Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 32: Your Professor of the Street

Barnaby walked about the room, eyeing, smelling, touching. High ceiling, plaster walls, wooden floor, one wide window. The stench of tallow candles sweetened by fresh rushes, a summery breeze carrying sounds of the busy town.

Three narrow beds with straw-filled matting. A table with water pitcher and washing bowl. Barnaby stood before the cracked glass-and-tin mirror, traced a finger along the crack, across his reflected face. Whisper said he scared folk with his axe and leather armor, beard and talking cat. Try as he could, he didn't see aught in the cloudy glass but a Barnaby. Nothing fearful there.

Probably it was the armor. Dark red as dried blood, scarred as some veteran of battle and bugle calls. Probably it frightened children? But the sleaves buckled to the shoulders. He unfastened these, pulled them away, enjoying the breeze cooling his arms. Leather was uncomfortable. He studied the mirror again. Still seeing just a Barnaby.

He gave reflection up; wandered to the curtain in the corner. Pulled it back to reveal a heavy wooden chair. Why this secret throne? Then spied the chamber pot inserted into the seat. Understanding, he laughed aloud.

"This room is a wonder.

"It's four bloody flights up," objected Bodkin. "With a draft."

"Well, I've only ever been to one inn before. Mostly sat in the basement, tied up. It was dark and damp."

"Then I suppose this is better. Though a wet basement would be cheaper."

Bodkin picked up his pack and Barnaby's, began emptying items on the rickety table. The coin bag, the sack of useful items from the necromancer, reward for besting the rat. And the magic harp, shining soft and golden.

That done, the boy leapt on the table, nimble as thimble to thumb. Then jumped higher, grabbing a rafter, pulling himself up. There to meet the eyes of Night-Creep, white and wide.

"Didn't know you were up here."

The cat replied not; but the eyes blinked to say without doubt, many, many things you do not know.

Bodkin looked down at Barnaby.

"Right, now toss me the loot."

"Why?"

"Not smart to carry valuables about the town. Folk have a nose for it. We'll hide things up here, lock the door. It's middling safe. Best odds you get in life."

Barnaby nodded, threw the coin bag to the boy, keeping a few for his pockets. Then the bag of magical items. But holding the harp, he hesitated.

"Sure you can catch it now?"

"'Course."

Barnaby readied, then threw the magical wonder upwards; Bodkin snatched it, setting the strings to thrum and chime.

"Now you catch this, said Bodkin. Tossing down a silver coin. "Put it under your bed mat."

"Why? For luck?"

Bodkin rolled from the rafter, landing neat upon his feet.

"No, because it's worth a silver to know if anyone has been sneaking about while we aren't here."

"Wise," declared the cat from above.

"Couldn't Professor Night-Creep or Dark Michael keep watch?"

Bodkin shrugged, looked upwards. The answer came cat-paw quick.

"Beware such error, miller's son. Recall always, I am bound not to guard nor fetch, neither fight nor fend. And your soldier-brute of a dead teacher can but once more aide you with more than words. We instruct. If your coins be stole or your throat be cut, that shall be your day's instruction."