DAVID COE - Seeds of Betrayal

The Ironwood wasn’t completely empty. Old Winso was here, as usual, as were a few of the others. And since he had already told the serving girls to go home for the night, it cost him nothing to keep his doors open. Still, it would have been nice to be back in his private room, sitting before a fire, sipping a dark Sanbiri wine. Knowing how much Aliya enjoyed a good blaze on a cold night, there was no telling where the evening might have led.

Rodaf couldn’t help but notice the strangers as soon as they entered the tavern. Even on a regular night, when the inn was so choked with men and women that a person could barely move, they would have caught his attention. Such an unlikely pair could hardly expect to go anywhere without drawing stares, though it seemed clear to the innkeeper that they hoped to go unnoticed.

One of them was Qirsi, a tall, broad-shouldered man who looked more like a swordsman than a sorcerer. His eyes were the color of torch flame and his white hair fell loose to the middle of his back. The other-well, it was hard to say what the other was. Eandi, to be sure, with the fine features and graceful swagger of a court noble, and deep blue eyes to match. He looked young, though it was difficult to guess his age, for his face bore a lattice of dark, angry scars that made Rodaf, who had seen his share of wounds and scars, shudder in spite of himself. More than anything else, though, their clothes drew his eye. They were travel-stained and poor-fitting. Almost too much so. Rather than making the strangers look indigent, their filthy road coats and torn trousers simply seemed out of place. There was an old Aneiran saying, “A man is more than his clothes.” But for these two, it was more than just an adage. In fairness to the travelers, Rodaf had spent much of his life observing people-he grew up as the son and grandson of innkeepers. Their clothes might have fooled others. Seeing such tatters might have kept another man from even bothering to look at their faces. But Rodaf couldn’t help thinking that the two were running from something.

“Welcome to the Ironwood, friends,” he said, raising a hand in greeting and forcing a smile.

The Qirsi nodded, glancing around the tavern as if searching for someone. “Thank you, good sir,” he said, his eye coming to rest at last on Rodaf’s face. The accent was subtle, and the innkeeper couldn’t quite place it. “Might we get some ale and a bit to eat?”

“You have coin to pay?” Rodaf knew they did, but dressed as they were, the strangers would expect him to ask.

“Yes, we do.”

The innkeeper waved a hand at the empty tables. “Then please make yourselves comfortable.” He started back toward the kitchen. “I hope cheeses and dried meats are all right,” he called to them. “I sent my cook home with the prior’s bells.”

The Qirsi said something he couldn’t hear, but Rodaf didn’t bother asking him to repeat it. These two wouldn’t object to anything he served. To do so would have been to make themselves too conspicuous.

He brought them the cheese and meats as well as a half loaf of dark bread and two tankards of black ale. The men said nothing as he set the food and drink in front of them, but Rodaf felt them watching him. They made him uneasy, and he found himself hoping that they would move on rather than asking to buy a room for the night, despite the six qinde it would bring him.

“Is there anything else you need?” he asked, looking from the younger man to the Qirsi.

“Actually there is,” the white-hair said. “We were hoping you might join us for a moment. We have some questions for you.”

He shook his head. “I’m not one for answering questions. Not for strangers.”

“I can understand that,” the Qirsi said. “But there’s gold in it for you if you’ll talk to us.”

Rodaf hesitated, twisting his mouth in a way Aliya would have understood. “Dressed as you are, I’m surprised to hear you offering gold. That’s sure to make people take notice.”

The white-hair grinned and turned to his companion. “See, I told you he was the one to find. Rodaf Wantaro of the Ironwood sees things other men miss. Didn’t I say that?”

The other man nodded and gave a thin, unconvincing smile.

“Have we met, friend?” Rodaf asked, staring at the man, and feeling his stomach tighten.

“No,” the Qirsi said. “But I’ve heard others speak of you. I gathered, from what they said, that we should talk to you.”

“About what?”

The white-hair indicated an empty chair with a nod. “Please sit, Rodaf.”

Reluctantly, the innkeeper pulled a chair up to their table.

“My name is Grinsa,” the Qirsi said. He gestured at his friend. “This is Xaver.”

Rodaf nodded at the Eandi, but the lad only stared at him.

“What is it you want to ask me?” the innkeeper asked, trying to sound like he had far more important things to do than sit with them.

“We heard of the garroting of your duke,” Grinsa said, biting into a strip of dried meat. “There’s talk of it all over the kingdom. People here must have been terribly angry.”

Rodaf shrugged. “Some were. House Bistari and House Solkara have hated one another for centuries, and old Chago did nothing to win this king’s affections. I suppose it was just a matter of time before Carden grew angry enough to send his assassins.”

“So you believe it was the king’s men who did this.”

“Of course,” the innkeeper said. “Everyone does.”

“Did you notice any strangers in the city around the time your duke was killed?”

“We get strangers all the time.” Rodaf gave a small smile. “Even the evening before Bohdan’s Night. Bistari sits at the edge of the Great Forest, on the shores of the Scabbard, and between the Kett and the Rassor. During the course of a single turn I see peddlers and merchants from almost every dukedom in every kingdom in the Forelands. Asking me if I’ve noticed a stranger is like asking a Wethy trader if he noticed a five-qinde piece.”

“You might remember this man,” the Qirsi said. “He’s a musician. Long black hair, beard, pale blue eyes. He’s slightly taller than I am, lean but powerfully built.”

Rodaf shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve seen anyone like that, at least not recently.”

“Think harder,” the younger one said.

“Xaver-”

“Well, he didn’t even consider it,” the lad said, turning to Grinsa. “He just said no.”

Rodaf looked the boy up and down. The odd clothes made more sense now. He recognized the accent.

“You’re from Eibithar,” he said, the words coming out as an accusation.

“South Wethyrn actually,” the Qirsi said quickly. “We both are.”

The accents were similar. For some it was easy to confuse Jistingham and Glyndwr. But Rodaf knew better. As he’d said a moment before, running an inn in Bistari, he met men from every part of the Forelands, including Eibithar. He wasn’t mistaken, and he could see from the look in the boy’s eyes that his companion had warned him not to speak.

The innkeeper stood. “You’re free to finish your meal,” he told them. “But you won’t be buying a room. Not here, not tonight.”

The Qirsi grabbed his arm. “Wait. You said you hadn’t seen anyone like the man we described, and then you said, ‘at least not recently.’ What did you mean?”

Rodaf pulled his arm free, glaring at the man. For a moment he considered just walking away, or better yet, demanding that they leave the Ironwood immediately. But Grinsa pulled a ten-qinde round from his pocket and tossed it on the table, where it sat glittering with the glow of the candles that lit the room.

After eyeing it briefly, the innkeeper picked it up. “There was a man like the one you describe who used to sing in one of the festivals. It’s been a few years now, but it could be the same man.”