This particular inn’s ale is not the best I’ve had, but I
ordered another. Alcohol and the stench of stale beer reminded me of home – of
nan, if I’m honest. And it never paid to be too sober in the days leading up to
an adventure, when you never knew when the next inn or ale or dry bit of ground
to sleep on was going to come. Look at the almanac and then at any adventure’s
itinerary, and you’re guaranteed to see rain outside the season of rain, deluge
in rain’s season, and, more often than not, rains of fish or poisonous frogs or
anything else unpleasant you could imagine. Because the frogs you couldn’t eat
and the fish, after a week, you’d rather starve than choke another one of them
down.
So to sit in this dark corner of this dark inn, sipping ale,
quite pleasant.
The company, however, had me down.
Thin of mein, a bit unshaven, gloomy in the cloak and hood
that buried his eyes in darkness.
“They’re over there,” he said gloomily, twitching a finger
toward the bright fire. There, surrounded by the inn’s typical denizens right
down to the fat forgetful innkeeper, his party. A gaggle of about half a dozen
stubby, stout fellows quaffing ale and singing loud, cheerful songs.
“Quiet as a fart in church.”
“Typical.”
He grunted and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“Don’t even have to tell you what’s waiting outside, do I?”
No. You always knew.
Shapes and shadows. Minions and scarecrows whose heads
twisted round their bodies to watch as you went past. The louder the songs, the
more indulgent the quaffing, the deadlier the enemies espying through the
windows were.
There was a shout and bang and a scrabbling from the table
near the fire, while five or so of the stout fellows accompanied by a few of
the seedier creatures poked under tables and lifted up the corners of drapes,
apparently looking for something.
My companion winced. “That’ll help. That ALWAYS helps. Every
drift and shadow within twenty miles of here knows it’s here now. Well – “ he
sprung silently from his seat, flashing for a moment a sword held in a crusted
leather scabbard at his belt “I’m for it now. Best go set up the decoys and
sell the horses. We’ll be hoofing it within three hours. Watch me.” He left and
I sat there, uneasily sipping the last of my ale as the missing fellow at the
table by the bright fire reappeared, making a show of buttoning his fly as if
he’d merely stepped out to relieve himself.
Daft, they get. Captured and skinned within two days, I’ll
warrant.
Sometimes, I admit, they surprise you. The rare one or two
have veins of inner strength even the most rugged would wonder at, given how
soft and unspoiled they look. They don’t go out seeking adventure, but
Adventure – with the capital A – finds them, binds them, and uses them to the
rare good end. I hoped my friend had one of those in the group of fellows now
stupidly stumbling out of the bar and up the stairs, making more noise shushing
each other than the minions made stumbling out of the inn into the rain to
alert their masters.
Adventures like that last longer, mind you. But a success
under the belt, even once, makes up for all the bloody, truncated ends one
usually gets in the trade. Although the shapes and shadows and minions are a lot harder to live with, after that. One
success and any camaraderie you managed to build over the years is gone like a
belch in the wind.
A wailing form outside sent a shiver down my spine and froze
the countenances of everyone in the bar. “Oh, they’ve had it,” I thought. I
gulped down the rest of my ale then stole out to the stables where I’d arranged
to sleep for the night, before I headed two towns over to find my own unlikely
conglomerate of embarrassing charges.
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