***
Warning ***
Sensitive
situations
Violence;
Nudity;
Hard
R Rating
Please
do not read if you are easily disturbed.
(All
characters, places and events reside solely in my imagination.)
The
Song of Gaál
….......
Seventeen ….......
Opening
the door to the inn opened a new world to Cassava. The mixed smell
of roasted meat, unwashed bodies and spilled ale assaulted him. He
quickly pinched the bridge of his nose. Patrons sat about, eating,
drinking, talking, creating a soft discordant babble of sound.
Scanning the room, his eyes glanced over the tables, benches and
counters darkened with age and scuffed with use. A low fire burned
in the fireplace at the back of the room, flitting shadows and light
across the floor, the ceiling and the people. The people. Sitting
and standing about the humid room, a few turned to look briefly at
him when he entered, but dismissing a child, they resumed their
eating, drinking and talking. Eyes gliding around the room, Cassava
took in the patrons, looking first at the clothing to determine who
may be a wealthy traveler. While several people wore colourful
clothes, their familiarity while they interacted with the wearers of
browns and tans indicated that none in the common room were who he
was looking for. He saw the big man with the long beard who he met
at the stable standing at the end of the bar, conversing with another
man who appeared to be a common man as well. Cassava shifted his
eyes lower, and turned his head slightly to the floor.
Stepping
into the room a bit further, he moved out of the path of a plump
woman carrying two tankards in one hand and a bowl in the other.
Cassava slipped toward the wall, further into shadow and the woman
slowed, her eyes passing him from head to foot.
The
woman stopped before him and asked, “You'll want food, boy?”.
Looking
up at the woman's round face, he nodded and lowered his gaze to her
shoulder. She turned to continue on her way. “Sit yerself where's
room,” she called back to him over her shoulder as she headed to a
table occupied by a man in brown homespun clothing with her burden.
Cassava
scanned the room for a seat. Finding none available to allow him a
clear view of everything, he decided to remain near the entrance,
seeing that taking a seat at a table would change his view of the
room. He sat on the bench by the door, having decided it gave him
the best vantage to watch the room and watch for this fair man that
planned to take Mirriam away.
Absently
rubbing his forefinger and thumb over the piece of shiny cloth in his
pocket, he took his time and scrutinized the room from serving bar to
back stair. He would need to stay the night. His fingers moved from
the cloth to the coins Kisertet had given to him. Eight were left.
He hoped eight would be enough to stay the night, or perhaps it would
be better to sleep outside near the path in the forest. He doubted
that a man who would speak finely and have fair features would travel
toward Kisertet's estate through the forests and up the hills. He
was sure that the man traveled by path only and likely in a cart, but
definitely not on foot. Cassava did not recall having seen a small
carriage near the inn or near the stable. By horse then, he decided
and turned toward the plump lady who carried his bowl to him.
Nodding his thanks for the food, he handed her a coin and took the
bowl to his lap.
Glaring into the brown stew, he listening to the voices around him. She
had not left a spoon. The bread resting on the rim of the bowl fell
into the stew, the soft white center staining as the broth in the
bowl slowly crept up the porous bread. He sat thus a long while,
allowing the meal to become cold and the bread to become mush. His
lip curled in distaste at the sight of the stained bread and he
wondered what to do with the bowl. He did not want the sight or
smell of the food near him. As much as his stomach lurched, he vowed
not to move until he found the man, Gerjen Abos.
“Not
hungry, boy?” Came the question from the matron as she approached
Cassava. He shook his head slightly and lifted a shoulder in an
apologetic shrug. “Wella,” she responded, wiping the back of her
hand across her forehead; she leaned toward him to take the bowl,
“yer Da or M'am comin'?”
Cassava
turned his eyes from the woman and gave a brief nod, looking past her
to the man entering the establishment. Having heard the door open,
the matron turned her head and saw the new guest. “Best 'ave 'em
come soon, rooms mi' be gone.” She advised with a glance at
Cassava before approaching the newcomer, engaging him in a brief
dialogue.
Cassava
pushed himself backward on the bench into the shadows and watched the
blonde haired man. A glance at the man's brushed leather and
delicate silk clothing and Cassava surmised that the man was not a
local farmer. The long, fair hair was clean and pulled back from a
soft, angular face that sported a sharp nose and dark blue eyes.
Cassava's eyes wandered over the man and calculated wealth and
aristocracy. With the buzz and din from the others in the great
room, it was difficult for him to hear the man's voice, but he had
little doubt that this was Gerjen Abos. The man's hands shifted the
weight of the satchel and he nodded to the matron, turning to follow
her, his walk weary and tight. Cassava watched as the thin man sat at
a small table near the fire and placed his bag on the table. His
movements were tense and reluctant, indicating soreness, or sickness,
and while the man was pale, his skin was not of a sickly pallor.
A
cool rush of air swirled around Cassava's legs as the door opened
again. The seated man lifted an arm, signaling, and Cassava tipped
his head slightly to watch the new arrival walk casually to the silk
clad dandy. Frowning slightly, Cassava's hand glanced across the
handle of the small dagger wrapped to his leg. Two men he was not
expecting. He rubbed his wrist and watched the men, mindful not to
keep his eyes on their heads lest they feel his observation. He
could not hear their words and did not see another place to move to
where it might be better to listen.
Uproarious
laughter jolted Cassava and his head snapped over to the bar. A
lady's high shriek was followed by more laughing and the horse-stable
man doubled forward, guffawing with mirth at the lady's halfhearted
swing at another man. Cassava flit his eyes to the table; they were
watching the antics of the men with the lady. Coming to a decision,
he slipped off of the bench and casually walked to the fire, keeping
his head lowered while trying to catch a glimpse of anything on the
table that might prove his suspicion that this delicate man was the
man he was looking for. 'If
what was told is truth, he cannot continue his journey.'
Cassava bent forward to warm his hands at the fire, turning so that
his back was mostly to the table, but his ear might be able to catch
the talk. To listen to the talk and decide. They did not talk.
“Boy!
… Boy!” He heard called out over the voices and laughter.
Turning his head, he saw the big man he met near the stable walking
toward him, tankard in hand and a smile splitting the bearded face.
“Where's ya Da? I'ave'na seen ya Da here'bouts.” Cassava turned
fully toward the approaching man and noted that the two men at the
table watched the harmless interaction with a slight interest.
Cassava
shrugged and displayed what he thought was a smile, ducking his head
quickly and averting his eyes. “Ya 'ave no a tongue? Sad mite,
canna talk,” the man slurred, tipping up the tankard and draining
the contents in one loud slurp.
“'Ave
a rest, Josta, boy's na from here, p'hap he dun know our speech.”
Cassava
glanced up at the serving lady. She nudged Josta playfully with her
shoulder as she passed the stable-man and placed two steaming bowls
before the men at the table. Catching Cassava's eye, she winked at
him and turned her attention back to the men. “Josta's boys takin'
good care of ya horses, no mind Josta's tippin' the cup, he's a good
man wit' da horses.”
“Oh,
aye, kempt stables he has, certainly,” the slight, fair man
replied.
Turning
his eyes to the fire and his back to the two men at the table,
Cassava listened to the casual conversation. The man's speech held a
slight cant, and it was a mild and learned tongue. He had no doubts
that the small, blonde haired man behind him was Abos.
“No
worries 'bout da horses, Sirs, an' no worries 'bout yerselfs. Beds
han't vermin, clean as 'ome, good rest afore ya go on to … “ The
lady chuckled. “I dun belief I recall where ye'll both be headed.”
“Appropriately,
Lady,” came the lilting voice of Abos, “I do not recall saying.”
The
lady chuckled again. “Secret then, Sirs?” She asked, her voice
lowered as though to whisper.
“No,
no, no secret Lady. This is Tolvaj lands, yes?”
“Oh,
aye, is.”
“Then
we are near where we are meant to be,” came the delicate response.
Cassava clenched a fist.
“Ye'll
be headin' up'ta'tha castle? Sad place han't many visitors. Master
'imself han't been 'round much on 'count o'the Mistress, bit tatched
in'ta brain, so's said.”
“No,
no Lady, we do not plan a visit at Sotete. Though your words are
quite worrisome to hear that Tolvaj is strapped. He will be missed
at Council.”
“Ah-ha!”
the lady exclaimed as though she found a lucky stone. “Crossin'
through to Council. That's a hefty trek. No word 'round here 'bout
a Council callin, seein's Master han't shown he'self here in some
time. “
“No,
Lady, again a no,” the man laughed quietly, sounding like a
chickadee twittering. Cassava clenched his fist tighter and frowned
into the fire. ”Council has not been called. But tell me this,
Good Wife, are you familiar with Tolvaj's estate? We could not
locate it on any map and know that it only lies on the eastern edge
of Sotete lands.”
“Oh
aye, down on'ta Suiken.” Again the lady's voice lowered and
Cassava glanced from the corner of his eyes, seeing that she was bent
forward toward the blonde man as if telling him a great secret.
“Nuthin' but ghosts, filled up wi'haunts, so I hear.”
“It
is not in use? There is no man there, Mistress Sotete's brother, with
a girl?” Came the questions in a tone of mild surprise at the
serving lady's statement.
A
throaty laugh sounds from the lady. “No, no, Sir, that ol'manse
been empty, near two hun'ert years. I han't seen it, but stories
come this way, an'han't heard anyone seen a livin' soul there, but,”
her voice lowered again, as if she had more secrets to tell, “some
comes this way from da road tell of fairy lights in da fog. Fog
creeps 'round the place even in day, and wit'da lights, most 'urry on
past and no one stoppin' in.” The lady straightened up again.
“I'd stay 'way from da fairy lights an' 'aunted places. Them
ghosts need be left alone.”
“Ah,
I see.” Abos said, the chair creaking slightly as he shifted his
seating. “Then perhaps a visit to Sotete first is in order, what
say you?”
Came
the reply from the companion, “We should continue as planned. We
have delayed quite long enough.”
“Then
off'ta 'at 'aunted place?” The lady asked.
As
Cassava waited to hear the reply, the sounds of the inn seemed to be
eerily hushed, as though everyone present waited for the response.
Abos spoke up, shifting the sounds of the room back to normal.
“We
should be visiting Sotete; might best get permission of Tolvaj before
stopping in unannounced to one of his houses. Might better have the
Master's word to venture on, and it cannot be harmful to know another
of the Council. Share a cup and learn a face, aye?”
“North
from here to the castle, Lady?” Asked the deeper voiced man.
“North
from 'ere's da castle Sirs, aye. And will ya'be 'avin more drink?
Mulled wine? Grapes grown 'ere in our little haven...“
Cassava
moved away from the fire, slipped along the wall, and left the inn.
