Steven had no idea what they represented, but he gestured in their direction. ‘That looks like as good a place as any to start looking for the inn.’
‘What good will that do us?’ Garec asked. ‘I can’t imagine Gita managed to get the passwords up here already.’
‘You’re probably right,’ Steven agreed, ‘but let’s see if we can find the place, figure out which innkeeper she meant – and make certain we all know the code.’
‘Some maths thing, right?’
‘Why am I not surprised?’ Mark rolled his eyes.
‘Hey,’ Steven said, ‘be grateful! If it hadn’t been for my maths obsession, we never would have made it this far.’
‘Oh yes, I forgot,’ Mark said. ‘Malagon’s safe-deposit box, right? Your telephones and calculators problem?’
‘Yup,’ Steven answered proudly. ‘Jeff Simmons will never believe it.’
‘I have to admit, I was impressed,’ Gilmour said. ‘It was one of the more harrowing moments of my life – and we’ve already determined that I’m older than most civilisations.’
‘It’s not that bad, Gilmour,’ Mark said, ‘there are plenty of civilisations far older than you.’
The others laughed. They found a barn where they paid to stable their horses for a few nights, then crossed a sturdy wooden bridge into the main part of town. At the far end of the span, a merchant was selling pelts, flagons of warm tecan and blocks of cheese from a cart. He was a short, thin man, and grimy. His gloves, cloak and leggings were in tatters; on his head, he wore a scarf of some sort, badly made from the hide of an unrecognisable animal. Steven glanced at it furtively, afraid it might raise its head and snarl at him, but he nodded affably to the fellow as they moved past the impromptu store. His cart was not much more than a slatted wagon with a pair of boards nailed to each corner creating space for hanging pelts. The tecan smelled good, but with the lingering aroma of freshly brewed coffee on his mind, Steven ignored the temptation.
‘Wine, sire?’ the merchant asked. His voice was gravel underfoot. ‘Or maybe some cheese, sire?’
‘No, thank you,’ Steven said.
‘A splash of tecan then, sire?’ As the filthy man stepped out from behind his cart, Steven was able to see just how pitiable he was. One leg dragged, and he shuffled along in an ungainly creep that made Steven think of every war B-movie he had ever seen, and every character actor who had ever dragged his broken form up the Normandy beaches for entertainment’s sake.
‘No. Thank you again,’ Steven insisted, moving away more quickly.
‘Right, then, sire,’ the crippled salesman persisted, ‘maybe I’ll carry your bag then, sire? Maybe carry it for you? What do you think, sire? Maybe for a copper Marek or two?’
‘All right, look,’ Steven turned with a frustrated shrug, his hands raised in surrender. ‘I will give you a copper coin if you will go back to your cart and leave us in peace. Agreed?’
‘Sorry, sire. I can’t take it if I don’t do something, sire… something, sire. You need something carried, sire? Your bags? Maybe I’ll see to the horses, sire? They tethered across the bridge, sire?’
‘Yes,’ Steven gave up. ‘Our horses are tethered across the bridge, but I have already paid for them to be well cared for. You wish to carry my bags, but you’ve left your stand. Aren’t you worried someone will come along and steal your goods?’
‘No, sire, oh no,’ the man answered. ‘I’m well known here. This is my bridge, sire. Everyone knows me here.’
‘I see.’ Steven looked to the others, his eyes begging for help. ‘Anyone have any ideas?’
‘Go ahead, Steven,’ Mark encouraged. ‘Let him carry the saddlebag. You’re going to give him a couple of those kopeks, anyway. Let him haul the stuff.’
‘He’s dragging his leg,’ Steven said as if only he had noticed.
‘He has made that fairly obvious,’ Mark answered, ‘but he doesn’t seem bothered by it. Go ahead. And if he runs, I’m sure we can catch him. He’s not going to be competing for any international records in the hundred metre sprint, let’s face it.’
Steven hesitated a moment longer, then handed over the saddlebag. ‘Here you go, but if you run off, I’m going to break your neck. Do you understand me?’
‘Of course, sire. I’ll not run off, sire. Where are you going, sire? Maybe I know the way.’
Steven was irritated by the way the little man ended each phrase with sire – it got under his skin. Steven regretted giving up his bag.
‘And the stick, sire?’ The intrepid salesman gestured towards the hickory staff.
‘No. I’ll carry the stick, my friend.’
‘Very well, sire. Very well.’ He scratched at his chin for a moment, turned to the others and asked, ‘Any bags, you sires?’
‘No,’ Garec answered for the rest of the company, ‘we’re doing just fine on our own.’
‘Very well, sires. Very well. Where are you going?’
Steven answered, ‘We’re looking for an inn.’
‘Which one, sire? There are many here in the Notch, sire, many.’
‘I’m not sure of the name, but it’s got a yellow and red standard, a sign depicting a bowman at the hunt. Do you know it?’ Steven flexed the fingers of his right hand into a fist several times, as if working out a cramp; something was bothering him.
‘I do, sire. This way, sire. It’s not far. Good food in there too, sire. Comfortable beds, cool beer, warm stew, sire. A wise choice you make going there, sire.’ The little man pushed passed Steven to lead them through town and as he did, Steven caught a hint of something familiar, a faint aroma, maybe lingering around the man’s clothing. It wasn’t overt, almost a memory of something. Coffee? Was he remembering the coffee, or was this something else?
‘This way, sire, this way.’
‘Right.’ Steven shook his head and flexed his fingers again. They were stiff. He needed to get out of the cold, to eat something other than old venison strips. But the coffee had been delicious.
Was it coffee?
Steven sidled up behind the man as he turned a corner into the wind. Though he inhaled deeply, he couldn’t pick up the scent; he decided that he must be really tired, or at least thirsty for another pot of Howard’s French roast. Once they were settled, they’d find a bigger pot and brew up a cauldron of the stuff… ‘Inside,’ he whispered to himself, ‘inside someplace warm.’
‘Yes, sire. Yes. Inside. Someplace warm, the Bowman, a clean place, sire. Good food, cool beer, sire. Follow me.’ The little man had heard him. Making surprisingly good time on one ruined leg, he half-hopped and half-scurried. Except for the bridges, the streets were either dirt or cobblestone, and the tree-lined boulevards, tidy dwellings and clean shops gave the place a sense of having been well cared for. In fact, there was nothing about Traver’s Notch that Steven found disagreeable – he thought it might be a pleasant place to spend a few days when he located Hannah again.
Calling back to Gilmour, he asked, ‘What kind of industry keeps this place going?’
‘Mining,’ the old man answered. ‘Look up there.’ Gilmour gestured towards an area of the valley wall that had been hidden during their descent and Steven saw the telltale sign of lode shafts dug deep into the mountains, great triangular swaths of brown dirt and rubble, tailings spilled in teardrops marking the hillsides from top to bottom.
‘Mining, sire. Yes, mining,’ the merchant turned and spoke only to Steven, as though he were passing on a secret. Lowering his voice, he added, ‘Mining, sire. It ruined my leg, sire. Can’t do it any more, sire. See?’ He dropped the saddlebag and drew up his hose to expose what remained of his lower leg.
Steven gasped at the carnage: the vivid scars looked as if they had been drawn by a child with a crayon, a roadmap of recent pain. The skin bulged in unlikely places too; Steven guessed bones had been fractured in multiple places and left to knit themselves together in whatever arrangement they saw fit. ‘Good Christ,’ he whispered.