Cully felt a draft. He glanced up at the new arrivals.
They wiped their boots on the mat in the doorway. Oiled cloaks dripped from the storm, and hoods obscured their faces. One coughed as they made their way to the fire.
"By your leave, brothers," he said to the Hanathu.
The oldest nodded in respect, and the strangers turned to warm themselves. A long sword in a plain scabbard hung at the speaker's side. Or rather hung with him, a part of him surely as his arms were. He was a man who knew violence, and violence knew him just as truly.
The Hanathu did not move, but they tensed as fighting men do when another of their kind appears. The stranger appeared not to notice or care. Cully guessed he was a mercenary or a ranger perhaps. Not too many traveled across the Steppes alone. His companion was considerably shorter and lighter than he was. A son, perhaps. Whatever the case, they were customers.
"Good evening, sirs." Cully eyed the trail of water he'd have to mop up later. "Would you be staying for the night, then? The Silver Horn always has a warm room for travelers, and you won't find a better bed anywhere in Letega, cross my swords on that."
"A meal first." The man's attention stayed focused on the fire. His voice was raspy, most likely from the cold. He pressed a few onyx tokes into Cully's hands. "Whatever you have is fine. And something warm to drink, if you please."
Cully ducked into the kitchen and returned with a platter of roast chicken and potatoes, along with two goblets of mulled wine. He was surprised to find the shorter one was a woman, and a pretty one at that. She had pulled her hood from her head, displaying her long, golden-brown hair pulled into a long braid. Her eyes were the hazel color of fine ale, and her face too delicate for her drab attire. Yet she tore into the hen as ravenously as her companion, so that Cully was inclined to return to the kitchen and produce another, along with some half-warm brown bread and butter. When they slowed down, Cully spoke again.
"Coming from the Steppes, are you?"
"From farther than that," the woman replied. Cully wondered about her. She did not appear to be a mercenary, nor the type accustomed to violence. Perhaps she was a lady in trouble of some sort. That would make the man her bodyguard. Only she didn't appear wealthy at all. Her clothes appeared simple under the heavy cloak.
"Surely not alone the whole way."
"We had an escort," the lady said. "They are on the way back to their caste."
"What news from Leodia?" The man had not removed his hood. His eyes burned intensely from the shadows.
"Leodia? Word from Leodia is always rumor these days, most of it untrue." Cully shrugged. "Liars looking to profit from slandering the good name of the king."
"What rumors?" The stranger's voice was strangely insistent.
"Why, that King Lucretius has gone mad, that he sent Marcellus Admorran to his death in Bruallia, that the Rangers were recalled from the Borderlands." Cully chuckled. "You see, just rumors. Just the thought that the king would send the Champion of Kaerleon to his death…"
Cully's voice trailed off when the stranger did not smile at all. "Why do you wish to know about—?"
"It's nothing." The stranger turned his attention to his plate once more. Seeing himself out of chicken, he attacked the potatoes and bread. With his free hand, he tossed a jade toke on the counter. It spun for a long time, alternating between the face of King Lucretius and the Lion of Kaerleon. "I'll need two rooms, adjoined if possible. We'll need to be awakened before dawn."
"This storm may not be over by then, sir."
"First light," the stranger said. "And I'll need to know where to go to trade horses. Ours are blown."
"If it's a horse you need, I have a stable out back. The best in Letega, I swear on my swords. I can trade with you myself."
The man chuckled in a familiar way. "Still a jack of all trades, Cully Golder?"
Cully looked up sharply. "How do you know my name?"
"How's the knee these days?"
Cully automatically shifted his weight. "A little stiff right now, but — wait, how would you know…?"
The stranger drew back his hood so Cully could see his face. He gasped in recognition.
"Because I was there the day you nearly lost it," Marcellus Admorran said.
THE TWO MEN WITHDREW into one of the inn's private rooms. Books lined the shelves, and the bar was well stocked. Cully poured apple brandy into a pair of glasses. He handed one to Marcellus.
"It's been a while since the Siege of Letega. You haven't changed at all, you lucky dog. Now me…" He patted his round stomach for emphasis.
His cheerful demeanor fell as he leaned forward. "The word on everyone's tongue is that you're a dead man and that Lucretius was the one who buried you. They say that he has publicly flogged heralds from Runet and Jafeh, insulting the two most rebellious provinces in the kingdom. We're at the brink of rebellion, and the king huddles with strangers, so it's said. Folk that no one has seen in the kingdom before. Now, I'm a good king's man, but His Majesty's wits have bloody flipped if half of what I hear is true. So what in the fiery pits of Narak is going on?"
"I know as much as you," Marcellus said. He didn't touch the brandy. He had changed into dry clothes courtesy of Cully, and now looked at least halfway civilized. Since he was a friend, Cully didn't even charge him for them. Besides, it had been quite some time since he could fit into anything that size.
Even so, Marcellus had changed much since Cully had last seen him. His face was harder, his eyes almost feverish. He constantly shifted, never sat still. It wasn't nervousness, Cully knew. It was the wariness of a wolf, the tension of a spring coiled and ready to release unpredictably.
"People are looking for you," Cully said. "That's why I pulled you back here. A man came through a few nights ago asking about a dark-haired fighting man traveling with a young, pretty woman with long golden-brown hair. He's circled all the inns, promising seven amber tokes for anyone who brings him word of your whereabouts."
Marcellus didn't appear disturbed. "What sort of man?"
"Big fellow. Fighter for sure, probably a mercenary. Shaved head; ugly, scarred face. One eye missing."
Marcellus froze. "One eye missing. Was his name Gile Noman?"
"That's it. Didn't know the last name, but I remembered the name Gile. An odd type of name, I thought. You know the man?"
Marcellus stroked a thin scar on his cheek. "I know him. There is much that I owe Gile Noman. Do you know where he is right now?"
"He comes and goes. Makes rounds every few days. Men like him don't stay in one place." Cully eyed Marcellus, whose face had hardened, eyes glimmering with quiet rage. "Do you want me to make inquiries?"
Marcellus considered for only a moment before shaking his head. "I cannot wait for anything, not even Gile Noman. If he follows my trail then we will meet again, fortune willing. But I must ride swiftly. The fact that these rumors abound show how much uncertainty there is. I worry about my family. Since I was betrayed, what's happened to them? If any harm has befallen them…" The unspoken threat hung in the air.
Cully shifted uncomfortably. "Let's not be too rash, lad. Remember, all we have to go on is rumor. Lucretius has never been the type to explain himself, but his actions have always been just. There has to be more to this than what meets the eye."