Courage Of The Conquered (Book 3) Read online

  The tables and chairs were of oak, solid and thick, as was the long bar that ran the length of the furthest wall. His chosen spot was near a hearth, but it was cold, and it looked like no fire had burned within it for some time. Above the mantel was another image of Rhodmai. She beamed down at them merrily, and Lanrik wondered what she would have thought of the way travelers had come to be treated at her inn.

  After a moment, a serving maid approached. She was young, nervous and kept her gaze fixed firmly on the floor as though determined to do her job properly and to stay out of trouble.

  “What can I get you?” she asked.

  “I’ll have a beer,” Lanrik answered.

  The girl turned to Erlissa.

  “I’ll have the same.”

  “Anything to eat?”

  Lanrik hesitated. He wanted to get out of here, but it might still be a good place to obtain information, and he did not want to arouse suspicion.

  “What sort of stew do you have today?”

  “It’s mutton this week.”

  It was not Lanrik’s favorite, but he was growing hungry.

  “A bowl of that and some bread,” he said.

  “There’s no bread today,” she replied. He caught a hint of emotion in her voice. She liked her current situation little better than he did. The guards must have given her a hard time.

  “The stew will be fine by itself.”

  “I’ll have it too,” Erlissa added.

  When the girl returned with the drinks, Lanrik took a slow sip. The beer tasted watery, far from the good brew that he was accustomed to here.

  He took a deeper drink and casually looked around. There were a handful of other patrons, more than he had at first thought, for they were tucked away in nooks and corners just like the one he had chosen near the hearth. They were hushed, and there was none of the normal sounds of laughter and loud talk that usually filled inns.

  He studied the others carefully. They appeared to be hard men, laborers of some kind. Their clothes were wrinkled and coarse, their hands darkened by dirt and years of toil, but they drank with a certain reserved grace, lowering their mugs with care so as not to make a noise or spill any of the contents. He guessed that they probably worked at nearby horse studs.

  Leaning up against the bar was a huddle of three men. They were younger, lank haired and surly. They were not guards, and Lanrik doubted that they were laborers. He could not tell their trades, but knew instinctively that he did not like them. They were dressed too poorly to be nobles, and yet well enough for him to be suspicious of their source of income.

  These men were louder than the other patrons, and though they did not carry swords, he was sure that he saw the telltale bulge of knife handles beneath their tunics. From time to time they cast leering looks at Erlissa. That she ignored their attention seemed to upset them.

  Lanrik and Erlissa did not speak much. They sipped their drinks and kept an eye on those around them.

  When their stew arrived, the girl placed it before them carefully on the pitted oak table and gave them spoons, and for the first time, a slight smile.

  Lanrik thanked her, and her expression brightened further. He had a feeling that good manners were scarce at the inn lately and that she appreciated it.

  The stew was surprisingly good. At least, it seemed that way after the weeks on the road that it had taken to reach Esgallien. But it was not as good as what the captain of the Royal Guard ate. He sat at the head of a table in the middle of the room, surrounded by his men, but he received a much grander meal. It looked to be the same stew, only he was given bread, fruit and cheese with it.

  Lanrik and Erlissa ate with relish. When they were done, and their bowls cleared, he noticed the captain gazing at him darkly. He was about to look away, not wanting contact of any sort between them, but the man gestured curtly for him to come over. It was a haughty flick of the hand, and Lanrik fought hard to suppress his anger. But he endured it, as doubtless many others had done in Esgallien since the witch had entered the city. The Royal Guard had always tended toward arrogance, but under her influence the worst of them seemed to feel empowered.

  Lanrik gave Erlissa a quick look of warning and then approached the captain’s table.

  “May I be of assistance, Sir?” Lanrik asked.

  The other man took a swig of his beer before he answered.

  “Don’t call me Sir. My rank is captain. Captain Brinhain, and that is how you will address me.”

  Lanrik had known the correct form of address, but as a supposed traveler from other parts of Alithoras it was better not to show familiarity with the city’s customs. He suppressed a smile though: that it irked the other man was satisfying.

  Brinhain flicked his glance to Erlissa, and then back to him.

  “I’m told that your companion is a healer.”

  Lanrik nodded. “Yes.” It was a curt answer, but he guessed where this was going and did not want to encourage it.

  “Is she any good? Or is she a fraud like most others?”

  “She’s quite good,” Lanrik said. I’ve seen her work many cures, but of course, not everyone responds to treatment.”

  “Call her over.”

  Lanrik thought that hardly necessary, as the captain had talked through the whole conversation loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. Nor did he want to, but there was no choice.

  He turned and looked straight at Erlissa. He read uncertainty in her eyes, but also an understanding that their ruse had not been discovered and that she must go along with things to keep it that way.

  She approached the table and gave one of her elegant curtseys.

  “Captain Brinhain,” she said. Her smile was sweet, as though she had not heard any of the captain’s insults, though everyone knew she must have. Lanrik wished that he could better hide his own chagrin, but then he realized that her very politeness served as a subtle rebuke.

  Brinhain was oblivious to it. He lifted his foot up and rested it gently on the table. The boot was off, and the bare foot seemed red and swollen, especially around the joint of the big toe.

  “My foot hurts,” he said. “What can be done to cure it?”

  Erlissa did not hesitate. She looked at his foot closely, and gingerly touched the big toe as though feeling for heat.

  After a moment she looked up at him. “You have the gout, Captain. It’s a disease that chiefly affects the foot, but sometimes the knees and elbows as well. Do you have pain in those areas too?”

  “No,” he said impatiently. “I already know it’s the gout – I want to know the cure.”

  “Of course,” Erlissa said, as though she was completely oblivious to the fact that he was being difficult.

  She cast her gaze over the table and the remains of the meal that the captain had eaten.

  “The gout is a condition that usually responds to a change in diet. If you restrict your intake of rich foods, and especially of beer, you’ll notice an improvement. Perhaps even a large one.”

  The captain looked at her with hard eyes and shook his head. Slowly, he placed his foot back on the ground, though Lanrik noticed that he did not put much weight on it.

  “I asked for a cure,” the man said, “not a lifetime sentence of deprivation.”

  What happened next took everybody by surprise. The captain lashed out, slapping Erlissa across the face. She staggered back a few steps, and then looked at him with blazing eyes.

  Lanrik felt a cold fury rise inside him. He wanted to drop the staff and draw his sword, but instead he merely stepped between them. He knew that he was in range of the captain, should Brinhain wish to strike him as well. It was a gesture of defiance, one that almost taunted the captain to react, and part of Lanrik wished that he would, for then the response would be swift and sure, and damn the consequences.

  The captain must have read something of that in his eyes. Perhaps he feared what might be done to him before his men could intervene. For whatever reason, he chose only to give an indifferen
t flick of his fingers.

  “Dismissed,” he said.

  Lanrik did not move. After a moment, he spoke in a soft but distinct voice.

  “That will be five coppers.”

  The captain’s face went white. Lanrik could see him tremble with indignation, and yet a consultation had taken place and a diagnosis given. The man owed the money, and a failure to pay would make him look bad, even if he could get away with it. All eyes were on him. Or, Lanrik thought reluctantly, on himself. He could have done without that, and without making an enemy of this man, and yet he must also uphold the role that he played as a bodyguard. It was his job to ensure payment for services rendered, and it would seem strange if he did not try.

  The captain, now bright red, pulled a wallet from his tunic. Slowly, he counted out the coins and then cast them onto the table.

  Lanrik placed his hands over them swiftly, but without seeming haste, and stopped them before they skidded to the floor.

  He pocketed the coins and guided Erlissa back to their table.

  The captain called over to them after they had sat down.

  “It’s getting late in the day. I assume you’ll be staying here for the night, so I’ll require your services again in the morning.”

  Lanrik did not want to stay overnight. And yet he could think of no reason to turn down work.

  Erlissa exchanged a glance with him before she answered.

  “I’ll be here, Captain.”

  They ordered more beers, and the afternoon passed swiftly. Now, a small but steady flow of patrons came through the door. They showed no liking for the recording of their names on the parchment, but whether by long habit of attending the inn or by virtue of its reputation, that did not stop them from entering.

  For the most part, the newcomers were farm hands. They did not speak to the guards, nor the guards to them, and they soon found tables and talked quietly among themselves.

  Lanrik sipped at his beer and spent most of the time listening. Much of the conversation around him turned on the weather; a subject that farmers and Raithlin often had in common, and one that many other people rarely saw the use of. If it rained, they stayed indoors. But farmers and Raithlin had a different perspective. To them, it was a blessing or a curse depending on the situation – but it was a thing to which they were never indifferent.

  He caught Erlissa’s glance when one group started to talk about events in the city. This was not a safe topic within earshot of the guards, and it died down as swiftly as it began. Lanrik strained to hear while it lasted, but the men said nothing that he had not already guessed: the city was in turmoil, food was ever more expensive and jobs fewer.

  The inn grew dark, and the serving maid lit several candles. It was a feeble effort against the growing night, but it seemed that candles were as scarce here as goodwill.

  The door opened soon after, and a young man endured the same routine that everyone else had. He was obviously another farm hand, and it looked as though he had been drinking elsewhere before coming to the Bridge Inn.

  The guards let him through with little fuss, seeming to know him or at least to recognize him as a local. He was tall, but very young, and Lanrik watched him closely. The man swayed ever so slightly, and no doubt beer had loosened his tongue as much as it put a falter in his steps.

  Lanrik had a feeling that trouble was coming. But when it came, it came swiftly and did not take the form that he expected.

  The newcomer looked around him, as though trying to identify anybody he knew. Failing to see any familiar faces, he set himself and started to walk to the bar. Halfway between the door and his destination, he paused. Blinking at the candles, he muttered something unintelligible, and then spoke in a suddenly loud voice.

  “It’s so dark in here that you’d need the tracking skills of a Raithlin to find the bar.”

  The inn went dead still, and the young man looked around in bafflement.

  “Was it something I said?”

  The guards turned on him. One of them struck him hard in the face and another kicked him when he fell down.

  “The Raithlin are dead!” the first guard shouted. “Every last one of them, and good riddance. Their name isn’t spoken anymore. Do you understand?”

  The second guard kicked him again to emphasize the point.

  The youth struggled to a sitting position. Blood streamed from a gash on his cheek, and he winced as he breathed as though one of his ribs was broken, which Lanrik thought might well be the case.

  The youth looked around him, suddenly sober. “The Raithlin are all dead,” he said. “Sorry, my mistake.”

  With as much dignity as he could find, the man rose on unsteady legs and staggered out the door.

  Lanrik felt sorry for him. He had taken quite a beating, and the pain would be worse when the alcohol wore off. His pity was crowded out by another feeling though. The Raithlin were dead. All of them. He felt cold to his very bones, and though it was an outcome that he had earlier feared, to actually hear it stated as a fact was still a shock.

  Erlissa reached out and gently placed a hand over his own.

  Talk slowly returned to the room, but Lanrik remained still. He only moved when a man at the table adjoining them, quiet and aloof until then, leaned over and whispered.

  It’s not so, the man said. I heard that they escaped the city.

  Lanrik tried to hide his excitement. He leaned casually toward the man and whispered back.

  “Where did you here that?”

  “I heard it said in the Merenloth the day before yesterday – from Bragga Mor himself.”

  The stranger looked away then, fearful that their conversation might be overheard, but he had said enough.

  Lanrik considered the information. He knew Bragga Mor, at least by reputation. He was a famous poet, and he had listened to him perform many times in the Merenloth. He was also a man of wealth and prestige in the city. Where most of his poet friends struggled to earn a living, Bragga Mor had somehow amassed a fortune. It was also said that he spent money as quickly as he received it, mostly on horse betting, drinking and womanizing.

  That the man had many contacts in the city was well known. He walked in all circles of Esgallien society, and he was respected, despite his rumored shortcomings. Lanrik remembered that the Lindrath spoke well of him, and that was good enough for him.

  He glanced at Erlissa. She read his intent clearly, and gave a nod of agreement. Their next stop must be the Merenloth, and a conversation with the poet to discover what he knew. But first, they must get through the rest of the night at the inn and be rid of Brinhain as soon as possible in the morning.

  It soon grew very quiet. The beating had subdued whatever faint spirit of levity that had begun to build, and the small groups of farmhands that had shown up during the afternoon left in quick succession.

  Lanrik and Erlissa retired to the upstairs level of the inn as soon as they could. They paused in the hallway outside the room they had secured from the serving maid and spoke for the first time without fear of being overheard.

  “Do you think it’s true?” Erlissa asked.

  Lanrik chewed on his lip. “I want it to be true, but we’ll only know when we see Bragga Mor. It could be just another wild rumor, but maybe we’ve discovered a trail to follow.”

  Erlissa hugged him. “We’ll find out, Lan. That’s what we came here for. And as we do, we’ll learn more about Ebona.”

  Lanrik gave her a direct look. “It might be harder than we thought. I don’t like the attitude of the guards. It seems to me that they think they can get away with anything.”

  Erlissa nodded. “I know what you mean. Their attitude shows that they have been getting away with everything. They were always arrogant, but what I saw tonight makes me wonder if there’s any law at all in the city.”

  “The king has much to answer for,” Lanrik said. “The guards were always his, and if they’re doing what they like – it’s because he’s doing what he likes.”

&
nbsp; Erlissa frowned. “Where does their loyalty lie, though?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, have they remained faithful to the king, or do they now serve Ebona?”

  Lanrik had not considered that before. The king might have become little more than a figurehead. Ebona was the true power, and she would be ordering things to her will. The Royal Guard would have realized that sooner than the rest of the city. Were they all like the ones that he had seen today? Had they thrown their lot in with her and sought to ride to ever-greater power under her influence? Or were there some that refuted her? It was something he had to try to find out, because it might make a difference when Aranloth moved to overthrow the witch.

  Erlissa opened the door to the room, but Lanrik hesitated.

  “What’s the matter?”

  He grinned at her. “Don’t you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Bodyguards sleep outside the door of their employer’s room. That way they can ensure no one gets inside.”

  Erlissa shrugged. “I don’t think anybody would notice, except me.”

  Lanrik shook his head. “They’ll notice. We’ve already got off on the wrong foot with Brinhain. We can’t afford to arouse any suspicion.”

  Erlissa stamped her foot. “How can you sleep on hard timber?”

  “I’m a Raithlin. I can sleep anywhere.”

  Erlissa pursed her lips and shook her head as though she could not believe what she was hearing.

  “At least let me get you a pillow.”

  “Just a blanket will be fine,” he said. “Bodyguards aren’t supposed to use pillows. It encourages too deep a sleep.”

  “How do you know so much about bodyguards?”

  “I spent a fair amount of time at inns when I was training. Retired Raithlin often act as instructors, and we moved around to different parts of the city depending on which instructor we had to see.”

  Erlissa went inside, obviously still unconvinced that it was necessary to maintain their ruse so strictly. She returned after a moment with a thick blanket and handed it to him.

  “That should keep you warm,” she said. “But it’s going to be a long night.”