Night Blooming by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

your leather quickly, without cracking it.”
    Otfrid grinned. “Thank you for not making us ask,” he said, for asking would have imposed an obligation he was reluctant to establish with anyone to whom he was not related. “I will tell Great Karl that you have been generous with your supplies. It will please him to hear this.”
    “That is good of you,” said Rakoczy, mastering his discomfort sufficiently to continue in courtly form. “I will tell him that I had good attention from you.”
    Fratre Angelomus regarded the others with an air of superiority. “When I write my account of this journey, I will say that Magnatus Rakoczy came well-prepared.” He knew the advantage his literacy gave him, and he enjoyed exercising it.
    “And I look forward to reading it,” said Rakoczy, adding gently, “I take great pleasure in reading.”
    The group rode along in silence as the shadows began to lengthen and a breeze, warmed from the fields, strummed the leaves of the trees, lending a persistent sigh to the afternoon. Gradually the light began to change, becoming softer, more ruddy, the shadows longer and of a purple-blue that made the patches of sunlight seem brighter by contrast. The wind was brisker now, and not as warm, no longer as fragrant with flowers and growing things as it had been earlier in the day. Hawks and falcons and kites surrendered the air to owls and bats as birds came back to the forest to roost; the day creatures returned to their lairs and lays while the night-dwellers began to stir.
    “There!” Otfrid cried out, rising in his stirrups and pointing. “The inn!”
    It was a three-story wooden building surrounded by a stout wooden stockade; a glowing lantern built above the eaves announced there was room inside for guests; there were no visible windows, a discouragement to robbers and brigands alike. Little as most of the men in the party would be willing to admit it, they were relieved to arrive here at last, and to see the lantern burning in welcome. Otfrid rode up to the gate and pulled on the bell-rope to summon assistance, shouting, “We come in the name of Karlus-lo-Magne! Open to us, as you would serve him!” He tugged the bell-rope again, and the unmelodious clang sounded through the gathering dusk.
    The wicket-gate, a short distance from the main entrance, opened, and a large-bellied man peered out. “Great Karl’s men, are you? How do I know you’re not outlaws, or worse?” He held a cudgel in his hand, and he regarded the men skeptically.
    “We—Fratre Angelomus and I—are missi dominici, and we are escorting Magnatus Rakoczy and his manservant to Sant’ Martin’s, at the pleasure of the King,” said Otfrid. “Fratre Angelomus will tell you the same.”
    The man laughed his scorn. “As if no monk has ever robbed anyone. Get down and bring me your staff.”
    Otfrid dismounted and took his staff of office from his saddlebag, then carried it to the innkeeper. “Here. If you have seen one of these, you will know this is genuine. We have the right of tractoriae, and can command food and lodging from you, and fodder and water for our animals. If you refuse us, you can be killed for your failure to do the King’s Will.”
    The innkeeper examined the staff, peering through the waning light for a short while, turning it over and over, examining it meticulously. Then he handed the staff back to Otfrid. “It appears genuine, so you are either what you claim to be, or you have killed the real missi and are raiding the places along the road. You know it has happened before.” He sighed.
    “And there have been men who posed as honest landlords who have robbed and murdered those who put themselves into their protection,” said Otfrid. “We must each of us extend our trust to the other, or you will lose our patronage and we will have to make camp quickly.”
    “I’ll open the gate for you,” said the landlord, stepping back inside the wicket-gate and setting its bolt in place loudly.