells me there are three Margolan guardsmen riding this way," the thin man said. "They're stopping folks to see if any's seen four fugitives from the city." He paused, then seemed to make up his mind. "If you've no mind to go back that way soon, come with me," he said abruptly, gesturing for them to follow him.
Tris could guess Soterius's thoughts by the look in the guardsman's eyes and the ready way his hand dropped to the pommel of his sword. They had little choice but to accept the innkeeper's offer, unless they wished to fight the guards here and now. Still, the innkeeper's sudden willingness to hide four total strangers was odd enough to raise suspicion. "Hurry," the innkeeper urged. With an eye towards the door, Tris and his friends followed the man into the kitchen, where a plump woman stood near a cookfire and a rangy girl-the serving wench- brushed back a sweaty lock from her face. They were, Tris guessed, the rest of the innkeeper's family, all the help he could afford for such a meager clientele. The boy preceded them, and the others moved aside wordlessly as the innkeeper led Tris and the others to a small storage shed.
As if he guessed their thoughts, the innkeeper managed a wan smile. "There's a door out the back, if that's what you're worried about. You could kick the thing apart, if you needed to. But I'll not lead them to you," he assured them. "Been shaken down by enough of their lot. Whatever you did that has them looking for you, Goddess bless," he said, gesturing for them to hurry.
The door shut behind them, leaving them with the scant light that seeped through the cracks between the boards. The four men drew their weapons and hid behind barrels of provisions and wine casks. They heard muffled conversation, then a series of crashes and bangs as if the inn were being torn apart. Tris shied back into the shadows as the heavy boot steps drew closer to their hiding place. The door rattled, then opened a handbreadth before a crash of crockery sounded and the soldier turned with an oath.
"Nothing here," the soldier called back.
"Nobody upstairs, either," a second voice said.
"You there, innkeeper," a third speaker barked. "There's gold in it for you if you see them and turn them in. You look like you could use some gold."
"Most everyone could use some gold," the innkeeper replied off-handedly. "I'll remember what you've said."
"Let's move on," the third speaker clipped. The boot steps receded. There was the sound of a tankard clanging against a wall, as if it had been thrown with full force, and the boot steps drew near once more.
"What's the meaning of this!"
"Please sir, it slipped," the serving girl apologized.
"Slipped!" the outraged guard shouted. "It nearly hit me in the head!"
"Must have been put back too close to the edge of that shelf," the innkeeper interjected. "So sorry. No harm done. Can I get a wineskin for you gentlemen to take with you?"
That seemed to appease the guard, for the footsteps receded and did not return. Tris could barely make out the outlines of his companions in the darkness, but his own thoughts whirled at the overheard conversation. How could the upstairs be empty, when it sounded as if a pitched brawl were going on? He wondered. But before he could puzzle long, the light tread of the innkeeper came their way, stopping to unlatch the door to their hiding place.
"They're gone," he whispered, gesturing for them to emerge. Cautiously, blinking as their eyes adjusted to the relative brightness of the kitchen, Tris and the others stepped out, their weapons still at the ready.
"What was all that about?" Soterius questioned.
The innkeeper shrugged. "We're a natural place for them to stop if they're looking for fugitives," he said, with a sideways glance to his wife that gave Tris the impression the innkeeper was purposefully answering only part of Soterius's question.
"Whatever your reason, thank you," Tris said, as Soterius moved to the common room door, glanced out and signaled an all clear.
"With them gone, you're welcome to stay the night," the tavern master offered nervously.
Tris looked to Har
rtuck, who shrugged. "Might be safest," the armsman mused, stroking his chin as if the newly shaven whiskers remained. "We know the guards have already been here. So there's no reason for them to come back. And there's nowhere else close tonight."
Tris looked back to the innkeeper. "We are grateful for your hospitality."
"One thing I don't understand," Carroway remarked as the innkeeper began to lead them from the kitchen. "If there's no one upstairs, who was making all the racket?"
The innkeeper froze, then exchanged a worried glance with the squat cook. Finally, as if resigned to lose his guests one way or the other, the haggard man turned. "There's nothing human up there, no," he admitted slowly. "But there's a ghost with a fearsome temper that has ruined this inn, and me with it," he lamented, and at that, he sagged against the wall and covered his face with his hands.
"I won this inn fair and square in a card game last summer's feast," he went on miserably. "Should have known nothing good could come that way. Found out that the haunting started just before that, driving out the travelers, breaking up the crockery, making it hard for a body to sleep, if you know what I mean." He sighed. "Driven us to the brink of ruin," he continued. "Every night, same thing. Sounds like an army tearing the place apart upstairs, but when I go up to look, nothing's been touched. Don't even bother any more. Then it moves to the common room, playing tricks, like the lute tonight, and your friend's ale." He shrugged. "Likes to bother the girls in the kitchen, too." He sighed. "There's naught can help except a Summoner, and there's been no Summoner in Margolan since Bava K'aa went to the Lady."
Dejectedly, the innkeeper led them to their rooms. "It's always like this," the innkeeper lamented. "Cold as a tomb. Hard to keep a lantern lit. But no one's ever seen anything, just footsteps and bumps."
As the innkeeper talked, Tris strained to look into the darkness. His heart pounded, though he felt no fear in the presence of the spirit, just a rise of the blood in anticipation of the contact. He peered down the hallway, and frowned. Near the end, he saw a faint glow, like sunlight catching a mist. He took a step towards it, and the glow started to fade. On instinct, Tris closed his eyes and called out in his mind to the haze.
You there! Stand fast!
The glow hesitated, then grew brighter. Emboldened, Tris reached out his hand, his eyes still closed. Show yourself! We mean you no harm.
Gradually, the mist coalesced, taking on shape without mass until at last an outline of a man stood before them. Behind Tris, the cook gasped, and the innkeeper muttered a curse, making it clear that the specter was now visible to all. Tris studied the silent shape. It was a young man, perhaps a few seasons older than himself, with the strong, rangy build of a plowman and the homespun clothes of a farmer. But what struck Tris most was the anger that radiated from the revenant, in face and stance and feel.
"Good sir," Tris said carefully, daring to open his eyes. The spirit stood as real before him as it had taken shape in his mind. "We bid you peace," he said with a gesture of welcome. "Why do you harm this inn?"
At first, Tris could hear nothing as the specter began to speak. Closing his eyes to concentrate once more, Tris strained to hear, and began to make out the voice, as if from a great distance. "-just last planting season," the spirit was saying. "I had a bag of coins, all that my family owned, to buy two cows at market. Out back," the spirit recounted, with a gesture behind him, "a brigand overtook me." The shade's hand went to its ghostly throat. "He slit my throat and took my coins and dumped me in the woods. I want my coins back," he stated simply. "And a stone raised over my body."
"Sweet Mother and Childe," the innkeeper gasped behind Tris. There was a soft thud, and Tris guessed that either the cook or the serving wench fainted.
Tris took another step towards the spirit, and moved slowly to take four coins from the purse at his belt, money from the first tavern. "If the boy took these back to your family, they would buy your cows and more beside," Tris offered, holding the coins on his outstretched hand toward the spirit. "And my companions and I can raise a cairn in the woods, if you like." He paused. "If we do that, will you rest and not trouble this good man any longer?"
The spirit hesitated as if he were considering the bargain, then slowly nodded. "It is a good offer," he said, nodding. "I will rest."
Tris gestured for the boy to come forward, and to his credit, though trembling, the lad did as he was told. Tris bid the spirit give directions to his family's home, and had the boy repeat them. "At daybreak, as soon as it is safe for the boy to travel, he will take the coins where you bid," Tris said evenly, and once more, the spirit nodded.
"Now," Tris said, gesturing behind him for the others to begin descending the stairs, "will you show us where you lie, so that we can give you peace?"
The spirit winked out. "Where did he go?" the innkeeper gasped, backing towards the stairs.
"Out back, I suppose," Carroway guessed. He shrugged as the others turned to stare at him. "Well, he hardly needs to use the stairs!"
Sure enough, when the group reached the back of the inn, the spirit stood waiting for them at the edge of the woods. Motioning his companions to join him, Tris led the others after the ghost, who stopped just a few feet from the path. The shade pointed, and Tris took several steps to the right until the ghost nodded in satisfaction.
"Give me a hand," Tris said, bending to lift a stone the size of a melon that lay nearby. His foot kicked at something partially hidden beneath the leaves, and in the dappled moonlight, he glimpsed the yellow-white of a weathered bone. Gently, Tris laid the stone over it and turned to accept another from Carroway. Within a quarter hour, they had built a small cairn, and Tris made over it the sign of the Goddess. He looked back to the spirit. The anger was gone from the young man's stance, a wistful expression on his plain features.
"Go to your rest in peace, good sir," Tris said solemnly, raising one hand, palm outstretched.
The ghost began to fade, growing dimmer and dimmer until it was once more nothing but mist, and then the mist itself was lost in the moonlight.
Tris stared after the apparition, feeling a mix of satisfaction at having been able to free the ghost's spirit, and chagrin that it had been so openly witnessed.
"I'll go see to the horses," Soterius said, turning away. Tris frowned as he watched his friend stride off, but Harrtuck stepped closer and laid a hand on Tris's arm.
"Don't worry about him," Harrtuck rasped. "Like as not, it'll take him a bit to think this all through. After all," the armsman said with a chuckle, "we soldiers don't have much trust in mages. Me, I'd rather trust in cold, hard steel than a lot of mumbo jumbo." He paused. "Until now."
Tris stared after Soterius. What in the name of the Four Faces is happening to me? he wondered, feeling an uneasy mixture of pride and fear. Calling hand fire, lighting candles without a reed, doing a little hedge magic, that's one thing. Being Grandmother's mage heir, controlling the kind of power she had, that just can't be true! And if it is true, if Carroway's right, if I'm a Summoner, a mage-by the Lady, what does that mean? But before he could think further, Carroway plucked at his sleeve.
"The woods are no place for the living at night," the bard cautioned. "Let's go back to the fire. You look like you could use some brandy, and I think I'll have a bite of that cheese I saw at the bar."
Reluctantly, Tris let his companions lead him back to the welcome lights of the inn. The innkeeper and his family were waiting for them, greeting him with the honor due a king, so that Tris flushed with embarrassment.
"Anything you want is on the house," the relieved innkeeper gushed. "Your food, your drink, your beds, and food for your horses." He beamed, and seemed to stand a bit straighter. "Now perhaps we can make a decent living from this pile of boards!" he cried, and did a little jig with the plump cook that left the dough-faced woman flushed and out of breath.
With a sigh, Tris accepted their gifts of food and beverage, though all he yearned for was a stiff drink of brandy and a bed for the night.
He entreated the innkeeper to tell no one, and he and his wife swore silence. Tris realized that his unthinking reaction to the troubled spirit now put them in even greater danger should Arontala hear the tale. Harrtuck sat beside him by the fire, saying nothing, yet by his presence, reassuring him that the events of the night had not in any way compromised his loyalties. Sweet Lady, it can't help but change the way they see me, Tris thought as the brandy burned its way down his throat. I don't know what it means myself.
The brandy did its work, and Tris found that he could barely keep his eyes open. He fended off more offers of bread and dried fruits, protesting that the grateful family had already done quite enough as he stumbled up the stairs to bed.
Chapter Four
A day later, when they left the innkeeper and his now unhaunted tavern behind them, Tris sat with the others around a small fire at a makeshift campsite, surrounded by the noises of wild things and the darkness of the forest. He was still sweating from a thorough bout of sword practice with Soterius and Harrtuck, and he smiled to himself, recalling their praise at his growing skill. Tonight, the travelers roasted what game they could snare and sat in silence, watching the flames. They were still a day's ride from Ghorbal, a bustling trade city on a tributary of the Nu River, upstream from where that swift current grew to its mighty rush towards the sea.
Finally, Tris looked up at Harrtuck. "Tell me again what happened, out in the barracks," he said, and although effort made his voice flat, he guessed that Harrtuck could easily read the emotion in his eyes. Tris clasped his hands, staring at the flames, hoping he could maintain his composure.
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