“Visitors.” Brom waved offhandedly, not stopping. “Hungry visitors, Philp. Can’t stop. Have to offer some breakfast before they fall flat.” Then, as the road turned to come back above the sweeper, “Nice fella, that. Cloth merchant. ‘Course, most of us in Bloome are, come to that.”
We approached the portal and were admitted to the courtyard through a narrow door set in the greater one. Queynt unharnessed the birds, refusing the assistance of a rat-faced stableman, and left them to guard the wagon. We hadn’t walked twenty paces down a corridor after Brom when a terrified squeal from the courtyard brought us back. The rat-faced man lay supine beside the wagon, a large bird’s foot planted on his belly. “I was just having a look at the wagon, having a look, that’s all.”
“I wouldn’t,” said Queynt cheerfully. “The birds don’t like it.”
Brom’s face was not quite as cheerful as he led us the rest of the way to the dining room. He left us there while he spoke to certain kitchen people, obtaining enough reassurance from that to regain his grin by the time he returned. “Breakfast coming,” he said. “Baths if you want them. Then—why, then I can lend you some clothes to wander about town, if you like.” He seemed almost to be holding his breath as he awaited our response.
“Perhaps after we’ve eaten,” I said firmly, in a don’t-contradict-me voice. “We’ll talk about it then. And we would appreciate a bath, if you don’t mind.” Thinking it would be the one way we could get off to ourselves.
Which I, but only I, achieved after refusing an officious offer of service from a chambermaid. Brom accompanied the men to their bath and stayed with them. Peter told me later he thought Brom would probably have washed their backs for them given half an opportunity. They came back for me when they were clean and brushed, and without ceremony I invited Peter and Queynt inside, saying, “Excuse us a moment, Brom. There are a few things we need to discuss ...” waving him away with Chance, hearing Chance’s voice start up immediately.
“This is a city worth seeing, sure enough, friend Brom, but let me tell you about the city of Cleers. Well, now...”
“For heaven’s sake, Jinian. What’s the matter?” Peter knew from my expression I was bothered.
“I have a notion of trouble, and the man’s a liar.”
Queynt was examining the room for hidden panels or grills. “What do your notions tell you, friend Jinian?”
“Hints only, but worth considering. Whatever the Merchant’s man is up to, it isn’t what he says he’s up to. I suggest we go wary, Peter, wary.”
“Seems a nice-enough fellow.”
“I’m telling you.”
“I hear you. Seems determined to get us to wear his old clothes, doesn’t he?”
“That, yes. Among other things.”
“You think he’s connected to this Dream Miner nemesis of yours?”
“Could be.”
“A lot of villainy to lay on one strangely dressed fellow.”
“I know. He may not be involved at all, but he’s mighty sweaty and eager over something. It’s that which bothers me. He’s trying to use us for ends of his own, all excited over some possibility or other. Go wary, folk. That’s all. Don’t eat anything I don’t.” I laid down my hairbrush, threw my hair over my shoulder, and led the way to the door. “I thank him for the bath, at least. It’s been a while.” I scarce knew myself these days, so breezy and casual I’d become. It was the only way I could manage to get along with Peter, I’d found. Intensity itched at him, and since my celibacy oath prevented our being . . . well, closer than mere friends, it was better not to itch at him with things he could do little about. So, I’d adopted this manner, this easy loquacity, which sometimes rubbed me raw. Now, for example, all I wanted to do was huddle in the room with the others discussing all the possibilities and deciding what to do next. It’s my basic nature to be a long thinker and slow mover; it’s more Peter’s nature to push at things and see what happens, getting himself out of scrape after scrape by pure intuition and flashes of sudden, inspired fire.
Queynt merely watches a lot of the time, humming to himself often, as though he were invulnerable and it didn’t matter what we do. He did so now, probably wondering what Brom planned to give us for breakfast.
While in the bath, I had wrought a small spell over my lips, Fire Is Sparkening, setting them to burn if they touched anything unhealthful. So, I tried the sliced thrilps in syrup, finding them delicious, and the whipped eggs and sliced, smoked zeller, finding them likewise, the menfolk politely letting me eat first. Seemingly, I had worried over nothing. That is, until I raised the teacup and felt more than a natural heat from its steam. I coughed.
“This tea,” I said, allowing my voice to complain a little. “It has an odd smell, friend Brom. Acrid. Something I’ve smelt before but don’t remember where. I think it must have become spoiled somehow. Here, smell it?” Holding it out to him so that, perforce, he must sniff at it and make up a puzzled face. “Yes? I thought so. I have some lovely stuff we bought in Zinter, and I’ll just whip into your kitchen and brew some for us all.” Brom did not drink the tea he had sniffed, nor did he insist the others do so, regarding me glumly when I returned with a steaming, well-rinsed pot.
“Your kitchen help seem oddly depressed, Brom. Is it all these festivals? Hard on kitchen people, I’ve always thought.” Passing
