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Authors: Lynn Flewelling
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several nights and I’m certain my master—”
“Your master be damned!” the taverner growled. “That’s my best room, and I couldn’t let the mayor himself nor the whole of the damned Guild Council have it for less than three! Not when there’s all these southern strangers lolling about with more money than brains. I could get five a night from any one of them.”
“Begging your pardon,” Alec chose his words with care, “but I think my master, Aren Windover, and I could bring you in ten times that each night we’re here.”
Satisfied with the set of the tap, the taverner shoved his hands into his belt and glowered down at Alec. “Well! Begging
your
pardon, my young whelp, but just how do you think you could do that?”
Alec held his ground stubbornly; his father’d had a knack for dickering. Thinking back, he asked, “Do you make more profit from your rooms or your ale?”
“From the ale, I suppose.”
“And how much do you charge for that?”
“Five coppers for a flagon, a half silver for a jug. What of it?”
Sensing the man’s growing impatience, Alec quickly came to the point. “What you need, then, is something to attract men to drink. And what attracts drinking men more than a good bard? You may not know Aren Windover, but a good many in town do. You put it about that he’s playing at your tavern and I think you’ll have to send out for more ale. I can probably coax a few soldiers in here, and they’ll bring their friends the next night. You know how fighting men can drink!”
“Aye, used to be one m’self,” the tavern keeper nodded, looking Alec up and down. “Come to think of it, I believe I have heard of this Windover chap. He’s the one drew such a crowdover at the Stag and Branch last year. Perhaps I could let you have the room for two and a half.”
“I can pay in advance,” Alec assured him. Then carried away with the success of his own invention, he added for good measure, “Master Windover is to play for the mayor, you see.”
“The mayor, eh?” the tavern keeper grunted in surprise. “Why didn’t you say so! Playing at the mayor’s, and the Fishes as well? All right, then. Go and tell your master that the room is his for two marks.”
“Well—” Alec mused stubbornly.
“Damn you, do you want my blood? One and a half, then, but I’ve got to make a profit, don’t you see?”
“Done,” Alec conceded. “But that does include candles and supper, right? And the bed linens had better be fresh! Master Windover is very particular about his bed linens.”
“You do want my blood,” the landlord growled. “Yes, yes, he’ll get his dinner and he’ll get his cursed bed linens. But by the Old Sailor, he better be all you say or the fishermen will have the pair of you for bait.”
Alec paid out two nights in advance for good faith, then toiled upstairs balancing their gear and a candlestick.
Passing the common sleeping room on the second floor, he climbed a steeper stairway to the attic. A short, windowless corridor led to a door at the far end.
Tucked in the peak of a gable, the room Seregil had specified was small, with sloping walls on either side. The narrow bed and washstand nearly filled the cramped space. Alec found a cheap tallow candle in a cracked dish on the stand and lit it from his own, then pushed back the shutters of the window over the bed. The back of the tavern stood out over the water on pilings. Looking out, Alec found a sheer drop down to the water below.
A thick crescent moon cast a glittering trail across the lake’s black surface. It was pleasant up here at the top of the house, quiet and warm. It occurred to Alec that he could probably count on one hand the times he had ever been alone inside a proper house, and never in a room so high. After pausing a moment to savor the new sensation, he sighed and headed back down the stairs.
Looking out over the noisy commotion of the tavern, he spotted Seregil talking with the host and was
“Your master be damned!” the taverner growled. “That’s my best room, and I couldn’t let the mayor himself nor the whole of the damned Guild Council have it for less than three! Not when there’s all these southern strangers lolling about with more money than brains. I could get five a night from any one of them.”
“Begging your pardon,” Alec chose his words with care, “but I think my master, Aren Windover, and I could bring you in ten times that each night we’re here.”
Satisfied with the set of the tap, the taverner shoved his hands into his belt and glowered down at Alec. “Well! Begging
your
pardon, my young whelp, but just how do you think you could do that?”
Alec held his ground stubbornly; his father’d had a knack for dickering. Thinking back, he asked, “Do you make more profit from your rooms or your ale?”
“From the ale, I suppose.”
“And how much do you charge for that?”
“Five coppers for a flagon, a half silver for a jug. What of it?”
Sensing the man’s growing impatience, Alec quickly came to the point. “What you need, then, is something to attract men to drink. And what attracts drinking men more than a good bard? You may not know Aren Windover, but a good many in town do. You put it about that he’s playing at your tavern and I think you’ll have to send out for more ale. I can probably coax a few soldiers in here, and they’ll bring their friends the next night. You know how fighting men can drink!”
“Aye, used to be one m’self,” the tavern keeper nodded, looking Alec up and down. “Come to think of it, I believe I have heard of this Windover chap. He’s the one drew such a crowdover at the Stag and Branch last year. Perhaps I could let you have the room for two and a half.”
“I can pay in advance,” Alec assured him. Then carried away with the success of his own invention, he added for good measure, “Master Windover is to play for the mayor, you see.”
“The mayor, eh?” the tavern keeper grunted in surprise. “Why didn’t you say so! Playing at the mayor’s, and the Fishes as well? All right, then. Go and tell your master that the room is his for two marks.”
“Well—” Alec mused stubbornly.
“Damn you, do you want my blood? One and a half, then, but I’ve got to make a profit, don’t you see?”
“Done,” Alec conceded. “But that does include candles and supper, right? And the bed linens had better be fresh! Master Windover is very particular about his bed linens.”
“You do want my blood,” the landlord growled. “Yes, yes, he’ll get his dinner and he’ll get his cursed bed linens. But by the Old Sailor, he better be all you say or the fishermen will have the pair of you for bait.”
Alec paid out two nights in advance for good faith, then toiled upstairs balancing their gear and a candlestick.
Passing the common sleeping room on the second floor, he climbed a steeper stairway to the attic. A short, windowless corridor led to a door at the far end.
Tucked in the peak of a gable, the room Seregil had specified was small, with sloping walls on either side. The narrow bed and washstand nearly filled the cramped space. Alec found a cheap tallow candle in a cracked dish on the stand and lit it from his own, then pushed back the shutters of the window over the bed. The back of the tavern stood out over the water on pilings. Looking out, Alec found a sheer drop down to the water below.
A thick crescent moon cast a glittering trail across the lake’s black surface. It was pleasant up here at the top of the house, quiet and warm. It occurred to Alec that he could probably count on one hand the times he had ever been alone inside a proper house, and never in a room so high. After pausing a moment to savor the new sensation, he sighed and headed back down the stairs.
Looking out over the noisy commotion of the tavern, he spotted Seregil talking with the host and was
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