The Innkeeper's Son

by Jeremy Brooks

  “I can’t let him win. Not after what he did to my parents.”

  “He won’t,” Farrus said, doing his best to reassure him. “Hold on to your pain, Sim, but don’t let it consume you.”

  They were quiet after that. By the time they had finished bathing and put on their robes, a serving girl came up with their meals. The stew was good. They finished off each bowl using pieces of bread to wipe up the excess and then sat back. Farrus thought about heading down to the common room to have a few pints, but he knew that the situation could change in the blink of an eye. Tonight he had a nice soft bed. Tomorrow it might be the cold hard ground.

  Putting aside his desire to drink, Farrus got into bed. The Blue Trellis had proven to be a pleasant surprise. Warm baths, good stew, and a soft feather bed. Much better than he had expected.

  Sim sat in a chair he had pulled up to the room’s only window. He sat quietly watching the city. It must seem strange to him, Farrus thought. He had traveled the world many times over in his life, but when he first left his village, everything had been so exotic and wonderful.

  “I’m turning in, Sim,” he said, as he closed his eyes. “Remember to put the lights out.”

  As he lay there and waited for sleep, thoughts of Givara crept into his mind. He couldn’t understand what it was about her. She was beautiful, though not in a traditional way. He liked the way her green eyes shone with intensity. Givara was a passionate woman. Passionate and strong-willed. A woman to be inspired by. There was something almost regal about her, as though she were noble born and used to giving commands. It made him wonder what secrets she held. They still had yet to have a conversation alone save for that one moment Prianhe had interrupted. Her kiss still lingered on his lips. Would there be more?

  He opened his eyes and chanced a look at Sim who still sat watching the city with a faraway expression on his face. He hoped his advice had helped. Sevin would have known what to say. Sevin always knew the right thing to say. Sevin. He missed his friend.

  Chapter twelve: The Clockmaker

  They set out the next morning to find the Librarian. Fanna had made good on her promise to have their clothes laundered, and for once, the fine silk riding dress Enaya wore felt comfortable and clean. She would have to find a dressmaker in the city as well as a banker to get new clothing for the road ahead and a replenishment of her dwindling coffers. They had spent a great deal of coin in the last several days. Her purse was beginning to feel light.

  Farrus and Sim agreed to stay out of trouble. It was an idle promise, she knew, because men were incapable of staying out of trouble. Farrus had assured her that he would take Sim out to gather new clothes and supplies, nothing else. Somehow she was certain they would find an excuse to have a few pints during their walk through the city. Why did men never listen? She had yet to meet a man with an ounce of common sense, and she was certain that Farrus and Sim were no different.

  The Blue Trellis was located on the edge of the inner city, so she needed to head downtown to find a respectable bank or an accomplished dressmaker.

  They walked back to the main road that ran into the heart of the city. If she remembered correctly, the road ended at the steps of the Governor’s palace which marked the center of Nal‘Dahara.

  The streets were filled with people heading to work. Carriages pulled by horses, clogged the middle lanes of the road, so they had to make their way through the throng of middle class people walking along the sides. Most walked along with a purpose, setting a brisk pace as they hurried to get to work on time. Some seemed to lag about, as though they had nothing to do and nowhere to go.

  Vendors stood against buildings calling out their wares to the passing crowd, while poor children with dirty, sad faces and ragged, dingy clothes, begged for food and coin. Nearly all who passed the children avoided making eye contact, as though to acknowledge a starving child would make them somehow responsible. Enaya couldn’t resist those desperate faces. She carried a handful of copper coins which she dispensed casually as she walked. Givara repeatedly fixed her with disapproving looks as more and more children, spurred by the rumor of a woman with loose purse strings, came to plead for generosity. The smiles they wore as they ran off with their prizes were enough to convince her that the unwanted attention was worth it.

  The deeper they went toward the center of Nal’Dahara, the cleaner the roads and buildings became. Imperial infantry patrolled the streets, chasing the beggars away. Everyone around them seemed dressed in silk dresses and fine coats. Men wore black brimmed hats and black ascots, a fashion trend among the wealthier class. Women wore silk dresses of earthen colors, like browns, yellows, and greens. All wore their hair up, pulled into buns with gold ornamentations laced throughout. Everyone dressed the same. It was always the way of the wealthy, Enaya thought. When a trend arises, everyone latches on. Individuality becomes virtually non-existent.

  The bank she chose was in an enormous stone building with a tall thin tower pushing up into the sky from each of its four corners. The front was lined with large granite statues of winged beasts crouching on their hind quarters. The statues gave the eerie impression of predator's patiently stalking prey.

  Enaya walked up the wide granite stairway leading up to the front door from the street, followed closely by Givara. Guards stood by the great oak doors, broadswords in their scabbards, crossbows in their hands. A doorman greeted Enaya, welcoming her as he opened the door for her to enter. Another guard stood beside a desk, where a clerk sat, as they walked into the foyer.

  “You’ll need to check your weapons, my Lady,” the clerk casually announced when Enaya approached the desk.

  “My guardswoman will wait here for me,” Enaya told him, and motioned Givara to stand off to the side.

  “Very well, my Lady,” the clerk said. He picked up a quill and dipped the tip in an inkwell. “Your name?”

  Enaya would have preferred to remain anonymous. She would have preferred to use an alias. At some point, the events on Caramour were likely to catch up with her. She hated to leave a trail, but she had no choice.

  “Lady Enaya Relador of Merrame,” she told him begrudgingly.

  The clerk wrote her information down and the guard led her to a great oak desk were she took a seat and waited for a bank representative. A tiny man, the size of a child, came hurrying along to help her after only a few minutes. He was balding on top and regarded her as he took his seat with beady black eyes framed by a pair of bushy black eyebrows. He was a Turk. It had been some time since she had met a Turk and to see one in this part of the world was unusual.

  “Lady Relador?” he asked. His voice was low and baritone, not at all befitting his diminutive frame.

  Enaya had never liked Turks. Their race lived in the Turkan hills in the western part of Fandrall. They were an ornery, covetous race, suspicious of everyone, and fiercely supportive of Desirmor. You could find at least one Turk working in every bank in Fandrall, but to see them abroad was extremely rare. It was likely that he was a spy for the Governor. She would have to speak carefully, as she was sure this little man would remember every detail of their encounter no matter how brief or unassuming their meeting would be.

  “Yes,” she answered. Best to keep their conversation as concise as possible.

  “Of Merrame, I’m told.” He regarded her through raised eyebrows. The fingers on his left hand kept pulling into a fist, and then relaxing in a slow, methodical way.

  “Yes.” She made certain her face showed a pleasant smile.

  “Are you related to Laurent Relador?”

  The question hit Enaya like a slap in the face. He knew her father? So much for keeping a low profile.

  “Why, yes. I am his daughter.”

  The Turk made a sour face. She did her best to convey a pleasant disposition, but something about the way he looked at her, made her feel tense. His beady black eyes held suspicion and something else…dislike?

  “How is your father?” he asked, looking down and beginning to
leaf through several pieces of parchment on the desk.

  “My father passed away many years ago.” Was it possible he didn’t know? The revelation seemed to make him pause, but he didn’t look at her. “Did you know him?”

  “Uhh…well, yes,” he said nervously. He was trying very hard to avoid her eyes. “What business do you have here today?”

  “I’m here to withdraw on my account.” What was going on with him? He suddenly looked as though he’d rather be anywhere else but there. “How did you know my father, Master…? I didn’t get your name.”

  His left hand began gripping and relaxing furiously. He looked at her angrily. His pale skin was flush and beads of perspiration formed on his brow. “I’ve no time for this right now, Lady Relador. I’m very busy,” he huffed. “How much do you wish to withdraw?”

  Enaya let the fake smile slip from her face. There was clearly something wrong with the little man. “I’ll have your name first,” she demanded.

  The Turk grimaced. “Baneur. Are you satisfied? My name is Baneur. Now can we get back to your transaction?”

  “Baneur? Is that all?” she asked sardonically. “Shall I simply call you Baneur the Turk? Or do you have a last name?”

  “I fail to see why this matters," he sneered back. His voice was beginning to rise. Several clerks nearby had turned to view the commotion. Baneur suddenly noticed the attention. His eyes filled with rage, but he took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. “Deuseau. My last name is Deuseau.”

  “Was that so hard?” she asked sweetly, batting her eyes. Baneur grit his teeth. He looked around to see if they were still drawing attention. They weren’t.

  “Can we get back to the purpose of your visit, Lady Relador? I truly am very busy.”

  “Certainly,” she said.

  He handed her a paper and a quill. She wrote down her request, signing at the bottom. When she finished, he reached out his hand to take the order, but she held it back.

  “You never answered my question,” she said with a hard edge to her voice. “How did you know my father?”

  “I worked for the bank in Merrame,” he said with palpable irritation. “Your father was a client. We didn’t have a very cordial relationship.”

  “That doesn’t excuse your behavior today. Whatever differences you shared with my father many years ago should have no bearing on our business together.”

  “I apologize, Lady Relador. I was startled to hear the name again. That’s all.” He stood. “I’ll be back shortly with your withdrawal.”

  Enaya watched him walk away. This was all wrong. He was hiding something, of that she was sure. He had acted so defensively. There was a secret buried there, and she felt compelled to dig. Her mother had once said that curiosity was one of her greatest flaws, and there had been plenty of instances when she had indeed stuck her nose where it didn’t belong. But this was no coincidence. Halfway across the world from her homeland, she runs into a man who knew her father? No coincidence.

  Nearly a half an hour later, a tall, gaunt man approached the desk carrying her withdrawal in an iron lock box. He placed it on the desk before her and unlocked it.

  “I must apologize, Lady Relador, but Master Deuseau has taken ill and needed to leave for the day. My name is Wendle. Do you have a purse?”

  She stared at him blankly. Baneur had suddenly taken ill? Convenient.

  “Are you a friend of his, Wendle?” she asked innocently.

  Wendle shook his head. “We are simply co-workers, my Lady.”

  “I see. Has he been with this bank for long?” There had to be something she could learn that may prove useful.

  Wendle thought about it a moment, tapping his chin with a long, thin finger. “Well, I remember that he started soon after I did. I’ve been here for fifteen years, now. I don’t know, my Lady. I’d have to say about fourteen years. Or close to it.”

  Enaya thanked him and emptied the lock box. Fourteen years? Her father had been murdered fourteen years ago. It probably didn’t mean anything, but it made her wonder. Why was the little man so intent on avoiding her?

  Once they were back outside on the street searching for a dressmaker, she told Givara everything that had been said at the desk. Givara agreed that it was suspicious.

  The dressmaker they chose was only a few blocks from the Governor’s palace. They were led by an elderly woman at the front door to a private room in the back. There were several plush chairs and a stall for changing. A serving girl brought them tea and a plate of sweet buns and scones. All fine dressmakers believed in pampering their clients, but Enaya just wanted to get it over with. There was still so much to do.

  Eventually the seamstress entered the room, followed by a young, blonde apprentice. The seamstress was middle-aged, dressed in a fine brown silk gown, fitted across the waist with a yellow sash. Her face was powdered, and she was adorned with lavish gold bejeweled accessories all over her body. Her fingers all held rings, her ears had big gold hoops, and several bracelets hung from each wrist. Every step she took created the noisy clatter of metal. She was a successful dressmaker and felt the need to wear her riches to show off her wealth.

  “Lady Relador?” she asked as she took a seat next to Enaya. It was poor decorum to sit without permission when servicing nobles. Enaya didn’t care, but she did notice. “I am Mistress Florashelle. No doubt you’ve chosen my services upon hearing of my stellar reputation?”

  “Of course, Mistress Florashelle,” Enaya lied. “I was told by everyone I asked that you were the best in Nal’Dahara.”

  Mistress Florashelle beamed with pride and then nodded curtly to her young apprentice. The young girl went to the door and motioned to someone outside. In moments a line of young women holding lengths of silk and satin fabric marched into the room. They stood before Enaya holding their fabrics out for her to inspect. The earth tone colors were consistent with the fashions Enaya had seen walking through the city.

  “Do you have any blues or reds?” she asked politely looking over the fabrics.

  Mistress Florashelle frowned. “I do, Lady Relador, but those colors really aren’t very fashionable here.”

  “Perhaps not in Nal’Dahara, Mistress Florashelle, but in Fandrall, we tend to choose more colorful arrangements,” Enaya said condescendingly.

  Mistress Florashelle bit her lip but understood. Fandrall was the ruling continent. Fashions may vary around the world, but Fandrall set the trends. She motioned to her apprentice who hopped up and ushered the attendants out of the room.

  “What part of Fandrall are you from, Lady Relador?” Mistress Florashelle asked when they were alone. She took a sip of tea, but her eyes studied Enaya over the rim of her cup like a hawk scanning for prey.

  “Merrame,” Enaya responded. She would have to use a line of credit through her bank to pay for the dresses, so lying about herself would have served no purpose.

  “What brings you to Nal’Dahara?”

  Enaya took a sip of her own tea. She hadn’t yet thought of a decent cover story, so she needed to stall. Then she thought of a way to inquire about the Librarian and give herself cover.

  “I am visiting some distant relatives in Glendon. I decided to stop here to commission a time piece as a gift. I hear Nal’Dahara is renowned for its clock makers.”

  Mistress Florashelle smiled proudly and nodded in agreement. “Very true, my Lady. Very true. I have heard it said that Nal’Dahara is the time piece capital of the world.”

  Enaya didn’t actually know where to find the Librarian. He was a legend assumed by most to have died soon after Desirmor took control. How it was possible that he had managed to live for a thousand years without any known magical talents was a mystery. But her mother had told her long ago that he was living in Nal’Dahara and posing as a clockmaker.

  “I’m afraid I’ve just arrived in the city and don’t know where to begin looking to find a good clockmaker.”

  Mistress Florashelle waved nonchalantly, “I’ll have my apprent
ice make you up a list, with directions to each one.”

  “That would be most kind, Mistress Florashelle,” Enaya said. “You’re sure it won’t be too much trouble?”

  “Of course not, my Lady,” she answered dismissively. “I hope it will be a help to you.” Enaya exchanged a victorious look with Givara when Mistress Florashelle briefly turned away. “When are you attending Governor Cantor?” she asked offhandedly.

  Enaya froze. It was customary for a noble visiting abroad to send a letter to the Governor of the province requesting an invitation for attendance. In most cases it was simply a way of exchanging gossip. Being a noble from Fandrall put her in a position of high demand, and it would be considered a great slight on her part if she ignored Governor Cantor while staying in his city. No doubt word of her arrival had already reached him. Governor Cantor had a reputation for his network of eyes and ears. He was ambitious and coveted information. Enaya generally tried to keep a low profile when she traveled, using an alias in most cases when she stopped at an inn. Now her hand would be forced. She would have to send a request as soon as she got back to the Blue Trellis.

  “I’m afraid I arrived late last night. A message was only sent this morning.” She hoped Mistress Florashelle would let it go, but the dressmaker seemed interested in gossiping about the Governor.

  “I hear Governor Cantor is angling for a position in Fandrall.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “They say he hates it here. Wants to be closer to King Desirmor. He’s very ambitious, you know. Rumor has it that he’s looking to marry into Fandrian nobility.” She gave Enaya a mischievous grin. “You seem young, Lady Relador, and you’re very beautiful. I think Governor Cantor will certainly favor you.”