Chapter Nineteen #2
“You were right,” Titus says, tossing his pack onto his mattress. “Didn’t look like much from outside, but it’s clean and nice.”
“I can always suss out a good inn.” The room contains two narrow beds with fresh linen, a bookcase empty except for a clay
pitcher full of fresh water, and several clothing pegs beneath a small window. Everything is made of mismatched wood, like
the rest of Khefrita’s buildings. The city has burned down and been rebuilt at least twice in its centuries-long history.
But the warm pine and cedar scent is a nice reprieve from the outside stink. “So now what?” I ask him.
“I need to make some inquiries, buy a few things. You should get some rest.”
I glare at him for wanting to leave me behind. “Or I could go with you. I’m your shield maiden; I shouldn’t let you go unattended.”
“As my shield maiden, I trust you to keep watch over our things. I don’t want to leave them unattended. Respectable though this tavern may be, we are not in the nicest part of town.”
“Oh. Well, that makes sense.”
He reaches into his pack for his coin purse and retrieves several shills. “If I’m not back by sundown, lock the room and treat
yourself to a good meal downstairs.” His fingertips brush my palm as I accept the money.
Grimsvolder shills go a lot farther than Suratian coppers. “Just how much do you have in that coin purse?”
“Enough, if we’re careful. See you soon.”
And he rises from the bed and exits our room without a backward glance.
I hate letting him go out alone, but he’s right; we can’t leave our things unattended. But he’s wrong that I have any chance of resting while he’s away.
Instead, I shove our packs and saddles under the beds, stand in the middle of the room, and practice the forms he’s taught
me so far. Dip, sway, lean, pivot, reach, lunge . . . they flow together like a dance, in a way my muscles are starting to
recognize as natural. Satisfying, even.
In his absence, I still hear Titus’s voice: The blade can deceive you. Learn to see the blow coming by watching my shoulders, not the blade. I catch a whiff of his scent—wood-smoked leather and saddle oil—and I whirl, thinking he’s right there. But it’s just our
gear, closeted in this tiny room instead of out in open air.
I pick up where I left off, even though my arms are starting to feel the burn of exercise. His training has already yielded
results. Back in the miners’ village, I was able to avoid an assassin’s blade. Sure, she was pinned down by a horse and gravely
wounded, but it’s a start. The girl who panicked and did nothing while her inn was raided no longer exists.
But I must get better. Stronger. I may not know all the details of Titus’s quest, but more danger surely lies ahead.
My body stills. My arms drop to my sides.
I don’t know all the details of Titus’s quest. Still. And during the last days as we traveled down-mountain to Khefrita, I didn’t ask a single question about it. I didn’t
even pry about the inquiries he’s making right now.
I plunk down on the nearest cot, disgusted with myself.
Have I ever in my life gone two hours without asking a question, much less two days?
The last thing I asked was if he wanted me along.
It was all I could think about. The mere suggestion that he might be in love with me has emptied my head of thought, turned me into an addlepated child with her first crush.
I’m worse than Anja, who at fourteen years of age forgot to close the chicken coop when the trader’s boy kissed her. We lost five good layers that day.
Well, nothing I can do about that until Titus returns, but Cerastes help him when he does, because I’m not letting him brush
off my questions one moment longer.
In the meantime, practicing forms has worked up an appetite.
I exit the room, lock the door behind me, and pocket the key. Sounds filter through the floorboards from the common room downstairs,
familiar sounds that pinch my chest with homesickness: endless chatter, chairs and benches scraping the floor, tankards thumping
tables, the occasional crystal shard of bright laughter.
Several heads turn as I descend the stairs, which may or may not be a little odd. Grimsvolders are a common enough sight in
this border city; I’ve seen plenty already. Iolans too, with their magically colored hair in every imaginable hue.
So why is everyone noticing me? Uneasiness prickles my neck as I search for an empty seat, something near enough to the stairs
that I can keep an eye on who comes and goes . . . there. An Iolan man with ebony hair streaked with crimson is vacating a
seat at the counter.
I slip in behind him before anyone else can claim the seat. The woman tending the counter seems harried, with bits of hair flying out of her dark bun and sweat sheening her upper lip. But she greets me with a genuine smile that crinkles her warm brown eyes.
“We don’t see mountain girls at the Bawdy Bard very often!” she says as though delighted. “They usually end up at the Riverside.”
I smile back. “I could tell this was a good clean establishment.”
“Well, you’re right about that.” She slaps a hand down on the counter, showing off the many rings on her fingers—copper, pewter,
one gold, several glinting with tiny jewels. I can’t see her sandaled feet from here, but I’m sure her toes are similarly
adorned. Suratians do love to show off their hands and feet. “What can I get you?”
“Bread and cheese plate. An apple if you have one.”
“That’ll be seven Suratian coppers or two Grimsvolder shills.”
“Two shills?” We have enough coin if we’re careful, Titus said.
“Sorry, love. It’s the bread. Haven’t had a wheat shipment from Iola in months.”
“In that case I’ll take a bowl of your daily stew.”
“One shill.”
I hand it over.
She bites down to check its authenticity, then shoves the coin into her pocket. “Coming right up.”
I glance around while I wait, noting the smattering of tables, almost all full, the tidy hearth with a small fire crackling, candles flickering around a shrine to Chelydrus, the goddess of human passions.
She is always portrayed as well-endowed—both of body and bounty—and this one is no different.
Fruit tumbles from a basket she carries, even as her breasts overflow her meager robe.
When we were little, Anja and I thought depictions of Chelydrus were hilariously naughty, and we giggled ferociously over illustrations of her in Gunnar’s Guide to the Pantheon.
Beyond the goddess’s shrine, on a wooden platform in the corner, a bard sits polishing his lute in preparation for performing.
Opposite the bard is a table shrouded in darkness, and a single man hunches there, broad shouldered and thickly bearded. I
can’t make out his face, but my skin becomes a wash of prickles with the sure knowledge that he’s staring at me.
“Here you go, dama,” says the barmaid, and I turn back as she sets a large bowl of chunky stew before me, followed by a tankard
of water. “Let me know what you think.”
She waits.
I remember my da’s advice: You must taste and approve any food offered to you by a Suratian, or else be considered impolite and uncivilized.
So I scoop a dainty spoonful into my mouth. It’s thick and meaty, with just the right amount of salt. “This is very good!”
I say truthfully. “Thickened with cattail root, and the greens . . . purslane?” I don’t ask about the meat. Suratians have
a much wider definition of the word than we Grimsvolders, and it’s best to keep an open mind and just enjoy it.
The barmaid beams. “You have a refined palate. Not many would recognize the cattail.”
“I’ve used that trick myself when flour was scarce,” I tell her. “The hardest part is pounding out all those little fibers. My compliments to you and your staff.”
“Thank you, dama. Here, this apple is on the house.”
I shove the apple into my pocket for later. After a few bites of stew, I notice the barmaid is still lingering, so I ask,
“What’s happened to all of Iola’s wheat? Is it a blight?”
“Not that I’ve heard. It’s a great mystery, really. Our buyer said all the bushels were bought up by the time he arrived.
No one knows where they went, but I can assure you none made it to Khefrita. Every bread oven in the city will be cold by
winter.”
“That’s . . . a little frightening.” I think of Ysald Muhler, who makes a nice profit milling for grain traders who travel
the king’s road. Maybe I should try to get a message to her about the wheat shortage.
The maid shrugs, then asks, “So how does a mountain girl know about cattail flour?”
I hesitate, not sure how much to say. Titus seemed to want to keep a low profile. “I have some family that owns an inn,” I
tell her. “Back home in . . . Ysavo.”
“Oh, the capital! They say it’s a paradise, with perfect seaside weather, a view of the mountains, lots of rich pastureland.”
“I wouldn’t disagree,” I say, though I’ve never set foot in Ysavo in my life. Before she can ask why I’m here, halfway across
the world, I ask, “Tell me, dama, that man in the corner. Is he watching me?”
“Oh, he’s definitely watching you. You have an admirer.”
“Ugh.”
She grins. “Can hardly blame him. We don’t see the white-haired mountain people often. Seems you mostly keep to yourselves. But I guess they have white-hairs in Ysavo too?”
“Guess so.” I’ve never considered my hair white. Light blond, like many Grimsvolders, but a far cry from white.
The barmaid frowns. “Come to think of it, love, I don’t like the way he’s looking at you at all. Holler if you need any help,
yes?”
“Thank you, I will.” And I go back to eating, with focus this time, because a girl should never defend herself with magic
on an empty belly.
My back feels vulnerable and exposed while I eat. More than anything, I want to turn around and face my “admirer,” but I also
don’t want to draw more attention. I’ll finish my stew quickly, go back upstairs, lock the door, and wait for Titus.
“Hello,” says a deep voice in my ear.