The streets were paved with large blocks of what looked like granite but may have been some other hard stone. The centers of all streets dipped, so the surface of each street formed a shallow V. When it rained, the water would flow to the middle and away. It also made the city street self-cleaning to an extent, while giving people on the two sides a place to walk with dry feet. That design could be appreciated in any city, but the detail and thought explained that the leaders of Malawi were far beyond anything I’d encountered.
Elizabeth asked where a brother and sister would stay, a respectable inn located at the center of the better part of the city, perhaps near the government offices, or the palace.
He kept the carriage on the same route as if he’d known where they would want to go.
She said, “Shall we call you Honest or Bran? Or both? While you’re thinking, I change my mind. We need a good inn, let’s say the best in the city, and it is fine with us if you collect a little extra from them for taking us there. We will also have the need for your services as our personal guides in the days to come if you are available to accept a commission.”
His smile grew.
She talked, he answered, until we knew where the best part of the city was located, that it was ruled by a very old king who was ill with three strong sons, one of whom was recovering from a recent accident while riding his horse. He’d taken quite a spill and was recovering from the fall. Just like in other kingdoms.
I began appreciating Elizabeth more and more. Her intimate conversation on the seat of the wagon revealed one critical tidbit of knowledge after another. Without him, it would have taken days to acquire a hint of what he shared with us.
It turned out that for what he termed a “modest fee” he could be our personal guide, proponent, driver, and confident. If we needed or wanted something—he could provide it. Always for a small price, of course.
I found I didn’t like his earthy good looks, his quick smile, or his wit. I didn’t like the way he seemed to have moved his hip closer to Elizabeth as the carriage bumped along the stone road. I told myself it was not jealousy and found it hard to lie to myself convincingly.
Elizabeth finally decided to use Bran as his name. He debated that until she explained that nobody trusted a man who calls himself honest. She also told him to change into different clothing, more restrained, and less green. Nobody trusts a man in green either.
As we arrived at a beautiful three-story brick structure with a sign of a black swan trimmed in gold, a coachman leaped to help us dismount the carriage. He paused as he saw our tattered clothing, sweat-stained and filthy from days of traveling. His eyes swept across us dismissively.
Our driver spoke first, “What’re you doing standing there my man? The inn has traveling guests, don’t you recognize them for what they are?”
The coachman, a man of middle age and impeccable manners was dressed in a uniform made of pale blue material so thin and well-made it was fit for a king. Literally. The stitches were tiny, almost unseen. Not a speck of dirt or a single stain ruined the illusion of wealth and power. And he was only the man who greeted carriages and helped the passengers to the ground—a very important position, it seemed.
Elizabeth nodded her thanks to our driver and lifted her chin. “If I am as important as my driver believes, you should be fawning at my feet. If I am not, and you treat me well, you lose a little self-respect, however, think about it. If I am who he says and report you to your superiors, you may lose far more.”
His hand raised uncertainly to assist Elizabeth.
I accepted his hand and waited for Elizabeth to provide more instructions to Bran. She turned to the coachman and said, “Sir, where is it proper for my private carriage and driver to wait for my call?”
“There are stables in the rear for the use of guests and their servants.”
She turned to Bran. “Please take your carriage around back, my faithful servant. I’ll have need of you after our meal.”
Honest Bran clucked his horse and departed to the far end of the building while the coachmen escorted us inside, fawning over us as much as Elizabeth suggested. I meekly followed, as much cowed by her as the coachman.
The incident remains clear in my mind because it was a different Princess Elizabeth than at home. It was no longer a hint or demonstration for a few moments. She had learned the art of demanding others to treat her as a superior.
That was not the first time I’d seen, heard, and understood her new powers, but it fixed it in my mind. She had become royal in every sense of the word. She might be wearing clothing that crossed a sea and a desert, her hair might hang in oily curls, and her hands might be shades darker with dirt than her skin, but only a fool would fail to see the woman inside.
It reminded me of a peasant saying from when I was a child. The exact circumstances are forgotten, but it went something like: Even kings get dirty and need to bathe.
We entered a carved double-door with painted fish apparently eating the tail of the one in the front as they swam in a circle around the outside of each door. Inside were other fish, small, large, and all carved into dark woods with a skill seldom seen.
There was not a dining room inside the door as expected, and where we’d found them in other inns. Instead, we entered a cloakroom with a counter on one side to hold our capes, coats, hats, and whatever else we brought inside with us. The other side held another counter, one ornately carved—without fish. However, vines and leaves tangled and intertwined, and behind the counter, a stern woman sat on a tall stool.
She looked up. Her eyes went briefly to the coachman, who probably gave her a signal of some sort because she leaped to her feet and welcomed us as if we were long-lost family. Obviously, the coachman was the gatekeeper for the inn. Patrons had to pass his inspection to be allowed inside, and he had relayed the importance of the new guests to the woman who was smiling at us.
She was dressed better than the coachman. Three fingers wore sparkly rings. A necklace of black stones set off the low-cut front, yet somehow it seemed tasteful and conservative. She was one of those women who tended to speak with their hand motions and waves of her arms.
We had the same routine with the palace guards at Crestfallen. As one of the few servants assigned directly to a royal, I knew the code we used. It was simple. The palace guard allowed his free hand to hover over his thigh, waist, or ribs. A royal visitor of any rank drew his free hand to his chest-buttons on his uniform. The higher the button, the more important the person.
The coachman had identified us as important. Important enough to enter the grand building, and he had probably keyed some of that information from Honest Bran who would also reveal information about his customers.
“Welcome to the Black Swan. Will you be just dining with us, or do you plan on staying with at our inn?”
At that time, Anna popped into my head like a playful explosion. *Have you arrived safely?*
CHAPTER TWENTY
I answered Anna’s mental call silently, *Yes. I’m sorry, I should have told you earlier. We are just entering an inn right now. How are you three doing in Landor?*