The Magic of Recluce - L. E. Modesitt [120]
Coming around a wider curve than I had seen so far, the road opened into a small valley, leading through a snow-dusted meadow of browned grass toward a group of three low stone buildings. Plumes of smoke rose from two of the three, the two on the right. I climbed back on Gairloch.
The stone road-marker at the edge of the meadow read “Carsonn.” No explanation, just the name. The faintest of mists covered the valley, bearing an odor I could not place, not of brimstone nor of fire. Finally, after weaving a shield around the big provisions sack but not my saddlebags, I shook my head and chucked the reins.
A rail-thin man waited by the central structure, under a peeling sign bearing a line drawing of a cup. “Welcome to the Golden Cup, traveler.” His voice was neutral.
The center building was entirely of stone, even to the peaked slate roof, except for the roof beams, doors, and narrow windows—built to withstand storms and a heavy winter. Yet the meadow grass bore a touch of green, and the snows along the road, though it was still early winter, had not yet been that deep.
I glanced behind the innkeeper to catch the crossbow leveled at me from the stone embrasure flanking the closed double doors of weathered white oak. “Not exactly the friendliest of welcomes.” I nodded toward the quarrel.
“Not everyone from Certis is friendly, and not all travelers claiming to come from Certis are from Certis.”
I ignored the veiled reference. “A room and some hot supper?”
“Three golds for you, a silver for your horse.”
“What?”
“We have to bring the food either from Jellico or Passera.” The innkeeper shrugged. “You can travel on, if you like. Or camp in the meadow for a silver.”
In my shape, and in poor Gairloch’s, the alternatives weren’t exactly wonderful.
“For three golds, I’d hope for a hot bath and the best of repasts. And more than hay for my horse.”
The innkeeper finally smiled…faintly. “Hot water we do have. Even real soap.”
The stone-walled stable was almost empty, though the stalls were clean. Two mules were at one end, next to a black mare. A tall bay whuffed as I led Gairloch past him and two more empty stalls.
Tired as I was, I brushed Gairloch until his coat regained some shine, letting the innkeeper, who seemed to double as ostler, bring a wooden bucket of grain. He, too, for all his bluster, kept a distance from Gairloch.
In the meantime, I racked the saddle and tucked the provisions and my staff into a corner above the stall where, invisible as they were, no one would likely run into them either.
“Little enough food there for you to travel another four days to Passera, especially for your horse. There’s not much forage.”
“I might need to buy some grain cakes, then…” I suggested.
“Half-silver for two…”
I shook my head. Commercial extortion, or so it seemed; but I wasn’t thinking all that well and said nothing.
“Supper first,” I indicated, “then a bath and bed.”
“Whatever you wish, but we take payment in advance.” Most innkeepers made a pretense of affability, but not this one.
Supper, taken alone in a smallish dining room with a warm fire and only five tables, was provided by a plumpish woman wearing a stained white apron. It consisted of spiced brandied apples, a thin pepper-laced potato soup, and thick slices of tough mutton with even thicker slices of brown bread. I ate it all, and drank three glasses of redberry.
“Quite a lot for a slender fellow,” observed the woman, whom I took to be the innkeeper’s wife. The innkeeper himself had vanished.
I shrugged. “It’s been a long cold trip.”
“Mountain weather’s been warmer than usual.”
“It was warmer than the blizzard on the hills of Certisice, thunder, and snow up to my knees.”
A puzzled look crossed her face, then passed. “Would you like anything else?”
“Directions to my room, and then the bath.”
“The bath