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Authors: Lynn Flewelling
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the stable. In spite of Seregil's hasty explanation, he wasn't sure he liked this turn of events. When the horses had been seen to, he gathered up the pack and Seregil's saddle and hurried into the steamy bustle of the kitchen.
"I'm looking for the tavern keeper," he said, catching a harried serving girl by the sleeve.
"Taproom," she snapped, nodding curtly toward a nearby doorway. Leaving the gear by the door, he went on into the taproom and found himself faced with a portly, red-faced giant in a leather apron.
"I need lodgings for my master and myself," Alec informed him, endeavoring to imitate Aren's imperious manner.
The taverner scarcely looked up from the tapping of a fresh barrel. "Big room at the top of the stairs. Shouldn't be no more than three or four to a bed tonight."
"My master prefers the room at the top," Alec said.
"Does he indeed? Well, he may have it for three marks a night."
"I'll give you one," Alec countered. "We'll be here for several nights and I'm certain my master—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 more'self," the tavern keeper nodded, looked 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 crowd over 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,
"I'm looking for the tavern keeper," he said, catching a harried serving girl by the sleeve.
"Taproom," she snapped, nodding curtly toward a nearby doorway. Leaving the gear by the door, he went on into the taproom and found himself faced with a portly, red-faced giant in a leather apron.
"I need lodgings for my master and myself," Alec informed him, endeavoring to imitate Aren's imperious manner.
The taverner scarcely looked up from the tapping of a fresh barrel. "Big room at the top of the stairs. Shouldn't be no more than three or four to a bed tonight."
"My master prefers the room at the top," Alec said.
"Does he indeed? Well, he may have it for three marks a night."
"I'll give you one," Alec countered. "We'll be here for several nights and I'm certain my master—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 more'self," the tavern keeper nodded, looked 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 crowd over 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,
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