Chapter 3
The next morning, Ainsworth emerged from his lonely room aching and stretching.
His bed (one of three in the room, and the one he had deemed the best of a bad bunch after much testing on his part) was better than sleeping on the ground, but it was not quite enough to undo the damage from all the camping on his journey here.
No wonder so few people knew of this place—the beds weren’t exactly a luxurious send-off for the last night before a grueling quest. He certainly would not recommend them if he were an adventurer.
Closing the door behind him, he noted the eerie silence of the inn’s upper level.
Four rooms were dedicated to traveling adventuring parties, the smallest (his, for now) featuring three beds and the largest, eight.
The upstairs landing where he stood was spacious yet made oddly cramped by the proliferation of furniture.
A set of armchairs and side tables with stained-glass lamps just waiting to be lit occupied the mezzanine-like space that overlooked the hall below.
Potted plants were dotted among them, vibrant and lush despite the low light, or the fact that there were no guests for them to impress.
Perhaps he could curl up on one of the inviting armchairs and do some writing with a glass of wine later, but such a space seemed begging to be filled with patrons, sharing one last drink and exchanging pleasantries before retiring for the night.
He headed down the stairs, hand gliding across the smooth banisters sprinkled with dust, as the noise of the kitchen somewhere below and behind him gently filtered out from its closed door.
Beyond that, he knew from Honey’s brief explanation, would be the staff’s sleeping quarters, with a small communal garden at the back.
Ainsworth wrinkled his nose at the dust, then suppressed a sigh as he spotted the weather outside—unchanged since yesterday.
He could not imagine what on earth the staff could grow out here under such conditions.
He lingered by the bottom step, wondering if he should continue forward into the tavern area to await Honey or seek out some of the other staff.
Without anyone to interview, and without Honey guiding him to the documents he had requested, he was at a loss.
Frustration rose alongside the growl in his stomach. Oh, how he wished to get started!
Before he could make a decision, the kitchen door swung open behind him. Bren had eaten his dinner the previous night behind the bar, perched on his stool, so Ainsworth hadn’t realized until now how, well, burly the dwarf was.
As Ainsworth raised a hand in greeting, the barman said: “G’morning. Best come with me if you want some eggs before Quiddle gets to ’em.”
“Good morning, Bren. Perfect. I’m famished.”
Bren grunted in what Ainsworth assumed was assent before he beckoned him into the tavern.
Honey sat at the table closest to the hearth, which hosted, to his delight, a healthy fire.
Last night they had conversed there—Honey, Quiddle, and Ainsworth—making small talk and pleasantries; Ainsworth mostly shared the conditions of his travel.
He did not want to push Honey so soon after their fairly fraught conversation.
Best keep work-related discussion to work hours, he had decided, which he would soon establish with the staff.
“Just us again?” Ainsworth asked after bidding Honey good morning. She looked up from the scrolls stretched in front of her. From what he could determine, it was a ledger of some sort, full of numbers.
Smudges of ink trailed across her forehead as she brushed her hair from her eyes, and Ainsworth felt the corner of his mouth twitch. “Yes. Quiddle will make and serve breakfast. Ashe might come in, but she doesn’t often join us for meals.”
“Was she out there all night?” Ainsworth glanced at the front door. Were the mountain’s beasts so much of a threat this far down?
Honey shrugged, her gaze returning to the work in front of her.
“She comes in and out as she pleases. I don’t expect Alvea, Spin, or Ruraidh to return for a few days.
If only you had known, you could have waited in Wenslykirk and gotten a ride in their cart!
It’s a bit swifter than heading here on foot. ”
Just his luck. The staff members Honey mentioned, he recalled, were the absent chef, gardener, and housekeeper, and they had made a supply run to the nearest town.
Well, he was here now.
Ainsworth walked over to Honey’s table and removed the silken handkerchief from his blazer pocket. “Here, you should use this.”
“What do I need that for— Oh!” she exclaimed, taking it from his outstretched hand. Then, utterly oblivious to the smudges of ink across her face—and much to Ainsworth’s dismay—she blew her nose with it.
“Thanks.” She sniffed and scrunched the fabric into a ball in her hands. “Oh. Did you…want this back?”
“Er, that’s quite all right. I have more upstairs.”
They were thankfully interrupted by Quiddle arriving with breakfast—eggs, bread, some sliced meat, and what looked like small, pickled fish.
Last night over dinner, Honey had explained that Quiddle and Bren handled the kitchens in the chef’s absence, while Honey picked up the housekeeping duties.
“As for Ashe, she is our guard should anything come down from Mount Vengeance. She takes the role very seriously.”
Indeed. Out the window he could see a leather-clad shoulder beyond the frame, standing still and rigid by the door. He must set things right with the wildeshifter—or at the very least establish why she treated him with such disdain. “Does that— Does that happen often?”
Honey’s grin flashed with malice, and she tapped her claws atop the table. Even for a tyflan, they seemed particularly sharp. “Why? Does that scare you, scholar?”
“I should say it would scare most normal people, yes!”
She leaned back in her chair and laughed. “Well, at least you’re transparent about being cowardly. But not to worry—Ashe has things well in hand.”
He scowled and prepared his retort, but Quiddle cleared his throat.
“Tea, Mr. Gladsly?” Quiddle asked. Ainsworth nodded, and the delightful fragrance of ficklebell tea rose to meet him as it was poured into a verdant, chipped teacup.
Ainsworth was pleasantly surprised. Ficklebell tea was not something that came cheap, and he wondered what Enach would say at the thought of a small, provincial place like this having a supply of such a sought-after drink.
Once they had finished eating, Quiddle and Bren rose to clear the remains of their meal.
Ainsworth startled himself slightly by asking, “Shall we bring anything out to Ashe? And can I assist in any way?” He told himself he wasn’t being deceitful; he simply needed to start bonding with these people to document their accounts of the inn’s history.
Quiddle frowned, balancing two teacups on top of the piled breakfast dishes on one arm.
“No offense, but your hands don’t look like they’ve spent much time scrubbin’ plates.
And Ashe will let us know if she’s hungry.
But thanks,” he added as if in afterthought before heading with Bren out of the room.
Ainsworth sighed. “Very well, then.”
Honey left the table and walked to the windowsill behind them to pick up a small, battered watering can.
He watched for a few minutes as she pottered about, watering the ivy, whose roots lay in various large ceramic vases placed at the bottom of the gargantuan wooden beams they climbed.
Once she finished, she looked up at him.
“Oh, Ainsworth. I forgot. Shall I sign your paper so you can get your work started?”
“Ah! Yes, that would be most welcome,” he said, guilt lacing his words. He had not, in fact, been waiting on her permission to start. Rather, he was waiting for her assistance in finding where to start.
He hurried to his room and retrieved the permission form from his trunk, then took a moment to glance out the window.
Looming in the distance were the unyielding crags of Mount Vengeance and its neighboring companions.
The Dubhrach range reached far beyond Mount Vengeance’s slopes and peaks, well out of his sight.
It would, according to estimates from military correspondence he had uncovered at the library before his departure, take many a moon’s turn to travel from one end of the mountain range to the other, depending on weather conditions.
Summiting Mount Vengeance itself would most likely take the better part of a week.
But, Ainsworth realized, he would conquer the mountain in a different way.
It might take longer, but he need not navigate steep hills and uncertain weather, struggle to fight off fearsome creatures, or confront a dragon to complete his task.
He would instead conquer the mountain by ensuring its properly recorded place in history.
Enach would surely be unable to deny the impressive nature of such a feat.
Yes, Ainsworth would prove himself, and their reunion, he told himself as he made his way back downstairs, would be much, much sweeter than their parting had been.
After Honey had given her signature (snatching Ainsworth’s quill and ink to do so, then commenting on their lovely quality in a way that had Ainsworth swelling with pride for the institution that supplied them), she led the way back to the second floor and into one of the larger, vacant bedrooms. Like his own room, it featured a modest fireplace freshly stocked with logs, with neatly stowed-away cooking equipment should someone wish to prepare their own meals or enchantments atop the flames.
Unlike his own room, there were five beds, and along the windowsill sat an array of brightly colored clay models.
But they were out of proportion. The kelpie stood almost as tall as the selkie perched on her rock, who in turn seemed to have shed a cloak that was a mere splotch of clay.