The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [31]
“And a meal?” pursues Creslin, ignoring the innuendo.
“And a meal. Without high spirits, though.” Her voice turns harder as she lifts the broom. “You pay in advance.”
Creslin looks at the clouds overhead, then nods.
“Come on in, before we lose all the heat from the fires.”
Once inside, with both doors firmly shut, the woman waits as Creslin fumbles out three silvers. He is thankful that the larger coins are concealed within the heavy travel belt.
The room she leads him to contains one double-width bed, a table scarcely more than two hands wide, and a candle lamp. The stone floor is uncovered and the window barely more than a slit.
“Even a pillow and a proper coverlet!” exclaims the gray-haired innkeeper.
“You mentioned a bath?”
“Ah, yes. The bath comes with the room.”
“And a good towel, I’d wager,” Creslin adds cheerfully.
“You will break us yet, young sir.”
“Perhaps we should just head for the bath,” Creslin suggests, catching a whiff of himself.
“As you wish.”
Creslin continues to carry both pack and sword, oblivious to the unspoken suggestion that he leave them in the room.
When he sees the bath, Creslin understands the snort from the heavy trader. The small room contains two stone tubs into which hot mineral waters slowly flow from a two-spouted fountain. Despite the faint odor of sulfur, the hot water is more than welcome, and Creslin uses his straight razor to remove his sparse beard, nicking himself only once or twice.
After the innkeeper leaves him by himself, he washes out his underclothes, wringing them as dry as possible before pulling on the spare undergarments from his pack and re-donning his leathers. Then he returns to his room.
The towel and damp clothes he smoothes out across the footboard. After barring the door, he drops on the bed. Within moments, he is asleep.
Cling . . . cling . . .
At the sound of the bell, Creslin jerks upright. How long has he slept? All night? The darkness outside the window could mean either early evening or predawn. He sits up, fumbles the striker from his belt, and coaxes the candle into light. The clothes on the footboard remind him of his garb, and he rises and touches the garments. Too damp for morning, he decides.
Finally he pulls on his boots, slings the pack across one shoulder, and unbars the door, stepping into the dimly lit hall.
Four of the dozen tables in the Common Room are occupied. After taking a small table for two, Creslin eases the pack under the table and ignores the looks from the heavy trader and from a red-bearded man who sits at a circular table with a woman and three male blades.
Another gray-haired woman, even thinner than the innkeeper, wipes her hands on a once-white apron as she eases up to Creslin’s table. “We have a bear stew or a crusty fowl pie, and either ale or red wine. The wine is extra.”
“What would you eat?”
“They’re about the same. For another silver, there’s a pair of lamb cutlets.”
The silver-haired youth smiles faintly, wondering if he could have bought the entire lamb for a silver. “Stew and ale.”
“Will that be all?”
Creslin nods. As she scuttles past the hearth toward the kitchen, he glances toward the red-bearded man, who has returned to the meat before him, presumably the lamb. One of the blades, a grizzled man with a short salt-and-pepper beard and a single ear, glares back at Creslin, who returns the hostile look with a polite smile.
The blade who had studied Creslin earlier at the inn’s entrance begins to talk to the trader. Derrild shakes his head. Once, twice. Finally he nods, and the blade stands up.
He steps over to Creslin’s table. “Mind if I sit for a moment? Name is Hylin. Road guard for Derrild. He’s a trader.”
Still waiting for the stew, Creslin gestures to the battered chair across from him.
“You handled Derrild pretty easy there.”
“Rather stupidly,” admits Creslin, still not comfortable with the Temple tongue. “I did not think.”
“You’re from the far west, I take it?”
Creslin raises his eyebrows, not