Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations (22 page)

Just inside the inn was a small stone foyer, where several
cloaks and coats hung on a forest of wall pegs. A handful of walking sticks of various shapes and sizes rested on a rack to one side. Above, a shelf held an assortment of tattered hats and gloves.

Myron stood just inside the door, gaping at his surroundings. “I read about inns,” he said. “In
Pilgrims’ Tales
, a group of wayward travelers spend a night at an inn, where they decided to tell stories of their journeys. They made a wager for the best one. It’s one of my favorites, although the abbot didn’t much care for my reading it. It was a bit bawdy. There were several accounts about women in those pages and not in a wholesome fashion either.” He scanned the crowd excitedly. “Are there women here?”

“No,” Hadrian replied sadly.

“Oh. I was hoping to see one. Do they keep them locked up as treasures?”

Hadrian and the others just laughed.

Myron looked at them, mystified, then shrugged. “Even so, this is wonderful. There’s so much to see! What’s that smell? It’s not food, is it?”

“Pipe smoke,” Hadrian explained. “It probably was not a popular activity at the abbey.”

A half dozen tables filled the small room. A slightly askew stone fireplace with silver tankards dangling from mantel hooks dominated one wall. Next to it stood the bar, which was built from rough and unfinished tree logs complete with bark. Some fifteen patrons lined the room, a handful of whom watched the group enter with passing interest. Most were rough stock, woodsmen, laborers, and traveling tinkers. The pipe smoke came from a few gruff men seated near the log bar, and a cloud of it hovered at eye level throughout the room, producing an earthy smell that mingled with that of the burning wood of the fireplace and the sweet scent of baking bread.
Royce led them to an open round table near the window, where they could see the horses outside.

“I’ll order us something,” Hadrian volunteered.

“This is a beautiful place,” Myron declared, his eyes darting about the room. “There is so much going on, so many conversations. Speaking at meals wasn’t allowed at the abbey, so it was always deathly silent. Of course, we got around that rule by using sign language. It used to drive the abbot crazy, because we were supposed to be focusing on Maribor, but there are times when you simply have to ask someone to pass the salt.”

No sooner had Hadrian reached the bar than he felt someone press up behind him menacingly.

“You should be more careful, my friend,” a man whispered softly.

Hadrian turned slowly and chuckled when he saw who it was. “I don’t have to, Albert. I have a shadow who watches my back.” Hadrian gestured toward Royce, who had slipped up behind the viscount.

Albert, who wore a dirty, tattered cloak with the hood pulled up, turned to face a scowling Royce. “I was just making a joke.”

“What are you doing here?” Royce whispered.

“Hiding—” Albert started, but he fell quiet when the bartender came over with a pitcher of foaming beer and four mugs.

“Have you eaten?” Hadrian asked.

“No.” Albert looked longingly at the pitcher.

“Could I get another mug and another plate of supper?” Hadrian asked the hefty man behind the bar.

“Sure thing,” the bartender responded as he added another mug. “I’ll bring the food over when it’s ready.”

They returned to the table with the viscount trailing them. Albert looked curiously at Myron and Alric for a moment.

“This is Albert Winslow, an acquaintance of ours,” Hadrian explained as Albert pulled a chair over to their table. “These are—”

“Clients,” Royce cut in quickly, “so no business talk, Albert.”

“We’ve been out of town … traveling, the last few days,” Hadrian said. “Anything been going on in Medford?”

“A lot,” Albert said quietly as Hadrian poured the ale. “King Amrath is dead.”

“Really?” Hadrian feigned surprise.

“The Rose and Thorn has been shut down. Soldiers tore through the Lower Quarter. A bunch of folks were rounded up and sent to prison. There’s a small army surrounding Essendon Castle and the entrances to the city. I got out just in time.”

“An army around the castle? What for?” Alric asked.

Royce motioned for him to calm down. “What about Gwen?”

“She’s okay—I think,” Albert replied, looking curiously at Alric. “At least she was when I left. They questioned her and roughed up a few of her girls but nothing more than that. She’s been worried about you. I think she expected you to return from … traveling … days ago.”

“Who are ‘they’?” Royce asked, his voice several degrees colder.

“Well, a lot of them were royal guards, but they had a whole bunch of new friends as well. Remember those strangers in town we talked about a few days ago? They were marching with some of the royal guards, so they must be working for the crown prince, I would think.” Again, Albert glanced at Alric. “They were combing the entire city and asking questions about a pair of thieves operating out of the Lower Quarter. That’s when I made myself scarce. I left town and headed
west. It was the same all over. Patrols are everywhere. They have been ripping apart inns and taverns, hauling people into the streets. I’ve stayed one step ahead of them so far. Last thing I heard, a curfew was ordered after nightfall in Medford.”

“So, you just kept heading west?” Hadrian asked.

“Until I got here. This is the first place I came to that hadn’t been ransacked.”

“Which would explain the large turnout,” Hadrian mentioned. “Mice leave a sinking ship.”

“Yeah, a lot of people decided Medford wasn’t so friendly anymore,” Albert explained. “I figured I would stick around here for a few days and then start back and test the waters as I go.”

“Has there been any word concerning the prince or princess?” Alric asked.

“Nothing in particular,” the viscount responded. He took a drink, his eyes lingering on the prince.

The rear door to the inn opened and a slim figure entered. He was filthy, dressed in torn rags and a hat that looked more like a sack. He clutched a small purse tightly to his chest and paused for only a moment, his eyes darting around the room nervously. He walked quickly to the rear of the bar, where the innkeeper filled a sack of food in exchange for the purse.

“What do we have here?” asked a burly fellow from one of the tables as he got to his feet. “Take off the hat, elf. Show us them ears.”

The ragged pauper clung to his bag tightly and looked toward the door. When he did, another man from the bar moved to block his path.

“I said take it off!” the burly man ordered.

“Leave him alone, Drake,” the innkeeper told him. “He just came in for a bit of food. He ain’t gonna eat it here.”

“I can’t believe you sell to
them
, Hall. Haven’t you heard they’re killing people up in Dunmore? Filthy things.” Drake reached out to pull the hat off but the figure aptly dodged his reach. “See how they are? Fast little things when they want to be, but lazy bastards if you try to put ’em to work. They ain’t nothing but trouble. You let ’em in here, and one day they’ll end up stabbing you in the back and stealing you blind.”

“He ain’t stealing anything,” Hall said. “He comes in here once a week to buy food and stuff for his family. This one has a mate and a kid. Poor things are barely alive. They’re living in the forest. It’s been a month since the town guard in Medford drove them out.”

“Yeah?” Drake said. “If he lives in the forest, where’s he getting the money to pay for the food? You stealing it, ain’t you, boy? You robbing decent people? Breaking into farms? That’s why the sheriffs drive ’em out of the cities, ’cause they’re all thieves and drunks. The Medford guard don’t want ’em on their streets, and I don’t want ’em on ours!”

A man standing behind the vagabond snatched his hat off, revealing thick matted black hair and pointed ears.

“Filthy little elf,” Drake said. “Where’d you get the money?”

“I said leave him be, Drake,” Hall persisted.

“I think he stole it,” Drake said, and pulled a dagger from his belt.

The unarmed elf stood fearfully still, his eyes darting back and forth between the men who menaced him and the door to the inn.

“Drake?” Hall said in a lower, more serious tone. “You leave him be, or I swear you’ll never be served here again.”

Drake looked up to see Hall, who was considerably larger than he, holding a butcher knife.

“You wanna go find him in the woods later, that’s your business. But I won’t have no fighting in my place.” Drake put
the dagger away. “Go on, get out,” Hall told the elf, who carefully moved past the men and slipped back out the door.

“Was that really an elf?” Myron asked, astonished.

“They’re half-breeds,” Hadrian replied. “Most people don’t believe pure-blood elves exist anymore.”

“I actually pity them,” Albert said. “They were slaves back in the days of the empire. Did you know that?”

“Well, actually, I—” Myron started, but he stopped short when he saw the slight shake of Royce’s head and the look on his face.

“Why pity them?” Alric asked. “They were no worse off than the serfs and villeins we have today. And now they are free, which is more than the villeins can say.”

“Villeins are bound to the land, true, but they aren’t slaves,” Albert said, correcting him. “They can’t be bought and sold; their families aren’t torn apart, and they aren’t bred like livestock and kept in pens or butchered for entertainment. I heard they used to do that to the elves, and sure, they’re free now, but they aren’t allowed to be part of society. They can’t find work, and you just saw what they have to go through just to get food.”

Royce’s expression had grown colder than usual, and Hadrian knew it was time to change the subject. “You wouldn’t know it to look at him,” he said, “but Albert here is a nobleman. He’s a viscount.”

“Viscount Winslow?” Alric said. “Of what holding?”

“Sad to say, none,” Albert replied before taking a large drink of ale. “Granddad, Harlan Winslow, lost the family plot when he fell out of favor with the King of Warric. Although, truth be told, I don’t think it was ever anything to boast about. From what I heard, it was a rocky patch of dirt on the Bernum River. King Ethelred of Warric gobbled it up a few years ago.

“Ah, the stories my father told me of Grandfather’s trials
and tribulations trying to live with the shame of being a landless noble. My dad inherited a little money from him, but he squandered it trying to keep up the pretense he was still a wealthy nobleman. I myself have no problem swallowing my pride if it will fill my stomach.” Albert squinted at Alric. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

“If we did, I’m certain it was in passing,” Alric replied.

The meal arrived and chewing replaced conversation. The food was nothing special: a portion of slightly overcooked ham, boiled potatoes, cabbage, onions, and a loaf of old bread. Yet after nearly two days of eating only a few potatoes, Hadrian considered it a feast. As the light outside faded, the inn boy began lighting the candles on each table, and they took the opportunity to order another pitcher.

While sitting there relaxing, Hadrian noticed Royce repeatedly looking out the window. After the third glance, Hadrian leaned over to see what was so compelling. With the darkness outside, the window was like a mirror. All he could see was his own face.

“When was The Rose and Thorn raided?” Royce asked.

Albert shrugged. “Two or three days ago, I guess.”

“I meant, what time of day?”

“Oh, evening. At sunset, I believe, or just after. I suppose they wanted to catch the dinner crowd.” Albert paused and sat up suddenly as his expression of contentment faded into one of concern. “Oh—ah … I hate to eat and run, but if it’s all right with you boys, I’m going to make myself scarce again.” He got up and exited quickly through the rear door. Royce glanced outside again and appeared agitated.

“What is it?” Alric asked.

“We have company. Everyone stay calm until we see which way the wind is blowing.”

The door to the Silver Pitcher burst open, and eight men
dressed in byrnie with tabards bearing the Melengar falcon poured into the room. They flipped over a few tables near the door, scattering drinks and food everywhere. Soldiers brandishing swords glowered at the patrons. No one in the inn moved.

“In the name of the king, this inn and all its occupants are to be searched. Those resisting or attempting to flee will be executed!”

The soldiers broke into groups. One began pulling men from their tables and shoved them against the wall, forming a line. Others charged up the steps to the loft, while a third set descended into the tavern’s cellar.

“I do an honest business here!” Hall protested as they pushed him up against the wall with the rest.

“Keep your mouth shut or I’ll have this place torched,” a man entering said. He did not wear armor, nor the emblem of Melengar. Instead, he was dressed in fine practical clothing of layered shades of gray.

“It was a pleasure having your company, gentlemen,” Alric told those at the table, “but it seems my escort is here.”

“Be careful,” Hadrian told him as the prince stood up.