Roger Taylor - The Return of the Sword

‘Imorren?’

‘Their Ailad – their chief. Right bitch she was. Good looker by all accounts, but a bad lot. Good riddance, that’s my feeling.’

Before Dacu could question him further, the man had acknowledged a salute from the driver of a passing cart and, without any leave-taking, was clambering on to it.

‘Certainly short on social graces, these people,’ Nertha said.

‘Did you make anything of that?’ Dacu asked her.

She shook her head. ‘These crystals sound strange, though.’ She mimicked the scratching that the man had demonstrated. ‘And that sounds very peculiar.’

Dacu’s eyes narrowed as he looked after the now distant figure of the Kyrosdyn. ‘I’d swear I felt a touch of the Power as he went past,’ he said to Tirke who nodded grimly but did not speak. ‘Thyrn, something startled you, didn’t it?’

‘I don’t know. I felt for a moment as if Vashnar… I don’t know… I…’

He was obviously distressed. Dacu stopped him. ‘Don’t worry. There’s no danger. Just remember it for later.’

Then he said softly to Tirke. ‘And you too. If that was the Power then Andawyr and the others will be more than interested.’

‘Should we follow the man?’

Dacu thought for a moment. ‘No. We can’t leave the others and there’s no saying what we might run into in the city. I’m certainly not disposed to seek out anyone who can use the Power without a Cadwanwr by my side. We’ll have to leave it. Just include it in our Accounting.’

As the day passed, Nertha succeeded in transforming a few more unwanted items into the local money.

‘It’ll come in handy if we go into the city,’ she claimed, dropping the coins into her belt purse.

‘Speaking of which, I think we’ll have to decide soon,’ Dacu announced. Ahead of them, at the bottom of a gentle slope, were crossroads. Some of the traffic travelling their way was moving east and a little was moving north, but most of it was turning west.

Set some way back was a large building surrounded by rambling outhouses and stables. A sign hanging from an arched timber frame over the gate to the courtyard declared it to be ‘The Wyndering’.

As they drew nearer, an appetizing smell drifted over the group, drawing them to a spontaneous halt. They looked at one another.

‘Let’s see how far your new-found wealth goes, Nertha,’ Dacu said, voicing their common thought. ‘It’ll be nice to sit on a chair and have a meal cooked by someone else. We can decide what we want to do while we eat. What do you…’

The others were already heading for the gate.

The owner of The Wyndering was Ghreel. He was very fat and very unpleasant. Had The Wyndering depended on his charm for its survival, it would have long since fallen into decay. As it was, it prospered, though, admittedly, little sign of this prosperity could be noted in its outward appearance, which was of a genteel house that had fallen on hard times. Its success was due almost completely to its location. Past it moved most of the traffic travelling between Arash-Felloren and the Wilde Ports, and all of such traffic as moved north and south in that region. In fairness, it had to be said that Ghreel was a good cook, being a keen judge of his own cooking – he had not always been fat – and, for most regular travellers, this was adequate compensation for his sour disposition. There was also a thriving subculture where these same travellers would exchange ever wilder stories about his rudeness, giving him, if not mythic status, at least high standing in the local canon of alehouse tales.

He was at his usual station, leaning against a robust but crude wooden counter and glowering at his regular customers, when the door creaked noisily to announce the entrance of Dacu and the others. His beady eyes examined them as they stood blinking in the comparative gloom, but he made no other movement. The door creaked again as Thyrn tried awkwardly to close it quietly. Nertha wrinkled her nose in distaste at the smell of the place, as did Vredech, though more discreetly.

‘Food, landlord?’ Dacu inquired.

Ghreel’s eyes widened slightly. Then, without replying, he flicked his head towards a double door standing open at the end of the room. They threaded their way through the drink-soiled furniture to be confronted by four long tables as they passed through the door. There were several people eating but plenty of space for the newcomers.

‘At least it doesn’t stink of stale ale like that other room,’ Vredech said, sitting down with some relish.

A slightly conspiratorial interlude followed during which Nertha was delegated to negotiate their meal with one of the young boys serving the tables. On the road, she had bargained fiercely, with much finger-jabbing and lying. Here it was a combination of studied womanly foolishness and slowness with the local coin that saw her quietly winning the day.

‘I can see why you married her,’ Dacu said.

‘I’m learning more every day,’ Vredech replied, enigmatically.

A little later, the meal had appeared and been devoured, largely in silence, and they were all both relaxed and replete.

‘Excellent,’ was the consensus, this being announced with some surprise, given the demeanour of the landlord.

‘I’m not sure it was such a good idea, though,’ Tirke remarked, closing his eyes ecstatically. ‘It’s really going to make camp food heavy going.’

‘It usually is when you cook it,’ Endryk remarked.

‘Talking of heavy going, the landlord’s been taking quite an interest in us,’ Thyrn said, without looking up. ‘He keeps casually wandering in, by the way, and looking over here.’

‘I noticed,’ Dacu said. ‘He seemed surprised when I first spoke to him.’

‘He’s probably deciding how much to charge us for watering the horses,’ Nertha said.

Vredech gave his wife a wilfully reproachful look. ‘You’re getting quite cynical, my dear.’

‘I’m getting quite used to the people around here,’ she replied emphatically. ‘I think they’d charge for the air we breathe if they could work out how to do it.’

‘Well, we’ll soon find out,’ Dacu said. ‘Here he comes.’

They all turned to witness Ghreel’s lumbering approach.

‘A good meal, landlord,’ Dacu said genially, as Ghreel lurched to a halt and began collecting their plates. ‘You seem very interested in us. What can we do for you?’

‘Subtle,’ Nertha muttered.

Ghreel nearly dropped the plates. ‘Careful,’ Dacu said, reaching out to steady the teetering pile. A broad smile pressed his question.

Ghreel emitted a series of peculiar sounds that eventually concluded in something that sounded vaguely grateful. Then he said, ‘I hope you lot haven’t got any rats with you.’

An odd silence descended on the group as they looked first at him, then at each other and then back to their host.

‘Rats?’ Dacu queried hesitantly, as if he might have misheard. ‘Why would we have rats with us?’

‘You’re from up there aren’t you?’ Ghreel replied.

‘Up there?’

‘The north.’

‘Some of us are,’ Dacu said, obtusely not identifying the guilty parties.

‘Knew as soon as you walked in,’ Ghreel declared knowingly. ‘The way you talked. Funny.’

‘I always try to please,’ Dacu said, but the sarcasm bounced off its target.

‘We don’t get many northerners passing through here.’

‘Strange, I’d have thought they’d have flocked here,’ Dacu said, still to no effect. Ghreel’s concern however, now released, had a momentum comparable with that of his frame as he thrust the dishes through a hatch and bowled back towards the table.

‘We had one of your kind in the other day – with his rat. And I don’t want any more, I can tell you. Do you keep them as pets or something up there?’