Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [12]
"I've asked you not to call me that," Arya replied with a roll of her eyes that belied her anger.
"Yes, Lady Sir." Bars flinched at his accidental use of the title.
Arya sighed. She stroked her chestnut mare, Swiftfall.
"But since you've been so kind as to offer," Arya said, her face amused, "I won't refuse. Lead the way, Sir Hartwine, if it please you. And draw your coin purse. Sir Goldtook? The horses."
"Forth the Nightingale," the two men said together, without meaning to. It was their battle cry, which referred to Arya's coat of arms. The synchronization drew a laugh from Arya.
Grumbling and half-smiling, Bars escorted her into the Whistling Stag. Grumbling and not smiling, Derst escorted the three horses to the stable.
The Whistling Stag was surprisingly roomy, and the dark atmosphere typical of an inn, with its choking smoke, was absent. Instead, thanks to the open windows, the knights found themselves able to breathe easy and free. Excepting the heads that turned as she entered, Arya admired everything about the common room.
Tables and long benches, each carved from single shadow-top trunks, were laid out with enough walking space for two people. Stuffed heads of animals, orc and goblin weapons, spears, axes, and broken arrows adorned the room. A glorious tapestry depicting elves hunting deer graced the north wall. Barmaids flitted about, hurrying to clear tables for guests and to set down wide trays of ale tankards. The common room was stuffed with patrons and celebrants who had gathered to observe the coming of spring.
Arya pushed herself up to the counter next to a loud man who was bragging about his lewd exploits in a slurred voice.
"Excuse me," Arya said to the innkeeper, a burly man she gathered from the noise was named Garion. "We are looking for rooms for a tenday or two, and stables for our steeds."
"Stables are open," Garion said as he wiped a tankard clean. "But Greengrass's got us all full. I'd love to help ye, Lady Knight, but we got no empty rooms."
"Wha?" sounded a voice to her left.
The man who had grunted-not spoken, exactly-saw Arya and grinned lasciviously. Brown hair fell to his shoulders and he wore a half beard-a goatee, they called it in Waterdeep.
He was dressed exquisitely, with a long feather in his hat and a rapier and main gauche at his belt. He was clearly the foppish sort, and was just as clearly drunk.
"Ye kin stay in me own room, lassie," the man slurred. "Me bed's not too wide, but that needn't bother us…"
"How romantic," Arya murmured.
"Shut up, Morgan," Garion said. He turned to Arya. "Decent enough fella, him, but when he gets in his cups-"
"Who axed ye, Garion?" scolded Morgan. "I was jes' havin' a chat with this comely wench 'ere-"
"My thanks," said Arya, smiling politely, "but no." Then she ignored Morgan and turned back. "Are you quite certain? Do you know of any other rooms in town?"
"Hey!" Morgan snapped, reaching for Arya. "I was talkin' to ye, flipskirt!"
A dagger appeared, quivering in the wooden surface of the bar a hair's breadth from Morgan's fingers.
"Sorry, sorry," said Derst with a cough. "Must have slipped out of my hand."
"Ye almost hit me!" shouted Morgan, following his exclamation with a string of curses that made Arya and even the innkeeper blush faintly.
"I say, Bars," Derst said from behind Arya. "Quite a mouth on that knave."
"Indeed," replied the burly knight, standing to Derst's right. "A knave indeed, to speak in such a manner in the presence of a lady. I fear I must ask him to desist."
Arya looked at them sidelong, rolled her eyes, and slid out of the way. The two moved up to Morgan, Bars to his left and Derst to his right.
"Ye gots a problem, ye fat orc?" the drunk asked.
Bars's face colored deeply and his hands clenched into fists. Morgan laughed at the spectacle and took a pull from his tankard.
"Uh-oh, he insulted the weight," observed Derst. "Only I get to do that."
"Bars, Derst-let it alone," Arya warned.