We headed to the bar and Braylar hailed the innkeeper, an angular man whose one soft feature was a bulbous nose.
He walked over to us and Braylar said, “Is that your boy in the yard?”
The innkeeper immediately looked defensive. “Martiss. What of it? What’s he done now?”
“You’re to be complimented. He seems to have a way with horses. A rare thing.”
“I got nothing to do with it. Can’t stand the beasts myself. But he practically lives out there-better be good with the plaguing things.” He wiped his hands on his dirty apron. “Name’s Hobbins. Welcome to the Three Casks. You here for food? Drink? We got no more rooms, but there might be a space or three on the common floor if you got intent to stay.”
Lloi said, “Won’t be needing no new rooms. Arranged already. Bristly bastard, been here a few days, sure you seen him.”
Hobbins rolled his tongue across his lower teeth, bulging his lip out. “Built like a boar? Half as agreeable?” Lloi nodded. “Ayyup. I seen him.” He turned back to Braylar. “Told him I didn’t like renting rooms to them that weren’t there; liked to see who I got under my roof. But I thought he was about to draw that big cleaver of his, so I made an exception.” He glanced at Lloi, and despite noticing her blade and the crossbow, he said, “Can’t say I like making exceptions for the likes of her, though. Her kind makes the other patrons right uneasy.”
Lloi started to respond but Braylar cut her off. “She makes me uneasy as well. But never fear-she won’t sleep under this roof.”
If Hobbins was mollified, he didn’t show it. After looking like he was chewing on another comment, he finally said, “Guessing you’ll be needing food and drink, then.”
“Indeed. Do you by chance have a tub to wash away the dust from the road?”
“No tubs. Got no time to heat them. Small family, big inn. We got some barrels in the back, though, full of water. But don’t you be trying to climb in them. Got no time to be fixing broken barrels.”
“And soap?”
“Course we got soap. Like to scour your skin clean off, and no perfumery of no kind, but it’s soap, just the same. When you’re ready to eat, you’ll be needing to do it at one of them tables. No eating at the bar. I keep my bar clean as a priest’s bunghole.”
“Fastidious,” Braylar replied.
Hobbins either failed to recognize the word or the sarcasm, as he was nonplussed as he pulled a key from behind the bar and handed it to Braylar. “Room’s top of the stairs, last on the left. Just grab a table when you’re clean and settled and Syrie’ll be by, take your orders.”
“Very good. And those barrels, that I’ll be careful not to mistake for tubs?”
Hobbins pointed a bony finger. “Only one back. Opposite the front.”
We walked up the stairs and unlocked the room. It was hardly extravagant-two bowed beds, a table and bench-but when Braylar looked at Lloi, you would have thought we were bedding down in a leper colony. “No window? The second floor, and no window?”
She set the chest down and glanced around to be sure he hadn’t missed a small window hiding in a corner somewhere, then shrugged. “I was riding with you, you recollect, not renting out rooms. You got issue, take it up with that whoreson, Mulldoos.”
“As someone much misliked in these parts, you’d do well not to tweak the nose of the only one inclined to protect you.”
“I protect myself plenty fine. What’s more, if anyone’s doing any protecting around here, it’s-”
“Enough, Lloi.” His words were placid enough, but his expression stopped her short.
She looked at me, and then back to him. “Right. Less tweaking. You be needing me for anything else just now, Captain Noose?”
“Yes. I meant what I said. Keep a tight rein on your tongue tonight.”
She gave him a look that was impenetrable, at least to me, and said nothing.
“You’ve ridden with us for some time now. Too long not to have reached an understanding with him.”
“Oh, we understand each other real good. He wouldn’t mind seeing my guts on the floor, and I wouldn’t weep overmuch to see his. Real easy relationship we got.”
Sighing, Braylar grabbed another tunic out of the chest. “Make certain my horse hasn’t killed the boy.” Lloi headed out to the stables and we headed out to the barrels. When the door shut behind us, Braylar began unlacing his ankle boots and said, “Stop anyone who attempts to come out.”
I was unarmed and had a bookish quality that rarely stops anyone from doing anything, so I asked how exactly he expected me to accomplish that.
He replied, “Tell them your patron is particularly shy. And violent.”
So I stood near the door and watched as Braylar unbuckled his weapon belts; on the right hip, a very long dagger, and on the left, a steel buckler and his wicked-looking flail. I noted something odd about the weapon during our initial interview, but now I got a closer look. The two flail heads resembled monstrous visages, though stylized-each had a mouth clenched tight in fury or horrible pain, a nose of sorts, but above that, neither eyes nor ears. Where they should have been, there was simply a ring of spikes continuing around the crown of the head. The heads weren’t large, each about the size of a child’s fist, but I was sure they hit a great deal harder.
Though those visages were rarely seen anymore-they were outlawed, reviled, or largely forgotten, depending where you were from-it was clear the spiked heads represented the Deserter Gods. Which was strange. Not so much that a Syldoon would have a weapon with holy images designed to cause unease-causing discomfort presumably came naturally to them-but that one would have something with holy images on it at all. The Syldoon were rarely accused of being pious. It was said they’d pay to have twelve temples built without setting foot in a single one.
The captain unwound his scarf and it was immediately clear why he wanted a guard-the Syldonian black rope tattoo around his neck was on prominent display. When he pulled his tunic over his head, there was perhaps another reason for privacy as well. His torso was an overworked map of scars of all kinds, long and pale, short and puckered. Having already made the mistake of staring too long once today, I quickly looked back to the door.
Being only a chronicler, and never to rich patrons, I wasn’t accustomed to perfumed soap or copper tubs-it was usually the public baths for me, and often the end of the line to get in-but at least I’d never had to resort to a barrel. I wondered why a Syldonian captain opted to stay in such an establishment; surely, he could have afforded the finer stuff. If anything, they were known for being ostentatious and extravagant; even if he was clearly trying to hide his affiliations, he still could have roomed at a place with a proper tub, copper or not. It was curious.
As I watched the water blacken, I also wondered what he’d been doing in the days since our interview-he looked to have taken to the road, and ridden it hard-but opted to hold my tongue on that count as well. The captain didn’t seem the kind of man to tolerate intrusive questions. Or even nonintrusive ones for that matter.
When he finished scrubbing and rinsing, he dressed and led me back to the room. As we entered, I was surprised to see two people waiting for us. I assumed they were Syldoon as well, though they both had small hoods covering their necks and inked nooses around them.
One was standing, leaning against a support beam, his dark skin barely contrasting with the wood behind him. He was incredibly tall and not lean, and he looked over at me, his upper lip bare above a multi-braided beard that tumbled down his chest, and regarded me coolly for a moment. Then he tilted his head and gave me a long, slow nod that, if not openly warm or welcoming, was at the very least cordial. I’m not sure, but a small smile seemed to be playing on his lips. Compared to the other two men clothed in muted, earthy colors and modest cut, his outfit was nearly outlandish. His trousers, striped black and white, wouldn’t have drawn undue attention on their own, but they fed into leather riding boots folded over above his knees that were almost impossibly red. His hood, bright red as well, was noteworthy for the elaborate dags like broken teeth all along its edge, and the extreme length of the tail that was looped through his belt behind him. The flanged mace hanging on his hip was also overly ornate for something designed to bludgeon someone to death.