The Book of Deacon (4 page)

As she walked, she questioned her choice. The
advice of a person who knew how she felt about the war had nearly
cost Myranda her life the previous day, and here she was making the
same mistake.

Her father would have frowned on this. Her
thoughts turned to him. It had been even longer since she'd seen
his face than her mother's. She had to struggle to remember his
features. He had been a soldier, never home more than a few weeks
before he was off to another tour of duty. He still found time to
teach her some of the most valued lessons she had ever learned,
though. Even though she had not been more than six when she last
spoke to him, he had made sure she knew something of the real
world. He would tell stories of adventures he'd had, always with a
piece of advice at the end. Above all, he'd taught her to pay
attention and to learn from her mistakes.

She shook the memories away. Those days were
gone now, too painful to remember.

With her reminiscing over, the infuriating
words of the priest quickly returned. Again, she physically shook.
What she needed now was distraction, anything to distance her mind
from the pain and anger.

"So, Bydell and Renack. Each the same
distance from the church. What other towns have I been to that
shared a church between them? Lucast and Murtock . . . Skell and
Marna . . ." she thought aloud.

She grimaced as the distraction proved
inadequate to force the words of the priest from her mind.

"Bydell!" she forced herself to consider.
"Where did that name come from? I wonder if it is by a dell."

Myranda continued to force her mind onto this
and other suitably pointless subjects for the remainder of the cold
and lonely trek. She had exhausted nearly every last meaningless
avenue of consideration by the time she sloshed into the smoky,
dark interior of the Bydell tavern. The sign over the door labeled
this place The Lizard's Goblet, a name she wished she'd had to toss
about in her mind on the trip. The reasoning behind such a name
could have filled at least a few minutes. The smell of roasting
meat and the tantalizing sound of wine being poured set her mind
firmly on her empty stomach.

The tables of the noisy room were all at
least partially filled. As she scanned the establishment for a
place to sit, she could feel eyes staring back. Myranda's eyes
passed the faces of at least a dozen men far too young and healthy
to be anywhere but the front line. They each had found some way,
likely underhanded, to avoid their obligation to serve. Now they
sat, drinking and laughing in this place, criminals for choosing
life. Among the rogue's gallery of faces was a particularly
suspicious-looking person in the dark far corner, still shrouded in
his gray cloak. Nearly every man in the whole of the room wore a
similar cloak, as the King had made them available for free as a
favor to the downtrodden masses.

When she finally located a seat she would be
comfortable in, she moved quickly to claim it.

The seat she chose was at the counter where
the drinks were served. The odd plate and knife scattered about the
bar assured her that she would be allowed to take her meal there as
well. It was not the most luxurious of chairs, but with a handful
of empty seats between herself and the nearest denizen of the bar
to ease her nerves in such a rowdy place, it would do well enough.
She sat and awaited the tavern keeper's service.

Several minutes passed, punctuated by stomach
rumblings reminding her of the fact she had yet to be served. A
glance down the bar revealed the keeper to be in a very spirited
conversation with a gruff customer he shared more than a casual
resemblance to. She decided that they must be brothers, and chose
not to interrupt their conversation. Surely he would take her order
soon. As this thought passed through her mind, a particularly thick
cloud of pipe smoke wafted past her face. It was all she could do
to keep from gagging. She turned a watering eye to the source of
the offending fumes.

Behind her, an old man with a patch over his
right eye let out a long, raking sound somewhere between a cough
and a laugh. The outburst lasted for a disturbingly long time,
shaking his body as it progressed. The long, thin pipe he gnawed on
was lodged securely between two of the only teeth left in his
mouth. The half-rotten things had been used to clutch the stalk of
the pipe so often they had parted to make room for it. She winced
as a second, far more powerful outburst spread his lips far enough
to confirm the solitary standing of the pipe-holding teeth. Another
man sat at the table with him, staring intently at her. He looked
as though he had not slept in days. On his shoulder was a scraggly
bird of some kind. He whispered to it dementedly, prompting another
long, raking laugh from his companion.

Sneaking another scan of the patrons of the
tavern, she realized that most of the other men were staring at her
as well, a fact that made her more than a bit uncomfortable.
Myranda turned back to the bar. A trio of flies were enjoying the
remains of the meal left by the seat's previous occupant. It was
seldom warm enough outside for flies to survive, so it was more
than likely that these creatures had lived for generations due to
the lackluster housekeeping skills of the Lizard's Goblet's
staff.

The flies drifted lazily off to their next
meal when a particularly tipsy couple bumped into the bar on their
way to the stairs that were at Myranda's right side. The collision
nearly knocked her from her seat, but the couple merely stumbled up
the stairs without so much as an acknowledgment of their rudeness.
There were half a dozen similar bumps and jostles before the
innkeeper reluctantly headed in her direction.

"Make it fast, missy, I am in the middle of
something," said the less-than-hospitable man.

"What have you got over the fire?" she
asked.

He sighed heavily as he turned to the
kitchen.

"Goat," was his rather unappetizing
description of the meal when he turned back.

"I will have some of that and some wine," she
said.

"No wine," he said.

"Why not?" Myranda asked.

"Haven't had a drop in weeks. Very expensive
stuff, you know," he said.

Myranda turned to a nearby table where a man
was pouring himself a tall glass of the very beverage she
sought.

"Are you certain?" she asked.

"Wine is very expensive," he repeated.
"People who cannot afford wine usually order ale."

Now it was clear. The wine was reserved for
the better-off of his customers. He did not think she could afford
any. Judging by how this man did business, the price was surely
prohibitive.

"Ale will be fine," she said.

He pulled a heavy tankard out from underneath
the bar and held it below the tap of one of the numerous kegs that
lined the wall between himself and the kitchen. He dropped it down
in front of her, sloshing a good deal of it onto the sticky surface
of the bar. Myranda wiped the rim and sampled the beverage as she
watched the keeper shuffle into the kitchen in no particular hurry.
His back was to the girl when the intensely bitter flavor of the
ale struck her, sparing him the rather contorted face it brought
about.

In truth, it was not particularly a bad brew,
as ales went, but she not been fond of the best of them, and this
was not nearly as good as that. She briefly entertained the notion
of skipping the drink and simply awaiting the meal, but the barrel
clearly indicated that this was a home brew, and the owners of
taverns tended to take great pride in their creations. It was best
not to turn her nose up at it. For the sake of harmony, she took
another swallow. At any rate, it was a darn sight better than the
leathery rain water she had been living off of from her flask day
in and day out, and she did not look forward to the flavor of the
contents of the soldier's flask either.

The plate of food was set before her: a slice
of rather overcooked goat meat accompanied by a mound of boiled
cabbage. A knife clattered to rest beside her plate. She carved a
piece of the charred meat, speared it with the knife tip, and
tasted it. The morsel required more than its share of chewing to
render it fit to swallow. She followed the meat with a mouthful of
the typically bland cabbage. Cabbage seemed to be the only
vegetable that existed these days, and the flavor was always the
same. Absent.

Myranda's jaw ached by the time she had done
away with the shoe leather of a main course. It was barely the
equal of the disturbingly old provisions that were even now growing
older in her pack, but it was thankfully enough to satisfy her
appetite. When she pushed the pitted metal plate aside, she was
greeted quite swiftly by the innkeeper.

"Will that be all?" he asked insincerely,
more interested in her money than her satisfaction.

"Oh, yes. Thank you," she said.

"Five coppers for the food, two for the ale,"
he said, holding out his hand.

Seven copper coins. That was a bit more than
she'd expected. If she recalled correctly, there had been twenty or
so coppers in the soldier's bag. Her first thought as Myranda
reached for the bag was whether she would have enough for a room
that night. That worry was pushed aside by the chilling realization
that the bag of coins was not hanging from her belt, where she had
left it. She patted desperately about, hoping to hear the jingle of
coins somewhere, but the only sound she heard was the impatient
drumming of the fingers of the man waiting to be paid. Anxiety
burned at the back of her mind as she rustled first one side then
the other of her tattered cloak, shaking any pockets she had on her
person. She knew she'd had it when she had come in. There had been
the distinct clink of coins when she sat down. Her mind raced.
Where could they be? As her panic grew, the bartender's patience
wore thin.

"Today, Missy. The other customers want
service," he said sternly.

"I--I just--" she stuttered, pulling her pack
to her lap to search it.

When she pulled the bag in front of her, the
sudden shift knocked the heavy bundled sword free. It clanged to
the ground. Quickly she bent to retrieve it. She plucked it
awkwardly from the floor and sat up, finding she had been joined.
It was the tall, cloaked figure she had noticed in the corner
earlier. The hood was pulled forward, and in the dim light of the
tavern his face was wholly hidden. He stood at least a full head
taller than she, but the coarse cloak hid his build. He pushed the
fold of the cloak aside to extend a lean, leather-gloved and
gray-sleeved arm. As was nearly the requirement in the biting cold
of the north, not an inch of skin was uncovered. The stranger
opened his hand and a silver coin fell to the bar.

"The young lady's meal is my treat," spoke
the stranger in a clear, confident voice. "She and I are old
friends. I do hope you will be staying until morning, there is so
much to catch up on."

"Oh, yes, well . . . I had planned to if I
could afford it," she said.

A second coin fell to the bar.

"Your finest room, good sir," he said.

The keeper pulled a ring of keys from his
stained apron. Carefully, he selected the least worn of the keys,
placing it on the table and sweeping up the coins. The stranger
stopped him.

"Not so swiftly, kind keeper. I think a
bottle of wine would make a fine companion on a night such as
this," the stranger added.

"I am sorry to say that I have none," the
innkeeper said, the silver apparently earning this newcomer the
polite treatment.

A third coin clattered to the table.

"Do be sure, I am
quite
thirsty," he said.

"Wish I could oblige, but you see . . ."

A fourth coin dropped.

"Perhaps a glance in the back would not
hurt," the innkeeper said.

He walked through the smoky doorway and
returned immediately with a bottle.

"As luck would have it, I have a single
bottle left from last season. Drink it in good health," the
innkeeper said with a wide smile as the equivalent of a large pile
of copper coins was swept into his apron.

"Thank you, and thank
you
very much. Good . . . to see
you . . . again. I will just get up to my room now," Myranda said
as she hurriedly gathered her things, as well as the key and the
bottle.

Bouts of luck like these were rare, and
tended to turn sour quickly. She wanted to make sure she made it to
the room before this one gave out. The warped stairs groaned as she
rushed up them to a very poorly-lit hallway at the top. The left
wall was lined with windows hung with heavy drapes drawn against
the cold. A few of the last amber rays of the sunset found their
way between the drapes to cast weak light on a row of thin, flimsy
doors. They totaled seven, the last adorned with a fancier, arched
top. She approached it, squinting to make out the number of the
door and match it to her key. After pulling the drapes aside to
shed light on the door, she tried her key.

Though the key clearly matched the lock, it
refused to turn. She turned the worn piece of metal every which
way, but in the frustratingly dark hall she could not see what the
problem was. She glanced at a candle holder on the wall and
grumbled. Its candle had burned beyond the point of usefulness long
ago without being replaced. Eventually she managed to force the key
into the appropriate position, turning it and gaining entrance to
the room.

She closed the door behind her, mercifully
finding it easier to lock than to unlock. It was a modest room,
shrouded in near-complete darkness, but it may as well have been a
palace. Sleeping in a half-collapsed tent next to a smoldering fire
in the middle of a tundra had a way of improving one's appreciation
of the lesser luxuries, such as walls that were thicker than her
clothes. Without even lighting a lamp, she dropped her pack on one
of the two chairs set at a small table on one side of the room.