‘Oh.’ Jimmy had no idea what ‘procrastination’ meant, but he wasn’t about to let on; besides, he thought he understood the gist of what Jarvis was saying. Jimmy shivered a little at the idea of things affecting his mind and emotions without his knowing. ‘What are the other reasons?’
‘Second, it’s difficult to get in—it’s a fortress, even if it isn’t a very strong one, and it is garrisoned, even if the troops aren’t very numerous or very good. There are only two of us.’
‘Why can’t you get . . . oh.’
‘Yes. Right now, Bas-Tyra has other things on his mind. By the time an official complaint went through, all the evidence would be safely buried.’
‘Oh.’ As I thought, the sea hides a lot of sins. ‘What’s number three?’
‘It isn’t quite time yet. We’ll have to strike when they’re distracted—and that means waiting almost until the time for their sacrifice.’
‘But—’
‘Yes. That means risking them going through with it before I can get inside to stop it.’ Jarvis took out a stick of jerky and began chewing it. ‘That would be very bad. And the magic—the side-effects of that necromancer’s magic—is affecting our judgment.’
I want to go home to Krondor, Jimmy thought. The wrath of the Upright Man and the menace of the secret police was looking more attractive all the time.
‘At least Flora and Lorrie are safe,’ he said.
The Holly Bush wasn’t much of an inn, Flora decided as she jumped down from the dog-cart in the dying hours of the day. In fact, it was more of a farmhouse, judging by the odours of hay, turned earth, manure and mud. It had two storeys, to be sure, and was sheathed with plank which had weathered silvery-grey from many seasons without paint, but it was a thatched farmhouse just the same, with a barn and sheds behind, a field of young wheat beyond that, and an orchard still bearing drifts of blossom. The only signs of its trade were the branch of holly pegged over the lintel, the benches set outside on either side of the door, and the width of the beaten muddy path that led up from the ruts of the road and a larger-than-usual paddock for stock in which travellers’ beasts might be accommodated.
No, I take it back, Flora thought. They’ve put half a dozen flagstones around the door, and there’s a wood scraper. Civilization!
One of the worksheds was a smithy, not a fully equipped one, but a little farrier’s set-up with a small charcoal-fired hearth, a bellows and a single anvil: just right for shoeing horses, or doing minor repairs. A man was at work there, tapping a shoe-blank into shape with the ring of iron on iron; a youth worked the leather bellows. She waved, and he dipped the blank into a tub of water and set it aside. Then he came striding through the barnyard, the wooden pattens on his shoes keeping the valuable leather out of the mud. He went to take hold of their horse’s bridle, looking at it with respect.
‘Will you be staying, then, missies?’ he asked, in a burr much like the woodcutter’s.
‘If you’ve room,’ Flora said, and saw him perk his ears up at her Krondor speech.
‘Room and to spare,’ the innkeeper-cum-farmer said. ‘No merchants or travellers by right now.’
He was a man of medium height and build, already getting summer’s tan, and knotty with the muscle of hard work. The only thing unusual about him was the tint of red in his hair, and the freckles that stood out on his face.
‘I’m Tael, and I keep this inn and farm. Bessa!’ he went on, turning his head to shout. ‘Bessa! Come on, take the ladies’ trap. Davy, get out here!’
Flora moved to help Lorrie down from the dog-cart, as Tael clucked at the sight of the stick she used to spare her leg. ‘Here, lean on me, miss,’ he said. ‘Bit mucky here, with the rain.’
‘Thank.you,’ Lorrie said shyly. ‘My name’s Lorrie.’
A brow raised at the accent, so similar to the local’s, and quite different from Flora’s. He glanced back and forth between them; they didn’t look like kin either, though he had probably assumed they were.
‘We’re looking for Lorrie’s friend Bram,’ Flora said, and Tael’s face changed briefly, for an instant.
‘Later,’ he said crisply. ‘Come inside. Room’s three a night, and that includes the evening meal.’
Two youngsters came bustling up; a boy like the man with fifteen years cropped off and an amazing scatter of pimples with purple rims, and a buxom young girl with freckles of her own, who took the wicker box that held their luggage.
The innkeeper led them respectfully to a table in the main taproom, and Flora realized that she was enjoying herself. It was nice to be treated with respect—not chased out, or shaken down for a share of her earnings or personal favours on the side.