Erik had been pressed into kitchen duty, as he often was when things got busy. While his mother was only a serving woman, Milo allowed her the position of kitchen supervisor, simply because Freida was in the habit of telling everyone what they should be doing. That she was almost always right in her estimation of everyone’s duties failed to mitigate the irritation such an attitude generated. Many serving women had come and gone at the inn over the years, more than a few telling Milo the reasons for their departure. His answer was always the same: she was a longtime friend and they were not.
By any reasonable measure, they acted the family, Freida and Erik, Milo and Rosalyn, husband and wife and brother and sister. Though each slept apart from the others, Milo in his room, Rosalyn in her own, Freida in a loft over the kitchen, and Erik upon a pallet in the barn, from awakening to bedtime they played their parts naturally. Freida ran the inn as if it were her own, and Mio was unwilling to overrule her, mostly because she did a wonderful job, but also because he, more than anyone, understood the pain Freida lived with daily. Though she would never admit it to anyone, she still loved the Baron, and Milo was convinced that her demand for recognition of her son was a twisted legacy of that love, a desperate grasping at some token that for a brief time she had truly loved and been loved.
Erik pushed open the common room door and carried another cask of ordinary wine behind the bar, setting it at Milo’s feet. The old man removed the empty cask from the barrel rack and moved it aside, while Erik easily lifted the new one into its place. Placing a clean tap against the bung, Milo drove it home with a single blow from a wooden mallet, then poured himself a small cup to test the content. Making a face, he said, “Why, in the midst of the finest wine in the world, do we drink this?”
Erik laughed. “Because it’s all we can afford, Milo.”
The innkeeper shrugged. “You have an irritating habit of being honest.” Smiling, he said, “Well, it’s all the same for effect, then, isn’t it? Three mugs of this will get you just as tipsy as three mugs of the Baron’s finest, won’t they?”
At mention of the Baron, Erik’s face lost its merry expression. “I wouldn’t know,” he said as he turned away.
Milo put his hand on Erik’s shoulder, restraining him. “Sorry, lad.”
Erik shrugged. “No slight intended, Milo—none taken.”
“Why don’t you give yourself a break,” said the innkeeper. “I can sense things are quieting down.”
This brought a grin from Erik, for the sound in the common room was close to deafening, with laughter, animated conversation, and general rowdiness the norm. “If you say so.”
Erik moved around from behind the bar, then pushed through the common room, and as he reached the door, Rosalyn threw him an accusatory look. He mouthed, “I’ll be back,” and she threw her gaze heavenward a moment in feigned aggravation. Then she was again grabbing mugs off tables, heading back toward the bar.
The night was cool; fall was full upon them. At any moment it might turn bitter cold in the mountains of Darkmoor. Though they were not as high as the Calastius to the west or the Teeth of the World in the far north, still snow graced the peaks in the colder winters, and frost was a worry to growers in any season but summer.
Erik moved toward the town square, and as he anticipated, a few boys and girls still sat around the edge of the fountain before the Growers’ and Vintners’ Hall. Roo was speaking in low tones to a girl who managed to laugh at his suggestion while keeping an askance expression on her face. She was also employing her hands to good effect, limiting Roo’s to acceptable portions of her anatomy.
Erik said, “Evening, Roo. Gwen.”
The girl’s expression brightened as Erik came into view. One of the prettier girls in town, with red hair and large green eyes, Gwen had attempted to catch Erik’s eye on more than one occasion. She called his name as she firmly pushed Roo’s hands away. A few of the other youngsters of the town greeted the blacksmith’s helper, and Roo said, “Finished at the inn?”
Erik shook his head. “Just a break. I’ll have to head back in a few minutes. Thought I’d get some air. Gets very smoky in there, and the noise . . .”
Gwen was about to speak when something in Roo’s expression caused both her and Erik to turn. Coming into the light of the torches set around the fountain were two figures, dressed in fine clothing, swords swinging at their sides.
Gwen came to her feet and attempted an awkward curtsy. Others followed, but Erik stood silently, and Roo sat open-mouthed.
Stefan and Manfred von Darkmoor looked around the gathered boys and girls, roughly the same age as themselves, but their demeanor and finery set them apart as clearly as if they had been swans moving among geese and ducks in a pond. They had obviously been drinking from the way they moved, with the careful control of one who is masking intoxication.