The Hunter's Haunt

by Dave Duncan

  Frieda was not merely attractive and accomplished, she was also a wit. There is a rare combination indeed, in woman or man. How many humorists do you know who are truly likable?

  She could return jest for jest, quote for quote, pun for pun, quip for banter, and the melody of her laughter lingered long in the memory. That first evening she bested me in barroom jocularity, greatly delighting the other guests and much surprising me. Yes, it does happen, milords, but rarely without my connivance. In Frieda's case I did not submit; I was outclassed. Nay, I was conquered! Alas, my flirtation was its own reward. I am certain no other man in the tavern fared better.

  Mayhap I came closer than most did, for Fritz's evident animosity toward me waxed steadily stronger throughout the evening, long before the next morning's misunderstanding about Nurgic dinars. When Frieda came to sit beside me on the bench, the knuckles of his gargoyle fists whitened like hens' eggs. Unlike his sister, Fritz had no sense of humor at all. He consistently failed to appreciate my efforts to include him in the conversation, although everyone else did.

  This may be an opportune moment, milords, to describe the taproom of the inn, for it features largely in the course of my narrative.

  It occupies most of the ground floor. Visualize, if you will, four sturdy walls of fieldstone, their thickness exposed in the deep embrasures of the windows—all of which were then firmly shuttered, of course. The front door is of ancient, massive oak, studded with nails. An open plank stairway against the opposite wall leads up to four poky guest chambers, and the owners' attics above them. A third wall is largely occupied by a great stone fireplace, and the fourth contains the way through to the kitchen, partially blocked off by a bar counter of solid timbers.

  At the time of which I speak, three hogsheads of beer stood in back of the counter, only the middle one being truly potable. Shelves over the barrels were laden with the coarse brown pottery of the region: cups, dishes, steins. Alongside those hung the tariff board I have already mentioned. Its stylish black letters had doubtless been painted by some wandering scribe in years gone by, in return for a night's lodging, or perhaps just a slab of venison and a flagon of ale.

  The decor was simple. Heads of elk, mule deer, and mountain sheep mounted on the walls testified to the inn's hunting clientele. A battle-ax and two-handed sword hung on the chimney were somewhat less explicable. Below them, a mantelshelf held bric-a-brac: a battered military helmet of antique design, a nodule of rock crystal, a small brass vase, a few clay figurines, an hourglass, a hand-carved music box. Tasteful oil paintings and elegant sculptures were absent.

  Dry fern fronds covered the flags of the floor. The high beams were smoke-stained, and the communal board table in the center of the room was shiny black with the grease of generations. By day, two long benches flanked it and two high chairs stood by the hearth. That bitter night the benches had been pulled close to the fire, also. The copper ewer on the hob emitted tantalizing odors of yeast and spices. The evening meal had been tidied away, the spit and its succulent burden removed, although a scent of roast meat still hung in the smoky air. A single lantern swayed over the counter, but the roaring pine-log fire provided more light.

  The occupants clustered near the heat while their shadows danced in the cold corners. Storm winds wailed in the eaves and rippled the ferns on the floor. The atmosphere was creepy; yet on such a night, deep in the heart of the unfriendly ranges, this was a very welcome haven.

  More! A haven not merely welcome but necessary, for Death waited outside in the forest.

  The absence of a dog was ominous.

  As might be expected, my dramatic entrance provoked consternation. I was lifted bodily and borne to the fireplace. Once it had been established that I had no companions left in adversity outside, the door was forced closed and latched again. In a babble of sympathetic chatter, my snow-laden cloak and hat were hauled off, my jerkin and singlet and boots, also. Stripped down to my shift and trews, I was quickly enveloped in a rough blanket.

  I caught a glimpse of the person doing the enveloping and yanked a corner over my head. I was not quick enough. Her limpid blue eyes widened as she recognized me.

  "Idiot!" she whispered.

  I have known more affectionate greetings, but in this case the word was a warning and therefore probably well intended. I hunched down to warm myself before the blaze, and the company resumed its places around me, all jabbering at once.

  "Innkeeper!" The voice was male, hearty and boisterous. "Surely your new guest will welcome a stein of mulled ale?" I thought I knew the speaker, but I did not look up.

  "He is no guest of mine!" replied a voice I had no trouble identifying. "And I prefer not to have my blanket soiled."

  My cover was yanked away, leaving me crouching in wet undergarments in the brightest part of the room. My eyes streamed as warmth began to penetrate my hands and feet and face. I shivered with such intensity that I could barely twist my head around to squint up at the barely-haired giant.

  "Ho!" the first voice boomed. "Do you not realize that your tavern is honored to shelter the renowned Omar, the celebrated trader of tales?"

  I knew him then, a merchant I had met more than once upon the road. His name escaped me for the moment—and when I did hear it, it was not the name I had known him by before. Indeed, several of the persons present in the Hunters' Haunt that night were already known to me, and not all of them by the names or stations they were then professing.

  "The celebrated thief," young Fritz replied. "He is a freeloader. He tried to steal a horse. He killed my dog. He gains no shelter here, my lord."

  Voices rose in protest and were drowned out by the merchant's booming laughter. "Hold! Curb your impatience, mine host, while we clarify the legal aspects of the matter. To drive out a supplicant upon such a night as this is to send him to his death."

  "My pillow will remain dry," the young monster retorted.

  I confess that discomfort made me testy. "Boy," I snapped. "I notice that your attempts at a mustache remain largely theoretical, but if you continue to grow at your present rate until you reach manhood, then you will have to acquire a kennel with greater headroom."

  Fritz growled and reached down with hands like plowshares, intent on evicting me from the premises.

  "Hold, I say!" the merchant roared. "There need be no haste, for we are all confined here until morning at the earliest—with the possible exception of Omar, that is. State your grievance, innkeeper."

  The giant released me and straightened. "Theft, my lord! He departed without paying his reckoning. He stole my ax. He killed my dog."

  "Specifics?" the merchant said, hefting a foaming tankard. "What is the exact amount he owes you?"

  "Fifteen thalers."

  "Twelve," Frieda said in the background.

  "Plus three for the ax!" her brother roared.

  "Twelve?" the merchant repeated. "Why, he must have treated the entire house, all evening long!"

  "He did," Fritz said grimly.

  That was a vile exaggeration! Three or four rounds, no more.

  The merchant beamed. He was a corpulent man of middle years, swathed in soft furs and shiny leathers. He glittered: tings on his fingers, jeweled buckles on his boots, and a gold chain looped across his breast. His face glowed red in the firelight, lit from within by good food and much ale. The fact that he occupied one of the two chairs by the fire showed that he outranked or outriched the rest of the company. Even the pouches under his eyes might be stuffed with gold. He was the sort of man who enjoyed life hugely, especially if the enjoyment did not come at his own expense.

  "But perchance he has returned tonight repentant, intending to settle his debt? If he does so, and pays in advance for whatever else he now requires—plus a small compensation for insult, perchance—then you can hardly refuse to accept, can you?"

  "I can, sir! We have no empty rooms and the table is cleared. In any case, this vagrant has no gold."

  A few voices twittered in alarm. The
storm wailed angrily in the eaves and chimney. Door and shutters rattled.

  "Well, Omar?"

  I sighed and went back to studying the glowing logs in the fire. That morning I had left Luzfraul with five or six thalers concealed in my saddlebags. I still had a few coppers in my pocket. The robbers had taken everything else. I did not think my sad story would influence the innkeeper even if he believed it, which he wouldn't.

  "The entire business was an unfortunate misunderstanding,'' I said.

  The background chorus murmured disapproval.

  The merchant chortled, almost choking on his mirth, as if this were no more than he had expected. "Well then, that cloak? With a sable collar! Those boots, the dagger, the hat … not everyone's choice of style, perhaps, but good stuff nevertheless. I should say that fifteen thalers might be a fair estimate of their worth. Take those, mine host, and call the former matter settled."

  "It is a good cloak," Frieda's voice said.

  "Stolen, doubtless. Who would want such a hat?"

  "You would turn him out in his shirt?" a scandalized female voice demanded. "On such a night?"

  Right on cue, the wind rattled the door again and blew smoke from the fireplace.

  "Ah!" the merchant said. "The future has yet to be debated, my lady. We are still trying to settle the past."

  I have talked myself out of tight spots in the past. Tonight I should need to talk myself into one, and I was still too muddled by the aftereffects of the cold to concentrate my mind.

  "The affair of the dog is a matter of blood!" Fritz proclaimed.

  He was still standing directly behind me. I mused on the possibility of grabbing his belt and tipping him over my head into the fireplace. I have known warriors who could have done that. I did not think I could, though. He would probably crush me. Even if I succeeded in bouncing his skull on the hearth, I would just make him cross.

  "Wergild?" the merchant mused. "It is time for a legal ruling on this matter. Advocate?"

  Everyone turned to peer at someone on one of the benches. I twisted around also and observed a mousy man in a clerk's black robe and biretta. As he was about as far from the fire as it was possible to be, he obviously lacked status. His complexion was sallow, but little of it was visible within his collar, which he had turned up against the chill.

  He squeaked. "Oh, I am not qualified—"

  "You are more qualified than anyone else present," the merchant boomed, his fat hands clasped on his paunch. "I am sure you can cite some legal precept on the topic. Now, how can Omar settle the matter of the dog?"

  "Wergild is hardly … Although I do believe that dogs have been classed as companions in some instances." The notary chewed his lip for a moment, wrung his hands, screwed up his eyes and then muttered, "I recall a precedent where the plaintiff attested that the defendant had maliciously and with prejudice—''

  "God of my fathers preserve me! Spring will be here before we know it. How much for the dog?"

  "If memory serves me, the total judgment in that instance came to thirty thalers, being comprised of—"

  "Making a total of forty-five," the merchant said with satisfaction. "And let us assume another five for tonight's board and room. Friend Omar, we judge that you need to tender fifty thalers to our host, or he will be entitled to confiscate your outer garments and toss you out in the storm in your present apparel. How do you plan to settle the bill?"

  He handed up his empty stein to the landlord, who hastened off to refill it. I was relieved not to have him looming at my back, for I had been half expecting a boot in the kidneys. The merchant leaned back and beamed at me, ruddier than ever, wiggling thick black eyebrows like signal flags.

  My own face felt hot from the fire, and my thighs were steaming. I turned around to warm my back. Still on my knees, I surveyed the congregation. As I said, several of the faces were familiar to me, but few of the names that later emerged. For simplicity, therefore, shall list the spectators by the stations they professed that night.

  The portly merchant occupied the chair to the left of the fireplace. On the bench at his side sat a striking young lady who claimed to be his wife. Her apparel was almost as rich as his: a green satin gown, hat and cloak of ermine, assorted jewels and precious metal. When I had last seen her she had been dancing on a table—wearing earrings, only earrings and nothing but earrings. As she was so obviously talented at playing diverse roles, I shall refer to her here as the actress.

  She was trying to keep her distance from her other neighbor, a hunched, miserable, undernourished young man in threadbare doublet and hose. His hair was lank, his expression woebegone, and his nose a boiling furnace. Every few minutes he would wipe it on his sleeve. He sneezed repeatedly. I knew him for a second-rate minstrel, but I obviously need not worry about him singing tonight.

  The end position on that bench was occupied by the majestic Frieda, staying well back from the fire as a good hostess should. Recalling our innocent flirtation and merrymaking on my previous visit, I wondered if she would stand up for me against her brother. It seemed unlikely, unless she was a dog-hater.

  On the other side, the fireside chair was occupied by an elderly dowager, almost invisible inside a full-length cloak of lush sable and an elaborate hat that descended in folds to her collar, mercifully concealing her hair and neck. Her hands were tucked away in a matching muff. Hideous patches of rouge on her cheekbones merely drew attention to their angularity and the crumpled parchment of her face, speckled with age spots.

  Next to her sat a tall, spare man. Observing the scuff marks of chain mail on his brown leather jerkin and the way his silver hair was cut short for comfort below a helmet, I deduced him to be a soldier. Besides, he wore a broadsword. He had the eyes of a hungry eagle. Whether he was traveling alone or was the dowager's escort I could not immediately determine. He was past his prime, but still a man to be taken seriously.

  At his side sat a younger woman, whose coat was of faded cloth, too light for the climate. Her face was hidden from me by her bonnet. Her downcast gaze and simple attire suggested that she was the dowager's maidservant. The moth-eaten clerk was next to her.

  So there was the court assembled: merchant, actress, minstrel, Frieda on one side; dowager, soldier, maid, and notary on the other.

  Giant-boy Fritz returned, squeezing through between the benches to deliver the merchant's stein. Then he stood back a pace, looking huge in the firelight and glowering at me. My mouth watered at the thought of a draft of ale, or even some food, but I was not about to beg.

  Not openly, anyway.

  "My honorable friend," I said—meaning the merchant, although my sarcasm might not have been appreciated by all my listeners—"has been quick to judge a case on the basis of inadequate information. As I tried to explain, my disagreement with our host was due to a misunderstanding. The true facts must be determined by a proper tribunal of law. Until such time as that can be arranged, the universal dictates of hospitality and the edicts of the gods require that a benighted wayfarer be granted shelter from the storm. I shall be quite content with a place by the fire and the chance to roll up in my cloak, once it has had a chance to dry. Of course, a crust or two of bread and—"

  "Out!" Fritz roared, who was standing in the background with his arms folded like tree trunks felled by a hurricane. "You may roll up on the doorstep if you wish. I have taken precautions to improve the locks on the stable and sheds."

  "One admires a man who knows what he wants," the merchant observed, complacently wiping foam from his fat lips.

  "Surely on such a night this would be murder?" the dowager rasped.

  "It would indeed, milady," I agreed, smiling gratefully at her. "And I fear you would all share complicity in the misdeed."

  "Would we, though?" the soldier sharply asked, speaking for the first time. "What lord would judge us? In whose domain is this inn located, innkeeper?" Trust a soldier to worry about such trivia! "To whom do you pay your taxes?"

  "Taxes, Captain?" Fri
tz's eyes widened in disbelief. "Taxes?" Being the only one on his feet, he dominated the group like a bull in a chicken run.

  The leather of the old campaigner's face wrinkled in something resembling a smile. "Then who gives you protection?"

  Fritz raised a fist like a stonemason's mallet.

  "Long may you trust it, lad," the soldier muttered. "Notary? Whose writ runs in this land?"

  The clerk twitched nervously. "An excellent question, Captain! The free city of Gilderburg does not claim jurisdiction this far into the Ranges, and I doubt that the cantons to the south do."

  "No-man's-land, then?"

  "I do believe that the principle of terra nullius would apply, yes."

  "If no lord rules," the merchant murmured, "then we ourselves must be the law?"

  The clerk mumbled, unwilling to commit himself aloud to such an outrageous idea, but then he nodded.

  "Out, scum!" Fritz said. Yet he made no move from his place at the back of the group. He was enjoying the charade—and he was certainly not alone in that.

  "The situation is tragic," the merchant proclaimed. "Has no one any helpful suggestions?"

  The actress frowned at me, creasing her pretty brow. She probably remembered our previous meeting. She was certainly not going to mention it, and she would not prejudice whatever influence she had on her paramour by pleading my case.

  "Well," the soldier mused, "I do feel that thirty thalers seems excessive for a mere hound. With respect, innkeeper, a silver crown would replace the beast."

  "I was exceedingly fond of the dog, Captain," Fritz said narrowly.

  "Oh, I daresay! I have felt affection for animals myself. But if it is your feelings that are wounded, rather than your money pouch, then how can gold compensate you?"

  "What are you suggesting, sir?" A sinister gleam lit the pale eyes; his lip curled menacingly.

  "Were it me," the old warrior said reflectively, "I should rather seek satisfaction with a horsewhip. The exercise would assuage my grief better than money would."