Buttle himself was a good example. Surly and ill-tempered, he was also authoritarian and arrogant, demanding the best seat in the house and the finest food, wine and ale when he visited, then waving the bill away with an airy gesture, telling Cullum to present it at the castle, a good day's ride away.
Buttle also had assumed the title of Sir John – an obvious pretense. "If he's a knight," Cullum told his wife, "I'm the Dowager Duchess of Dungully." His wife agreed, but urged him to be cautious.
"We want nothing to do with those people," she said firmly. "We keep ourselves to ourselves, and we don't interfere."
Good advice, Cullum thought gloomily, as he set the table for the midday meal. But now this young free lance was here, asking about events at the castle.
It seemed strange, because he was unlike the type that Buttle had been recruiting. He had paid for his room in advance. And he seemed quite well mannered, always referring to Cullum's wife as "Mistress Gelderris" and speaking politely to the few customers who came in contact with him. Not that there had been many of them last night. Word spread quickly in a small community like this, and people assumed that the free lance's presence would draw Buttle to the inn to recruit him. Most people sought to avoid "Sir John" whenever p ossible.
"Good afternoon, innkeeper. What's on the menu today?" The voice, coming from so close behind him, made him jump nervously. He turned to see the young warrior had entered the room and was standing a meter away, smiling.
"No menu, I'm afraid, sir," he said, trying to recover his poise after the nervous start the young man had caused. "Just lamb shanks braised with winter vegetables and gravy."
The young man nodded appreciatively.
"Sounds excellent," he said. "And d'you think there might be some of your good wife's delicious berry pie remaining from last night?"
"I'll set you up a table, sir," he said, hurrying to clear a smaller table closer to the fire. But the young man cheerfully declined.
"Don't go to any fuss," he said, dropping onto the bench along the main table. "I'm happy to eat here. Come and join me for a moment."
Cullum hesitated. "Ah, well, sir, it's the busy time of day, you see…"
The warrior nodded, looking around the empty taproom and grinning at the innkeeper.
"So I see. The place is packed to the rafters. Come on, Cullum, I'm a stranger in these parts and I'd like a little local information."
Cullum could think of no way to refuse without offending him. And offending trained warriors was not a good idea. Reluctantly, he agreed.
"Well, just a few minutes, then. The customers will be arriving soon."
His regular customers may have stayed away the previous night – people could always do without a drink for a night or two. But the lunch trade was different. They had to eat somewhere, and the Cracked Flagon was their only choice.
Cullum sat down, a little reluctantly. He preferred to keep his distance from strange warriors, no matter how friendly they might appear.
"I'm told there was a jongleur passed through here some time back. Perhaps two weeks ago?" the warrior said.
Cullum, suspicions instantly on the alert, replied cautiously. "Aye, sir. There was, I recall."
Last he'd heard, the jongleur in question had been heading for Macindaw as well – although there were rumors that he had been part of Lord Orman's mysterious escape.
"No need to call me sir. Hawken's my name. Now, about this jongleur, young fellow, was he? About my age – but not quite as big?"
The innkeeper nodded. "I'd say so. Yes."
"Hmmm," Hawken said. "Any idea where he might be now?"
Cullum hesitated. In truth, he couldn't say for sure. He decided he'd simply stick to what he knew.
"He was headed for the castle, sir – " He noticed the warrior tilt his head at the word and hurried to change it. "I mean, Hawken. But I've since heard that he might be somewhere in Grimsdell
Wood."
The young man pursed his lips at the news.
"Grimsdell?" he said. "I thought that was the lair of that fellow
Malkallam?"
Cullum looked anxiously around at the name. Malkal lam was not someone that he wanted to discuss. He wished fervently that his normal lunchtime customers would arrive and give him a reason to get up and go to the kitchen.
"Please, Hawken, we don't usually… discuss Mal… that person," he said awkwardly. Hawken nodded his understanding, rubbing his hand over his chin as he considered the innkeeper's words.
"Still," he said, "what would a jongleur be doing in those woods?"
"Possibly minding his own business. A practice I can recommend to you, Hawken."
Cullum felt the icy swirl of wind from outside as the main door opened. Both men at the table whirled around to see a cloaked, cowled figure silhouetted against the light from the doorway. The tip of a recurve bow was visible, slung over one shoulder. At the other, the fletched ends of a quiver full of arrows could be seen. Hawken slowly rose from the bench, stepping clear and turning to face the new arrival, left hand dropping casually to the scabbard of his long sword, angling it slightly forward to facilitate drawing the weapon.
Cullum stood up rapidly, tangling his feet and stumbling as he looked fearfully at the two men facing each other.
"Please, gentlemen," he said, "there's no need for unpleasantness here."
The silence in the room grew unbearable. He was about to add another plea for reason, thinking of the damage that would be done to his taproom, when he heard a surprising sound.
Laughter.
It started with the tall swordsman, Hawken. His shoulders began to shake, and in spite of a massive effort to suppress it, a snort of laughter burst from him. It was echoed by the silhouetted figure, whom Cullum now recognized as the jongleur, Will Barton – the jongleur they had just been discussing. The two now abandoned their threatening positions and moved forward, throwing their arms around each other exuberantly, hands pounding on backs in greeting. Finally the jongleur, the smaller of the two, pulled away, a wry grimace on his face.
"Careful, for pity's sake! Stop pounding me with that giant leg of mutton you call a hand! You'll break my spine, you oaf!"
Hawken recoiled from the other man in mock horror.
"Oh, did the big brute of a warrior damage the delicate little jongleur?" he asked. The two of them burst into more snorfles of laughter.
Cullum, totally puzzled, looked at them. The door to the kitchen opened, and his wife, hearing the noise in the taproom, peered through. Her eyes widened as she took in the two armed men, now standing back a little from each other and giggling in a most unwar-like way. She looked a question at Cullum, but all the innkeeper could do was shrug in bewilderment.
Hawken, however, noticed the movement from the corner of his eye and turned toward her. He placed a muscular arm around the shoulders of the jongleur and led him toward the bar as he spoke. He seemed to tower over the smaller man.
"We'll have another guest for lunch, mistress," he said cheerfully. "He may look like a midget, but he has an appetite like a giant."
"Of course, sir," she said, as puzzled as ever. She withdrew into the kitchen, shaking her head.
Hawken led his friend to the separate table that the innkeeper had been about to set a few minutes ago.
"My god, Horace! It's wonderful to see you!" Will exclaimed as they sat down. Then he couldn't contain his excitement any longer. "You're just the person I need! What brings you here? And what's all this Hawken nonsense? And since when did you become a free lance? What happened to your oak leaf?"