Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 49: A Sudden Arrow to the Eye

The common room of The Maiden mirrored that of the Pomegranate tavern across the Lethe. Large, with time-blackened rafters, filled with a pleasant air of hearth smoke and sausage, ale and casual conversation. Rough benches set before heavy tables, walls bedecked with honorably tattered flags and banners. The head of a boar above the doorway. Surely brother to the boar above the door of the Pomegranate.

And yet differences remained. Barnaby sniffed, missing the summer-flower perfume of the brighter Persephone. Here the wind carried hints of stone and ash, dust and old wood. Less morning birdsong choired beyond the open window; and that mostly the caw of crow and the croak of raven. The folk passing by wore solemn faces hinting somber thoughts.

"Do you listen, miller's son?"

Barnaby turned gaze from the window.

"Yessir, sorry, sir."

Dark Michael leaned against the wall, comfortably wrapped in shadow. "I said you'll need a horse."

"Well, I don't know how to ride a horse."

"You won't be riding. This shall be for carrying."

"Carrying treasure?"

"No, carrying food, blankets and tools. The journey will take weeks, even without trouble. And there will be trouble."

"Wouldn't a donkey be better?" asked Bodkin. "Horses take more tending and carry less."

Michael remained silent. Barnaby recalled the sad beast bearing the sadder corpse of Michael. Perhaps the ghost disliked the idea of journeying with another donkey.

"Why not a mule?" asked the tavern girl, setting plates of bread and bacon upon the table.

"Who are you and why are you jumping into our talk and where are our eggs?" asked Bodkin.

"Oh, I'm Matilda and the eggs are still in the pot and I don't like donkeys much. Just smart enough to do something stupid. Like dogs, I say."

"Exactly," said a voice in the rafters.

She looked up, smiling to see an agreeable cat looking down.

"Well, hello up there, talking cat person."

Night-Creep returned a slow cat-blink of greeting.

Barnaby considered the sharp tips of the woman's ears poking from thick braids. The slotted pupils of her eyes, and the mad manner of conversing.

"You're a Silene."

"Am not."

"You aren't?" He looked down at her feet, which were two polished goat hooves. With little flowers painted upon them, pretty as porcelain pot.

"Not a bit and why are you looking at my feet?"

"I'm not."

"Right then. Meanwhile you're a band of adventurers demanding eggs, so I'm off." That settled, she turned about.

"Perhaps a mule then," agreed Michael, continuing the discussion. "Wayward creatures though they are."

"Cartage is your least concern," declared Bodkin. Seizing bread and the plate of butter. "You need a team."

"A team of mules?" asked Barnaby.

"A team of folk to get there, find the treasure and then get out alive," replied Bodkin. "North is into mountains. Little law and plenty bandits. And nastier things than bandits. You'll need folk with skills to fight, to watch your back, to cast spells and throw stones."