double-bladed sword in a shoulder harness, stands by an older brown gelding.
Brede reins up. “I beg your pardon…”
“Speak up, big boy.”
“Lodgings? Somewhere less expensive than…?” Brede gestures toward the Golden Ram.
“Take the corner street there. Bunch of places down a ways.” The mercenary points to the southeast corner of the square, swells his cheeks as if he wants to spit in the gutter, then looks toward the unmarked building and swallows.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” mumbles the bearded man, untying his mount.
The farm wagon creaks around the square and out of sight along the southwest corner street. Less than a dozen peoplewalk the raised stone sidewalks that front the buildings on the square.
“Shall we?” asks Brede.
Dorrin looks at the well-painted and orderly-appearing inn, dreading where they may end up in order to keep expenses low. A good half kay down the street, after inquiries at the Gilded Cup and the Trencher’s Board, finds them at the Three Chimneys.
“How much for a place to sleep?” asks Brede.
“A copper a night—that’s the common room. You provide your own blankets, pallet. Darkness, you can sleep on the planks if that’s all you have.” The thin woman innkeeper rakes her eyes over the trio.
“And the stable?”
“That’s two a night a horse, just hay and water. No grain.”
“What about food?”
“Plain and good. Soup and bread. Yellow cheese. Beer or mead. Three coppers each for soup and bread. A copper more for the cheese, and two for beer or mead. One for redberry.”
“Well…we’re hungry right now.”
Dorrin’s stomach growls, as if to reinforce the message.
The wiry woman looks the three over.
“Sit there.” Her bony finger jabs toward a corner table. “Less trouble that way. No blades out in the house. Understand?”
“We understand.” Brede smiles.
The Three Chimneys cannot properly be called more than a hostelry, not with only two bunkrooms and a single common room for eating. Personally, Dorrin would have preferred paying more and feeling less out of place.
An older woman, neither heavy nor thin, with silvered hair cut short enough to reveal long ears, appears behind Kadara. Her graying apron, bearing the signs of past stains, is freshly washed. “The regular, dears?”
“Regular?” stammers Dorrin.
“Soup, bread, and beer. That’s three coppers, and a lot less than anywhere else in Vergren.”
“How about redberry?” the healer asks.
“That’s still three, but I could make the loaf a little bigger.”
“I’ll have that.”
“The regular, with cheese,” adds Brede.
“And you’d be needing that, young fellow.”
“Just the regular.”
As the serving woman steps toward the kitchen, Dorrin looks around the squarish room. Less than half the tables are filled, certainly because it is well past midday, and at many of the tables sit older men, silently nursing mugs and little else.
“Wonderful place,” observes Kadara.
“Not much sense in spending coins we haven’t figured how to replace.” Brede responds.
Dorrin rubs his nose, trying to stifle a sneeze. “Aaaachooooo…”
“It’s not that bad.” Brede grins momentarily.
“Aaa…choooo…”
“Here you be, dears.”
Three chipped brown earthenware bowls land upon the table, followed by three equally chipped mugs, and three large, scraped, and bent spoons.
“And here’s the bread.”
True to her word, she supplies Dorrin with the largest loaf of the dark brown bread, although the smallest loaf—Kadara’s—is well over two-thirds of a cubit long. The server slips a small wedge of cheese onto the table before Brede. “Be you needing anything else, dears?”
“No, thank you,” Dorrin answers.
She bobs her head and is gone to pick up a mug and a copper from a fat and bald graybeard.
Brede breaks off nearly a quarter of the loaf and chews his way through it even before Dorrin has had two mouthfuls. Kadara has almost
Brede reins up. “I beg your pardon…”
“Speak up, big boy.”
“Lodgings? Somewhere less expensive than…?” Brede gestures toward the Golden Ram.
“Take the corner street there. Bunch of places down a ways.” The mercenary points to the southeast corner of the square, swells his cheeks as if he wants to spit in the gutter, then looks toward the unmarked building and swallows.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” mumbles the bearded man, untying his mount.
The farm wagon creaks around the square and out of sight along the southwest corner street. Less than a dozen peoplewalk the raised stone sidewalks that front the buildings on the square.
“Shall we?” asks Brede.
Dorrin looks at the well-painted and orderly-appearing inn, dreading where they may end up in order to keep expenses low. A good half kay down the street, after inquiries at the Gilded Cup and the Trencher’s Board, finds them at the Three Chimneys.
“How much for a place to sleep?” asks Brede.
“A copper a night—that’s the common room. You provide your own blankets, pallet. Darkness, you can sleep on the planks if that’s all you have.” The thin woman innkeeper rakes her eyes over the trio.
“And the stable?”
“That’s two a night a horse, just hay and water. No grain.”
“What about food?”
“Plain and good. Soup and bread. Yellow cheese. Beer or mead. Three coppers each for soup and bread. A copper more for the cheese, and two for beer or mead. One for redberry.”
“Well…we’re hungry right now.”
Dorrin’s stomach growls, as if to reinforce the message.
The wiry woman looks the three over.
“Sit there.” Her bony finger jabs toward a corner table. “Less trouble that way. No blades out in the house. Understand?”
“We understand.” Brede smiles.
The Three Chimneys cannot properly be called more than a hostelry, not with only two bunkrooms and a single common room for eating. Personally, Dorrin would have preferred paying more and feeling less out of place.
An older woman, neither heavy nor thin, with silvered hair cut short enough to reveal long ears, appears behind Kadara. Her graying apron, bearing the signs of past stains, is freshly washed. “The regular, dears?”
“Regular?” stammers Dorrin.
“Soup, bread, and beer. That’s three coppers, and a lot less than anywhere else in Vergren.”
“How about redberry?” the healer asks.
“That’s still three, but I could make the loaf a little bigger.”
“I’ll have that.”
“The regular, with cheese,” adds Brede.
“And you’d be needing that, young fellow.”
“Just the regular.”
As the serving woman steps toward the kitchen, Dorrin looks around the squarish room. Less than half the tables are filled, certainly because it is well past midday, and at many of the tables sit older men, silently nursing mugs and little else.
“Wonderful place,” observes Kadara.
“Not much sense in spending coins we haven’t figured how to replace.” Brede responds.
Dorrin rubs his nose, trying to stifle a sneeze. “Aaaachooooo…”
“It’s not that bad.” Brede grins momentarily.
“Aaa…choooo…”
“Here you be, dears.”
Three chipped brown earthenware bowls land upon the table, followed by three equally chipped mugs, and three large, scraped, and bent spoons.
“And here’s the bread.”
True to her word, she supplies Dorrin with the largest loaf of the dark brown bread, although the smallest loaf—Kadara’s—is well over two-thirds of a cubit long. The server slips a small wedge of cheese onto the table before Brede. “Be you needing anything else, dears?”
“No, thank you,” Dorrin answers.
She bobs her head and is gone to pick up a mug and a copper from a fat and bald graybeard.
Brede breaks off nearly a quarter of the loaf and chews his way through it even before Dorrin has had two mouthfuls. Kadara has almost
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