Bastion of Sun

CHAPTER TWENTY

An Unexpected Visitor

Odaren opened the door to the inn, letting rain and wind crash through like opening a storm drain. Men and women—all thieves—turned to his entrance, grousing at the rain and cold and he quickly shut it and hobbled in.

Light and noise assaulted Odaren's ears as he stood at the threshold of the inn's doors.

The Hand of Fate, its sign read in cracked gold paint.

After visiting a dozen inns and bending enough fingers, he was told she'd be here. Oddly, though tangible fear laced every voice he'd met, they all seemed to know where she was. His Mistress of Shadows. He wondered why that was... but feared he knew the answer. When walking a ledge you make sure you know where your feet are relative to the abyss, so you don't find your feet scraping too close and foolishly fall to your untimely death. Faye was that abyss. He swallowed, not letting his thoughts get ahead of himself, and focused on the common room at hand.

The room was bright for a thieves' hideout—candles lined the walls, the bar, the tables and the large fogged windowsills, casting a hoary orange glow. Cobwebbed chandeliers swung from the rafters where hot wax fell to the dirty hay-strewn floor. Were it not so wet, Odaren feared the whole of it would alight in flames, but then eyeing the subdued patrons like heaps of flesh huddled over dark brews, he wondered if anyone would notice.

Quickly he took in the dangers. A big man stood in the back. Neck thicker than a bull, his one eye grazed lazily over the patrons as he leaned against the wall with his trunk-like arms crossed. Otherwise, it was the customary scene—groups of gambling thieves with daggers just beneath the tables, ready at the bad roll of a die or greedy fingers reaching too quickly for the copper glittering dully upon the table.

Yet the only person that mattered was not there. She was not among them.

Odaren's thundering heart slowed, both relieved and worried. He reminded himself that all fingers had pointed here and he knew the night was far from over. The clock was ticking, his life seeping out of it like an hourglass with each breath wasted if he didn't find his prey soon.

Hiking up his saddlebags Odaren slunk up to the bar, dragging his right leg—he always limped, but twice as bad during a good rain. The joints in his knee seemed to lock up like steel hinges with too little oil.

The innkeeper stood behind the bar polishing a pewter mug. He was a corpulent man whose bulk strained against his too-small, dirty apron. It might have been white at one time, but now it was a brown smear of dirt, sweat and other unknowns. As he approached, the man's beady eyes shot him a glance, then returned to his work. "No rooms," the man groused then continued, talking almost to himself. "Not since the Patriarch, in his infinite wisdom, opened the gates of Farbs to the riffraff of the world have we had any rooms or any respectable guests for that matter." He glanced up, squinting one eye. "Speaking of, what are you? You've a dark, swarthy look to you... Covian? Vasterian?" His lips curled in an unsavory, disgusted manner. "Pray tell me you aren't from Menalas, are you? They're almost as greedy and miserly as their Esterian brothers."

Odaren ignored the man and his prejudices. He pulled out two silvers and slapped them on the rough bar, pulling his hand away half-expecting splinters, then spoke beneath his breath. "I'm looking for a woman."

The innkeeper's sour face twisted into a wry smile, his rosy cheeks looking like two balls of dough. "Aren't we all, friend?"

"A particular woman," he corrected, not wanting to play the man's tongue-in-cheek game. He felt death on his shoulder and humor was the last thing on his mind. "Her name is Faye."