“Come back sometime, Shae Barter,” she declared as he walked out. “Maybe we can talk some real business.”
He gave her a mock bow and shut the door. The new clothes made him feel much better. What he needed was a warm bath and a laver full of soap cakes to cap it off. Pausing briefly, he asked a passerby about the Sheven-Ingen wharf and was given some vague directions taking him to the southeastern part of the city. Seagulls perched on the tall masts of ships and shrieked. Even though the roadway tilted slightly, the footing was good. Taverns and inns and warehouses jammed and crowded the Sheven-Ingen wharf, but it wasn’t difficult finding the Foxtale Inn. It had wide windows that opened to a sprawling main room glowing with a huge hearth in the middle of it. The chimney was wide enough to fit a man across. It butted out of the tiled roof, sending plumes of gray smoke into the leaden sky. The inn wrapped around itself, with two aisles of rooms that met in the back with a second level perched on top.
Thealos studied it, inhaling the tangy salt smell from the ocean. That was the smell he remembered from Sol, not the filth by the gatehouse. Several wooden steps led up to the inn’s foundation, and the stone was covered with wash marks from where the tide had risen suddenly and overrun the pier. Looking straight down the dock, Thealos could see the churning gray-blue waters at the end. A cool breeze blew through his hair. Thealos climbed the steps and entered. A blast of heat warmed his cheeks and hands, and he realized how cold it had been on the dock. The hearthfire roared with huge trunk-thick logs. He scanned the thirty or forty tables for a sign of Jaerod, but the Sleepwalker wasn’t there yet. The owner leaned over on the bar counter, sifting through a stack of docket books. The man paused long enough to look up, scowl at Thealos, and then go back to counting figures. The room was barely half full, and there were plenty of open tables, so Thealos took a far corner table near the kitchen doors and dropped into a chair.
The inn smelled like beer and pipe smoke, but also of fresh bread and roasted geese. The wood-planked floor was surprisingly clean, and the patrons seemed to be enjoying themselves. There were dozens of little touches that made the inside of the Foxtale a warm and inviting place. Wainscoting, vine ivy, and fat tallow candles – all of which helped add to its charm. It was definitely a woman’s touch – the innkeeper himself seemed out of place in it with his unkempt hair and rumpled sleeves. Setting his travel bundle and bow on an empty chair, Thealos sat and slowly scanned the room. A Drugaen sat on a tall stool by the bar, clumsily shuffling a worn deck of cards. One of his boots tapped against the leg of the stool. He had a wicked double-bladed Sheven-Ingen axe in his belt and an iron-knobbed club in a hoop on his other hip. The club reminded Thealos of Cropper, and he shuddered with the memory. The Drugaen was young and a little ruddy, with reddish-brown hair and a combed beard. His chest was as big around as an ale barrel, and his stubby fingers tapped as they shuffled through the cards. He leaned over and whispered something to a serving girl.
The girl caught Thealos’s eye and he stared at her. She smiled at what the Drugaen had said and shook her head, making her jewelry tinkle softly. Her hair was dark brown and long, and her blouse drooped lazily in front. She nudged the Drugaen with her elbow, said something, and they both laughed. Then she glanced over at Thealos, catching him in his stare, and gave him a smile that was friendly and very pretty. Thealos nodded back and continued scanning the room.
Along the far wall, near the rear corner of the inn, he saw a knight from Owen Draw. It was clear who he was from the scarred armor he wore. The knight pored over a thick platter of roast goose, dabbing gravy with a hunk of bread. He had rust-gold hair, long and loose – the Inland style. A mustache drooped down along each side of his mouth. Small crisscross scars knotted his cheekbone and neck, everywhere the fine-chain mesh and silver plate didn’t cover. His hands were bare, his gauntlets loose on the table next to him. Even his hands and fingers looked as if they’d been smashed and healed repeatedly. He looked like a care-worn hickory tree, solid and steady. Thealos watched him eat, wondering what the warrior from the Inland duchy of Owen Draw was doing down in the Shoreland.