The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two Page 7

  There was nothing for it. He left the door ajar – the room was beginning to ripen but he dared not crack open a window for the day was once again chilly, an easterly blowing hard across the plains between the sea and the mountains.

  He pulled a heavy cloak around his shoulders. He didn’t usually take it from the chest in his own room until the winter months, but it felt cold enough today, and he had chills for other reasons. He had a man he couldn’t wake staying in one of his two rooms, he had no idea if the man could pay, and if he died the villagers were apt to blame Sam. They already looked at him funny sometimes since the last time someone had died in his inn. He was beginning to curse his luck. One dying, well, he could shrug that off. The villagers, superstitious bunch at the best of times, would come back for their mugs and to break bread when the weekday work was ended. Two deaths and the talk would turn from rumour and superstition to fact.

  The last man had been ancient, anyway. There had been nothing he could have done. The old fool had died in the night, in his sleep. It wasn’t like he’d died of starvation or neglect or a stealthy blade between his ribs for his purse.

  Sam Durnborn was proud to think he dealt straight in his business. A man got what he paid for.

  Well, the bard had paid well, he would get what care Sam could give. If he couldn’t pay further, he’d have to work off the expense.

  Sam strode out onto the streets, dried out now from the frigid wind blasting around, back to its usual cracked and potted appearance. He pulled his cloak tighter and headed across the village at a brisk pace until he reached the widow Lowboy’s one-story cottage. The thatch had taken a battering in the storms, but the villagers would help her patch it up. They always did. The widow was a treasure in the village. She alone had the knack of healing. She always seemed to know which herbs would help which ailments.

  Sam suspected a hint of witchcraft accompanied her pastes and potions, but he kept quiet about it. People around these parts were funny about witches. Stories travelled, and legends, and everyone had heard of Haritha the Black.

  He knocked politely, and stood back to wait. After a time the door cracked open and the old lady looked out. She had her cloak on.

  'I was wondering how long it would take you to come calling.'

  Sam smiled. The old widow obviously wasn’t worried about what he thought of her, or she would have waited for him to state his business. The fact of her knowing why he called didn’t bother him. She was a fine old lady, and he would never give credence to any rumours about her. Where he came from, a witch was someone to be treasured.

  'Morning, Shana. I guess you know why I’m here.'

  'No secrets between us, Sam. You just take my arm. I’d have been over sooner but this old wind and this rotten road…well, I can’t afford a tumble at my age. Mind your thoughts!'

  Sam blushed and led her out. 'Nothing on my mind but the man in my bed…and mind your thoughts too, old mother!'

  The widow Lowboy laughed heartily. It was funny, now Sam thought about it, but he didn’t ever remember there being a Mr Lowboy…best keep some thoughts to yourself, he counselled quietly in his head.

  The old woman didn’t actually seem to need Sam’s help, but he held her arm dutifully and led her across the road, then held the door to the inn open for her to come in.

  A few people took note of the old widow crossing the road, and no doubt wondered what sickness had befallen the man in the inn. The bard was no secret. You couldn’t keep a secret in Winslow-by-the-Brook.

  'Thank you, Sam,' said the widow. Her voice was firm and still quite high pitched for an old lady. Sam wondered how old she was, but then that was none of his business. She headed unerringly for the right room. Could have been chance, Sam figured. There were only two guest rooms after all.

  The room was chilly and smelled of man sweat, but the widow didn’t seem to mind the smell. It was the smell of sickness, too, and to Sam’s nose it had gotten worse over the last two days. The bard hadn’t seemed that sick when he had arrived, perhaps a few sniffles. But then there was no telling how long he had been out. There weren’t many places to shelter on the road and the storm had been fierce.

  'He’s got a sickness in his lungs,' she told the innkeeper as she examined the man on the bed. For his part, he didn’t seem aware of what was going on.

  'Have you any smoke wheels?'

  'A few,' replied Sam. 'Not much call for that sort of thing out in the sticks. Narcotics is for city folk, I find.'

  'Maybe, Sam, but you get me as many as you’ve got and bring them here. Go on now.'

  He smiled. He wondered if the old widow had ever had children. She seemed to have the knack of talking to a man like he was one. But he did as bid without complaint, and came back into the room as quick as he could.

  The old woman had taken some dried herbs from a pack and was shredding them by hand.

  'It’s not narcotic, so don’t fret. It’s just herbs, understand?'

  He did, and nodded to say so.

  'His lungs won’t get better on their own. Now, give me those here…'

  He handed her the smoke wheels he had, then watched in silence as she stuffed each one with the funny smelling herbs.

  'There’s five here. If I’ve the right of it they’ll burn for an hour each. I want you to burn each in turn, starting when I go – I can’t stand the stench of it. Keep the door and the window closed. When one goes out, on the hour, you come in and light the next. Now, you understand?'

  'So he breathes in the smoke?'

  'That’s right. This will clear his lungs. When his lungs are clear, the fever will go. Every hour, mind you.'

  'I’ve got you, old mother, you don’t need to harp on,' he said a little more sharply than he intended.

  She just smiled and nodded, her wrinkled old face screwing up as she did so.

  'No, don’t expect I do. You come get me when this lot is done and I’ll come back. He’ll be a-right come nightfall.'

  'I don’t know if he can pay you, old mother.'

  'Well, that don’t matter none because I’m doing this for you. This here man, well, he’s important, but the favour is yours.'

  'Very well…what is the price?'

  'Take that look off your face, Sam, you know I’m no Haritha the Black and I doubt you believe those stories, neither. We understand each other just fine, I think. Just remember this, that’s the price. There’s going to come a time, and soon, if my water’s got the right of it, when it’ll be dangerous to be a woman in my line of work. You just remember what I do here today, and you remember all the times like it to these simple village folk when the time comes. There’s hard days a-coming for my kind. We’ll need folk to remember who we really are, and what we do for them. Yes indeed,' she said, pursing her lips in thought. 'That’s my price. I’ll need a friend, and you’ll be it. Sound fair?'

  Sam smiled. 'Sounds fair, old mother. It’s a bargain.'

  'And don’t you worry no further. I’ll be paid in full, and this man here, well, he’s got the means to be paying you, too. So don’t you fret. For all your grubbing about after gold I see you better than you do yourself, Sam. You’d have looked after this man for free, and deep down you knows it. So don’t go fooling yourself no longer, and the village will come to forget, too. Things’ll soon be back to normal for you.'

  She looked like she was going to say further, but shook her head and rose.

  'You know what to do. So do it.'

  When she had shuffled out, Sam lit the first smoke wheel. The smell was heavy and somehow spicy, but he didn’t risk staying to appreciate the aroma. He closed the door with one final look in on the sleeping, tossing, mumbling man, and left to find some small chore to do to pass an hour.

  *

  Chapter Twenty

  Roskel woke in the middle of the second night. His chest felt as though it had been banded in iron like a keg, but he could breathe more easily than before. He sat up, noticing for the first time the pungent smell about th
e room, and the sickly smell that clung to his body. He sniffed at his armpits and turned his nose up.

  His memory of the past day was hazy. He remembered breakfast with the innkeeper in the morning, but after that there was just a confused jumble of events in his mind. He seemed to remember an old woman leaning over him, and the innkeeper popping his head in a few times. He hoped Durnborn would forgive him this little episode. He was embarrassed to have had to rely on the man’s charity all day. The way the keeper had gone on about his meal times made Roskel think that there would be a reckoning to pay. No doubt some nagging was in order.

  Truth be told he did feel hungry, and he was desperate for the toilet. He rose and realised just how weak he felt. The chill he’d caught had drained him of all his energy. He just needed to feed himself and rest for a while. He’d be right as rain.

  Once he was dressed, Roskel headed out into the common room, looking for Durnborn, but the innkeeper was nowhere to be seen. He listened at a closed door and heard soft snoring from the room within.

  Roskel unbolted the back door and went outside. Once he had relieved himself in the toilet he made his way to the kitchen and scavenged himself a late supper, or an early breakfast. The night was chilly but the fresh air had done him good. His body was tired but he felt quite awake. Sitting in the common room in the gentle glow of the fire’s embers, he set about eating what he’d found, a couple of slices of cold meat and an apple. It would have to do until the suns rose.

  The food was delicious. His mouth felt like it hadn’t eaten for days. His stomach grumbled in appreciation as the food reached it. After his meal he belched heartily, then remembered he wasn’t in private and covered his mouth. He hoped he hadn’t wakened the innkeeper.

  His thirst came on after he’d eaten the salty meat, so he pulled himself a mug of warm ale and settled back before the fire.

  It was good to be out of his bed. Sleeping all day made you groggy, but he felt refreshed now he had eaten. He sighed with pleasure. The chair was quite comfortable and the ale was good.

  Time to be moving on, he thought to himself. He would settle what accounts were outstanding when the innkeeper rose in the morning and head out on the road again. Directions would probably help this time. He knew the roads and the geography of Sturma reasonably well, but he didn’t wish to get turned around again. Or get another soaking, being forced to spend the night in a thunderstorm. A chill so soon after this one could see him confined to bed for the better part of a week, and if the rains were here already the snows would not be far behind.

  So Roskel sat, sipping his ale and warming himself in front of the fire. As the first birds of the day rose, an hour or so later, he had got the fire going again and was warm and not a little sleepy once more.

  He’d had enough of his bed though. He poured himself another ale and paced the room to get some blood flowing into his lazy muscles. He was wheezing a fair bit after a few minutes, but the mild exercise did him some good for his legs felt stronger.

  The first light of Carious hit the shuttered windows, shafts of sunlight dissecting the common room. Soon after, Sam Durnborn came out of his room rubbing the sleep from his night eyes. He wore a full length sleeping robe and Roskel noted how his ankles were purple. The man was getting old. He wondered how long it would be before his blood started pooling in the outer regions, too tired to make its way back to his body.

  'Morning,' he greeted the innkeeper.

  'Morning, Bard.'

  'I hope you don’t mind, but I was hungry and thirsty. I helped myself to a bite to eat and a mug of ale.'

  'I should think so,' said the innkeeper. 'I thought you’d never wake. Had to get the old widow Lowboy to come and have a look at you. It’s good to see you up and about. For a time there I thought you’d be heading out heels first.'

  'Oh, come along now innkeep, I wasn’t that bad. I’ve had a bit of a chill, but I only slept the day through. Besides, I feel much better now.'

  The innkeeper shook his head. 'No, my friend. You have been abed now for the best part of three days.'

  Roskel shook his head. 'I think not! I remember breakfast this morning! Give over now, a joke’s a joke but I paid for another two days.'

  'Easy now,' said the innkeeper. 'I’m not after more money, but ask the old widow if you don’t believe me. I don’t expect you remember. You were out of the world for most of it. Check the leaves on the tree outside if you don’t believe me.'

  Roskel kept the suspicious expression on his face and opened the front door. The tree outside was bereft of leaves. All were sitting on the floor, getting ready to spend the winter keeping the roots of the tree warm.

  He closed the door and sat back in his chair with a sigh. 'Three days? Then I have more to thank you for, it seems. You have my apologies, Sam. It must have been a chore to get me back on my feet. No wonder I was so ravenous when I awoke-- and so weak. Have I been much trouble?'

  The innkeeper thought of telling the bard some of what he had said in his sick bed, but he should not know such things. There was nothing to be gained from letting him know.

  'Quiet as a mouse. No trouble at all. You’d paid up, but you’re a day overdue today. The old mother says you should rest up a week or so to get your strength back, but don’t take my word for it. You’re welcome to stay, but I won’t make you.'

  'Well, I thank you for that. I might impose on your hospitality a while longer. In truth, I do feel rather weak.'

  'Then how about some breakfast?'

  'I’d love some. I’m starving again. It seems my stomach is waking up at last.'

  'I’ll get some eggs on. I’ve got some salted ham, too.'

  'And some bread?'

  The innkeeper laughed. 'Alright. And some bread.'

  'Thank you.'

  'I just thought you should know…none of my business, but…'

  'What is it?'

  'Are you in some kind of trouble? On the run from the same trouble a ways back? Don’t mind a bit if you are. I’ve had more than my fair share of trouble in the past…'

  'No, no trouble,' said Roskel carefully. 'Why do you ask?'

  'A man came asking about a room when you were asleep. Nothing strange about that, of course, but he seemed a bit too interested in your horse. Seemed like he was looking for it,' said the innkeeper warily. Roskel watched him like a hawk. The innkeeper seemed to fade under his glare, but he pressed on just the same. 'I wouldn’t have mentioned it,' he said, holding up a placatory hand. 'It’s just he asked a few too many questions for my liking. He didn’t have the look of a casual wanderer. He had the look of a dangerous man. I told him I only had the one room. He rode on.'

  'You’ve nothing to worry about, Sam. I’m not in any trouble. When was this?'

  'Yesterday. He rode on south. You might happen across him on your way. I just thought you should know. I’ve not been nursemaid to you these last few days to have you waylaid as soon as you leave my inn.'

  Roskel smiled. The man was kinder than his sometimes gruff manner suggested. He seemed embarrassed by the kindness, though, as if he expected it rebuffed.

  'It seems I am further indebted to you than you know.' The thief weighed the man’s worth in his mind, and decided he could afford to get closer to the truth with this one. He seemed trustworthy, although the whole truth was nobody’s business but his own. 'Men might be looking for me, but you needn’t trouble yourself over it. No harm will come to you, and I am no criminal. It was kind of you to send him on. I will pay, of course, for your lost business.'

  'Fair enough, but it was your gold that gave me the choice to turn him out in the first place. Ordinarily I can’t afford to turn down a customer this close to winter, but you’ve put me in food for the snows already, so no debt is owed. Beside, your business is your own and none of mine. You seem like a decent man, and this one did not. I take a man as I find him.'

  'Wise, I shouldn’t doubt,' said Roskel with a laugh. 'I am glad I passed muster.'

  'Well, then
. I’d better get about making some breakfast myself. I could do with a good feed this morning. Truth be told, it’s been a little tiring these last few days.'

  The innkeeper went into the kitchen and busied himself about.

  Roskel sat back and mulled over his options. He was tired and weak, but if his enemies had found him already, he needed to move on swiftly. He did not know if it was the hierarchy or not, but he could not afford to take chances. He could rest at the next inn, perhaps take a roundabout route to the cathedral…but he would need a bit of luck about him.

  He seemed to rely on his luck more than was strictly healthy. Sooner or later it was going to run out. On his journey so far luck had got him out of some tight scrapes, but ill luck had got him into them in the first place. Someone, somehow, had known that he had left the capital and followed him, then that tail had been killed by the spectre of a town that had left him alive for whatever reason. The spirits of Wraith’s Guard had been kind to him. Perhaps the hierarchy were an affront to spirits as well as men. He just didn’t know. But he counted himself lucky then, and lucky now to have found an innkeeper who was honest as well as kind when he had needed him.

  But he could not stay. The man was at risk just for having him under his roof, and by his count he owed the man at least a chance at life. If the hierarchy decided to attack Sam while he rested under his roof, well, Roskel had no doubt as to the outcome. They would both be killed. His only hope at success was to keep moving, just as he had originally planned, and keep his identity a secret if he could.

  Sam came out with the makings of a meal on a tray and set them up on the hearth, placing a frying bench of iron over the fire to heat, setting the pan on the far edge of it. The flat sheet would heat quickly and the pan would follow.

  Roskel watched in silence, leaving the innkeeper to his work. He hadn’t seen a fire bench in ages, but then he’d grown used to larger inns and taverns where all the cooking was done in a kitchen. He supposed just the one customer didn’t warrant a fire going separately in the kitchen when the one in the commons would suffice.