“Filthy little elf,” Drake said. “Where’d you get the money?”
“I said leave him be, Drake,” Hall persisted.
“I think he stole it,” Drake said, and pulled a dagger from his belt.
The unarmed elf stood fearfully still, his eyes darting back and forth between the men who menaced him and the door to the inn.
“Drake?” Hall said in a lower, more serious tone. “You leave him be, or I swear you’ll never be served here again.”
Drake looked up to see Hall, who was considerably larger than he, holding a butcher knife.
“You wanna go find him in the woods later, that’s your business. But I won’t have no fighting in my place.” Drake put the dagger away. “Go on, get out,” Hall told the elf, who carefully moved past the men and slipped back out the door.
“Was that really an elf?” Myron asked, astonished.
“They’re half-breeds,” Hadrian replied. “Most people don’t believe pure-blood elves exist anymore.”
“I actually pity them,” Albert said. “They were slaves back in the days of the empire. Did you know that?”
“Well, actually, I—” Myron started, but he stopped short when he saw the slight shake of Royce’s head and the look on his face.
“Why pity them?” Alric asked. “They were no worse off than the serfs and villeins we have today. And now they are free, which is more than the villeins can say.”
“Villeins are bound to the land, true, but they aren’t slaves,” Albert said, correcting him. “They can’t be bought and sold; their families aren’t torn apart, and they aren’t bred like livestock and kept in pens or butchered for entertainment. I heard they used to do that to the elves, and sure, they’re free now, but they aren’t allowed to be part of society. They can’t find work, and you just saw what they have to go through just to get food.”
Royce’s expression had grown colder than usual, and Hadrian knew it was time to change the subject. “You wouldn’t know it to look at him,” he said, “but Albert here is a nobleman. He’s a viscount.”
“Viscount Winslow?” Alric said. “Of what holding?”
“Sad to say, none,” Albert replied before taking a large drink of ale. “Granddad, Harlan Winslow, lost the family plot when he fell out of favor with the King of Warric. Although, truth be told, I don’t think it was ever anything to boast about. From what I heard, it was a rocky patch of dirt on the Bernum River. King Ethelred of Warric gobbled it up a few years ago.
“Ah, the stories my father told me of Grandfather’s trials and tribulations trying to live with the shame of being a landless noble. My dad inherited a little money from him, but he squandered it trying to keep up the pretense he was still a wealthy nobleman. I myself have no problem swallowing my pride if it will fill my stomach.” Albert squinted at Alric. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”
“If we did, I’m certain it was in passing,” Alric replied.
The meal arrived and chewing replaced conversation. The food was nothing special: a portion of slightly overcooked ham, boiled potatoes, cabbage, onions, and a loaf of old bread. Yet after nearly two days of eating only a few potatoes, Hadrian considered it a feast. As the light outside faded, the inn boy began lighting the candles on each table, and they took the opportunity to order another pitcher.
While sitting there relaxing, Hadrian noticed Royce repeatedly looking out the window. After the third glance, Hadrian leaned over to see what was so compelling. With the darkness outside, the window was like a mirror. All he could see was his own face.
“When was The Rose and Thorn raided?” Royce asked.
Albert shrugged. “Two or three days ago, I guess.”
“I meant, what time of day?”
“Oh, evening. At sunset, I believe, or just after. I suppose they wanted to catch the dinner crowd.” Albert paused and sat up suddenly as his expression of contentment faded into one of concern. “Oh—ah … I hate to eat and run, but if it’s all right with you boys, I’m going to make myself scarce again.” He got up and exited quickly through the rear door. Royce glanced outside again and appeared agitated.
“What is it?” Alric asked.
“We have company. Everyone stay calm until we see which way the wind is blowing.”
The door to the Silver Pitcher burst open, and eight men dressed in byrnie with tabards bearing the Melengar falcon poured into the room. They flipped over a few tables near the door, scattering drinks and food everywhere. Soldiers brandishing swords glowered at the patrons. No one in the inn moved.
“In the name of the king, this inn and all its occupants are to be searched. Those resisting or attempting to flee will be executed!”
The soldiers broke into groups. One began pulling men from their tables and shoved them against the wall, forming a line. Others charged up the steps to the loft, while a third set descended into the tavern’s cellar.