smiled. Despite Albia’s history of occasional attacks by raiders from other realms, most people refused to believe such beings existed. If they were talked about at all it was in whispers, as if speaking of them might make them more real.
Rienne had no time for ignorance or prejudice. Knowing how interested Taran would be, she tried to find out more. “Have they said what type of outlanders?”
Paulus grimaced. Gossip was his trade as much as ale; customers who kept their voices low and their business close to their chests did him no favors no matter how much they spent.
“I only heard snippets as I served their ale. But one of ’em mentioned demons, I’m sure of it.”
Rienne stared at him. Andaryans were indistinguishable from Albians except by their eyes. Their alien, cat-like pupils, almost colorless irises, and warlike ways caused most folk to refer to them as demons.
“Andaryans? Are you certain?” She knew that at one time Andaryans had raided freely through the Veils. Soon after her arrival in Hyecombe, Taran had told her that around twenty years ago, a bargain had been struck with them and their raiding had greatly decreased.
“That’s what I heard,” insisted the barkeep, warming to his tale. “Sounds like they were pretty vicious, too. That’s why these lads were sent to sort it out. They’re a crack unit from that garrison up near the Downs.” He caught her eye, looking at her strangely. “You know, Rienne, I’ve heard it said there’s a witch in command up there.”
She laughed in his face. Paulus might be a tavern-keeper and peddler of gossip, but he was also Hyecombe’s elder and respected as such. His status as the area’s largest business owner lent him a certain authority, which he cultivated. He was not usually given to such fanciful statements.
“Oh really, Paulus. Come on, you know who I live with. I don’t fall for stories like that.”
But Paulus remained serious and the odd look never left his eye. “I mean it, Rienne. If you have to fight demons, you want to follow someone who knows their ways.”
Rienne was prepared to grant that point, she supposed it made sense. However, she knew from Taran’s desperate searches that there were few, if any, Artesans left now, besides him and Cal. He would certainly know of any who were so close by. She presumed that was what Paulus meant—the terms “witch” and “Artesan” were interchangeable in most people’s minds.
She dismissed the barkeep’s gossip. She couldn’t imagine that a company of Kingsmen, hard-bitten, rough and uncompromising as they usually were, would be willing to follow an officer who possessed the generally despised Artesan gift. It was far more likely that their commander was simply an experienced and effective leader.
“Well,” she said, “whoever they’ve been fighting, I hope they got rid of them. I have enough to do around here without treating people wounded by raiders. Now Paulus, I want you to take these herbs. Infuse two pinches in warm water and drink the infusion twice a day, morning and evening. And find yourself an assistant, even if it’s only a boy who can mop floors and scrub barrels. Otherwise, your back will seize up completely, and then where will you be?”
Smiling nervously, he took the packet of herbs. If her prediction came true, he would be in danger of losing his livelihood. He passed her a few coins.
“Thank you Rienne, I’ll see what I can do. Will you be in tonight?”
She tucked the coins into her bag. “Probably,” she said. “The boys usually like a drink at the end of a long week.”
Taran heard the cottage door open. Cal jumped up from his seat by the fire to relieve Rienne of her bag. While she went upstairs to change, Taran made fellan, a dark, aromatic and bitter drink brewed from the seeds of the fellan plant. He handed her a cup when she returned and she sat down next to Cal.
“Well?” she said.
Rienne had no time for ignorance or prejudice. Knowing how interested Taran would be, she tried to find out more. “Have they said what type of outlanders?”
Paulus grimaced. Gossip was his trade as much as ale; customers who kept their voices low and their business close to their chests did him no favors no matter how much they spent.
“I only heard snippets as I served their ale. But one of ’em mentioned demons, I’m sure of it.”
Rienne stared at him. Andaryans were indistinguishable from Albians except by their eyes. Their alien, cat-like pupils, almost colorless irises, and warlike ways caused most folk to refer to them as demons.
“Andaryans? Are you certain?” She knew that at one time Andaryans had raided freely through the Veils. Soon after her arrival in Hyecombe, Taran had told her that around twenty years ago, a bargain had been struck with them and their raiding had greatly decreased.
“That’s what I heard,” insisted the barkeep, warming to his tale. “Sounds like they were pretty vicious, too. That’s why these lads were sent to sort it out. They’re a crack unit from that garrison up near the Downs.” He caught her eye, looking at her strangely. “You know, Rienne, I’ve heard it said there’s a witch in command up there.”
She laughed in his face. Paulus might be a tavern-keeper and peddler of gossip, but he was also Hyecombe’s elder and respected as such. His status as the area’s largest business owner lent him a certain authority, which he cultivated. He was not usually given to such fanciful statements.
“Oh really, Paulus. Come on, you know who I live with. I don’t fall for stories like that.”
But Paulus remained serious and the odd look never left his eye. “I mean it, Rienne. If you have to fight demons, you want to follow someone who knows their ways.”
Rienne was prepared to grant that point, she supposed it made sense. However, she knew from Taran’s desperate searches that there were few, if any, Artesans left now, besides him and Cal. He would certainly know of any who were so close by. She presumed that was what Paulus meant—the terms “witch” and “Artesan” were interchangeable in most people’s minds.
She dismissed the barkeep’s gossip. She couldn’t imagine that a company of Kingsmen, hard-bitten, rough and uncompromising as they usually were, would be willing to follow an officer who possessed the generally despised Artesan gift. It was far more likely that their commander was simply an experienced and effective leader.
“Well,” she said, “whoever they’ve been fighting, I hope they got rid of them. I have enough to do around here without treating people wounded by raiders. Now Paulus, I want you to take these herbs. Infuse two pinches in warm water and drink the infusion twice a day, morning and evening. And find yourself an assistant, even if it’s only a boy who can mop floors and scrub barrels. Otherwise, your back will seize up completely, and then where will you be?”
Smiling nervously, he took the packet of herbs. If her prediction came true, he would be in danger of losing his livelihood. He passed her a few coins.
“Thank you Rienne, I’ll see what I can do. Will you be in tonight?”
She tucked the coins into her bag. “Probably,” she said. “The boys usually like a drink at the end of a long week.”
Taran heard the cottage door open. Cal jumped up from his seat by the fire to relieve Rienne of her bag. While she went upstairs to change, Taran made fellan, a dark, aromatic and bitter drink brewed from the seeds of the fellan plant. He handed her a cup when she returned and she sat down next to Cal.
“Well?” she said.
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