by Paul Smith
whom he suspected was another stable hand judging from the straw and grime covering his rolled up sleeves. There was a quick exchange of furtive glances before they confronted the landlord’s wife, suggesting they'd been doing something other than raking the hay. The matron listened intently, eyeing the growing crowd on her threshold with an avariciousness worthy of the Howling Maw. Ikari watched with interest as she began to issue orders, pointing to the dark haired one, who cast him a sly look of amusement before disappearing through the doorway into the kitchens. She was replaced a few minutes later by the Innkeeper himself, plus a much burlier lad who, like the boy from the stables, seemed to lack the family resemblance borne out in the girls’ slightly shrewish features. His wife meanwhile had crossed the room to clasp hands companionably with one of the new arrivals, a short, stocky figure in leather waistcoat and pantaloons which flared out from the tops of his sheepskin boots, A heavily embroidered frock coat hung over one thickly muscled arm, whose flesh was covered in the knotted litany of his caravan’s success. His balding scalp shone in the flickering light as he bent to kiss the back of her hand, drawing a scowling reprimand from the stout woman who had appeared next to him, flaming auburn hair going to grey. She and the hostess then embraced, exchanging a stream of compliments and enquiries as they drifted towards the table by the fire.
“Here lies the power,” Ikari mused quietly, glancing at the cat who purred contentedly on the table next to him.
The room quickly began to fill as more traipsed in through the open door. Someone had wedged it open to facilitate those carrying saddlebags and wagon packs, and the noise level rose as the Caravaneers brought their boisterous conversation to the hearth. From the number of strong arms and the amount of ink on show he would guess they were primarily metal movers and workers. That sort of trade tended to attract the meatheads of both genders, with their furnace blasted skin and flashy tattoos. Even the few whose heritage obviously hearkened back towards the Nianen Congregate had flesh the colour of cured hide; the legacy of time spent before the forge or out in the elements.
Several covert looks were cast in his direction. He responded in polite kind, taking in the smattering of women who seemed to bind this group together with a familial touch, their long braids hanging thick down their back. No one made further comment or approached his corner, leaving him to his peaceful solace. It was a social nicety he was grateful for. Someone here had obviously had dealings with the Grove before. Indeed he thought a couple of the group who had taken up residence around the Inn’s matron and the woman he now suspected was head of the Caravan looked familiar. Not that he’d had a lot to do with their trade back at the ruins. That was more the realm of Deliana and her acolytes. The forest about Sha’Klairon produced much that was sought by the folks in Junon Town, and indeed further a field. Some of the medicinal orchids and fungi were unique to the caldera and as such fetched enough of a profit to encourage even the staunchest of mercantile specialists to diversify.
Ikari smiled as the first of the new arrivals approached the card game. Here, he felt certain, was the source of the remainder of the evening’s entertainment. And he hadn’t even had to spike anyone’s drink. Settling back in his booth, he reached for his pouch to refill his pipe, raising his tankard as his dark haired friend reappeared with a tray and a cloth tucked through the ties of her apron. She nodded acknowledgement, ducking behind the bar. He finished packing the pipe, rubbing his finger tips against his thumb surreptitiously over its bowl as he drew air through it, pulling the sparks born there in to ignite the pungent green leaves. Glanced up to wink as the girl deposited his drink on the table before him, loading the spent one and his empty plate up on her tray and giving the table a quick swipe with her cloth.
“Pa’s not the most tolerant,” she murmured quietly as she was bent in front of him, without meeting his eye.
“Then he’ll see nothing untoward,” Ikari replied round his pipe stem, sliding a copper quintas across the tabletop.
The coin disappeared between surprisingly full breasts as she straightened with a wink, dark hair falling across her face as she turned away.
Ikari grinned.
The evening progressed onwards in noise and laughter, as spirits weary from the road settled in for a session of lewdness and humour that would have done any sailor proud. Several other card games had sprung up around the room, and someone had set up a Shaiku board over by the hearth. Here a beautiful, if slightly grubby young man was pitting his wits against the most grizzled woman Ikari had ever seen: she was missing half of one ear and all of her hair. He’d mistaken her for one of the men until the light of the fire had caught the swell of her breasts in silhouette. In his defence, it was a trait shared by many of the older men in attendance, for whom thick arms and broad shoulders seemed to come hand in hand with a generous belly and sagging pectorals.
The high point came when one of the drunker Caravaneers accused the quiet girl of cheating. She’d lost her hat by now, letting long blonde tresses hang loose to frame her broad cheek bones and kohl smeared eyes, the rest of her mane restrained in a loose ponytail down her back. He hadn’t been paying close attention, distracted by the approach of a pivotal clinch on the Shaiku board, when the muffled crash of a falling chair brought his attention (and that of everyone else in the room) snapping round to the original card table.
The girl was on her feet, drawn blade flashing in the lamplight where it bridged the space between her and her antagonist. Its point rested just beneath his Adam’s apple, which bobbed convulsively, drawing a point of crimson darkness from his skin. Sweat beaded his brow, ran down through the kind of thick stubble that would rasp against his calluses when he scratched his ample chins. His eyes flicked back and forth from the girls face to her blade; three feet of folded steel that bore a wave pattern down the length of its fuller.
She cut quite a figure, Ikari had to admit, standing with her back straight, arm extended in perfect form. She'd clearly benefited from some sort of martial training. A fact not lost on her opponent, who was busy reassessing the amount of trouble he was in, judging from the melange of expressions running rampant across his face.
“A mere slip of the tongue, I assure you…!” he sputtered, glancing about furtively as if seeking support. But a slight shake from the Caravan mistress at her place by the bar denied that possibility. Indeed, the emotional temper in the room suggested this wasn’t an entirely unexpected turn of events.
“Then you rescind your accusation?” Her voice was calm, the vowels clipped in that way the Nianen affected. About their table, the two aged merchant outsiders looked on in quiet amusement, the other Caravaneer who had joined the game also smiling at his colleagues discomfit.
“Yes… yes! I did not realise my words might cause offence... I was speaking in generalities! A simple jest, intended to lighten the mood...!”
The girl’s eyes narrowed, but she lowered her sword. “Perhaps you should choose your witticisms more carefully, in future.”
“Of course.” The man reached up to rub gingerly at his neck, eyes darting about again as his breathing calmed. “Allow me to buy you a drink by way of apology, and then I'll make myself scarce.”
“You’ll do no such thing!” she replied, turning to accept her chair, with the long coat she’d hung over its back, from the hands of one of the men at the next table, nodding graciously to his smiling courtesy. “We’ve a game to finish, and I’ll not let you weasel out of that quite so easily.”
The room burst into gales of good-natured laughter, which intensified at the look of disgruntlement spreading across her antagonist’s features.
“Face it, Liam, you’ve a talent for landing in the fire,” someone quipped from across the room. Liam aimed a lewd gesture in their general direction before settling back into his seat. The girl pulled herself back into the table with admirable decorum, raising a hand towards the barman before picking up her discarded cards which, Ikari noted with a grin, had been lying face down on the table
throughout the entire episode.
He raised his glass in anonymous toast, as the people packing the room slowly settled back into their various social circles.
“You’re travelling down from the Grove up at Sha’Klarion.”
It was phrased as a statement. Which, Ikari’s mind noted through the haze of contentment, suggested he’d been the topic of conversation at some point.
Wonder who…
“Yes,” he replied, gathering his wits in enough to form that affirmative, whilst he concentrated on binding his thoughts back into the sort of coherent form that would make sense to others. In his minds eye they drifted like the trails of smoke that now littered the rafters of the common room. He tried concentrating, then wished he hadn’t as the effort sent a sharp jab of pain down the left side of his skull.
“Shall I leave you in peace?”
He glanced up and, recognising the auburn haired Caravan Mistress shook his head quickly. “No, please, have a seat.”
She smiled that knowing smile reserved for women who’ve dealt with drunken sons and husbands, and lowered her considerable bulk gracefully into the chair opposite, setting her mug of beer down on the table’s scared surface.
