The Magic of Recluce - L. E. Modesitt [70]
“All right…we’ll try to find an inn…or something…”
I began to look in earnest, although I also kept my eyes open for signs of the road to Howlett. The Brotherhood had been singularly unhelpful with the directions that I needed to spend a full year in Candar and pass through Howlett to the cities beyond.
After all, I mean, was my dangergeld just to spend time in Candar and pass through Hrisbarg and Howlett and get to the Westhorns? Not bloody likely. If they hadn’t been so deadly serious, it could have been a joke. And, once again, no one told me anything I couldn’t figure out first—except why Talryn had been so insistent on my getting to the Westhorns.
Down a lane to my left I saw a faded sign with what looked like an “H” and some sort of howling creature. Outside of a few dark buildings on the corner and some small cottages huddled further down the road, I could see nothing. Nor did I feel anything. Certainly no inns, road houses. So I kept Gairloch headed toward the far end of Hrisbarg.
The sign read “The Silver Horse.” Predictably, since apparently no one in Candar besides the merchants and the clergy could read, under the letters was a horse, badly painted, with flaking silver paint that looked gray in the rain.
With a chuck of the reins, I nudged Gairloch toward the slope-roofed and weathered building next to the inn.
“Ufffff…” My legs almost collapsed under my full weight.
“Sir?” Standing there was a stableboy not much taller than my elbow.
“Do I pay you or the inn?” I asked.
“It’s three pence a night, five with a separate stall, oats, and a full manger.”
I handed him a penny even before I touched the rolled-up pack. “That’s for you to take special care of my horse.”
“Yes, sir.” The youngster stepped back.
“Which stall?”
“You could have the one under the eaves there…?”
I got the message. If I took the one with low headroom, none of the bully boys with the big horses would bother him. And Gairloch didn’t need the extra space as much as being left to rest and feed.
“That’s fine.” I led Gairloch there myself, letting the dark-haired youngster open the half-door, as much to keep him away from the staff that could have been a lance in the dim light of the single covered tin lamp that hung from the beam by the doorway.
Before even starting to unsaddle Gairloch, I removed the staff and tucked it under the straw by the outside wall. No one but someone attuned to order/chaos forces would notice it, and it wouldn’t be that much good to me against an accomplished chaos-master anyway.
“I can help you,” offered the boy.
I didn’t protest as he unstrapped the saddle, since Gairloch didn’t seem to mind, merely whuffing and shaking his head. Besides, the youngster’s hands were far defter than mine, and my legs were still shaking.
With Gairloch mainly settled, and the saddle and blanket racked to dry, I was ready to try The Silver Horse itself. My leg muscles spasmed as I limped across the muddy courtyard to the inn. Faint light glimmered through the small leaded windowpanes facing the stable.
The open outer door was of rough pine, covered with peeling white paint. The inner door, which I checked as I pushed it open, was of good red oak, but the varnish was worn and cracking and the hinges had been reset too many times. It took some time for me to wipe all the mud off my boots using the worn rush mats, but I managed, not that it mattered much. The floor was scarred and stained wood, with dirt-heaps in the corners.
Inside, only one of the lamps in the narrow hall was lit, and it smoked and flickered.
“Hello, the inn…” I called.
A muffled voice answered from somewhere. “…coming…”
“…At this hour?” questioned another voice, sharper than the first, and nearer.
Waiting, I looked around the inn. On my right, through a square opening the size of a double door, was a dining area, and the faint glow of coals glinted from the stone fireplace. On the left I noted a small sitting area with three wooden benches covered with oblong cushions.