“It’s about time I got back,” Alric told him, “but not before I eat. Does this place have decent food?”
“Does it matter?” Hadrian chuckled. “I’d be happy for a bit of three-day-ripe field mouse at this point. Come on, we can have a last meal together, which, since you have no money on you, I’ll be paying for. I hope you’ll let me deduct it from my taxes.”
“No need. We’ll tack it on to the job as an additional expense,” Royce interjected. He looked at Alric and added, “You haven’t forgotten you still owe us one hundred tenents, have you?”
“You’ll get paid. I’ll have my uncle set the money aside. You can pick it up at the castle.”
“I hope you don’t mind if we wait a few days, just to make sure.”
“Of course not.” The prince nodded.
“And if we send a representative to pick up the money for us?” Royce asked. Alric stared at him. “One who has no idea how to find us in case he is captured?”
“Oh please, aren’t you being just a tad bit too cautious now?”
“No such thing,” Royce replied.
“Look!” Myron shouted suddenly, pointing at the stable.
All three of them jumped fearfully at the sudden outburst.
“There’s a brown horse!” the monk said in amazement. “I didn’t know they came in brown!”
“By Mar, monk!” Alric shook his head in disbelief, a gesture Royce and Hadrian mirrored.
“Well, I didn’t,” Myron replied sheepishly. His excitement, however, was still evident when he added, “What other colors do they come in? Is there a green horse? A blue one? I would so love to see a blue one.”
Royce went inside and returned a few minutes later. “Everything looks all right. A bit crowded, but I don’t see anything too out of the ordinary. Alric, be sure to keep your hood up and either spin your ring so the insignia is on the inside of your hand, or better yet, remove it altogether until you get home.”
Just inside the inn was a small stone foyer, where several cloaks and coats hung on a forest of wall pegs. A handful of walking sticks of various shapes and sizes rested on a rack to one side. Above, a shelf held an assortment of tattered hats and gloves.
Myron stood just inside the door, gaping at his surroundings. “I read about inns,” he said. “In Pilgrims’ Tales, a group of wayward travelers spend a night at an inn, where they decided to tell stories of their journeys. They made a wager for the best one. It’s one of my favorites, although the abbot didn’t much care for my reading it. It was a bit bawdy. There were several accounts about women in those pages and not in a wholesome fashion either.” He scanned the crowd excitedly. “Are there women here?”
“No,” Hadrian replied sadly.
“Oh. I was hoping to see one. Do they keep them locked up as treasures?”
Hadrian and the others just laughed.
Myron looked at them, mystified, then shrugged. “Even so, this is wonderful. There’s so much to see! What’s that smell? It’s not food, is it?”
“Pipe smoke,” Hadrian explained. “It probably was not a popular activity at the abbey.”
A half dozen tables filled the small room. A slightly askew stone fireplace with silver tankards dangling from mantel hooks dominated one wall. Next to it stood the bar, which was built from rough and unfinished tree logs complete with bark. Some fifteen patrons lined the room, a handful of whom watched the group enter with passing interest. Most were rough stock, woodsmen, laborers, and traveling tinkers. The pipe smoke came from a few gruff men seated near the log bar, and a cloud of it hovered at eye level throughout the room, producing an earthy smell that mingled with that of the burning wood of the fireplace and the sweet scent of baking bread. Royce led them to an open round table near the window, where they could see the horses outside.
“I’ll order us something,” Hadrian volunteered.
“This is a beautiful place,” Myron declared, his eyes darting about the room. “There is so much going on, so many conversations. Speaking at meals wasn’t allowed at the abbey, so it was always deathly silent. Of course, we got around that rule by using sign language. It used to drive the abbot crazy, because we were supposed to be focusing on Maribor, but there are times when you simply have to ask someone to pass the salt.”
No sooner had Hadrian reached the bar than he felt someone press up behind him menacingly.
“You should be more careful, my friend,” a man whispered softly.
Hadrian turned slowly and chuckled when he saw who it was. “I don’t have to, Albert. I have a shadow who watches my back.” Hadrian gestured toward Royce, who had slipped up behind the viscount.
Albert, who wore a dirty, tattered cloak with the hood pulled up, turned to face a scowling Royce. “I was just making a joke.”
“What are you doing here?” Royce whispered.
“Hiding—” Albert started, but he fell quiet when the bartender came over with a pitcher of foaming beer and four mugs.
“Have you eaten?” Hadrian asked.