“Our deal stands?” the well-dressed man murmured, coming to a stop beside the gate-guard.
“It does. When d’ye expect these adventurers, Velmorn?”
“Right about now,” was the reply, accompanied by a lifted, pointing finger.
Rorld peered into the mists, and beheld a weary line of riders, swaying in their saddles atop even wearier mounts. “Hunh. They’ll be going no farther soon.”
“Indeed,” Velmorn agreed, stepping a careful pace farther out into the road. He stood watching the adventurers approach in gently smiling silence, until just the right moment. Whereupon he nodded greeting to Pennae and Florin and observed, “Long ride.”
“Long enough,” Pennae agreed. “You look like a man paid to stand awaiting wayfarers and recommend an inn.”
Velmorn grinned. “This being the flourishing many-spires realm-seat of Halfhap, you’d be right about all except the ‘paid’ part.”
Pennae smiled. “Well?”
“Well, you have the look of adventurers, and that means you’ll find a proper welcome only at one place inside our walls. The Oldcoats Inn. Turn right at the fork ahead, then left immediately, and when that road bends north again, it’s the black half-timbered building on your left, with the arched gate for its stableyard. It has a signboard. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks, friend,” Florin said appreciatively, as he passed. Velmorn and Rorld nodded pleasantly to them alclass="underline" the thief and the ranger; the little lass-no, she was a little older than that, just small; the two priests; and the watchful warrior-woman bringing up the rear.
“Lathander and Tymora,” Rorld commented on the priests’ holy symbols, as they watched the travelers turn right where the street forked. “Adventurers.”
Velmorn nodded. “Adventurers.”
The gate-guard casually held out his hand. “They’re the ones, hey?”
“They’re the ones,” Velmorn replied, spilling a clinking stack of Lord Yellander’s gold coins into Rorld’s palm.
The Purple Dragons who guarded the Royal Palace in Suzail were neither young nor inexperienced. They knew their duties very well-and when to call upon reinforcements.
“Just here, sir,” the grizzled old first sword said with a puzzled frown, pointing at the floor. Something small, round, and blackened was lying right in the angle where the floor and two walls met, nigh a door. A ring. “You smell it too?”
The lionar nodded and bent down to peer at the ring. He started to reach for it, and then caught sight of several human hairs standing straight out from the wall where they’d been spattered-and then partially melted-against it.
By some sort of explosion.
He carefully straightened up again without touching anything, and ordered, “Go get the War Wizard Laspeera. I’ll stay right here. Tell her, and anyone — anyone — who tries to stop you that nothing at all in the realm matters so much as her getting her here, right quick, to see this. If you can’t get her, get Vangerdahast.”
“The-the Royal Magician?” The guard gulped visibly and then added, “ Yes, sir!” He flung open the door and raced away down the passage beyond, his speed surprising for his age.
The lionar closed that door, drew his sword and his dagger, and placed himself carefully against the wall across from the ring.
After a moment he stepped hastily away from the wall, whirled to stare at it suspiciously, and then slowly moved to the center of the passage, where he turned slowly all around, blades raised, looking for a foe.
The Oldcoats Inn was a large, sagging place with a swaybacked roof. It was cloaked in black paint, broken briefly here and there by rows of small white-painted medallion ornaments, like lines of stars in a moonless midnight sky. The doors were black, the yard fence and arch were black, the porch pillars and floorboards were black-even the shakes on the roof were black.
Yet stablelads trotted out to take their mounts cheerfully enough, and the innkeeper’s smile was affable, his welcome ringing true.
“Ondal Maelrin, at your service whilst you’re under my roof here at Oldcoats,” he told them. “We’re an old house, but a good house.”
His words fell into a soft, waiting silence: the stout tables and chairs of the dark common room were all empty, with not a living guest to be seen or heard. That seemed to bother Maelrin not a whit as he accepted a gold lion per Knight from Pennae’s purse and carefully entered them in the ledger (“Knights of Myth Drannor, adventuring band, Royal Charter Cormyr: Florin Falconhand; Islif Lurelake; Jhessail Silvertree worker-of-Art; Pennae; Doust Sulwood anointed of Tymora; Semoor Wolftooth anointed of Lathander”).
Four of the Knights peered around at the dim silence a little uncertainly; what afflicted Oldcoats, to leave it this dark and empty? Pennae stared at Maelrin’s writing intently, and Jhessail studied Maelrin. He was of middling years, jet black hair, easy smile, wearing a leather vest over an immaculate tunic and black breeches; as quiet and graceful as the servants in the Royal Palace. As if aware of their scrutiny, he looked up, flashing a bright smile.
“A tankard of mulled cider and house soup each, to your rooms in a trice-all food and drink after that costs more coin,” he announced. Taking up one of the two low-trimmed lanterns on the bar that he was using as a reception desk, he led his guests up the flight of stairs that ascended out of the center of the common room, the stairs down to the cellar right beside them.
Upstairs seemed no more populated.
“Are we the only guests, just now?” Pennae ventured to ask, as the innkeeper produced two large room keys with a flourish, offered them to her, and bowed, indicating the first doors on either side of the passage, at the head of the stairs.
“Just now,” Maelrin replied, “but word has been sent ahead of a few more who’ll be joining us before nightfall-and a large caravan’s expected, coming down from the Moonsea, this night or the next. When it arrives, we’ll have folk sleeping out in the stable loft.”
The rooms were as dark as the rest of the inn, but were clean, furnished simply with massive wooden wardrobes and rope-and-straw mattress beds; the straw was fresh, and the Knights nodded and smiled acceptance.
Maelrin lit the rooms’ oil-lamps and departed, taking his lantern with him. The moment they heard his boots descending the stairs, the men trooped across the hall to confer with the lady Knights, yawning hugely.
“Three coppers one of us is asleep before those tankards arrive,” Pennae suggested.
“No takers,” Doust muttered. “My thighs and backside fell into slumber well before dawn. Could we possibly arrange to have adventures that don’t involve riding horses, from now on?”
“Doubt it,” Islif said cheerfully. “And what do the intrepid Knights of Myth Drannor think of the dark and haunted inn, hmm?”
“Certainly looks haunted,” Semoor agreed.
Jhessail shot a look that had daggers in it at Islif. “Have my deepest thanks for mentioning that. Now I’ll-”
“Be snoring in a trice like the rest of us,” Semoor said. “Good thing the doors have foot-wedges; I doubt any of us could stay awake on watch.”
“Ah,” Pennae murmured, “but are the doors we see the only ways into these rooms?”
Everyone glanced around, and swiftly agreed that thus far, each room in the Oldcoats they’d seen looked like the sort of place where every wall, floor, and ceiling had sliding panels, and secret passages behind them.
Pennae grinned at that and started toward the nearest wall, but Islif and Florin both grabbed her by the forearms and growled, “ No. ”
Islif added, “See if you can get through one night-just one-without prowling anywhere, getting into trouble, or stealing from anyone.”
Pennae lifted her chin defiantly.
“For the novelty of it?” Semoor suggested.
Pennae rolled her eyes, and handed him his own purse.