Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn
From: jen@athena.mit.edu (Jennifer Hawthorne)
Subject: Another entry, via the side door...
Message-ID: <1992May16.063433.12561@athena.mit.edu>
Date: Sat, 16 May 1992 06:34:33 GMT


Although he would rather watch the contest, Bob Littlefair heads for
the side door of the Inn which leads out to the animal pens, the two slop
buckets from the kitchen swinging from his hands.  His father
will not be at all pleased if the hogs go unfed for Bob's lack of
attention to duty, and Bob is not eager to face his father's
displeasure if he can help it.  Nudging the door open with his foot,
he looks back over his shoulder for one final glimpse of the contest.

	"Look out!", the smallish figure on the other side of the
portal yelps as he ducks to one side to avoid Bob, who nearly tramples
him.  Bob, startled, almost drops his burden, then swears as the warm
swill slops over the side of one of the buckets and trickles down into
his right boot.

_Well, since this inconvenient individual is at the side door, and not
the front one_, Bob thinks, _he's probably not a paying customer_.
This first impression is reinforced when Bob gets a good look
at the newcomer. A youngster, beardless and slim, probably no more
than fifteen, wearing a jerkin, trous, and boots which were nice,
once, but now are much-patched and stained with travel and time. The
clothes are all slightly too big for him, Bob notices, and frowns.
Someone's hand-me-downs? Or acquired by less honest means?  The boy is
also wearing a short oiled capelet and a soft, shapeless cap pulled
low over his eyes; the few strands of hair which poke from under the
cap are dark blonde, under the dirt, and baby-fine.  From under the
rim of cap, bright, wary, blue-grey eyes study the innkeeper's son
with a calculating intelligence.  The face surrounding those eyes is
quite grubby indeed, caked with dust from the road and streaked with
sweat.

Over his shoulder the lad has a largish leather sack on a strap,
bulging with mysterious contents.  At his hip hangs a thin, light
blade with no sheath.  _A rapier_, Bob thinks, _and it looks to be
good quality, not that I'm any judge.  Odd thing for a servant-boy to
be carrying!_ Like the clothing, the rapier seems to have been made
for someone a size or two larger than its current owner.  Bob decides
that this grimy youngster is plainly an undesirable in the fine (if
somewhat...unpredictable) environs of the Dragon's-Inn.

The stranger clears his throat tentatively.  "P'don me, sir," he says
again, in a clear, light alto heavily accented with the South, "but
ye're blockin' th' door."  

Bob makes no move to step aside. "Here now, what's this?", he says,
glowering at the urchin.  "We don't need any help here, boy; you'd
best move on down the road."  

The boy takes this in and chews on his lower lip for a moment.
"Beggin' yer p'don, sir, but I'm lookin' for a sup and a drink, and
if'n the master here is kind, p'haps a bed in the stable for the
night. I c'n pay for m' sup."  He shows two silver marks in the palm
of his hand; Bob stares at them through narrowed eyes. They look like
true silver, right enough, though the coining is a rare one in these
parts, from a kingdom far to the East.  Bob takes a coin from the boy
and bites it; it holds true. Unhappy, but knowing quite well what
his father would say if he kept out a paying customer, Bob steps aside
to let the newcomer into the tavern's main room.  "Next time, use the
front door," he grumbles, as he continues on his interrupted errand.  

The boy nods to him in a suprisingly courtly fashion, and slips into
the room, moving light and silent over the polished wooden floor
(which shows signs of having been recently mopped.)  He stays to the
edge of the room, in the shadows, trying to attact as little attention
as possible with his entrance, but watching, always watching. His eyes
widen as he takes in some of the Inn's more unusual occupants, but he
does not stop to stare or to make conversation.  Reaching the bar, he
slides up onto a stool and sets his silver pieces with their strange
markings up on the counter top.

Mary comes over to the new arrival and looks him up and down, taking
in the cap, the dirty young face, the small thin body, the once-fine
clothes and the oddly soft hands -- slim, uncalloused, unscarred.
"What will you have, lad?" she asks, frowning, not unkindly but in
puzzlement.

"Some sup, if y' please, mum, and summat t' drink?  I c'n pay." He
pushes the silver marks forward for emphasis.  

"Dinner it is," Mary says, setting aside her curiousity for the
business at hand. "We have a fine chicken stew tonight, or a beef
roast, or there's ham, cured three weeks in the smokehouse."

The boy licks his lips. "The stew, please, mum.  And p'haps some
bread?"  His eyes flicker over the main room again.  "And some of
...those," he says, pointing to a bowl of fries being eaten by the
people at one of the tables.  "And summat t'drink." 

"Stew it is, and bread, and fried potatoes. And a glass of cow's milk
for drink," Mary recites, sweeping one (and only one) of the silver
marks into her apron pocket.

The boy grimaces. "If y'please, Mum, I'd ruther have ale."

Mary raises an eyebrow at the lad, who smiles winningly (and
hopefully) up at her from under his cap.  She sighs in defeat.
"Right, then, lad, ale it is." Shaking her head, she heads back into
the kitchen to fill the order.  

Scarcely moments later, she reappears, bearing a loaded tray, and sets
its contents down in front of the newcomer.  The fragrant, steaming
bowl of stew is larger than is customary in the Dragon's Inn, but the
boy is not in a position to notice.  There is a loaf of crusty rye
bread as well, with fresh creamy butter, and a bowl of fries, and a flagon
of ale.  In contrast to the bowl, the flagon is smaller than that
usually served in this place, but again, the boy fails to notice this
evidence of Mary's motherly instincts.  His attention is on the stew,
which proceeds to vanish down his throat with remarkable speed, as
does the ale.  Yet even as he is engrossed in his meal, it is obvious
that he has not let his guard fall entirely; he glances over his
shoulder many times as he eats, though he does not stop chewing as he
looks.  

There comes the sound of horses approaching outside, several of them,
moving at a gallop.  The thunder of hooves draws near to the Inn and
then, as a man's rough voice shouts "Rein in!", stops just outside the
front door.  Heads turn in inquiry toward the entrance, as the
jingling of mail and the clatter of steel weapons on steel armor
becomes audible.  The door is thrust open.  Standing in it is a burly
man of middle years in mail hauberk and coif, a broadsword belted at his
side. Over his armor he wears a scarlet surcoat bearing the image of a
ravening black boar with flaming eyes; behind him in the courtyard
can be seen three more armed and armored horsemen, wearing the same
ensign on their tunics.

The captain peers into the shadowy corners of the main room, his dark
eyes widening in surprise and a touch of alarm as he takes note of
some of the room's inhabitants. His manner becomes a shade less
overbearing. 

"I seek a boy," he announces in a voice accented with the East, " -- a
thief; he has stolen something which rightfully belongs to my master,
the Baron. When last seen, he was headed toward this Inn. He is a head
and a half shorter than man-height, small of body, and quick.  His
hair is the color of straw; his eyes, blue and grey like a winter's
sky. He goes by the name of Max Smithson." His hand moves to a small
pouch on his belt; he unties it and holds it up for all to see.  It
clinks faintly.  "My lord will give ten gold pieces to one who can
bring this boy to me."  He pauses, looking around the room, sweeping
past the tables at the front of the room and alighting on the bar at
the back.

The boy is no longer there.  The bowls of food and the ale-flagon sit
on the counter as before, but the stool is empty.  Behind the bar,
Mary stands, gazing steadfastly outward into the room.  She does not
let her eyes move downward toward her feet where the boy crouches,
catlike, shielded by the bulk of the bar from the captain's searching
gaze.  Somehow, when the thunder of the horses' hooves sounded over
the noise of the Inn's patrons, the boy had divined their portent, and
had vaulted nimbly over the bar, landing on his feet on the far side
of it just as the captain flung open the door.  Silent and swift, the
rapier slid from the belt loop that held it; a sudden quick snap of
one wrist and a throwing dagger appeared and slid home into the
waiting palm.  On the boy's face there was fear, yes, but stronger
than that was a terrible cold anger.  And there was something else as
well in the suddenly icy blue eyes, a look of pain that seemed to
belong on someone of many more years.  Something that spoke of a ready
willingness to die rather than be taken.  

"Well?" snarled the captain, losing patience. "Have you seen the boy?"
He rattled the bag.  "Does no one here have a use for gold?"

[To be continued...?]