From there, things got far more complicated than even most of these professional mercenaries were used to.
Beaker coughed, scratched his head, and turned his weary donkey in to what passed for a stableman at the Wheat Sheaf inn. The stableman here was, like most of the clients, of farm stock; and probably had never even seen a warhorse up close, much less handled one. Beaker's dusty donkey was far more in his line of expertise. The 'stable' was a packed-earth enclosure with a watering trough and a pile of hay currently being shared by three other mangy little donkeys and a brace of oxen. Beaker had serious second and third thoughts about this being the contact point for a rebel force, but the instructions had said the Wheat Sheaf and specified the stable-man as the contact.
'Ye wanta watch that one,' Beaker drawled, handing the wizened peasant the rough rope of the donkey's halter with one hand, and four coins with the other -- three copper pennies and one bronze Hawk-piece. 'She'll take revenge if she even thinks ye're gonna lay hand to 'er.'
'Oh, aye, I know th' type,' the fellow replied, grinning, and proving that a good half of his teeth had gone with his lost youth. 'Ol' girl like this, she hold a grudge till judgment day, eh?' He pocketed all four coins without a comment.
Well, that was the proper sign and counter. Beaker felt some of his misgivings slide away, and ambled on into the dark cave of the rough-brick inn.
Like most of its ilk, it had two floors, each one large room. The upper would have pallets for sleeping; the lower had a huge fireplace at one end where a stout middle-aged woman was tending an enormous pot and a roast of some kind. It was filled with clumsy benches and trestle tables now, but after the inn shut down for the night, those that could not afford a pallet upstairs would be granted leave to sleep on table, bench, or floor beneath for half the price of a pallet. Opposite the fireplace was the 'bar'; a stack of beer kegs and a rack of mugs, presided over by the innkeeper.
Beaker debated looking prosperous, when his stomach growled and made the decision for him. He paid the innkeeper for a mug of beer, a bowl of soup and a slice of roast; the man took his money, gave him his drink and a slice of not-too-stale bread. Beaker slid his pack off his back, rummaged his own bowl and spoon out of it, then shrugged it back on before weaving his way through the tables to the monarch of the 'kitchen.'
Rather to his surprise -- the inn staff of places like this one were rather notorious for being surly -- the woman gave him a broad smile along with a full bowl, and put a reasonably generous slice of meat on his bread. Juggling all three carefully, he took a seat as near to the door as possible, and sat down to eat.
The food was another pleasant surprise; fresh and tasty and stomach-filling. And the inn was cool after the heat and dust of the road. The beer was doing a respectable job of washing the grit out of his throat. Beaker was about halfway through his meal when her heard someone come up behind him.
'How's the food t'day, sojer?'
Beaker grinned and turned in his seat. 'Kyra, when are you gonna get rid of that damn accent?'
'When cows fly, prob'ly. Makes me fit in here though.' She straddled the bench beside him a mug and bowl of her own in hand. 'Eat here ev'ry chance I get. Ma Kemak, she sure can cook. Pa Kemak don' water the beer, neither. Finish that up, boy. We gotta get you off th' street soon's we can.' She set him a good example by nearly inhaling her soup.
From the inn Kyra led Beaker on a rambling stroll designed to shake off or bore any pursuit, bringing him at last to the stableyard entrance of a wealthy merchant. A murmured word with the chief stableman got them inside; from there they slipped in the servant's door and climbed a winding staircase to the attic of the house. Normally a room like this was crowded with the accumulated junk of several generations, now it was barren except for a line of pallets. There were only two windows -- both shuttered -- but there was enough light that Beaker could recognize most of those sprawled about the room.
'Beat you, Birdbrain,' Garth mocked from a corner; looking around, Beaker could see that a good half of the pallets were occupied -- and that evidently, he was the last of Tarma's scout troop to arrive.
'Well, hell, if they'd given me somethin' besides a half-dead dwarf donkey t' get here on -- '
'No excuse,' Jodi admonished. 'Tresti and I were Shayana mendicants; we came here on our own two feet.'
'Beaker, what have you got in the way of arms?' asked someone off on the opposite side of the room; peering through the attic gloom. Beaker could make out that the speaker was a skirmisher he knew vaguely, a Hawk called Vasely.
'One short knife, and my sword,' he replied. 'And I've got my brigandine under this shirt.'
'Get over here and pick out what you want, then. Take whatever you think you can use, we aren't short of anything but swords and body-armor.'
Beaker crossed the attic, picking his way among the pallets, and sorted through the piles of arms. Shortly thereafter he was being caught up on the developments by his fellow scouts.
