"Today, Missy. The other customers want service," he said sternly.
"I--I just--" she stuttered, pulling her pack to her lap to search it.
When she pulled the bag in front of her, the sudden shift knocked the heavy bundled sword free. It clanged to the ground. Quickly she bent to retrieve it. She plucked it awkwardly from the floor and sat up, finding she had been joined. It was the tall, cloaked figure she had noticed in the corner earlier. The hood was pulled forward, and in the dim light of the tavern his face was wholly hidden. He stood at least a full head taller than she, but the coarse cloak hid his build. He pushed the fold of the cloak aside to extend a lean, leather-gloved and gray-sleeved arm. As was nearly the requirement in the biting cold of the north, not an inch of skin was uncovered. The stranger opened his hand and a silver coin fell to the bar.
"The young lady's meal is my treat," spoke the stranger in a clear, confident voice. "She and I are old friends. I do hope you will be staying until morning, there is so much to catch up on."
"Oh, yes, well . . . I had planned to if I could afford it," she said.
A second coin fell to the bar.
"Your finest room, good sir," he said.
The keeper pulled a ring of keys from his stained apron. Carefully, he selected the least worn of the keys, placing it on the table and sweeping up the coins. The stranger stopped him.
"Not so swiftly, kind keeper. I think a bottle of wine would make a fine companion on a night such as this," the stranger added.
"I am sorry to say that I have none," the innkeeper said, the silver apparently earning this newcomer the polite treatment.
A third coin clattered to the table.
"Do be sure, I am quite thirsty," he said.
"Wish I could oblige, but you see . . ."
A fourth coin dropped.
"Perhaps a glance in the back would not hurt," the innkeeper said.
He walked through the smoky doorway and returned immediately with a bottle.
"As luck would have it, I have a single bottle left from last season. Drink it in good health," the innkeeper said with a wide smile as the equivalent of a large pile of copper coins was swept into his apron.
"Thank you, and thank you very much. Good . . . to see you . . . again. I will just get up to my room now," Myranda said as she hurriedly gathered her things, as well as the key and the bottle.
Bouts of luck like these were rare, and tended to turn sour quickly. She wanted to make sure she made it to the room before this one gave out. The warped stairs groaned as she rushed up them to a very poorly-lit hallway at the top. The left wall was lined with windows hung with heavy drapes drawn against the cold. A few of the last amber rays of the sunset found their way between the drapes to cast weak light on a row of thin, flimsy doors. They totaled seven, the last adorned with a fancier, arched top. She approached it, squinting to make out the number of the door and match it to her key. After pulling the drapes aside to shed light on the door, she tried her key.
Though the key clearly matched the lock, it refused to turn. She turned the worn piece of metal every which way, but in the frustratingly dark hall she could not see what the problem was. She glanced at a candle holder on the wall and grumbled. Its candle had burned beyond the point of usefulness long ago without being replaced. Eventually she managed to force the key into the appropriate position, turning it and gaining entrance to the room.
She closed the door behind her, mercifully finding it easier to lock than to unlock. It was a modest room, shrouded in near-complete darkness, but it may as well have been a palace. Sleeping in a half-collapsed tent next to a smoldering fire in the middle of a tundra had a way of improving one's appreciation of the lesser luxuries, such as walls that were thicker than her clothes. Without even lighting a lamp, she dropped her pack on one of the two chairs set at a small table on one side of the room.
She dropped herself onto the second chair and released a sigh of satisfaction. With effort, she pulled her left foot to her right knee and undid the stiff laces of her boot. Slowly, she slid the boot from her aching foot for the first time in days and flexed her toes. The second foot had only just received the same treatment when she heard a knock at the door that startled her.
"Who is there?" she asked, getting back to her feet.
After the all-too-brief rest they had received, the sore extremities were reluctant to go back to work. She hobbled painfully as she stowed her things, particularly the sword, safely behind the bed.
"Your friend from downstairs," answered a familiar voice.
Myranda took two steps toward the door, but stopped. She wanted very much to thank him for all of his help. Unfortunately, it was more than likely that he had come with a particular form the gratitude should take in mind. In times like these, kindness was a rarity, but charity was nonexistent.
"I . . . I am a bit tired just now," she said.
"Tired? Well, I suppose we shall talk tomorrow then. Enjoy your rest," he said--disappointment in his voice, but no anger.
Myranda placed her ear to the door to hear the light retreat of footsteps, followed by the scratch of a key in a similarly misshapen keyhole. His response was not what she had expected. There was not a hint of resentment or malice in his voice after he had been denied entrance to a room for which he had paid. He did not even try to convince her otherwise. It was contrary to every lesson she had learned in her years alone and every piece of advice she had ever received, but Myranda decided that she would let the man in. She would not allow the bitterness and cynicism that had infuriated her so in the past guide her own decisions.
She limped to the door and turned the key, which was still in the lock. The door creaked open and she stuck her head out to see his darkened form still struggling with the temperamental lock. He turned his hooded head in her direction.
"I am very sorry; you are welcome to come inside," she said.
"Nonsense, I would not dare deprive you of a good night of sleep," he said.
"I insist," she said.
"Well, if I must," he said lightly.
When she had allowed the cloaked stranger into the room, she shut the door, but left it unlocked. Just in case his intentions were less than pure, she wanted to be sure that she could usher him out quickly.
"I am very sorry if I had seemed rude a moment ago," she said, pulling the second chair out for him.
"Rude?" he said. "Am I to take it that you are not tired, then?"
"Well, I am, but--" she began.
"Then what is there to warrant apology?" the stranger asked.
"I should have asked you in. The room is yours, in all reality. You paid for it," she said.
"You hold the key, the room is yours," he said, easing himself onto the chair. "Interesting, the fellow sells wine but has no wine glasses. No matter, it is not the glass but the contents, eh?"
He placed two tankards on the table while Myranda found a lamp and managed to light it. She turned to her guest, who still had his heavy hood pulled entirely forward, hiding his face far back in its shadow.
"You know, thanks to your generosity, this room is near enough to the chimney to provide a comfortable temperature. You do not need the cloak," she said.
"I would just as soon keep it," he said.
"Well . . . that is fine, I suppose," Myranda said, removing her own cloak and hanging it on the bed post.
The stranger carefully poured out a third of a tankard of the wine for each of them.
"Here's to you, my dear," he said, bringing the cup beneath the hood and sipping awkwardly.
After getting a taste, he lowered his glass to the table, smacking his lips thoughtfully. Myranda sampled it herself, immediately startled by an intensity closer to brandy than wine. It was quite a bit stronger than she had expected. As it dripped down her throat, she felt the fiery heat spread, finally taking the lingering chill from her insides, just as she hoped it would.
"Intriguing flavor," her guest commented.
Myr
anda coughed a bit as the powerful drink seemed to hollow out her throat.
"It does the job, though," she managed.
"Admirably," he agreed, lifting the cup to his lips for a second awkward sip.
"Wouldn't it be easier to drink if you pulled the hood back?" Myranda asked.
"Drinking would be easier, I am sure, but things would become . . . uncomfortable," he said, tugging his hood even further forward.
Myranda looked uneasily at her guest. There was something very unsettling about his rigid refusal to reveal his face. She sipped at the wine as the darker reasons for such a desire flooded her head. He might be self-conscious, or perhaps if he were to reveal his face, he would place her in some kind of danger due to some dark past that is haunting him.
"Well, since we are here under the pretense that we are old friends, I think it would be best to learn your name," he said, breaking the uneasy silence and Myranda's train of thought.
"Oh, yes, of course. My name is Myranda. And yours?" she asked.
"Leo. A pleasure to meet you, Myranda," he answered, putting his hand out for her to shake. She did so graciously.
"And a pleasure to meet you as well, Leo. I really cannot thank you enough for helping me. I have yet to meet another who would have done the same," she said.
"I do not doubt it," he said, a bit of anger in his voice. "So tell me, how did you come to be in such a predicament?"
"I had brought a bag of coins with me. It must have been stolen," she said.
"Where you were sitting, you were asking for that to happen," he said.
"I know it," she said. "Had I been thinking I never would have chosen that seat."
A moment of silence passed. Myranda took another glance at the hood.
"Is it because you are cold?" she asked.
"Pardon?" said the stranger.
"The cloak. Are you cold?" she asked again.
"Not particularly," he said. "You do not strike me as a local. Where do you call home?"
"Nowhere, I am sorry to say. I honestly cannot remember the last time I had spent more than a week or so in one place," she replied.
"Really? We have something in common, then!" he said, pleased. "I spend most of my days on the road myself. In my case it is the nature of my career. Is it likewise with you?"
"If only. My nomadic nature is strictly by choice," she said.
"Hmm," he pondered. "You have chosen a life you hate. You will have to elaborate on that."
"Well, suffice to say that those that I encounter tend not to be especially fond of those like myself," she said, immediately worrying that she had said a bit too much.
"Oh? Another common trait," he said.
"Really? Is . . . that why you have got your face hidden?" she asked.
"Alas, I am found out," he said, throwing his hands up in mock despair.
Myranda's imagination seized this new fact and constructed a new set of possibilities. What about his face could make him an outcast? He may be the victim of some terrible disease. Worse, he could be a wanted criminal. There were more than a few outlaws who would find themselves in a cell for life if they ever showed their faces again. She was even more uneasy now. What sort of man had she let into this room? Could the kindness have been nothing but a ruse?
"What sort of man are you?" she said, her worry showing through. "I must know."
"Now, now, Myranda, fair is fair. If you pull back your hood, and I will pull back mine," he said. "What are you hiding?"
"Very well," Myranda sighed. It would seem tonight would be spent outside again. "I am . . . what you would call . . . a . . . sympathizer."
She hung her head, awaiting a voice of disdain. She did not have to wait long.
"A sympathizer!?" he said in a harsh whisper. "Oh come now! Is that all!?"
"What?" she said, looking up.
"You are a sympathizer. I would hardly place us in the same boat. Sympathy is nothing!" he said angrily.
"You mean you don't care?" she said, a hint of a grin coming to her face.
"I have got quite enough worries of my own. What do I care what side you root for? It hardly seems fair that I have to show you my face after a measly little confession like that," he complained.
A full smile lit up Myranda's face and she let a bit of joy escape in the form of laughter.
"You, Leo, are too good to be true. Generous, gentlemanly, and understanding," she said.
"Well, let us see if you still think so highly of me in a few moments," he said, lifting his hands to his hood.
"Leo, after all you have said and done tonight, I cannot imagination anything behind that hood that could keep you and I from being friends," she said.
Leo's leather-gloved hands clutched the edge of the hood and quickly drew it back. The smile dropped from Myranda's face. A mixture of fear and revulsion spilled over her. It was no human that looked back at her. Protruding from the neck of the cloak was what appeared to be the head of a fox. It was in proportion to the body, with a deep orange fur covering all but the muzzle, chin and throat, which had a creamy white color. His eyes were larger and more expressive than an animal's, brown and the only remotely human feature. The corner of his mouth was turned up in a slight smirk as he read her expression.
He twitched a pointed, black-tipped ear as he pulled a fiery red pony tail from inside the hood. It fell to nearly his waist, lightening along its length to the same color as his throat. Myranda couldn't keep a gasp from escaping her lips.
"Not what you expected, eh?" he asked. "I told you things would become uncomfortable."
Myranda closed her eyes and reached for the glass she had put on the table. Leo slid it to her searching fingers. Grasping it, she gulped down the contents hoping to settle her churning stomach and rattled nerves. When she lowered the glass, Leo filled it to the brim, then stood and began gathering up his ponytail.
Myranda ventured another peek at her visitor.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Unless I have greatly misread your reaction, it would seem you do not much relish my presence," he answered as he tucked the hair inside his cloak and restored the hood.
Now knowing the shape of the face that the hood had concealed before, Myranda wondered how she had not noticed earlier. Though a normal hood might conceal him, it would be perilously close to revealing the tip of his snout, even with the hood pulled comically far forward. Yet his face seemed to vanish into inky shadow the instant the hood was pulled into place. Leo was nearly to the door before she had finished sputtering and coughing from the powerful wine she had forced down.
"Don't go!" she coughed.
He stopped.
"Please--" Cough, cough. "--sit down, I should not have reacted so horribly. I was startled," she said.
"Are you sure you do not want me to go?" he asked, turning to her.
"I insist you stay for a while. Nothing has changed. I still owe you for all of this, and you have still treated me with more kindness than anyone I have met in years," she said.
Leo returned to his seat. "Would you prefer me to keep the hood up?" he asked.
"I want you to be comfortable," she said.
Leo opened his cloak and removed it, tossing it to the bed. Now that it was no longer obscured, Myranda finally got a glimpse of his build. It was lean, bordering on gaunt, but healthy. His clothes were plain and gray, quite simple and very worn. He slipped the leather gloves from his hands, revealing a second pair of black gloves, these composed of his own fur.
"You . . . you are a . . . m--a m--" Myranda stuttered.
"A malthrope? Indeed. To my knowledge half fox and half human," he answered.
"I was not sure if it was alright to call you a m-malthrope," she said, the word sticking in her throat.
"Mmm, I understand. It is not exactly a term for mixed company. Certainly one saved for the end of an argument," he said knowingly.
He was right, of course. The term carried the very most negative of connotations. Speaking
it as a child was a sure way to a sound scolding. Malthropes were the thieves, murderers, and scoundrels of horror stories told to frighten children into good behavior. Half man and half some manner of beast, they were monsters and fiends. The kindness and consideration Leo had shown could not be farther from what she had been taught to expect from these creatures.
"I thought there were no more m--no more of your kind left," she said.
"You are not far from correct. I've more fingers on my hands than I have memories of others like me. Clearly we are not the most popular race," he said, his demeanor was somehow cheerful despite the loneliness and isolation he described.
"How is it that you have made it for so long in a world so hostile to your kind?" asked Myranda.
"Well, thanks in no small part to that little wonder I threw on the bed. I had to spend every coin I had and more than a year searching for a wizard willing to produce it for me. With it on, no one can see my face," he said.
"But, how did--" she began.
"Now, now. By this time you should know my policy. Money has its value, but information the greatest treasure of all. You must give to receive," Leo said.
Myranda sipped at the wine again. She had consumed quite a bit of the powerful stuff and done so very quickly. Her judgment was a bit impaired. Had she her wits about her, she likely would not have said what she said next.
"A trade then. I will tell you all you care to know about myself and my people, and you return the favor," she offered.
"A fair proposition," he said, extending his now-bare hand.
Myranda grasped it and gave it a firm shake. It was a peculiar experience shaking the hirsute appendage, but she was careful to appear as though she didn't notice.
"Now, where to begin? I was born in a large town south of here called Kenvard," she said.
"Kenvard . . . was that the old western capital?" he asked.
"One and the same. My father was Greydon and my mother was Lucia. She was a teacher. The teacher, really. Because of that she knew every man woman and child in town by name and so did I. When I was about six years old, though, the front came very near to our walls. Father was away, serving in the army somewhere else as he often--no, usually was. I was in the garden with mother. The church bells started ringing, which at that time of day was the signal to meet in the town center during an emergency.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 4
