Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 47: Matilda

Oh you could tell they were bold adventurers by the blood and dirt and weary wary way they entered the door of The Maiden. Probably been fighting dragons and wolves and kings, bless 'em for it.

"You'll be wanting one room for each?" I asked. Counting five. Also a cat and a ghost but ghosts in Persephone seldom take rooms. Gloomy things, and anyways what coin should a ghost have to pay? A cat might pay in mice but who wants mice? Excepting another cat. I suppose a cat might run an inn for cats. But felines so seldom get along; a tavern for cats seems most astonishing doubtful.

"Two rooms will do, girl," said the boy. Cheeky, the beardless thing calling me 'girl'. One of those olive-skinned creatures from the spice islands that quarter in the bright side of Persephone and smile like summer sun. Handsome as princes but don't kiss 'em or you'll lose what' you promised your mother you'd keep. He was too young to kiss anyhow but it's a thing you might want to remember.

"One room for the ladies. One for us gentlemen."

"With baths," added the tall girl with boyish hair. She looked half-dead. Granted in darker Persephone you distinguish all sorts of shades and flavors of dead. You have those drafty government counselors all wispy and wise, and then you have your solid-boned revenants cold and calm as statues taking a walk. Then there are the nasty rotting sorts, sometimes just bone and old rags though those sort keep to themselves and never take rooms, thank the saints.

I wanted to ask questions like 'who are you, what you been at, why are you bloody'? but did not as it weren't polite and they looked weary as St. Sisyphus watching his holy stone roll down Lucif's highest buttock. So I gave them excellent rooms top floor and brought the tin tubs and began the weary business of heating and porting and pouring hot water while listening as you can imagine. Amazing how folk ignore a body as you come and go setting up baths and beds.

Seems the ladies had been near dead but came back with the sun and had limited funds and both speculated upon bedding the big fellow with the axe as opposed to the older fellow with a staff who was handsome enough yut shy. They had that right, You can always tell the shy sort. Makes you want to lean forwards just to see them blush down your dress.

When the girl with short hair climbed in the bath she showed enough scars to honor a veteran regiment. A Martia personage, clear enow. I could report her as suspicious to the watch but there's not much trouble on the border twixt Martia and Plutarch and anyways I'm a Sylvanian so why should I care for squabbles twixt foreigner saints? I poured the hot water and attended the gents, who declined to bathe before me the shy things. But putting ear to the door I picked up talk of a tower and treasure and destiny and a map. Glorious; Just what a girl wants when she's weary of making beds and boiling potatoes. Damn  potatoes to Lucif's pot for tax-gatherers, I say.

So I listened till I spied that feline watching me from top of the stairs. Eyes white as a blind man's staring at the moon; just staring and staring. I eyed it right back but you don't win that sort of fight with that sort of thing. And then I got that cold shiver that says a ghost is frowning at you from their secret corners. Not that they apologize for spying. So I left off listening at the door.

No matter, I'd heard enough. It was decided. For sure when the adventurers marched off from this quaint idiot tavern, I'd be leaving with the bold troop.

To the tower and treasure!