They had not finished their meal when a commotion rose outside and the sound of bounding armor clattered against the door. Inney stood as the door opened and in came a man, thin and tall and jittery. He shut the door behind and righted himself.
“Treorai, th-the-there’s a s-s-satyr. Loose in the town. It—”
A knock came at the door. The guard pulled his sword and swung around, pointing it shakily at the door. The knock came again and Síocháin stood. She walked calmly to the door and put her hand to the latch.
“Some room, if you please, guardsman.” Rianaire said, shooing him back.
He stumbled back in bewildered compliance and Síocháin opened the door. A tall, slender figure in a hood stood in the doorway, too tall to be seen completely. The figure ducked and stepped into the room, hooves clacking against the floor. A head was thrown on the floor in front of the guard who still had his sword pointed as best as he could manage at their new guest. It rolled to a stop and Rianaire glanced over to it. A satyr head, from the looks of it, with the eyes gouged out. The hood was removed and tossed aside.
“Gadaí, it has been quite some time.” Rianaire smiled. “Come and sit.”
Síocháin moved past her and returned to her seat.
“I have a thirst.” Her voice was as unpleasant as Rianaire remembered but still, she had brought gifts. A welcome sight.
“You heard her,” Rianaire called to the terrified onlookers. “Bring us drink. And another plate of this tomato abomination.”
She heard scuffling behind her and mumbled arguments from the innkeep and the cook. The guard beside her still had his sword aimed at Gadaí.
“Guard, look at me.” Rianaire’s word pulled the guard’s panicked eyes to her. “You are staring at my guest. And it is very rude to stare. Do you understand?”
He looked back at Gadaí and nodded wordlessly, mouth hung open and hands shaking.
“Wonderful. We have no further need for you here. You may go.”
He dropped his sword and scrambled out the door he had come in. When he was gone Rianaire burst into laughter.
“You always make such a wonderful impression, Gadaí. I will never grow tired of it.”
U
Aile
She had climbed onto the horse’s back before unhooking the chariot to keep it from fleeing right away. It had half worked. The animal bucked a few times but quickly tamed itself when the chariot’s yoke dug into its side over and over. There was some sense of training in them it seemed, and though it was uncomfortable with her on its back, it at least understood what was expected of it. She cut the yoke free and kept the long reins wrapped tight around her hand. The same instructions still sent her mount where she intended and before long she was en route to the Bastion City and making far better pace, far more comfortably, than had she been stood in the satyr buggy they insisted on using. In truth, a few hours into the ride, the horse seemed as though it had come to enjoy the freedom that came with only a light rider on its back. It ran faster and responded more readily to her pulls on the reins. Crucially, she could now avoid terrain obstacles. The horse even began to round them by its own volition. Another entirely incorrect aspect of horsefolk culture that they were unlikely to change for sake of their worthless honor. Thinking on it, Aile decided the more likely reason was that the size of the horses did not suit riding by the satyr. The largest among them towered over Aile. Even the cock that had been offered to her a few days’ past was easily the length of her torso. The horse was large for her. Larger than those the elves kept by four hands or more, but still it was manageable.
The small pleasures of being rid of the satyr were what pleased her the most. That the wind did not occasionally waft with the stink of unwashed fur and, if the horse made any noise at all, it was not shrill and insistent. In a way, Aile found herself saddened that the ride could not have been longer. A way to cleanse her mind of the frustration of so much time spent among hippocamps. A part of her even looked forward to being among the elves again. The Low District elves of Fásachbaile’s Bastion City were a particularly stupid set, even as elves went, but they at least made good food and good ale.
Her feelings toward the ride changed when the city walls came into view. A soft bed would do her mind much better than the back of a horse. She pulled the reins back when there were maybe a hundred yards between her and the south gate. The guards watched her intently but did not move out to ask after her or question what she might want. Aile came down from the horse and assembled her belongings into a leather pack she had strapped behind the saddle bags. As she walked toward the gate, she heard the clop of hooves against hard dirt behind her and she turned. The horse, the one which was trained to roam free by the horsefolk, was following her. It turned its head to look her up and down when she stopped. It chuffed and bobbed its head. She started walking again and again the horse kept pace behind her. Aile sighed and continued on to the gate. What could she do? Kill it? Scream at it? Not if she hoped to walk into the Bastion City after.
She came to the guard nearest the left side of the city gates where the wicket was.
