good.
She passed the bakery and emerged onto her own street. A small hamlet, Hyecombe only had two streets, but it did boast a tavern. Rienne made her way inside, pausing on the cool flagged floor to let her eyes adjust to the gloom.
The main room was warm and smelled of smoke from the huge fireplace. Rienne threaded her way through the empty tables, making for the bar. As she passed the door to the little private room she saw a group of men inside, talking in low tones over jugs of malty ale. Clad in combat leathers with swords by their sides, they were obviously Kingsmen.
She frowned, wondering what they were doing here. The military didn’t often visit Hyecombe. Before the civil war nine years ago, each local lord had responsibility for his own demesne and small villages like Hyecombe were protected by their own farmhands and laborers. However, once Prince Elias Rovannon quelled the uprising and killed those responsible for murdering his father, King Kandaran, he’d been determined not to suffer the same fate. So he changed the old order, and Lords men became Kingsmen. Garrisons were established throughout every province and trained swordsmen loyal to the Crown relieved farmhands and laborers of their protection duties.
Now, each village had an appointed elder initially responsible for keeping order. Any issues too weighty for the elder to deal with were referred to the local garrison, but Rienne knew there had been no incidents in Hyecombe. So why had the Kingsmen come?
Remembering why she was there, she put them out of her mind. “Paulus?” she called, slipping her bag from her shoulder.
“In here, Rienne,” came the muffled reply.
She walked through the door at the side of the bar into the storeroom behind. She smiled a greeting. “Evening, Paulus.”
The storeroom smelled thickly of hops and malt, ale and old wood. The tavern-keeper, a balding man in his middle fifties with missing front teeth and work-roughened hands, looked up from the barrel he was scrubbing. His dour expression lightened as he saw her.
“And a good evening to you, Rienne. How are you today?”
He straightened, trying to suppress a grunt, but there was no fooling Rienne. She set her bag on the floor.
“I’m fine, Paulus, which is more than can be said for you. That back looks bad. It’s been painful again, hasn’t it? You haven’t been following my advice.”
He looked sheepish. “How do you do that? Been taking lessons from that young man of yours?”
She wasn’t to be sidetracked. “Never mind Cal, where’s that assistant I told you to get?”
Paulus ducked his head. “I’ve not found one yet. I can’t really afford to pay one, not on the amount of customers I get. Mind you, if I had more like that lot out there, it might be a different story.”
Rienne’s skilful fingers explored the sore muscles in Paulus’ back. His hard-faced wife had left him over a year ago and he had been running the tavern alone ever since. Her acid comments and sour face were missed by no one—least of all her husband—but her strong arms and capable hands had at least relieved some of the burden.
She stopped probing and turned to rummage in her bag. “What are they doing here?”
He grimaced, massaging the small of his back. “There’s been some trouble farther south apparently and they’ve been sorting it out. Gods, but they can drink.”
Rienne frowned, a packet of herbs in her hand. “What sort of trouble?” She hoped they weren’t going to be overrun by brigands. The High King’s forces were generally quite successful at keeping order but there were always bands of brigands around and they favored remote hamlets like Hyecombe.
Paulus shook his head. “From what I’ve overheard, it sounds like outlanders.” Beckoning Rienne closer, he lowered his voice, confiding, “They’ve been talking about them being from beyond … you know … the Veils.”
Rienne
She passed the bakery and emerged onto her own street. A small hamlet, Hyecombe only had two streets, but it did boast a tavern. Rienne made her way inside, pausing on the cool flagged floor to let her eyes adjust to the gloom.
The main room was warm and smelled of smoke from the huge fireplace. Rienne threaded her way through the empty tables, making for the bar. As she passed the door to the little private room she saw a group of men inside, talking in low tones over jugs of malty ale. Clad in combat leathers with swords by their sides, they were obviously Kingsmen.
She frowned, wondering what they were doing here. The military didn’t often visit Hyecombe. Before the civil war nine years ago, each local lord had responsibility for his own demesne and small villages like Hyecombe were protected by their own farmhands and laborers. However, once Prince Elias Rovannon quelled the uprising and killed those responsible for murdering his father, King Kandaran, he’d been determined not to suffer the same fate. So he changed the old order, and Lords men became Kingsmen. Garrisons were established throughout every province and trained swordsmen loyal to the Crown relieved farmhands and laborers of their protection duties.
Now, each village had an appointed elder initially responsible for keeping order. Any issues too weighty for the elder to deal with were referred to the local garrison, but Rienne knew there had been no incidents in Hyecombe. So why had the Kingsmen come?
Remembering why she was there, she put them out of her mind. “Paulus?” she called, slipping her bag from her shoulder.
“In here, Rienne,” came the muffled reply.
She walked through the door at the side of the bar into the storeroom behind. She smiled a greeting. “Evening, Paulus.”
The storeroom smelled thickly of hops and malt, ale and old wood. The tavern-keeper, a balding man in his middle fifties with missing front teeth and work-roughened hands, looked up from the barrel he was scrubbing. His dour expression lightened as he saw her.
“And a good evening to you, Rienne. How are you today?”
He straightened, trying to suppress a grunt, but there was no fooling Rienne. She set her bag on the floor.
“I’m fine, Paulus, which is more than can be said for you. That back looks bad. It’s been painful again, hasn’t it? You haven’t been following my advice.”
He looked sheepish. “How do you do that? Been taking lessons from that young man of yours?”
She wasn’t to be sidetracked. “Never mind Cal, where’s that assistant I told you to get?”
Paulus ducked his head. “I’ve not found one yet. I can’t really afford to pay one, not on the amount of customers I get. Mind you, if I had more like that lot out there, it might be a different story.”
Rienne’s skilful fingers explored the sore muscles in Paulus’ back. His hard-faced wife had left him over a year ago and he had been running the tavern alone ever since. Her acid comments and sour face were missed by no one—least of all her husband—but her strong arms and capable hands had at least relieved some of the burden.
She stopped probing and turned to rummage in her bag. “What are they doing here?”
He grimaced, massaging the small of his back. “There’s been some trouble farther south apparently and they’ve been sorting it out. Gods, but they can drink.”
Rienne frowned, a packet of herbs in her hand. “What sort of trouble?” She hoped they weren’t going to be overrun by brigands. The High King’s forces were generally quite successful at keeping order but there were always bands of brigands around and they favored remote hamlets like Hyecombe.
Paulus shook his head. “From what I’ve overheard, it sounds like outlanders.” Beckoning Rienne closer, he lowered his voice, confiding, “They’ve been talking about them being from beyond … you know … the Veils.”
Rienne
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