Blond-eyebrowed Clyve Wheat leaned forward and squinted into his own ale cup. After a moment of deep thought he declared, "We should call her Liddie Spill-A-Lott."
Burdale Ruff and Silus Craw exploded into laughter, stamping their feet against the floor and banging their cups against the table. Liddie was only a few feet away, tending the stew kettle, and she had to hear it when Silus cried, "Either that or Liddie Talk-A-Lott."
As a second round of laughter erupted, Gull grabbed the nearest ale jug from the counter and moved in to calm everyone down.
"Gentlemen," he said, greeting the drovers. "Allow me to top up your cups." The ale in the jug happened to be his best barley stout, and although all of the men were drinking yellow wheat none of them complained. Burdale Ruff had actually downed most of his original drink, but Gull topped his cup to the rim regardless. There were times to split hairs, and this wasn't one of them. Business had been bad all week.
Just look at the place now. Early evening like this and one of the god's days no less: every bench in the room should be straining under the weight of fat traders, ewemen, day laborers, and dairy girls. Talk should be loud and getting louder, and someone somewhere should be singing about his sheep. Instead there was a low and dreary hum, and sometimes even silence. Silence. Only a third of the chairs were spoken for—and that was counting Will Snug, who was passed out across two of them—and there was not one single patron singing, gaming, or attempting to impress the ladies with some puffed-up story about a small rod and a very big fish.
It was not a sight to warm a tavernkeep's heart. Oh, Drover Jack's itself was glowing. Those little pewter safelamps he'd bought from the thane's stablemaster last spring burned cozily from the oak-panelled walls, and every bench back, floorboard, and tabletop was freshly waxed and gleaming. Smells of yeast, cured leather, and woodsmoke combined to create a manly, welcoming scent. It was a trim tavern, low-ceilinged, dim and inviting, and Gull liked to imagine that there were some in these parts who'd count themselves lucky to sup here. He just wished a few more of them had gotten off their backsides and come here this night, is all.
A storm was passing through Ewe Country. As Gull adjusted the stove's air vent, he could hear the wind howling outside, blowing south from the Bitter Hills. The tavem creaked and shuddered, and when Bronwyn Quince opened the door to leave, the entire building wrestled with the wind.
Gull shivered. He was trying to decide whether he should bum fresh coal or take his chances with more wood. The cord of bog willow sent over by Will Snug in lieu of payment for an outstanding debt burned like cow pats, and was probably worth about as much. Still, there was a lot of it, and unlike coal it cost Gull nothing to bum. Gull thoughf and frowned, reached for the wood, stopped himself, and loaded his shovel with coal instead. Tonight marked the beginning of Grass Watch and was therefore the holiest night of spring, and if a man couldn't breathe clean air now then it didn't bode well for the rest of the year.
Besides, you never knew when business might pick up. As if on cue the door swung open and a column of air rushed in the room The flames in the stove leapt up as wooden beams shifted in their cuppings and a dozen patrons looked toward the door.
Freezing rain sprayed through the entranceway, glowing orange where the stovelight touched it. A figure, thickly cloaked against the cold, stood in the doorway and surveyed the room. After a moment, Silus Craw piped up "Close the door!" but the figure did not heed him. A deep hood concealed the stranger's face. — Gull marked bulges at the stranger's waist and hip that had the look of serious weaponry. Beginning to get worried, Gull set down his shovel. He was going to have to do something about this. The action drew the stranger's gaze his way, and Gull found himself looking into a pair of copper eyes.
With a movement that wasted nothing, the stranger closed the door. At that exact moment Liddie Lott came down the stairs carrying a tray of beer taps that had been soaking all night in lye. Liddie's mind was on her feet and her head was down, and all you could see of her at first was her long chestnut hair. Like a whip-crack the stranger's gaze came down upon her. Gull felt real fear then. He had seen something he recognized in the stranger's copper eyes, and his experience of dealing with men and women over the past fifty years warned him it was the worst of all possible states of mind. Desperation.
Aware that something queer was going on around her, Liddie Lott looked up. The instant her ruddy well-fed face caught the light, the stranger's gaze swept away. Whatever it was he searched for, Liddie Lott did not possess.
"Welcome, stranger," Gull said, aiming for good cheer yet falling a little short. "Have you come to mark the Grass Watch with us?"
Again the stranger's gaze fell on Gull. Slowly, he grasped the center point of his hood and pulled it back. Ice-tanned and deeply lined, his face told of a lifetuff spent outside. Not for one moment did Gull make the mistake of imagining the stranger to be a farmer or eweman. No. The man had a way of standing and looking — a particular type of confidence that only those with martial skills possessed-that told Gull he had to be an adventurer or mercenary or grangelord.
Every patron in Drover Jack's was held rapt by his presence. Looking around, seeing Lottie standing, mouth agape by the beer kegs Burdale Ruff sitting in the comer with his meaty hand ready on his sword hilt, and the two Mundy boys shifting their position to align themselves more truly with the door, Gull suddenly wished for a little peace. His business was to serve food and ale, not tackle dangerous strangers. Trouble was, people expected him to take charge. Whatever drama happened in this tavern, be it a patron sick with the spurting vomits, a drunken brawl over a comely girl, or a lightning strike on the stove—Gull Moler was supposed to take care of it.
So that's what he did. To Liddie he said, "Fill everyone's cups with yellow wheat—on the house." To Clyve Wheat: "I see you have your stringboard with you. How about picking out a tune? It'd be a poor Grass Wateh if we didn't have a song." Then, without waiting for a reply, Gull moved forward to greet the stranger.
"On a night as cold as this a man needs two things A warm stove and a fine malt. I'd be honored if you'd share them both with me." Gull spoke quietly, and although he couldn't quite bring himself to touch the stranger, he did his best to usher the man toward the back of the room where it was quiet and dim.
The stranger let himself be led away. His cloak was steaming, giving off a sharp wild-animal scent.
Out of the comer of his eye, Gull noted that the free beer was going down welclass="underline" Jon Mundy was laughing with Liddie Lott, holding out his tankard for more. As yet Clyve Wheat hadn't turned out a song, but Gull could hear him picking the strings as he tuned the board.
"Sit," Gull said to the stranger, indicating the chair and tables in the corner. "I'll be back in a blink with the malt."
As Gull slipped behind the tavern's small wooden counter, Burdale Ruff moved to speak with him. "Do you know who he is?" asked the big eweman, wagging his head toward the stranger.
Gull stepped on a crate to reach for his best malt, tucked high out of reach on the top shelf "No. Never see him before in my life."
"I have."
That made Gull spin around. "Where?"
Beardale raised his considerable eyebrows. "Here, in the Three Villages. Saw him talking to some men-at-arms at Spring Faire."
"Do you know anything about him?"
"You mean apart from what's sodden obvious-he's as dangerous as a half-skinned polecat?"
Unsure if that was actually a question, Gull rucked the malt under his arm and said, "I can't keep him waiting." Burdale didn't argue with this. "I'lll be keeping an eye on you." Strangely enough that didn't make Gull feel one bit better as he walked to the back of his one room tavern. The stranger had pulled off his cloak, and there was no mistaking the hardware of war. Three knives arranged by blade-length hung from a wide belt slung across his hips, and a five foot longsword, unsheathed, rested within arms reach, against the wall.