The Magic of Recluce - L. E. Modesitt [126]
A portly and balding man stood, in a leather vest and no jacket, levering a long pole into the street’s single oil lamp. As Gairloch skirted a tinker and his pushcart, the man coaxed the lamp into light, even though the sun’s red ball had not yet dropped from the twilight sky.
Two middle-aged men, not quite stooped nor erect, wearing dark cloaks, stepped into the narrow doorway on the market street side. As the door opened, a burst of laughter escaped.
“…scoundrels…”
“…away from…”
My guide pointed. “That’s the place. The stable’s in back.”
“What’s your name?”
“Erlyn. You can find me near the east gate most afternoons.” He turned and was gone, almost at a run.
The Tap Inn was mostly eatery and drinkery, with five empty stalls that barely merited the title of stable, but there was an overhead loft, and another copper gained me the privilege of paying three coppers to sleep there and three more to stable Gairloch. The stablehand was rushed, trying to get back to the inn, where—from his club, heavy arms, large belly, and low voice—his job appeared to be keeping order while stuffing himself from the kitchen.
“No trouble, boy! You understand? Keep that mountain beast under control, and close that stall door.”
I nodded and began to brush Gairloch.
Much as I needed to eat, and to listen to the whispered soul of Fenard as unfiltered through loosened tongues, I was in no hurry. I forced myself, after I had found some grain for Gairloch, to amble into the Tap Inn through the same side door I had watched the older men enter.
Holding back, I winced at the din while I let my eyes adjust. Half a dozen men gathered at the sole round table in the room, each cradling a tankard—big earthenware mugs, really.
Four widely-spaced wall oil lamps and a low fire supplied the light. Grease burning off a stove somewhere and green wood burning in the fireplace supplemented the acrid smoke. Add to that the sourness of spilled raw wine and cheap beer, the sweat of working men, and the combined odor defined the Tap Inn. I preferred the stable.
Instead, I eased for a small corner table—vacant, as I discovered, because it wobbled alarmingly on the uneven plank floor.
“Wine or beer?” The serving-girl had unruly black hair, a thin face and body, and a livid slash-scar from the right corner of her mouth to her ear.
“You have redberry?”
“Costs a copper, just like a beer.”
“Redberry. Bread and cheese?”
“A copper gets you two slices and a small wedge of yellow. Two, and you get four slices and a wedge of white.”
“Two slices and the yellow.” I put two coppers on the table, then covered them with my hand.
She nodded and left. “Red stuff and a small bread and cheese.”
The six men around the center table were joined by a seventh.
“Rasten! Always the last. Did your new apprentice have to slaughter the horse for glue?”
“Double vine for the man!”
Thunk! Redberry slopped onto my hand, and by the time I looked up the girl was flirting with the stooped Rasten. He didn’t seem to mind at all.
A pair, not much older than me, sitting a table away began to talk louder, to be heard over the older center group.
“…you think about Destrin? That daughter…”
“…she’s nice enough…”
“…no future there…”
Seeing the serving-girl coming, I had the coppers and my question ready. “Which one is Perlot?”
She jabbed a thumb at the seven, including Rasten the latecomer. “Silver hair, thin guy next to the fellow nearest the door. Want anything else?”
“Not now.”
She was headed back to flirt with Rasten.
The bread was neither fresh nor stale, but somewhere in the middle; but the cheese was sharp and cool, better than I expected.
“…benches for the pits…and they wanted black oak, for that price. Can you believe that?