Reaching the inn, Camille stepped in the foyer and waited patiently amid the bustle of rooms being assigned and luggage being claimed and people declaring just how good it was to be out of the coach at last.
“I need a bath,” said one of the women.
“Me too,” murmured Camille to Scruff. “If there is one thing I did come to appreciate at Summerwood Manor, it was the taking of daily baths, a luxury quite unavailable, it seems, when one takes on a quest
…” She glanced sideways at the sparrow, who peered with beady eyes back at her. “But not unavailable to you, my wee little friend,” Camille added in afterthought, “you who can bathe in nought but a cup, or flop about in fine dust.”
In that moment-“Ma’amselle, you are next”-she was called forward by the lady of the inn.
“If you’ll come with me, my little poppet,” slurred the portly man, leering at her, and then at the serving maid as she delivered another bottle of wine, “perhaps then I’ll remember.”
“Ah, non, m’sieur,” declined Camille, sighing and stepping away, for he was the last of the passengers. She had asked all the others, some hesitant to respond, peering at her suspiciously. What would a fille like you want with such? some had asked, while others simply shook their heads and kept on eating.
Camille finally returned to her own table, and as the serving girl set a plate of bread and cheese and scallions and beef before her, Camille said. “Ma’amselle, would you know where the driver of the coach might be? It occurs to me that he may have travelled far in his life and seen much.”
“Call me Lili, my lady. And you are correct: Louis has travelled far, and he might know of this place you seek.” She made an apologetic gesture. “I could not but help overhear. As to Louis’ whereabouts, I would suggest you try L’Auge d’Or.”
“Where might this Golden Trough be?”
Lili pointed. “Down the street, just across from the stables. That’s where Louis and the others go after they see to the horses. But rather than waiting for the morrow, ma’amselle, you should ask him this eve, for he and his coach with its passengers will be off just after first light.”
“How often do coaches come through?”
“Lili!” called the innkeeper.
Lili glanced over her shoulder at the man, then took up her tray and said, “Once every fortnight or thereabout, at times more often, at other times less, though Louis comes through but once every six moons or so, for he makes quite long runs. Pardonnez-moi, ma’amselle, but I must go.”
“Merci, Lili.”
The serving girl grinned and curtseyed, then hurried away.
Louis, a stocky man with shag of brown hair hanging down, peered deeply into his tankard of ale, then shook his head. “Non, I know of no such place. But if you ask me, this is not a town where you are likely to find an answer to where it might be, ma’amselle. Too small and out of the way, this village, more of a hamlet to my way of thinking.” He took a swig, and then fixed Camille with his dark brown eyes. “If I were you, I’d go to a notable city, where you are more likely to come across those who can aid you: mapmakers, loremasters at the academies, merchants who import goods from afar as well as the folk who bring those goods, traders and travellers and other such world-wise sorts. Too, you’ll find Elves and Dwarves and other Fey, as well as those of us who are of the common salt, and surely among such an assortment, your answer will be found.”
“Sieur, I am newly come unto Faery, and I know little of cities herein. I would appreciate any advice you might have.”
“Well, my coach is bound for Les Iles, a city of some noteworthiness.”
“The Isles?”
“Aye. So named for it is built entirely on a number of islands at the confluence of four grand rivers. ’Tis these rivers which make it one of the great trading centers of Faery.”
“Might there be minstrels there?” asked Camille.
Louis laughed. “Oh, yes, minstrels galore, for there are more inns and taverns and theaters there than you can shake a stick at. Many minstrels on street corners, too, singing for a copper or three, minstrels in the parks as well… perhaps even this bard you name, um…”
“Rondalo,” said Camille.
“Yes. Mayhap he would be there as well, though if he is a true bard, ’tis not likely will you find him on a street corner, but in a great inn, or a music hall, or such.”
“Ah, then, I shall go, if you have room in your coach.”
“I do, for it will bear ten, and there are but seven now.” Then Louis took a deep breath and frowned. “About the fare, ma’amselle, it is quite expensive to travel so far.”
“Expensive?”
“Albert,” called Louis, “the fare from here to Les Iles, how much?”
Across the common room, Albert, the coachman’s aid, the one who had sounded the trumpet, consulted a small book. “Twelve silvers,” he called back.
Louis waved his thanks. “There you have it, ma’amselle: twelve silvers, or a gold and two, or the equivalent in bronzes, or however you can manage your funds.-Oh, and you are responsible for your own meals and lodging along the way. It is, as I said, quite expensive in all.”
Camille smiled. “I can pay. Yet would you charge me for my sparrow?”
“You travel with a sparrow? A true sparrow?” Louis held thumb and finger some three or four inches apart.
Camille nodded. “He is in my chamber at the Blue Bull and quite sound asleep, I believe.”
Louis grinned. “For the sparrow, nought, but mind you, I would not have him disturb the other passengers.”
Camille grinned in return. “I assure you, sieur, he is quite well-behaved.”
“Then, Ma’amselle, um ah…”
“Camille.”
“Then, Ma’amselle Camille, you must be on hand just after break of fast on the morrow, for we leave in the early morn.”
Camille stood. “I shall be ready, sieur, and merci. The advice you have given is quite good.”
Louis raised his tankard in a toast to Camille, then quaffed all down.
After she and Scruff broke their fast, Camille settled her bill with the innkeeper. And just as the red coach pulled up in front of the Blue Bull, through the open door, Camille saw an ample, black-haired woman hasten past, her head down in her hurry.
As Camille took up her gear from the floor before the counter, suddenly her eyes widened in recognition. Blanche!
Camille turned and called out. “Blanche! It’s Camille!”
Quickly, Camille ran to the door and out. The woman, bearing a small basket, hastened down the street.
“Blanche!”
The woman hurried on without pausing.
Camille rushed after, calling out, “Blanche! Oh, Blanche!”
Just at the doorway to the stables, Camille caught the woman by the arm, and, startled, she turned. With Scruff scrambling to retain his perch, Camille fiercely embraced the woman. “Oh, Blanche, I’ve missed you so, and-”
“Ma’amselle,” said the woman, struggling, pulling away, looking with apprehensive eyes at this madwoman with a chattering sparrow on her shoulder, “I know you not.”
“But Blanche, it’s me, Camille. Do you not recogni-?”
“Is aught amiss, wife?” came a deep voice. Wearing a leather apron and holding a horseshoe in one hand and a hammer in another, a portly, dark-haired man stepped out from the very first stall.
“Renaud!” Camille started toward the smith, but he threw up a staying hand.
“I am sorry, mademoiselle, but you have me at a disadvantage. And my name is Georges, not Renaud.”
“Nor am I this Blanche you name me,” said the woman, edging past Camille to stand behind her husband.
Camille could not believe what they said, for her eyes told her differently. “But you are Renaud and Blanche! Don’t you know me? We are good friends, and we all lived together at Summerwood Manor for more than a year,
