Терри Брукс - The Talismans of Shannara

He arrived at the square and saw the Whistledown off to the left in the far corner. A weather-beaten wooden sign carved with a flute and a foaming tankard over the name announced its location. It was a slat-boarded building like all the others clustered about it, sharing a common wall with the ones on either side, looming three stories against the skyline, with curtained windows on the second and third floors where there were either living quarters for the owners and their families or sleeping rooms for hire. The square was thronged with people coming and going from this place to that, more than a few meandering from tavern to tavern, some so drunk they could hardly stand. Morgan avoided them, moving aside to let those he encountered pass, smelling the sweat and dirt of their bodies and the stench of the streets. Wyvern Split, he thought, was a cesspool.

He reached the Whistledown’s open doors, stepped through, and was surprised to find that the inside of the ale house bore an entirely different look. Although it was plain and sparsely furnished, the floors were scrubbed clean, the wood trim on the serving bar was polished to a high sheen, the tables and chairs and stools were neatly arranged, and the smell of cedar chips and lacquer was everywhere. Ale casks gleamed in their racks against the wall behind the serving counter, and there were glass doors and metal trim on the tankard cupboard. A pair of heavy swinging doors at the end of the serving counter hung closed. A massive stone fireplace dominated the wall to the left of the counter, and a narrow staircase leading to the upper floors took up most of the wall to the right. Serving bowls and cleaning cloths were stacked on the counter itself.

But it was something else that caught Morgan’s eye and held it something so obviously out of place that he had to take a second look to be certain he was not mistaken about what he was seeing.

There were bunches of wildflowers arranged in large vases on shelves bracketing the ale casks and tankard cupboard.

Flowers—here, of all places! He shook his head.

The swinging doors opened and a boy with a broom pushed through. He was tall and lean with short-cropped black hair and fine, almost delicate features. He moved with fluid grace as he swept down the length of the serving counter, almost as if dancing, working the broom in front of him, lost in thought. He whistled softly, unaware yet of Morgan.

Morgan shifted his stance enough to announce that he was there, and the boy looked up at once.

“We’re closed,” he said. Cobalt eyes fixed on the Highlander, a frank, almost challenging stare. “We open at dusk.”

Morgan stared back. The boy’s face was smooth and hairless, and his hands were long and thin. The clothes he wore were loose and shapeless, hanging on him as if on sticks, belted at his narrow waist and tied at his ankles. He wore shoes instead of boots, low-cut, stitched leather things that molded to his feet.

“Is this the Whistledown?” Morgan asked, deciding he had better make sure.

The boy nodded. “Come back later. Go take a bath first.”

Morgan blinked. Take a bath? “I’m looking for someone,” he said, beginning to feel uncomfortable under the other’s steady gaze.

The boy shrugged. “I can’t help you. There’s no one here but me. Try across the street.”

“Thanks, but I’m not looking for just anyone...” Morgan began.

But the boy was already turning away, working the broom back up the floor against the counter. “We’re closed,” he repeated, as if that settled the matter.

Morgan started forward, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice. “Wait a minute.” He reached for the other’s shoulder. “Hold on a minute. Did you say you were the only one...?”

The boy wheeled about smoothly as Morgan touched him, the broom came up, and the blunt end jabbed the Highlander hard below the rib cage. Morgan doubled over, paralyzed, then dropped to one knee, gasping.

The boy came up beside him and bent close. “We’re closed, I told you. You should pay better attention.” He helped Morgan to his feet, surprisingly strong for being so lean, and guided him to the door. “Come back later when we open.”

And the next thing Morgan knew he was back outside on the street, leaning against the slat-board wall of the building, arms clasped about his body as if he were in danger of falling apart—which was not too far off the mark in terms of how he felt. He took several deep breaths and waited for the ache in his chest to subside.

This is ridiculous, he thought angrily. A boy!

He managed to straighten finally, rubbed at his chest, adjusted the shoulder straps of his sword where they had begun to chafe, and walked back through the Whistledown’s doors.

The boy, who was sweeping behind the counter now, did not look pleased to see him. “What seems to be your problem?” he asked Morgan pointedly.

The Highlander walked to the counter and glared. “What seems to be my problem? I didn’t have a problem until I came in here. Don’t you think you were a little quick with that broom?”

The boy shrugged. “I asked you to leave and you didn’t. What do you expect?”

“How about a little help? I told you I was looking for someone.”

The boy sighed wearily. “Everyone is looking for someone—especially the people who come in here.” His voice was low and smooth, an odd mix. “They come in here to drink and to feel better. They come in here to find company. Fine. But they have to do it when we’re open. And we’re not open. Is that plain enough for you?”

Morgan felt his temper begin to slip. He shook his head. “I’ll tell you what’s plain to me. What’s plain to me is that you don’t have any manners. Someone ought to box your ears.”

The boy set the broom down and put his slim hands on the counter. “Well, it won’t be you who does it. Now turn around and go back out that door. And forget what I said before. Don’t come back later. Don’t come back at all.”

For a moment Morgan considered reaching over the counter, taking hold of the boy by the scruff of his neck, and pulling him across. But the memory of that broom handle was too recent to encourage precipitous action, and besides, the boy didn’t look the least bit afraid of him.

Keeping his anger in check, he folded his arms across his chest and held his ground. “Is there anyone else here that I can talk to besides you?” he asked.

The boy shook his head.

“The owner, maybe?”

The boy shook his head.

“No?” Morgan decided to take a chance. “Is the owner’s name Matty Roh?”

There was a flicker of recognition in the cobalt eyes, there for an instant and then gone. “No.”

Morgan nodded slowly. “But you know who Matty Roh is, don’t you?” He made it a statement of fact.

The boy’s gaze was steady. “I’m tired of talking to you.”

Morgan ignored him. “Matty Roh. That’s who I came here to find. And I came a long way. Which is why I need a bath, as you so rudely pointed out. Matty Roh. Not some nameless companion for some unmentionable purpose, thanks just the same.” His voice was taking on a sharper edge. “Matty Roh. You know the name; you know who she is. So if you want to be rid of me, just tell me how to find her and I’ll be on my way.”

He waited, arms folded, feet planted. The boy’s expression never changed; his gaze never moved off Morgan. But his hands slipped down behind the serving counter and came up again holding a thin-bladed sword. The way they held it suggested a certain familiarity.

“Now, what’s this?” Morgan asked quietly. “Am I really that unwelcome?”

The boy was as still as stone. “Who are you? What do you want with Matty Roh?”

Morgan shook his head. “That’s between her and me.” Then he added, “I’ll tell you this much. I’m not here to cause trouble. I just need to speak with her.”