community, apparently wasn’t old enough to develop a strict segregation of classes. Melann enjoyed that about the place. Whitlock didn’t seem to notice.
The two dismounted and tied their horses to a post a few buildings away from the tavern—as close as they could get. Whitlock pushed his way into the crowd, but Melann slipped through the teeming throng faster than he. He grabbed her arm and held it as they moved. They stuck together as they threaded their way through the wilderness of people.
Inside the tavern, the crowd thickened. The two finally procured some wine as well as a bit of roast pork and vegetables. The meal’s flavor almost matched its exorbitant price. While they ate, after actually managing to find a table just then vacated, Melann attempted to ask the barmaid about lodgingfor the night. The woman just shrugged and moved on, obviously more concerned with serving drinks than chitchat that didn’t help her earn her keep.
Whitlock rolled his eyes and motioned to the door. “We’d be better off on the road, I’m afraid.”
Melann sighed. She knew he was right, but at the same time, she regretted that duty so consumed her life that they couldn’t stop for just one night and take part in this celebration. Instead, it presented them only with another obstacle in their quest.
“Pardon me,” a man said, seating himself gingerly on the only empty chair at the small table, “but I couldn’t help but overhear that you are in need of lodging.” He was tall, with a high forehead and wide cheekbones. His voice carried a slightly annoying nasal quality, accentuated by the fact that he had to almost shout to be overheard in the din. He ran his hand through his thinning black hair and continued, “I know of a place where you can sleep tonight, if you’re not too picky.”
Whitlock’s glare in this newcomer’s direction seemed to carry with it all the suspicion and distaste he could muster, which Melann realized was considerable. The man tried not to notice but did anyway. He cleared his throat.
Melann replied, “Where?” Whitlock turned his glare to his sister.
“Well,” the man said, turning to Melann, “just outside of town there’s an old granary. It’s not much of a rooming house, but I can assure you there’s room there, plenty of hay and whatnot to sleep on, and it’s away from the noise a bit—if that’s what you’re after. I own the building but no longer use it. You’ll find it to the south of the main road, just on the other side of the stockyards. The door bears the name Northrip.”
Whitlock shook his head. “Thank you anyway, sir, but …”
“Maybe we should look at the place,” Melann said to Whitlock. Unfortunately, to be heard, she had to speak loud enough that the stranger heard her as well.
“Yes, by all means, if you wish it. I’m not even going to ask for payment. I just thought someone should benefit from it. It’s Midsummer festival, after all.”
“You’re very generous, sir,” Melann said. “Could I ask your name?”
“Oh. Ah, my name is Ferd. Ferd … Northrip.” He smiled broadly.
“Well then, Ferd, I shall thank Our Mother tonight in my prayers for bringing us to such a generous man.”
He smiled nervously as he glanced down at Melann’s amulet bearing Chauntea’s symbol. “Well, I should be going,” he said as he rose from the table.
“You don’t actually trust him, do you?” Whitlock demanded as Ferd disappeared into the crowd.
“Well, we’ve little reason to trust or distrust him, but I suppose we could just make our camp outside of town as we have been, at least for tonight.” She sighed.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Whitlock said, and Melann realized he didn’t notice her exasperation.
When they finally left the Flagon Held High the singing had stopped, but that didn’t reduce the overall commotion. The dark night was riven by innumerable torches throughout the city, almost resembling daylight. Most of the people
The two dismounted and tied their horses to a post a few buildings away from the tavern—as close as they could get. Whitlock pushed his way into the crowd, but Melann slipped through the teeming throng faster than he. He grabbed her arm and held it as they moved. They stuck together as they threaded their way through the wilderness of people.
Inside the tavern, the crowd thickened. The two finally procured some wine as well as a bit of roast pork and vegetables. The meal’s flavor almost matched its exorbitant price. While they ate, after actually managing to find a table just then vacated, Melann attempted to ask the barmaid about lodgingfor the night. The woman just shrugged and moved on, obviously more concerned with serving drinks than chitchat that didn’t help her earn her keep.
Whitlock rolled his eyes and motioned to the door. “We’d be better off on the road, I’m afraid.”
Melann sighed. She knew he was right, but at the same time, she regretted that duty so consumed her life that they couldn’t stop for just one night and take part in this celebration. Instead, it presented them only with another obstacle in their quest.
“Pardon me,” a man said, seating himself gingerly on the only empty chair at the small table, “but I couldn’t help but overhear that you are in need of lodging.” He was tall, with a high forehead and wide cheekbones. His voice carried a slightly annoying nasal quality, accentuated by the fact that he had to almost shout to be overheard in the din. He ran his hand through his thinning black hair and continued, “I know of a place where you can sleep tonight, if you’re not too picky.”
Whitlock’s glare in this newcomer’s direction seemed to carry with it all the suspicion and distaste he could muster, which Melann realized was considerable. The man tried not to notice but did anyway. He cleared his throat.
Melann replied, “Where?” Whitlock turned his glare to his sister.
“Well,” the man said, turning to Melann, “just outside of town there’s an old granary. It’s not much of a rooming house, but I can assure you there’s room there, plenty of hay and whatnot to sleep on, and it’s away from the noise a bit—if that’s what you’re after. I own the building but no longer use it. You’ll find it to the south of the main road, just on the other side of the stockyards. The door bears the name Northrip.”
Whitlock shook his head. “Thank you anyway, sir, but …”
“Maybe we should look at the place,” Melann said to Whitlock. Unfortunately, to be heard, she had to speak loud enough that the stranger heard her as well.
“Yes, by all means, if you wish it. I’m not even going to ask for payment. I just thought someone should benefit from it. It’s Midsummer festival, after all.”
“You’re very generous, sir,” Melann said. “Could I ask your name?”
“Oh. Ah, my name is Ferd. Ferd … Northrip.” He smiled broadly.
“Well then, Ferd, I shall thank Our Mother tonight in my prayers for bringing us to such a generous man.”
He smiled nervously as he glanced down at Melann’s amulet bearing Chauntea’s symbol. “Well, I should be going,” he said as he rose from the table.
“You don’t actually trust him, do you?” Whitlock demanded as Ferd disappeared into the crowd.
“Well, we’ve little reason to trust or distrust him, but I suppose we could just make our camp outside of town as we have been, at least for tonight.” She sighed.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Whitlock said, and Melann realized he didn’t notice her exasperation.
When they finally left the Flagon Held High the singing had stopped, but that didn’t reduce the overall commotion. The dark night was riven by innumerable torches throughout the city, almost resembling daylight. Most of the people
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