Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations (46 page)

“Horses outside need stabling. Get on it.”

The boy nodded, and as he stepped by Ayers, the proprietor whispered something in his ear. The lad looked at Arista and his mouth opened as if it had just gained weight. A moment later he was running.

“You understand we’re tired,” Arista told the innkeeper. “It has been a long day of riding and we need to leave early in the morning. We are just looking for a quiet night.”

“Oh, absolutely! But you’ll be wantin’ supper, right?”

Arista glanced at Hadrian, who nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“Wonderful. I’ll get something special for you.”

“That’s not necessary. We don’t want to cause any—”

“Nonsense,” Ayers told her. “Rusty!” he shouted over her head toward the two at the hearth, who were now on their feet, hesitantly inching closer. “Run and tell Engles I want his cut of pork.”

“Pork?” the man replied. “You can’t serve her no smoked pork! Benjamin Braddock got a prize lamb he’s kept alive all winter, feeds it like a baby, he does.”

“Yeah, real sweet animal,” the other man said.

“Okay, okay, tell him to get it to Engles and have it butchered.”

“How much you willing ta pay?”

“Just tell him who it’s for, and if he wants to come ask
her
for money, let him.”

“Oh please, this isn’t necessary,” Arista said.

“He’s been saving that lamb for a special occasion,” Rusty told her, and smiled. “I can’t see how he can expect a better one.”

The door opened and the rest of the party entered, dusting snow off their heads and shoulders and stomping their feet. Once inside, Gaunt let go his train and threw back his hood, shivering. He walked directly toward the fire with his hands outstretched and brought to Arista’s mind the image of a giant peacock.

Rusty nudged his buddy. “That’s Degan Gaunt.”

“By Mar,” Ayers said, shaking his head. “If’n you get a drop, it’s a flood. And look at him all dressed up like a king. He’s one of your group?”

Arista nodded.

“Blimey,” Rusty said, staring now at Hadrian. “I seen this fella afore too—just a few weeks ago. He’s the tourney champion. He unhorsed everyone ’cept Breckton, and he only missed ’cuz he didn’t want ta kill him.” He looked at Hadrian with admiration. “You woulda dropped him if’n you’d had the chance. I know it.”

“Who else you got with you?” Ayers asked, looking overwhelmed. “The Heir of Novron?”

Arista and Hadrian exchanged glances.

“Our rooms—where are they?” Alric asked, joining them as he shook the wet out of his hood.

“I—ah—let me show you.” Ayers grabbed a box of keys and led the way up the stairs.

As she climbed, Arista looked down at the empty space below and remembered how they had spent forty-five silver to sleep there. “How much for the rooms?”

Ayers paused, turned, and chuckled.

When they reached the top of the stairs, he threw his arms out. “Here you are.”

“Which rooms?”

Ayers grinned. “Take the whole floor.”

“How much?” Alric asked.

Ayers laughed. “I’m not charging you—I can’t charge you. I’d be strung up. You get settled in and I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”

Alric grinned. “See? I told you it was worth coming. They are very friendly here.”

“For her,” Ayers said, nodding in Arista’s direction, “nothing in this city has a price.”

Alric frowned.

“That is very kind,” she told him. “But given our situation, I think five rooms will still be best.”

“What? Why?” Alric said.

“I don’t think we want to leave Magnus or Gaunt unsupervised, do you?”

Hadrian, Royce, Myron, and Gaunt took one room. Wyatt, Elden, Magnus, and Mauvin took the second, and the boys took the third. Alric insisted on his own room, which left Arista alone as well.

“Relax as long as you like,” Ayers told them. “Feel free to come down and enjoy the hearth. I’ll roll out my best keg and uncork my finest bottles. If you choose to sleep, I’ll send Jimmy to knock on your doors as soon as the meal is ready. And I just want to say, it’s a great honor to have you here.” He said the last part while staring at Arista.

She heard Alric sigh.

Wyatt lay on one of the beds, stretching out his sore muscles. Elden sat across from him on the other bed, his huge head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. The bed bent under the
pressure. Wyatt could see the ropes drooping down below the frame. Elden caught Wyatt’s look and stared back with sad, innocent eyes. Like Allie, Elden trusted him. He gave the big man a reassuring smile.

“Stop! Don’t touch that!” Mauvin shouted, and every head in the room turned. The count was hanging his cloak on a string with the other wet clothes. He glared at Magnus, who had a hand outreached toward the pommel of Pickering’s sword, which was sheathed and hanging by a belt slung over the bedpost.

Magnus raised a bushy eyebrow and frowned. “What is it with you humans? And you call us misers! Do you think I’ll stuff it under my shirt and walk off with it? It’s as tall as I am!”

“I don’t care. Leave it be.”

“It’s a fine weapon,” the dwarf said, his hand retreating, but his eyes drinking it in. “Where did you get it?”

“It was my father’s.” Mauvin advanced to the end of the bed and grabbed his sword.

“Where did he get it?”

“It’s a family heirloom, passed down for generations.” Mauvin held the sword in his hand gingerly, as if it were an injured sparrow needing reassuring after its narrow escape from the dwarf. Wyatt had not noticed the weapon before, but now that his attention was drawn, he saw that it was an uncommonly attractive sword. It was elegant in its simplicity; the lines were perfect and the metal of the hilt shone bright. Almost imperceptible were fine decorative lines.

“I meant, how did yer family come to have it? It is a rare man who owns such a blade as this.”

“I suppose one of my ancestors made it, or paid for it to be made.”

The dwarf made a disgusting noise in his throat. “This was
not made by some corner blacksmith with a brat pumping a bellows. That there, lad, was forged in natural fires in the dark of a new moon. Your kind didn’t touch it for centuries.”

“My kind? Are you saying this is dwarven?”

Again the noise of reproach. “Bah! Not by my kin—that blade is elvish and a fine one at that, or I’ve never worn a beard.”

Mauvin looked at him skeptically.

“Does she sing when she travels the air? Catch the light around her and trap it in her blade? Never grow dull even if used as a shovel or an axe? Cut through steel? Cut through other blades?”

Mauvin’s face answered the dwarf. The count slowly drew it out. The blade shimmered in the lamplight like glass.

“Oh yes, she’s an elven blade, boy, drawn from stone and metal, formed in the heat of the world, and tempered in pure water by the First Ones, the Children of Ferrol. No finer blade have I laid my eyes on save one.”

Mauvin slipped it back and frowned. “Just don’t touch it, okay?”

Wyatt heard the dwarf grumble something about having his beard cut off; then Magnus moved to the bed on the other side of the room, where he was too far for Wyatt to hear. Mauvin still held the blade, rubbing his fingers over the pommel; his eyes had a faraway look.

They were strangers to Wyatt. Mauvin, he knew, was a count of Melengar and close friend of King Alric. He had also heard that he was a good sword fighter. His younger brother had been killed in a sword fight some years back. His father had died recently—killed by the elves. He seemed a decent sort. A bit moody, perhaps, but all right. Still, he was noble and Wyatt had never had many dealings with them, so he decided to be cautious and quiet.

He kept a closer eye on the dwarf and wondered about the “misunderstandings” the empress had spoken of.

How do I keep getting myself into these situations?

Poor Elden. Wyatt had no idea what he made of all this.

“How you feeling?” Wyatt asked.

Elden shrugged.

“Want to go down for the meal, or have me bring you back a plate?”

Again a shrug.

“Does he talk?” Mauvin asked.

“When he wants to,” Wyatt replied.

“You’re the sailors, right?”

Wyatt nodded.

“I’m Mauvin Pickering,” he said, putting out his hand.

Wyatt took it. “Wyatt Deminthal, and this is Elden.”

The count looked Elden over. “What does he do on a ship?”

“Whatever he wants, I should think,” Magnus muttered. This brought a reluctant smile to everyone’s lips, including those of the dwarf, who clearly had not meant it as a joke but gave in just the same.

“Where are you from—Magnus, is it?” Wyatt asked. “Is there a land of dwarves?”

The dwarf’s smile faded. “Not anymore.” He clearly meant that to be the end of it, but Wyatt continued to stare and now Mauvin and Elden were doing likewise. “From up north—the mountains of Trent.”

“Is it nice there?”

“It’s a ghetto—dirty, cramped, and hopeless, like every place they let dwarves live. Satisfied?”

Wyatt regretted saying anything. An awkward silence followed until the tension was broken by a pounding at the door and a cheerful shout: “Meal is ready!”

The knock came to their door announcing supper and Hadrian and Myron were first on their feet. Royce, who sat on a stiff wooden chair in the corner by the window, did not stir. His back was to them as he stared out at the dark. Perhaps his elven eyes could see more than the blackness of the glassy pane, perhaps he was watching people moving below, or the windows of the shops across the street, but Hadrian doubted he was even aware of the window itself.

Royce had not said a word since they had left Aquesta. When he bothered, he communicated in nods. Royce was always quiet, but this was unusual even for him. More disturbing than his silence were his eyes. Royce always watched the road, the eaves of the forest, the horizon, always looking, scanning for trouble, but not that day. The thief rode for over nine hours without once looking up. Hadrian could not tell if he stared at the saddle or the ground. Royce might have been asleep except that his hands continually played with the ends of the reins, twisting them with such force that Hadrian could hear the leather cry.

“Hadrian, fetch me a plate of whatever they are handing out down there,” Degan told him as he lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Upon first entering the room, Gaunt had immediately claimed the bed nearest the fireplace. He had cast off his houppelande and chaperon, throwing them on the floor. Then he had flung himself on the mattress, where he sprawled, moaning about his aches.

“And make sure it’s lean,” Gaunt went on. “I don’t want a bunch of fat. I want the good stuff. And I’ll take dark bread if they have it, the darker the better. And a glass of wine—no, make that a bottle, and be sure it’s good stuff, not—”

“Maybe you should come down and pick out what you want. That way there won’t be any mistakes.”

“Just bring it up. I’m comfortable—can’t you see I’m comfortable here? I don’t want to mingle with all the local baboons. An emperor needs his privacy. And for Novron’s sake, pick up my clothes! You need to hang those up so they can dry properly.” He looked quizzical. “Hmm… I suppose that should be
for my ancestor’s sake
, now wouldn’t it? Perhaps even for
my
sake.” He smiled at the thought.