Chapter 8
The following day, Ainsworth considered the breakfast in front of him with a mild sense of awe and disbelief.
A shallow bowl swam with delectably seasoned leeks and butter; there was fresh crusty bread, and a dollop of yogurt added a delightful dash of acid to cut through the mellow tones of the meal.
A breakfast by Alvea Kniach. Here. In this inn. A week’s journey from the closest populated area, and therefore providing the minimum number of customers to experience a meal from one of Hinslyth’s most revered chefs.
He shook his head. How could she decide to leave it all behind—for this?
The kitchen door opened and Alvea herself strolled in, carrying a tray with a steaming deep-blue teapot, a small cup, and a dainty jug of cream.
“I just gave Quiddle a few days off, considering he ran everything single-handedly when I was gone. In my defense, I didn’t think we’d get so many guests in the weeks we were away!
” She towered over Ainsworth as she placed the teapot in front of his plate.
Alvea was on the shorter side for an orc, and she moved with graceful efficiency, placing the ceramic goods meticulously on the table.
“Let that steep for a few minutes yet. It’s a smooth, sweet black tea I got delivered to Wenslykirk.
We had to wait a few days for it to be delivered to the Post Server’s collection stacks, hence the delay. Do you need anything else?”
“I—” Ainsworth looked up at her. “The last time I ate one of your meals, my companion and I paid thirty-five gold. Each.”
Alvea pursed her lips before answering. “Yes, Gladsly. You said as much last night. And now you’re paying whatever Honey has added to your room fee.
Life is swell, ain’t it?” She whisked herself away to the kitchen, gently brushing the trailing tendrils of ivy from the roof beams with her fingers, as they threatened to catch her hair.
Still shaking his head in disbelief, Ainsworth finally made a start on his food.
The bread, made by Quiddle the day before, was still deliciously light and bouncy.
No wonder the food had been exemplary even when Alvea had not been cooking it; the lad had learned from the best. Did he know how esteemed his master was?
Coming from a city himself, surely Quiddle understood how important, how prestigious, it was for a chef to have their name known far and wide?
To have some of the city’s finest members of society clamoring for a spot at their tavern?
And now…
Ainsworth opened the teapot and used his hands to waft the aroma toward him.
Sweet, malty tones laced with a touch of bitterness greeted him.
Utterly exquisite! Yes, he suspected Alvea had used an old, favored supplier to bring tea of such high quality to the foot of Mount Vengeance. How extortionate it must be!
At that moment, Honey came bounding down the stairs, her arms containing an array of scrolls and parchment. One sheet fell from the bundle, unnoticed, as she came toward him. “Good morning, Ainsworth! Is everything satisfactory with your meal?”
“Satisfactory is too mild a word for food such as this! Simple yet extraordinarily special. I still cannot believe that this is where Alvea ended up.”
He remembered the rumors. Alvea’s establishment, Staran, had been one of Hinslyth’s finest and most exclusive.
The bottom floor was a tavern boasting rare vintage wines and new, often magically infused spirits, while the top two floors served as one of the most prestigious dining halls in the city.
A favored spot of most of his academic colleagues; Ainsworth himself was only admitted due to the prestige his Skarrow affiliations granted him.
Enach had been a regular patron for years—his family ties and wealth had allowed him access to such places even before he began his academic career.
On their first visit, Enach had seemed to brim with pride as he navigated Ainsworth through the rooms, making pleasantries with other diners in passing, showing off the newest fellow of the academy and all the potential he offered.
Potential that Ainsworth was determined to deliver. Once he did, everything would be fine between them again.
But a few years ago, Staran was found boarded up. The staff were let go, sworn to secrecy with heavy purses to counter their loss of income and—for some of the chefs—to start their own establishments. Enach had moped about it for a few days before he found a similar establishment to his liking.
Honey dropped the papers across the table next to Ainsworth.
Some of the scrolls unrolled with such buoyancy that they fell springing to the floor.
She ignored them and sat opposite Ainsworth, pulling the teapot toward her.
“Again you hurl insults alongside your compliments thoughtlessly. Why shouldn’t she come here?
Why are you not pleased with this wondrous coincidence? ”
Ainsworth thought back to her rejection of his help the previous day. What had he said about the inn, the mountain? “I suppose I could look at it like that, yes…”
She ignored him and instead examined the contents of the table.
“Is there only one cup? It will do, then.” She reached for his teacup and poured generously.
Taking a sip of the scalding-hot liquid as though it were comfortable room temperature, she sighed.
“It’s been a while since we’ve had this tea. I’m happy they waited for the order.”
“I wouldn’t know; I haven’t had a chance to taste it yet,” Ainsworth replied, somewhat sourly.
But he could not help the grin that split his face as he watched Honey take another sip, brows raised and tail swishing as if daring him to take the cup from her.
Instead, he leaned back in his chair and gestured to the mess Honey had left on the table. “What are these?”
She gave a small snort. “Despite your attitude, I thought I should reward our longest-staying guest. I know you’re seeking the old guest logs upstairs, but I thought I’d give you mine from—hmm, I think there’s several years’ worth here?”
“Th-this is your filing system?”
“It does the job.” Honey shrugged and made to drain the cup of tea. Before she could, Ainsworth reached out. They had a short, silent battle before Ainsworth won possession and finally enjoyed a taste of his tea.
He finished it triumphantly before continuing, his tongue stinging from the scalding heat and his face warm from the intimacy of sharing a cup with Honey.
“It’s one thing looking at logs from scores of years ago.
But something so recent…I wonder if I need extra ethics approval to look at such information?
” Ainsworth frowned. “It feels like this should be somewhat protected.”
Honey scoffed. “Well, there’s nothing stopping me from sharing it.
The inn and the land it sits on belong to me, and I’m answerable only to myself.
I have already given you my permission to look at such things.
Anyway, since you’re so set in your ways, it’s proof.
Proof that all the guests stay here for just one night before departing in the morning. ”
“That doesn’t mean anything. They would have set out the day after to Mount Vengeance anyway.”
“Oh.” A smile tugged at her lips. “I suppose this is why you’re the scholar. Do you want the documents or not?”
He very much did. Unrolling them and organizing them into any kind of order took up most of the morning, and then he dutifully trudged to the attic to take them to his little archive.
True, the logs wouldn’t be of much benefit to him unless he recognized any well-known names, but considering he was starting to organize the documents and history of the Misnich Inn, these belonged in the attic, too, he reasoned.
As he reached out a hand to open the attic door, a series of bangs beyond it had him jumping in fright, the scrolls and parchment flying everywhere as he yelped. Behind the door, a small shriek followed his own.
“Hello?” Ainsworth called as he scrambled to pick up the guest logs.
He opened the door to see, perched on a small stepladder heading up toward the window, the dunelfen lad from yesterday.
He wore a striking red apron, with a large pocket in the front laden with scrolls and tools.
Sawdust—Ainsworth almost groaned at the sight—was scattered across the floor like icing powder atop a cake.
He looked as though Ainsworth had caught him in a crime, not at some repair work.
“I—I thought you were working downstairs today.”
“Oh well, I was, but…I’m sorry.” Ainsworth shook his head. “I do not think we have been introduced, but Spin mentioned your name. Ruraidh, I presume?”
“Th-that’s right,” said Ruraidh, looking anywhere but at Ainsworth. “I do housekeeping and maintenance. I came to clean up this place and fix the window, but you’ve already done so much…”
“Well,” said Ainsworth, walking over to the broken shelves to deposit the new scrolls in an empty chest at the bottom.
Next to it, a closed chest lined with one of his own sealing enchantments held some of the oldest documents he had found.
Not all proved entirely useful; most were supply orders, with a few guest logs that didn’t say much other than the cost of the room and the guest’s name and departure date (always one night, of course), but he intended to go back over them and search for any handwritten scrawls or returning guests.
Anything to help him picture the life of the Misnich Inn back then.
Nothing on Artan yet. However, he was, he realized now, excited about documenting this place.
But perhaps it was because thinking about how few leads he had for current adventurers made him feel sick to his stomach.
“I wished to make use of the room, so I started to declutter,” said Ainsworth.