‘Almost took my fingers off there,’ Fletcher observed as the smell of cooking venison wafted under his nose.
He reached into the bag again to see what other food was in there. He felt something that jingled and pulled out a heavy purse.
‘Oh, Berdon, you didn’t,’ Fletcher murmured in wonder.
But he had. From what Fletcher could see, it was over a thousand shillings, almost a year’s wage for Berdon. Even knowing that his business would soon be under threat, the man had given Fletcher a good chunk of his savings. Fletcher almost wished he could go back and return it, then remembered the three hundred shillings he had saved up for the jacket, still sitting in his room. Hopefully Berdon would find it, and the rest of Fletcher’s old possessions would likely fetch some money as well.
‘What else have you given me . . . ’ Fletcher whispered. He picked up the second gift and shook it, feeling something soft and light. There was a note pinned to it, which Fletcher tore off and read by the flickering firelight.
Tears dripped on to the letter as Fletcher folded it, his heart full of longing for home. He opened the gift and sobbed as he saw the jacket he had wanted, burying his hands in the soft inner lining.
‘You were a better father to me than my true father could ever have been,’ Fletcher whispered, looking up at the mountains. Somehow, the words he had left unsaid over the years were what he regretted the most.
The demon began to mewl at Fletcher’s misery, licking his fingers in sympathy. Fletcher patted its head and shuffled closer to the fire, allowing himself a few minutes of sadness. Then he wiped tears from his eyes, put on the jacket and pulled the hood over his head. His heart filled with resolve. He was going to make a new life, one that Berdon would be proud of. He was going to make it to Corcillum.
14
The tavern reeked of unwashed men and stale beer, but then Fletcher supposed he didn’t smell too rosy himself. Two weeks of travelling in a wagon full of sheep did that to a body. The only fresh air he had managed the entire time was when he went out to buy cheap bread and thick slices of salted pork from the locals. He had been lucky; the cart driver had asked no questions, only charging five shillings and asking that Fletcher muck out the dung from the back every time they stopped.
Now he sat in the corner of one of Corcillum’s cheap taverns, relishing the taste of warm lamb and potato broth. He had barely seen any of the city yet, instead entering the first tavern he could find. Tonight he would pay for a room and have a hot bath brought up; exploring could wait until tomorrow. He felt like the stink of sheep had become permanently ingrained in his skin. Even the imp was reluctant to venture out from its customary place within the confines of his hood. In the end he had to bribe it with the last of his salt pork, feeding it until it fell asleep.
Still, the little creature had made the long, dark journey bearable, curling up in his lap to sleep in the cold of night. Fletcher could share in its feelings of warmth and contentment, even while he shivered in the soiled straw of the cart.
‘One shilling,’ said a woman’s voice from above him. A waitress held out a grimy hand, pointing at his food with the other. Fletcher dug into his bag and pulled out the heavy purse, then dropped a shilling into her waiting fingers.
‘No tip? With all that silver?’ she screeched, then strode off, drawing looks from other patrons in the tavern. Three hard-looking men paid particular attention. Their clothes were dirty, and their hair hung in greasy locks around their heads. Fletcher grimaced and stowed his purse.
They had never needed pennies up in the mountains. Everything was priced in shillings; pennies complicated things. It was one hundred copper pence to a silver shilling and five shillings to a gold sovereign in the big cities of Hominum, but Fletcher’s purse contained only silver. He would ask for change when he paid for his room, so that this didn’t happen again. It was frustrating to make such an obvious mistake, but he couldn’t exactly tip her with the same cost as his meal now, could he?
Another man seated behind the three vagrants was still staring at Fletcher. He was handsome but fearsome looking, his chiselled face marred by a scar that extended from the centre of his right eyebrow down to the corner of his mouth, leaving a blind, milky eye in its wake. He had a pencil-thin moustache and curling black hair that was tied in a knot at the nape of his neck. The uniform he wore marked him as an officer of some kind; a long blue coat bordered with red lapels and gold buttons. Fletcher could see a black tricorn hat laid on the bar in front of him.