Within the inn's common room were several people sitting at white-painted tables. Some drank, some played cards, and some fell asleep at their seats, their heads pillowed in folded arms. Not one of them looked up to see the newcomers.
A quiet establishment, at least. Vyncent walked over to the innkeeper's counter, the silver-haired girl following close behind.
"Pardon me, good man," Vyncent began, "I would like a room for me and my companion."
The innkeeper's nose was in a scroll, ignoring his customer. He squinted at a line, moving a candle closer to himself as he did so. After two minutes or so, he looked up at Vyncent with half a sneer on his face.
"Five coppers for an hour," he said as he picked at something stuck between his teeth, "ten for the night." He gave the girl a hungry look. "Free if you share."
Vyncent forced a chuckle, though he knew the man wasn't making a jape; the scowl the innkeeper made confirmed this.
The girl tapped on Vyncent's shoulder, averting her eyes from the innkeeper's discomforting gaze. She handed him one of her silvers.
"Will this cover one night?" Vyncent handed the coin over, and the innkeeper snatched it from him.
"Hmph. One night? This, right here, will buy you seven!" The innkeeper inspected the mint then tossed the silver in a small brass chest behind him. "You are from Virtera, eh?"
"Yes, sir," answered Vyncent.
"I hate Virtera. I'm glad Aventyne is burning again. Them and their idiot kings and queens, too."
Vyncent gritted his teeth at this. Even though he never met King Vance, but hoped to, one day, the slight on his grandfather still irritated him.
"Can it be broken?" Vyncent asked, "The silver. We only need one night."
The innkeeper sniffed and said: "No. It's not something I do. I will feed you, however." Whatever was in his nose, he snorted, hacked, and spat it out on the floor behind the desk. "Clara!" the innkeeper shouted to someone in a room behind him. "Get some of that mutton stew and ale. Two. Our little guests look famished."
"Yes, B-B-B-Barlett," Clara, a homely old woman, called out, "r-r-r-right away."
Vyncent and his partner took a seat at a corner and waited for their food to arrive. One person kept their eyes on them as they passed their table. A woman, it was, swathed in dark green clothing. Her face was wrapped with scarves so that only her strange emerald eyes showed. On her head, she wore a wide-brimmed hat, its hue matching her outfit. Tucked in the band was a twig with two leaves sprouting from it. When they sat, she turned her attention back to her drink.
"May I ask your forename, my lady?" Vyncent asked.
"Larissa," she gave. "And you?"
"Vyncent. Vyncent Blackwood."
"You … " Larissa's golden eyes lit up with amusement, "you're the bastard." Upon saying the last word, she blushed; her hand shot to her mouth. "I apologize. That was rude of me to call you that."
Vyncent took no offense and smiled at her. "I know what I am. There's no need to feel bad."
A platter holding two steaming bowls in hand, Clara shambled towards the young pair. "P-p-p-pretty little thing," she stuttered at Larissa, "and a h-h-h-handsome y-y-y-y-young m-m-man."
A younger servant, this one an ten-year-old boy with a shaved head, brought forth the cups and ale. "You two don't belong here," he whispered, curtly, as he filled their cups with a flagon, "bad things happen to nice people like you here."
Before Vyncent could ask the child to elaborate, he turned and went back to the kitchens, quickly and silently. What does he mean? Vyncent began to worry, touching the dagger's hilt at his belt to make sure he still had it. Growing up in Virtera, Blay the Blacksmith's brother, Garram, had taught him a few things about fighting with fists, sticks, and knives. Though, Blay had confessed that Garram had lost a lot more fights than he had won. It's better than nothing, I suppose, thought Vyncent.
As if the boy was a stargazer or, more likely, he knew the routines of the worst patrons, trouble came in through the door as if to prove him right. A gang of five men came in, shouting and cursing joyfully.
"This is our table," one of them, who had a long wiry black beard, bellowed at a confused fellow sitting alone. Before the poor man could leave his seat, another one of the brutes grabbed him by the collar and flung him towards the door. The man stumbled away, drunkenly, as he hurried out into the cold. "Be gentle with him, Shegg," the black beard chided jokingly, "I don't think he knew."
"He does now, Roy," the brute retorted. The gang erupted with cruel laughter.
The innkeeper shuffled to the louts, smiling politely. "Ah, my favorite customer," he said, nodding his head, "We saved some mutton stew and the best ale for you and your boys."
"Mutton? Everyone knows it's rat's meat," claimed Roy loudly.
At this declaration, Vyncent looked down at his meal. Come to think of it, thought Vyncent, grimacing, it doesn't taste like mutton.
He gave the innkeeper a wary look and pointed a fat gloved finger at him. "You're not trying to fool me, are you, Barlett? You think we're as thick as the other tosspots in here, eh?"
Barlett swallowed spit and began to stutter as badly as Clara. "N-n-n-n-no. N-n-not at all."
"Want me to slit him open?" one of the louts offered, his voice soft as a night's breeze. This one had dyed his short hair and pointed mustache violet. In his hands, he held a knife with a hooked tip.
"Maybe, Stinson," Roy responded, stroking his beard and leaning back, "I do hate being toyed with."
There was silence in the common room. Barlett's skinny legs began to wobble, and it looked like he was about to swoon.
But Roy's guffaw broke the act. The gang echoed his amusement.
"He looked ready to piss himself," mocked Stinson, pointing his knife at the innkeeper. "I'm not going to slit you open, you little bastard," he assured Barlett, "not today at least."
"Get us the ale," Roy ordered, waving a languid hand of dismissal. "Where's my boy? Bring him out. Reyen!"
At his father's command, the boy with the shaved head came out and served the men. He filled each of their cups, never meeting Roy's eyes. Irritated by his son's rebuff, he snatched one of his arms, nearly yanked the boy off his feet.
"How's my boy doing?" When Reyen still refused to look at him, Roy began to yell. "Look at me, you little rat!"
"I'm not your boy," spat Reyen, "Sir Laird was my real father. You killed him and—"
Roy smacked the boy with the back of his hand, hard. Blood seeped from the child's cut lip.
"Get out of my sight," growled the bearded man as he shoved the young server away.
Reyen put himself a few feet from the table before turning around and screaming: " … and he was ten times the man you are!" Teary-eyed, he stomped off quickly as if Roy was to pursue him and strike him again.
Vyncent and Larissa watched the scene from their dark corner. Roy happened to catch them staring.
"What are you bloody looking at?" He roared at them.
When they looked back at their half-empty bowls, Vyncent hoped that would be the end of it.
It wasn't.
"You," Roy cocked his head and stood up, "you, girl, I've seen you before. You were with Ebernathy's boys, weren't you?"
Larissa kept her eyes on her stew, pretending she didn't hear him. Roy didn't need a response, however. He upended his cup and walked over to her and Vyncent. "Yes," the bearded man said, chuckling, "yes, I think so."
ns 172.69.59.89da2