The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [40]
In the background, a small boy is dragging a bale of hay through the stable doorway.
Derrild turns. “Boy! Which stalls are five, six, and seven?”
“Ser?” The boy straightens.
“Stalls five, six, and seven?”
“Those empty ones right before you, ser. See the numbers . . . on the beams up there?”
“Ah. I see. And what about some feed for our poor animals?”
“Soon as I get this in, I’ll be with you, ser.” He resumes dragging the bale, nearly as large as he is, toward the first stall, wherein resides a tall black stallion.
Creslin and Hylin finish with the pack mules and begin to help the trader in emptying the cart.
“They’re crowded, so we’ll be sharing the same room. I got two cots for you.” The trader grunts as he waddles toward the locker with a heavy bundle.
Creslin stacks two more leather bags near the front, then stops, for there is nothing else to place within the locker except for the two bags of glaze powder that Hylin moves, ever so gently, toward the narrow oak doorway.
“Right. Edge them here so we can catch them.” As Derrild speaks, he eases the locker door shut and places a heavy iron lock through the hasp loops.
“Now, you get the animals in the stalls and let me find that stable boy.” The heavy-set trader shoulders his pack, filled with the smaller bags he placed within it earlier, and trundles toward the front of the stable.
Creslin unties the gelding from the railing and leads him into the second stall, then returns for Hylin’s gray, since the stalls are doubles. The mercenary, in turn, has managed to get both pack mules into the third stall, leaving the first stall for the bigger cart mule.
“They promised feed, and we’ll have feed . . .”
Creslin ignores the trader as he racks the saddles and blankets.
“. . . here and now . . .”
“Ser . . .”
Hylin looks across the stall barrier and grins, shaking his head as the trader’s voice begins to echo off the stained plank walls.
By the time Creslin leaves the stall, closing it behind him, the stable boy, now muttering to himself, is filling the mangers while the trader watches.
“Let’s go eat,” Derrild says, looking from the stable boy to his guards.
“Sounds like a good idea,” answers Hylin, shouldering his pack.
Creslin nods, leaving his pack slung half across his shoulder.
The Gilded Ram has one public room, smoky with burned grease and close with the odors of spilled ale and wine. Of the three empty tables, Hylin chooses one nearest the wall and sits facing the doorway.
“Expecting trouble?” asks Creslin.
“No. Not here. It’s a good idea to keep up the habits, no matter where you are. Besides, avoiding a fight is usually worth more than winning one.”
“That’s an odd comment from a hired guard.” Creslin adjusts his chair on the uneven, wide-plank floor.
“Smart comment,” grumbles Derrild. He turns to Creslin. “Your speaking’s gotten a whole lot better. Sometimes I hardly hear the accent.”
“You see,” adds Hylin, “anytime that you fight, you can get hurt. Or you could hurt or kill someone. In lots of towns, you hurt a local, and they want to lock you up, or worse. So you don’t get paid, or you end up on a road crew, or hanging from a tree. When you’re in a town, you only fight when the alternatives are worse.” He gestures to the serving woman, thin and of an indeterminate age. “Some drinks here!”
“We have red wine, ale, mead, and redberry. What will it be?” The woman’s voice is simultaneously bored and tired.
“What’s redberry?” asks Creslin.
“Berry juice, red. Ladies’ drink, no alcohol.”
“Wine,” announces Derrild.
“Same here,” adds Hylin.
“Redberry,” says Creslin slowly. Whether he will like it or not, he scarcely knows, but his guts tell him that alcohol is not a good idea.
The serving woman looks again at the silver-haired young man, then catches sight of the sword and harness attached to the pack by his feet and nods. “Two wines and a redberry. How about dinner? Fowl pie or stew for two coppers, four coppers for a cutlet. Black bread with any of them.”
“Stew.