~*~
The past three weeks whittled on the Ranger’s composure. The prince seemed to have an unrelenting optimism, which perplexed the jaded scout. Donald should feel humiliated, but instead he acted as though he had just won a prize at the fair. On the long list of things the prince still did not understand, his own mortality appeared on the first page. He could have gotten himself killed, and Kwestor doubted he learned much from the experience. He would need to. Somehow, Kwestor must teach him. He certainly felt no desire to try to explain anything more severe than a bump on the head to the queen. He appreciated the young man’s need to test himself, but much more adventure might kill him. Donald simply lacked any preparation for life outside the castle. Probably the best thing to do would be to get him somewhere to rest up and then see if he could talk him into going back to Greatbridge before he managed to do something terminal.
The strength of the breeze rose as the sun sank, and they proceeded on the leaf and litter tossed main road toward the center of town. Chickens, dogs, young children, and old men crossed their path or mingled in groups, each scratching as suited their nature. Frequently, the sound of women’s voices calling out for a family to come to dinner filtered above din of private conversations, footsteps, and the occasional rattle of cartwheels.
“What did you say the name of this town was?” Donald asked his guide.
“Barter’s Forge.”
“Curious. My father’s chief adviser is named Barter—Horace Barter. I wonder if there’s a connection.”
“I wouldn’t know, sir,” Muce offered. “But the last time I was by this way, a fellow named Barter was at the inn. I remember because I thought it odd at the time, him and the village both with the same name. I was at the inn having a meal with some of the other guards. They were serving potatoes in cheese sauce with bits of bacon, I think, with these chopped up onion tops—”
“Muce,” Kwestor interrupted sharply.
“Oh. Right. Sorry. Anyway, I was working as a guard for an ore shipment from Gotrox, about fifty wagons, and he was at another table. He called to the innkeeper for some more ale or something. Randy I think his name was. Anyway, Randy, I’m sure that’s it, calls back saying, ‘Yes, sir, Mister Barter, sir.’ So, that’s how I knew the man’s family name was ‘Barter’. I don’t recall hearing his given name though.”
“When was this?”
“Oh, about four months ago, I think.”
“What did he look like? Barter, that is, not the innkeeper.”
“Um, I’m not sure I recall, exactly, though I know he was dressed real good because I figured he must be rich, and I wondered if he owned the town or something. I do recall he had real dark hair and eyes and a big, hooked nose. Yeah, that’s right because his cape was black, and I remember thinking he looked like a big crow.”
“Do you remember about how old he was?”
“Not too. Older than me, but younger than Kwestor.”
“Well, it couldn’t have been my father’s adviser. He’s over sixty and his hair is more gray than black, but it sounds like there might be a family resemblance.”
They continued to follow the main road and before long came upon the local Redfruit Inn, a two-story structure of stone, whitewashed stucco and wood, with thick thatch for a roof. A wooden sign with faded paint showing a tree abundant with ripe redfruit creaked on rusty chains over the entrance. Kwestor helped the prince off the gond when they arrived. He noticed Donald moved with slow deliberation while dismounting.
A young stable hand, dressed in mended clothes a bit too large for his skinny frame, hastened to them and offered to tend to the mount. Kwestor gave the boy a few copper-seed coins and told him to unpack the animal and bring their things into the inn. They would be staying the night.
Donald took a few halting steps toward the entrance, and Muce rushed over to help him. The inn’s wide, solid redfruit-wood door opened out into a large, wood-floored room. Diners occupied a number of round tables crammed closely together off to the left.
A plump, flush-cheeked, balding man with an almost white apron greeted them from behind a small bar. “What can I do for you gents?”
“Rooms,” Kwestor replied.
“Hi, Randy,” said Muce.
“Uh, hi,” replied the barkeeper, squinting at the young fighter. “Muce, right?”
“Yes.” Muce smiled.
“Yeah, I remember you. You’ve been through here a few times in the last year or so. You’re the one who helped Bert the potter pull his wagon out of the mud last spring, aren’t you? Damnedest thing I ever saw, you knee deep in the mud holding up the back end of that wagon like it weighed nothing at all.”
Muce responded with a modest grin and lowered his eyes. “Yeah, that was me.”
“Rooms,” repeated Kwestor.
“Oh, yes; sorry, sir. Rooms. We have a very nice one I could let you have upstairs. It’s got four beds with fresh straw mattresses, a chamber pot, washstand, bowel and pitcher, and a window. Just one gold-tree and two silver-fruit a night.”
“Dinner?” Kwestor asked.
“Extra.”
The ranger negotiated for the room and meals. Not long after, the stable boy arrived with their belongings. The innkeeper told the boy which room the men rented, and the laden lad led the way to it.
Muce walked Donald to one of the beds while Kwestor helped the stable boy put the bags, bedrolls and gear in the corner of the room. The ranger handed him one more copper-seed coin and closed the door after he left.
Kwestor turned to the prince. “How do you feel?”
“Not bad at all, really. Just a bit sore in places. I’m fine, I’m sure.”
“Probably are, but a bit of bed rest won’t hurt. Get cleaned up a bit and use the facilities.” Kwestor motioned to the full pitcher on the washstand and nudged the chamber pot underneath with his boot. “We’ll bring up some dinner.” His tone assumed the prince’s compliance. “Then maybe tomorrow we can head back to Greatbridge.” Before the prince could object, Kwestor tapped Muce on the shoulder, pointed to the door, and the two men left, leaving Donald seated alone on the bed.
They found several vacant tables in the dining area on the main floor of the inn and selected a small round one near the bar. A young girl, about twelve or thirteen years old, came to take their order. She told them the inn offered two different main course offerings today—baked chicken with bread stuffing, and scalloped potatoes with ham. Muce asked for a large plate of potatoes and Kwestor ordered one for himself and one for the prince, as well as two bottles of a local wine.
When the food arrived, Muce thanked the girl. Before he could take a bite, Kwestor said, “Go take the prince’s plate and one of the bottles up to him and stay there.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be down here a while. I want to catch up on the news.”