The Magic of Recluce - L. E. Modesitt [55]
To our left opened another archway, through which I could see a series of tables covered in red checked cloths, with individual chairs drawn up to each table.
Behind the counter stood a gray-haired woman with a cheerful smile. She said nothing as Isolde turned and looked us over.
“Each of you has a single room. It has been paid for. You may make other arrangements if you wish. We will have dinner together in the small dining room which is behind the one you see on the left. Meet there as soon as you are settled. You can leave your weapons in your rooms. They will be safe there. Now…please check in at the counter.”
Her words reflected long practice, and while I was wondering how many groups she had escorted to Freetown, she had already stepped up to the counter.
“We didn’t think to see you again, Magistra.”
“The unexpected can change everyone’s plans.” Isolde laughed an off-tone laugh. “Here’s the normal.”
Clink…
The momentarily-widened eyes of the woman in the faded green blouse indicated that the payment was scarcely normal.
“Did you meet the new tax collector?” asked the counter lady.
“Ah, yes. We also met the duke’s new and late champion.”
“Oh, dear…”
“I doubt the duke’s enforcers will be here immediately, but I won’t be staying after this group leaves tomorrow, not this time.”
“The new duties are unpopular, and rumor has it that the Hamorian legate left Freetown rather suddenly. No ships are likely to enter the harbor until some certainty is established.” The innkeeper raised her eyebrows slightly as she eyed Isolde.
“If Hamor is thinking of acting, that’s certainly true. No ships are likely to be seen.”
I didn’t frown, but I knew how Isolde was leaving. The only question in my mind was what else she might be doing before she left.
“Come on, Lerris. Don’t gape. Step up.” Isolde had stepped aside without my noticing it.
“Ah…a young blackstaff…I’ll bet the harbor guard didn’t like that. Especially now.”
“No…” I looked at the open ledger, which had a space only for each traveler’s name—no country. Scrawling down my single name beneath Isolde’s, I started to step away.
“Here’s your key, young man. Room fifteen, second floor at the back.”
The key hung from a brass square nearly the size of my fist. I took it and headed up the stairs, not looking at anyone, just trying to keep my staff from banging on the staircase railing posts.
I followed the upstairs carpeted hallway, also lit by a set of oil lamps, to the back and number fifteen. Two doors stood side by side—fourteen and fifteen. The key opened my door easily, without so much as a squeak, then swung quietly closed at my touch.
Click.
The room held a double bed, a low three-drawer red-oak dresser topped with an oak-framed mirror, a washbasin table with towels, and a wardrobe. A braided rag rug covered the wide and polished gold-oak planks from next to the bed to just before the dresser. The single window was closed, flanked by cheerful red-checked curtains tied back with thick white cords. A lamp over the low headboard lighted the room. The bed was covered with a handmade red quilt showing a pattern of geometric red-and-white snowflakes.
After hanging my cloak in the wardrobe, I stripped off my tunic and rummaged through my pack.
The water in the basin was warm, and with the small bar of soap, the razor from my pack, the water, and the heavy towel, I did my best to make myself presentable.
The mirror showed me as clean-shaven, tanned, reasonably decent-looking—but young, still too young to be doing what I was going to have to do beginning in the morning.
Picking up the tunic and looking it over, I decided it was still adequate. Slightly grimy, but wearable, and there wasn’t either the time or the place to wash it. So I put it back on, and used a dampened corner of the towel to remove a