Prince of Time

Chapter Eighteen - A Poor Welcome

By mutual agreement, they found an inn for the night. The angry silence of the road would be better absorbed and everyone was desperate to hear some word of the north, some hint as to where they were even going.

 It was the opposite of the night before: loud, crowded and hostile. The bustling barroom was crammed with people midway through a drunken evening, joking and arguing and talking in the over-jovial voices of the slightly-drunk.

The six sat down without a word on a table to the edge of the room. Maple felt particularly young in this room, crushed by the overpowering smell of alcohol and man. It occurred to her that, in Harian, she was still regarded as a child.

“Drinks,” Nicanor stood up suddenly and made his way over to the bar, elbowing through the crowds.

“What can I get you?” the barman glanced at him. “Sir.”

He added the last in such a way that the immediate association was ‘cur’.

“Three full and three half,” Nicanor looked across the room.

“Certainly,” the barman pulled out mugs and slammed them resentfully on the counter. “Where you from? Merdia?”

“That’s us,” Nicanor forced a smile. “I travel often in these parts. I’m taking the children of a minor noble to Duke Harrington.”

“Oh, are you?” the barman craned his neck to see their table. “Yes, I could see that. I expect everyone wants to escape the carnage, eh?”

“Carnage?” Nicanor looked blank.

“Ah, don’t play dumb with me,” the barman tapped his nose. “The rumours have come through that you have a dead princess on your hands, and a lot of dying nobles. I suppose these children were wanted out of the way.”

“Oh, she’s not dead,” Nicanor was shaken. “She’s only fallen ill. No, this is a scheduled visit.”

“Right,” the barman rolled his eyes. “So tell me…why no armed guard?”

Nicanor froze, desperately trying to think of an answer. The barman laughed and pushed the drinks towards him.

“You’re a good liar, lad,” he told him. “But we’re not that stupid round here.”

“Sorry,” Nicanor made a face. “Procedural lies.”

“I understand,” the barman nodded. “So, do you guard these children always? Or will you be joining the hunt for the cure?”

“The hunt?” Nicanor put on his best bad-at-lying expression.

“I said not to play dumb,” the barman grinned. “The hunt for the cure for the plague, of course. The one striking down Merdia’s finest. Men came through the other day with a sick girl. Said they were taking her to test it on when they found it.”

“A sick girl?” Nicanor sat up straighter. “What did she look like?”

The barman shrugged. “Merdian. Pretty little thing. Deathly pale. Comatose, by the look of it. You know. Sleeping.”

“Describe her,” Nicanor ordered, fixing a picture of Lym in his mind. “What was she like?”

“Dark hair,” the barman frowned. “I think. Look, I don’t remember. I don’t make it my job to memorise every Merdian who wanders through my inn.”

“No,” Nicanor stepped back, carefully taking the drinks. “Of course you don’t. My apologies. I don’t suppose you know where they were taking her?”

“Said there was a monastery in the mountains,” the barman looked confused. “Or some such place. Past Ruffian’s Pass or the like. Right over in the wild country. Why?”