Quentin was not used to serving the ordinary men of Brikkenbale. He was not used to having people inside the space he occupied for so long. But he learned quickly, with help from Ophelia and the cues he got from his guests. He soon learned that when they lifted their cups, that meant they needed their ales to be refilled. When they raised their bowls, Quentin brought their bowls to the brass pot bubbling constantly in the fireplace.
He had harvested the crops that first night after meeting Old Tom, the man who first spotted Quentin and the inn. Ophelia taught him how to dice the parsnips. She was also kind enough to give him several blank scrolls to list down his recipes. If only he had potatoes and small bits of meat, he would’ve added that to the stew as well. But for now, his guests would enjoy the parsnips, along with rye and oats. If not stew, then Quentin would request Ophelia or some random errand lad to take his rye and oats to the millers, and they would return with finely ground flour for baking bread. Lastly, he also offered them porridge; hulled oats with milk.
His few customers did not find it odd that Hepfin’s Cradle opened at dusk and closed at dawn. It meant late-night talks undisturbed by red soldiers patrolling the streets, barking out curfew. They did not wonder how the inn remained invisible to their enemies’ eyes, or that their accursed steps did not find their way often in the alley where the inn stood, so long as it was open, anyway.
Slowly, Quentin’s guests spoke more freely, sometimes inviting a friend. They liked the food just as much they liked to talk about more sensitive subjects; taboo topics that would send them to prison if a red soldier would hear them. They cast off their worries and one or twice a night, Quentin smiled as a chuckle or snicker broke the stream of quiet chatter of the inn. He decided that he liked the sounds of bubbling water inside the pot, the flickering candle, and the movements of wood in his place. Sometimes, he would catch them looking in his direction. He thought that his odd-colored eyes would unsettle them, but curiously, it had the opposite effect: they smiled at him and affectionately tipped their mugs.
Quentin smiled at Old Tom, liking the way he smiled; a youthful grin with missing teeth. Since he was the first to notice and be a guest of Hepfin’s Cradle, Quentin doted on the old man, making sure that his drink was always filled and giving him cookies from time to time.
“You spoil your customers, lad,” Old Tom said.
“Just you, Tom,” he winked at the old man, wiping his table.
Old Tom wrapped the soft chewy cookie in a napkin he always brought and tucked it in one of his pockets. The pastry didn’t seem to affect villagers or people who had no magic. He told as much to Ophelia when she came back.
When the cleric saw the guests gathering inside the inn, she smiled at them all and clapped her hands in front of Quentin in an excited way. He always had a cookie ready for her, and stopped her half the time from paying with coins.
“You need money to run an inn, Quentin. Even an inn such as this.” Her eyes looked up to indicate the building.
“You bring in more guests as it is,” Quentin said, pointing subtly to the people drinking and eating behind her. There was twice the number of people when she was there.
She was like a soft lantern inside the inn, Ophelia, and the candles glowed a little warmer and brighter when she was around. Quentin suddenly snapped his fingers. He didn't know why he hadn't thought of it before.
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“Now that the inn receives the innocent, assuming, then send the word out. You should heal them here! They wouldn’t risk getting caught by sending secret messages, and you wouldn’t have to worry about depleting your magic that much. Not with these.” Quentin indicated the cookies were served on a ceramic platter at the bar.
Ophelia agreed, and that was that. Whenever there was an injured person, she would knock on Quentin’s door and heal them right there on one of the tables, under the soft glow of the candles. He would be ready with a bowl of hot stew or porridge and a cookie.
“I don’t have anything to pay you,” they would say.
“Your recovery is payment enough.”
Soon enough, Quentin’s guests doubles from three to five villagers to six to nine. Nine people were already crowded enough and Quentin thought if the inn would allow for constructing a larger table somewhere. In the meantime, Quentin was memorizing their preferences; how to soften the parsnips for Old Tom, how young Gilbert, the youth that Ophelia healed, favored carrots and peas soup with bread. They may not summon beams of white heavenly light, cast wind, or heal, but the villagers of Brikkenbale still need fuel to work.
Quentin was content and happy that he was part of this. Cooking, feeding them, wiping the counters and tables with his trusted rag, mopping, sweeping, washing the dishes, and making sure that the pleasant bubbling of stew never stopped.
___
Quentin’s guests were lively tonight. There weren’t many days that the villagers were happy, but there was definitely excitement charging his usually quiet inn. Quentin stood behind the bar and observed the rare relaxed smiles on the faces of his guests.
There was talk of this night market festival that would last three nights. Quentin was curious that even despite the Red Army overthrowing the kingdom, they still allowed villagers to experience their old traditions and festivals. He thought darkly that this was a strategy than mercy. But he didn’t want to sour the mood, so he served them all with bright smiles. The nights leading up to the night festival were full of good cheer.
Old Tom waved at Quentin to come closer. He was ready to fill his drink when he saw the ale was still almost full. “Thought you should know, sonny. There’s a rather talented thief roaming around Brikkenbale during the night markets. Nobody knows who he is or what he looks like, but he strikes, still.” Tom scratched the scruff of hair under his chin. “Red soldiers have been trying to draw him out since last year, and they treat those poor beggars in the street especially harshly.” He looked thoughtful. “Though come to think of it, the night market thief never steals from us poor folk. It’s the richer ones upstairs that need to worry about their wares and pearls.”
The night before the festival, Quentin spotted new faces when he peeked out the windows of the inn. Cleaner, paler faces who wore brighter clothes and adornments. These were people who held their heads high and looked well-fed. The people from Brewmlithe, the upper tier of the kingdom. he noticed Gilbert pause as they stepped around him, and only moved when they strode past. He muttered under his breath.
It was unlikely that the richer folks of Brewmlithe would hire red soldiers, seeing as how they’re expensive and the ones responsible for erasing their knights and guards in the first place, but Old Tom mentioned that one never knew the mind of those with money.
Ophelia came with her own piece of information. “The night market festival was supposed to benefit the honest villagers living in the lowest tier of every kingdom. Now these red bastards are setting up their stalls in the town square. They plan on filling their stalls with discounted prices of their usual overpriced potions to the elites and not to the poor who need them.” She breathed out. “They probably bullied the potioneers to make them more in haste, reducing the potency. Probably lessened the quality too by harassing green mages.”
Ophelia gripped her staff hard.