“And I am glad to see you alive and well, Master Pito,” the elfess replied with a polite smile. “How are things at the inn?”
“We get by well enough and just about make ends meet.”
“Don’t give us the poor mouth,” Ell said with a smile. “You’ve put on weight in the half year since we were last here.”
“What do you mean?” the innkeeper protested, brushing aside the comment from Miralissa’s bodyguard. “That’s just from the worry of everything! Oh! Tresh Miralissa has brought some new travelers to my establishment! But where are the ones who were here last year? I can only see their lordships Egrassa and Ell.”
“They are no longer with us,” Miralissa replied reluctantly.
I didn’t know this part of the story, but from the fragmentary phrases that the dark elfess had let slip in conversation with me, I realized all the companions who left the Forests of Zagraba with her, apart from Egrassa and Ell, had been left behind in the snows of the Needles of Ice. Only three elves and Uncle’s platoon, who had accompanied Miralissa to Avendoom, had escaped alive from the Deserted Lands.
“What a catastrophe!” the innkeeper exclaimed, wringing his hands. “How could that have happened?”
“Why don’t you show us our rooms, Master Pito?” Egrassa suggested.
“Oh!” said the innkeeper, realizing that he had touched a sore spot. “I beg you most humbly to forgive my curiosity. Please follow me, good gentlemen. I’ve already given one of your companions his room. And poured beer for him!”
“Who have you given a room to, good master?” Markauz asked suspiciously, narrowing his eyes and lowering his hand to his sword.
“Have I done something wrong?” the innkeeper asked in dismay, stopping dead on the spot. “He arrived and said he was with you and—”
“Who arrived?” Count Alistan interrupted him.
“Why, I arrived, Milord Alistan, I did!” said Loudmouth, emerging from the door of the inn with a mug of beer in his hand.
“Oho!” said Arnkh with a sharp intake of breath. “You move like greased lightning! I expected you this evening.”
“How’s the girlfriend?” Lamplighter asked as he walked past Loudmouth and then disappeared through the door of the inn without hearing his reply.
“I didn’t go to see any girlfriend,” Loudmouth protested feebly.
“Of course not. You went mushroom-picking,” said Marmot as he followed Mumr inside.
“Come in, gentlemen, come in!” said Pito, feeling firm ground under his feet again. “All the rooms have been made ready.”
Kli-Kli gazed round at the group with his blue eyes and asked: “Nobody objects if I stay in Harold and Lamplighter’s room, do they?”
Of course no one objected.
The main hall of the inn was the size of a city square; there were chandeliers with candles up under the ceiling, sturdy chairs with carved openwork backs, long benches, and stout tables. There was a huge owl carved out of a single tree trunk hanging on one of the walls, a staircase leading up to the second floor, a bar counter, and a strong oak door leading to the kitchen.
“Do you have many guests, Master Pito?” Count Markauz asked, taking off his leather gloves and tossing them onto the nearest table.
“No one, apart from you.”
“How so?” asked the captain of the royal guard, raising one eyebrow in amazement. “Is business really going that badly?”
“Don’t be concerned, milord!” the innkeeper said with a cunning smile. “Tresh Miralissa paid the inn’s expenses for two years in advance.”
“We decided to make the Learned Owl what you humans would call our headquarters,” Egrassa said. “My cousin paid Master Pito not to take in any other guests, and with no one else staying here we can feel perfectly at ease.”
“Master Pito,” said Mumr, leaning on his huge bidenhander, “how about some beer?”
“Why, certainly!” the innkeeper said keenly.
“And a bath to go with the beer,” Uncle put in.
“And a piglet,” Honeycomb added.
“Everything will be ready in literally five minutes!” said the innkeeper, dashing to give instructions to the staff.
When we were all fed and refreshed, I walked to the farthest table, leaned back blissfully against the back of a chair, and hesitated for a moment before taking out the plans of Hrad Spein. I hadn’t been able to study the maps of the deep labyrinth of burial grounds properly. But now at last I had a free moment to take a close look at the scrolls that I had worked so hard to get.
“Harold, stop poring over those papers. You’ll have time for that later. Are you coming with us?”
“Where?” I asked, looking up at Kli-Kli.
“To take Hallas to the barber.”
“We’re not seeing him off on his final journey. What do you need me for?”
Kli-Kli moved up close, looked around conspiratorially, and whispered, “Deler says the gnome’s terribly afraid. We might have to hold him.”
“Then take Honeycomb,” I said, trying to get rid of the jester. “He’s big enough to restrain five gnomes.”
“Honeycomb won’t lift his backside off his bench now,” the goblin said in a disappointed voice. “Arnkh, Lamplighter, and Marmot are going off for a walk round the city, the elves and Alistan aren’t here to ask—they’re busy searching for provisions for the next stage of the journey. And Loudmouth and Uncle will swig beer until they burst. Who else can I ask but you?”
“Eel,” I said, nodding in the direction of the swarthy Garrakian.
“He’s already coming with us.”
“And you don’t think he’ll be enough?”
After the long journey I wasn’t exactly burning with desire to go anywhere.
“Come on, Harold! Deler especially wants you to come.”
I snarled at the goblin, but I still picked the papers up off the table, wrapped them in drokr, and put them back in my bag.
“Let’s go!” Hallas hissed when Kli-Kli and I walked over to him.
“Harold,” Miralissa purred, “don’t forget to leave your crossbow at the inn.”
Name of a h’san’kor! I’d completely forgotten about my little darling!
I really didn’t want to part with the expensive and very necessary item. Without my crossbow hanging at my back I felt naked and defenseless.
“And leave your blade as well,” said Ell as he watched me hand my weapon to Uncle.
“Yes, Harold,” Uncle confirmed, “you’ll have to forget about the knife, too.”
“We’ll give you something a bit less obvious. How about a fork?” Kli-Kli giggled.
“But why do I have to leave the blade?” I asked, ignoring Kli-Kli’s jibe and looking at Miralissa’s yellow-eyed k’lissang.
“It’s longer than allowed.”
I was reluctantly obliged to leave the knife in Uncle’s care, too.
“Honeycomb,” said Marmot, addressing Uncle’s deputy, “throw my bag over here; we can’t let Harold go wandering the streets without a weapon.” Marmot caught the bag when it was tossed to him, rummaged in it, and fished out a dagger in a simple, well-worn sheath.
“Here, take that.”
I took the weapon and pulled it halfway out of the sheath.
“Ruby blood?”
“Canian forgework. Good steel.”
“Ooh, look at that! Just like Alistan’s sword!” the jester exclaimed with an admiring whistle when he saw the
