Page 75 of Deadly Maiden

After a final piercing stare, his gaze slides away.

Beyond where he stands, the enforcers are beating a young man, to the point where he falls to the ground and pleads them to stop. The goods have spilled from a donkey he was leading.It’s horrendous, but what can I do? No one else steps in, which is unsurprising. They’re the law, and the law has chosen to do what it is doing. I’ve been shielded from this, living in Bollingham under stoneborn protection.

“Keep going,” Rorsyd urges as he rejoins me.

My fingers are cold, and the center of my chest aches. I was scared—belatedly, I admit this to myself,.

Once we’re past the cleared inner area behind the wall—likely kept bare of buildings in case of attack so troops can maneuver—I lean in the saddle, closer to Rorsyd.

“This Rune Inn is really our destination?”

“It is.” He points higher and ahead, where much of Langordin climbs skyward on the mound of an undulating hill. “Up there. There’s sort of a circular layout to the oldest part. This section here came about ninety years ago. So, the lowest part of that hill is our destination. The hint of red is the rooftop of the Rune. I’ll get a map for us but…huge collections of buildings, there and there, are libraries.” He points out and labels a few more, then, “…and there, stark white towers at the very top of the hill with fortress-type walls between them, that’s the old palace. Here on the left and right of us is the Avenue of Courtesans, for male, female, or whatever. There on the right of the hill is the old Grippa Vineyard. The plantings are ancient and pest afflicted. The wine has lost its glamour.”

“A palace?” I can barely keep up with everything. Courtesans in fine translucent gowns call to us and parade by, showing off more skin and alluring smiles than I’ve seen…anywhere.

“Langordin was once the capital of Frenland, before the Wars of the Monsters.” He reads my incredulous expression and says, “Frenland? You don’t know it? How? It’s to the east.”

I hold up a hand. “I know where it is, just what are these Monster Wars? Also how could it have been the capital? Thejourney over the Hogback Mountains would be a week, by horse. How was this a part of Frenland?”

“Not Monster Wars. The Wars of the Monsters. It was four centuries and seventy years ago, to be exact and involved every land, even Wenway. The Vorple Islands rose from the sea due to the death of one of the monsters. A cult of demonancers that sought dominion over all lands, races, and species were the evil soul of that war.” His face stills. “You’re both right and wrong. It used to be a swift journey to what is now Frenland. There was no mountain then. The hog was one of the last monsters to die.”

I blink at him. “Really? Those are his…back?”

“Only the northernmost part.”

I may need more details later. Make that, will need.

“Our history teacher was not the best then?”

“The winners rewrite the events. It was a cruel war, as wars often are. Our side won. The dead mostly turned to stone and earth. Anyway, off to the inn. I’d rather be out of the public view as quickly as possible. That mage was staring.”

He was. I think back and wonder about the commotion that turned the guards from me.

Was that a tingle of etharum use and magik I felt?

The Rune Inn is actually the Scribbled Rune Inn, I discover when we arrive.Scribbledon the sign is a big but legible mess of letters. Above the text is a weathered painting of a drunken scribe, sprawled on his back with a spilled tankard and a quill beside his head.

We’ve put the horses into a nearby stable Rorsyd assured me was associated with several inns. Blossom will be rubbed down and fed well, and we can visit with carrots tomorrow. He thinks I’m ridiculous but she’s the first horse I’ve ever had the time to get attached to.

“Here I was imagining this was a reputable inn.”

“It is. If you want good wine and beer. There’s a bar on the bottom floor. Not so good for food.”

Once through the arched doorway and a short entryway, we enter a low room with exposed beams and a smoky atmosphere containing more than twenty patrons. In a gloomy corner to the left, a man and woman sprawl and puff lazily on lily-leaf cigarillos. A whisper of the oily scent drifts by, teasing fantasies, drowsiness, and dreams. The conversations are an amiable babble.

Even so, I can feel the attention as we thread between the chairs to the innkeeper, where he stands behind the bar writing in a ledger. A waiter follows us until dismissed by the bartender’s head jerk.

With a slide of gold across the counter and the signing of our false names, we get a room on the third floor and a courtesy meal for the night.

“Drinks are extra,” the innkeeper says, already back to totaling numbers in his ledger. “Ginny will show you up and give you the key. Leave the room in good order when you go in four nights. Or else I send Basil after you and the watchmen.”

The bartender grins and points to a big, bearded man reclining against the right-hand wall. A pair of golden knuckledusters, a sheathed short sword, and a dagger decorate his waist. Dark hair sprouts on his forearms.

“Will do.” Rorsyd doesn’t blink at his assumption of our slovenliness or criminal intent. I guess it’s the usual spiel.

He looks about as we head for the stairs, and I wonder if he’s searching for known faces.

Ginny leads us up three flights of narrow stairs that coil around and around. If the place burns in a hurry, I guess we’ll be shinnying down a drainpipe. At the top, the second door along the corridor opens onto a small space with a middling-sizedbed, a chest of drawers, and a basin and pitcher. The window is slanted and cut into the roof, but it is clean.

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