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Menish dissolved the tension by reaching for one of the horns and Astae sighed with relief.

“You have come a long way then?” It was the cautious question of one who was curious but did not wish to give offence with his curiosity.

Althak looked to Menish who surprised him by answering.

“We are travellers from Anthor on our way to Atonir.” His accent, he knew, was appalling but Astae nodded. “We wanted to see this part of the country.” With a wry grin he added, “the fame of your ale has travelled far.”

At that the innkeeper giggled again. Menish decided he did not like the man. But he was too full of his own thoughts to be much annoyed by a grown man who giggled.

“If you are bound for Atonir I may know of a ship-”

“Talk to Althak about it. He will arrange it.”

Drinagish, who had gone out to check how the horses were stabled, entered the room with his face clouded with anger. He was shouting at a youth that followed at his heels and, though he was agitated, plainly did not understand a word Drinagish said. Menish decided he must arrange for Drinagish to learn some of the Vorthenki tongue as soon as he could.

“Uncle, this place is disgusting! The stables are filthy with dung and rotten oats.”

As he spoke he made threatening gestures at Astae and any other Vorthenki within reach, including the women.

“Calm down, Drinagish. Is it so bad?”

“Oh, it's better than they've had for the last few nights I suppose. But they've earned good food. I think he makes his beer in the stables.”

Astae began to bow nervously. Menish made an impatient gesture at Althak, who spoke to Astae in Vorthenki, explaining that the horses were to have fresh oats immediately.

“Come, Drinagish, the ale is good enough,” said Menish. “Have some, though you'll have to brave Astae’s women.” He knew why Drinagish was so concerned. He had a particularly fine horse that Menish had given him. Drinagish seemed to distrust the bench he was to sit on, but he sat down anyway and Grath reached him a horn of ale from one of the women.

“Not bad,” he said after he had tasted it. “I thought any ale north of Deenar was no better than horse piss.”

“Fortunately for the northerners that is not so,” said Althak.

Through an open doorway they could hear the sounds of their meal being prepared. The other Vorthenki folk in the main room helped themselves to the cauldron now and then, ladling the fishy stew into metal dishes. It did not look very appealing to the Anthorians, although Althak occasionally glanced towards the cauldron as if he would like to taste fish again.

“This is not really a Vorthenki house is it, Sire?” asked Grath.

“It seems Relanese to me,” answered Menish. “What do you know of it, Hrangil?”

Hrangil had hardly touched his ale. He had been looking at the frescoes on the walls.

“It is, indeed, an old Relanese building. It was old when my father and I came here many years ago from Atonir. I believe there had always been a Vorthenki village here also. There's a good harbour. But this was built as a stopping place for pilgrims to Kelerish.” He glanced at Azkun. “I'm afraid it's but a ruin of what it was. The walls, as you see, show scenes from the Mish-Tal. There are similar ones in the Court of Learning in Atonir. This one shows the Vaults of Duzagen in the Chasm below the Tor. There is the bridge we crossed today and here is-” he stopped with his finger pointing towards a stylised picture of the Chasm. “Here is Gilish throwing himself into the Chasm of Kelerish,” he said slowly.

“But who's this Astae?” asked Drinagish. ‘He doesn't look like a Vorthenki warlord. He's no taller than Grath, at least not when he stands up!”

Althak sighed and looked pained

“We're not all murderers of our brothers, Drinagish. His father probably found that Astae was the most competent at running the inn and left it to him when he died. It's not uncommon for these things to happen peacefully.”

“What about the speeches and the, you know, they fight over the food don’t they?” asked Grath.

“Oh no, not here. This is an inn. It's sacred to Yaggrothil and no one would boast before Yaggrothil, the dragon of the deep. Every fishing village of any size has a place where the sailors who have no long houses of their own can stay in safety. Here they can take their meals without having to establish who should eat first.”

Drinagish muttered something that might have been ‘barbarians’.

“Cease, Drinagish,” said Menish. “We must demonstrate our own good manners even to those who have none.”

Drinagish sulked, drinking down his ale and asking the woman who stood near him to fetch more. Menish was not sure he liked the way his nephew looked at her as she drew ale from one of the big wooden casks along the wall. He wished the Vorthenki women would dress a little more modestly.

He found himself thinking about Adhara, wondering how she was managing while he was away. He had left her in charge before and she always did well. But he worried that she would tire herself out. Not all of the women gave her the respect she was due, he felt, but he did not know why. She had a shrewd sense of judgement and she needed it when he was away because the king, or his regent, had to judge the cases the clan chiefs could not fathom.

But now it was not her judgement he missed, it was her ready wit. She usually found a way to make him laugh even when he was tired. Would she make him laugh again if she knew all about Thalissa?

Supper was not long. Two women, accompanied by Astae and the youth, brought in the roasted pieces of pig on a wooden platter and placed it on the table before them along with a loaf of black bread. Menish sniffed at the meat. It was under cooked, most Vorthenki did not really know what to do with red meat, but he was too hungry to have them cook it longer.

The meat was skewered onto metal spikes and Menish grabbed the nearest one and began to eat. Astae was visibly relieved that it was edible. Azkun ate nothing, but that was expected. He sat and glared at the others as if they were committing the worst of Vorthenki barbarities, which did nothing for their conversation.

Menish did not wish to talk anyway. He was trying to think of an excuse to speak to Astae alone, to ask him about a certain old woman. It was awkward. He had hated Thalissa for years and he had half-deliberately sown that hatred among his men. They would want to kill her if they found her alive. But, after all these years, with the actual possibility of revenging the evil she had done in his grasp, he began to wonder if his hatred was entirely just.

At the end of the meal he rose and muttered something about visiting the midden. It was obvious he would have to ask Astae for directions, so he beckoned to the innkeeper as he walked towards the door.

“Yes, M’Lord?”

“My friend saw someone he thought he recognised outside, a girl,” he said in a tone that was easily lost in the conversation of the Vorthenki sailors. “Do you know her?”

“A girl? Oh, yes, I saw him make for her. Not a very pretty wench, and good for nothing I’ve heard. Her name is… oh, I can’t remember now. She was only found a couple of days ago and it isn’t her real name anyway as far as we know.”

“Found?”

“Yes, she was found by Trian at the mouth of that Chasm when he was fishing. Crazy place to fish if you ask me. But he goes there often. He’s a free man, you see, though he is of Akarth’s house. He has a boat of his own. Folk say she might do him good. His other woman has given him no children, and it is rumoured she gives him no pleasure either. Soft, crazy and soft, is Trian. Fancy keeping a woman and no return for it.