Septimus Heap, Book One_ Magyk - Angie Sage [159]
Snorri ignored him. She made her way to the end of the quay and took the well-trodden path that led to a large new pontoon, on which a thriving café was built. It was a very stylish two-story wooden building with long, low windows that looked out across the river. The café looked inviting in the chill early-evening air, with a warm yellow light coming from the oil lamps that hung from the ceiling. As Snorri walked across the wooden walkway that led onto the pontoon she could hardly believe that, at long last, she was here— at the fabled Sally Mullin’s Tea and Ale House. Excited, but feeling very nervous, Snorri pushed open the double doors to the café and nearly fell over a long line of fire buckets full of sand and water.
There was always a general buzz of friendly conversation in Sally Mullin’s café, but as soon as Snorri stepped over the threshold the buzz suddenly stopped, as though someone had thrown a switch. Almost in unison, every customer put down their drink and stared at the young stranger who wore the distinctive robes of the Hanseatic League, to which all Northern Traders belonged. Feeling herself blushing and wishing furiously that she wasn’t, Snorri advanced toward the bar, determined to order one of Sally’s barley cakes and a half-pint mug of the Springo Special Ale that she had heard so much about.
Sally Mullin, a short round woman with an equal dusting of freckles and barley flour on her cheeks, bustled out of the kitchen. Seeing the dark red robes of a Northern Trader and the typical leather headband, her face took on a scowl. “I don’t serve Northern Traders in here,” she snapped.
Snorri looked puzzled. She was not sure that she understood what Sally had said, although she could tell that Sally was not exactly welcoming.
“You saw the notice on the door,” Sally said when Snorri showed no sign of leaving. “No Northern Traders. You are not welcome here, not in my café.”
“She’s only a lass, Sal,” someone called out. “Give the girl a chance.”
There was a general murmur of assent from the other customers. Sally Mullin gave Snorri a closer look and her expression softened. It was true; she was only a girl—maybe sixteen at the most, thought Sally. She had the typical white-blond hair and pale, almost translucent blue eyes that most of the Traders had, but she did not have that hard-bitten look that Sally had come to remember with a shudder.
“Well . . .” said Sally, backtracking, “I suppose it’s getting on to nightfall and I’m not one to be turning out a young girl into the dark all on her own. What will you have, miss?”
“I . . . I will have,” Snorri faltered as she tried hard to remember her grammar. Was it, I will have or I shall have? “I shall have a slice of your very fine barley cake and a half-pint of the Springo Special Ale, if you please.”
“Springo Special, eh?” someone called out. “There’s a lass after me own heart.”
“Be quiet, Tom,” Sally chided. “You’d best try the ordinary Springo first,” she told Snorri. Sally poured out the ale into a large china mug and pushed it across the counter toward the girl. Snorri took a tentative sip and her face wrinkled in disgust. Sally was not surprised. Springo was an acquired taste and most youngsters thought it was revolting; indeed there were some days when Sally herself thought it was pretty foul. Sally poured a mug of lemon and honey for Snorri and put it on a tray with a large slab of barley cake. The girl looked like she could do with a good meal. Snorri gave Sally a whole silver florin, much to Sally’s surprise, and got back a huge pile of pennies in change. Then she sat down at an empty table by the window and looked out