Though large for a village inn, the building could hold only half the residents at one time. The women and children veered away from the mud-and-stone building, pausing only to well-wish, curtsy, or touch their guest. Obliged to respond to each and every one, Ra-khir bowed what seemed like a million times, spoke several hundred thanks, and granted all verbalized requests for light contact. Some simply touched a sleeve or a glove, others kissed the hem of his cape or tabard, while the children seemed to favor a stroke of Silver Warrior's lathered chest or flank.
At length, only the men remained, streaming into the inn or talking in small groups. A stable boy approached Ra-khir and lowered his head.
Ra-khir granted him a grand bow, which brought a smile to the young man's lips.
"Beggin' youse pardons, sir. May I tends to youse horse?"
Ra-khir pursed his lips. The vast majority of the knight's chargers got their care from grooms, but Ra-khir had always insisted on tending Silver Warrior himself. In this circumstance, however, it seemed insulting to put the horse before his many eager hosts. Reluctantly releasing the bridle, he nodded. Worried they might not allow him to pay for anything, Ra-khir slipped the boy a couple of silvers. "He's very special." A whole litany of needs sprang to his tongue, but he knew better than to speak them. This youngster knew exactly how to treat a fine animal, and the payoff would see to it that Silver Warrior received the best of care. "But getting a bit long in the tooth."
The stable boy pocketed the silver and nodded. "I'll sees ta it the ol' boy gits plenty o' lovin' cares."
"Thank you."
Several men gestured for Ra-khir to enter the building, and he did so at their urging. Afraid to cause a pile-up at the entrance, he walked the length of the common room to a large, round table in the farthest corner. The instant he chose a seat, the men of Dunford rushed to fill the nearest ones like children playing one-chair-less. Soon, men filled every position, scooting chairs and tables, while others found the best places to stand.
Though uncomfortably closed-in, Ra-khir suffered in silence. His honor prevented him from demanding breathing room or, even, from shedding a cape or tabard from his oppressive amount of clothing. He did, however, remove his hat and gloves, as was proper inside any establishment. "Hello," he said.
A hundred hellos answered him, like a loud, uncoordinated echo.
Ra-khir cleared his throat, feeling it impolite to rush right into business. The gesture resulted in a painful cough, his throat dry and dusty from travel.
In an instant, a barmaid appeared at Ra-khir's shoulder, clutching a mug of light-colored ale. He had no idea how she had negotiated the crowd so quickly. "Here, sirra," she said, placing the mug in front of him on the table. "This is for you, courtesy of Lenn." She gestured toward the bar. "He said to tell you the house special is on the way."
Ra-khir followed the movement of her arm to a portly, middle-aged man wearing an apron over his linens. He threw a friendly salute toward the knight.
Ra-khir returned the salute more grandly and briskly; he knew no other way. "Tell him, thank you. And to keep track of my tab."
"He said to tell you…" The girl took a deep breath, clearly trying to quote her boss exactly right, "… if you try to pay, he'll break your arms."
"Ah!" Ra-khir could not help smiling. "How can I refuse such a gracious invitation?" He sifted a few coppers from his purse and pressed them into her hand. "Did he say anything about not tipping the staff?"
Her fingers closed over the coins, and she threw a surreptitious glance toward Lenn.
"Don't tell him, eh? I like my arms the way they are." Ra-khir distracted Lenn by rising and making a formal bow of appreciation in his direction.
Lenn bowed back, then turned and disappeared into the kitchen. Other serving girls pressed through the crowd, amid a sudden flurry of drink and food orders throughout the common room. Apparently, serving the knight cued the others. Had Ra-khir known that bit of etiquette, he would have ordered before entering; his throat felt parched, and his stomach rumbled.
"Thank you, sirra," the girl whispered before diving into the crowd to take her share of orders.
Ra-khir remained stiffly formal, as his title dictated. He glanced at the faces around his table: sunburned, dust-etched, wrinkled, nodding to each in turn before asking, "I wondered if a group of warriors preceded me to Dunford, about three hundred strong and in need of supplies."
Murmurs ran through the crowd, denying such a sighting. Only after the noise died did one man speak alone, "Sir Knight, I did not see such an army. But, only two days ago, I sold my wares to the beams to a group of five men who packed out my cured and fresh meats in a horse-drawn cart. Every one of them wore a sword at his hip. They could be feeding a multitude like you describe."
"Aye," said another. "And they bought out my cheeses, didn't care the type."
"And my vegetables," piped in a third.
Suddenly, every memory was jogged, and several started talking at once about the clothing, foodstuffs, and other necessities they, a wife, or a friend had sold to this apparently enormous group.
Ra-khir had no doubt they spoke of the Renshai, glad the tribe had shown the sense to mostly remain in hiding. Even smaller villages did not take well to the sudden appearance of a militia.
A man swaggered up to Ra-khir's table, ignoring the elbows jabbed at him by his peers. "Sir Knight," he slurred, huffing fetid breath on all of those around him. Clearly, he had started his drinking hours earlier. "There were Renshai in the woods. A friend of mine barely escaped with his life."
"Ignore him," those nearby suggested. "He's always-"
But Ra-khir could not afford to dismiss him. "Renshai, you say?"
"Renshai," the man repeated. In some parts of the world, it was considered a swear word too vile to speak. "They all carried swords, even the women and the tykes, he said."
"That sounds like Renshai." Ra-khir had no choice but to encourage him. "Are you certain they attacked him, though?"
"They're Renshai," the man reminded, as if this was enough to guarantee violence. "He barely escaped with his life."
"So…" Ra-khir tried carefully, "… they wounded him."
"Cor, no!" The man made a wild gesture that sent others ducking and scurrying to avoid getting hit. "Renshai don't wound. They get holt of a man, they kill him… brutally."
Ra-khir heaved a large sigh. It seemed unnecessary to point out the ludicrous flaws in the drunkard's statement. If three hundred Renshai wished to catch a man, he would be caught. And, if they intended him harm, he would be harmed. "I do not believe your friend was ever in any danger."
The drunkard froze in his strange and awkward position, arms akimbo. Whispers spread through the common room, then died to silence. The group hung on Ra-khir's next pronouncement.
"It is true that Renshai are skilled warriors and that their women learn warfare alongside their men."
The crowd did not discuss Ra-khir's words, clearly awaiting the "but" that had to follow.
Ra-khir did not disappoint. "But… in all other ways, they are like every Westerner."
"Westerner." The word swept the room. One man finally addressed Ra-khir directly. "You consider them Westerners, Sir Knight? Like us? Our allies?"
Ra-khir could scarcely believe they did not. "Of course, the Renshai are Westerners. They have lived in the West for centuries and have wielded their swords in defense of Bearn's heirs. They are more than our allies. They are… us!"
Now conversations flared like fires throughout the common room. The drunkard toddled off, shaking his head. The serving girl seized the sudden lull to slip through the crowd and deposit a plate of food in front of Ra-khir. The tantalizing aroma of roast pork and roots, boiled greens and brown bread tickled his nostrils. Dirt-specked saliva filled his mouth, lubricating his throat.