12. NIGHT FISHER INN

The inn that Finnel led them to was grander than one might have expected from a village this small, as well. It lay along a road that curved around a hill, and it looked as if the hill itself had been dug out around it, a two-story building of much the same architecture that the manor out on the island and the temple had been, strong columns supporting an outdoor overhang that provided good shade, the wings of the inn almost seeming to stretch forth to embrace a central court in which a single bare tree grew in the center, the cobblestone well-swept and maintained. A squat, rounded blue-tiled steeple rose from the center, and here the roof was well-kept and the colors still had life to them. The style, Martimeos realized, reminded him of the broken inns he had seen throughout One-Road Wood - this looked like a grander version of Coxton Praet’s house. The same builders who made the roads were likely the ones which had made the inn, the manor, and the temple too. He put the question to Finnel, but the man simply shook his head. “I was just a fisherman, sir, as I told you,” he replied. Martimeos blinked at the formal address, and wondered what this man thought he was. “Ritter might know more about it, he has an interest in such things. He owns the inn.”

This, at least, was an answer of sorts. On their walk here, Martimeos had tried to start a conversation with the man, only to receive silence. A wounded silence, full of tension, that had quickly made him retreat from his inquiries. There were better things to do than to pester a man who clearly did not want to speak.

A sign hanging from a post before they entered the courtyard named the building the “Night Fisher Inn”, and was painted with the image of a crescent moon shining down on a black cat feasting on a fat silver fish with a white belly, very much like the fish they had seen on the town’s sign. The inn’s sign, though, was maintained and kept fresh, where all else in this village was in disrepair. The building also had the most impressive doors Martimeos had ever seen. Half again as tall as he was, and thick, heavy, dark wood, and carved upon it in bas-relief was a scene of battle. Men in long-plumed hats and carrying poleaxes clashed with a charging horseman clad in furs and mustached, who carried a limp, becrowned woman over his saddle. The knockers were iron-wrought, roaring lions with rings hanging from their mouths. This Ritter was a wealthy man, and he certainly did not get that way running an inn for a sleepy village.

The interior was impressive as well, in a way that was almost sad. Such a building might have once served as a meeting hall for near enough the entire village with room for guests besides. Now though, it was empty, despite the care that had gone into keeping well-carved tables and a nicely finished floor clean. An ancient-looking, snaggletoothed black cat lounged lazily on one of the chairs, meowing with tired irritation at them as they walked in. “Ritter must be around here somewhere,” Finnel said, wringing his hands fretfully. “Just wait here, and I will fetch him for you.” And before they could say anything else he had darted off and left them in the common room alone.

Martimeos watched as Elyse went straight for the cat, which immediately sat up and watched her warily as she attempted to tempt its affections with promises of food. He turned away to examine the inn’s walls further. It was a very impressive common room, with plenty to keep their attention occupied. In the corner was the sort of shrine that Martimeos was used to seeing in such places, the god’s house. Every inn, or at least every one he had ever seen, dedicated space for a shrine to the gods in the form of a small false house, into which figurines or icons were placed representing the gods important to folk nearby. It was considered bad luck not to do such. The Night Fisher’s shrine for the gods was as rich as the rest of the building was; a miniature three-story house cut away to see the inside, painted white and with a blue-shingled roof. It even had tiny shutters. Inside were various wooden figures, some of which Martimeos recognized.

Here was the old man Woed, the farmer god, gnarled beneath his wide-brimmed hat and carrying a sickle in one hand, with his faithful hound at his side. The Gambling Man, also known as Fortune’s Son, was there as well, drinking from a golden chalice and with a string of keys around his neck. He was surprised to see Ysonne the Temptress, nude except for the two snakes that crawled across her skin, welcomed here. She was a goddess of revelry and seduction, though there were tales of her that were darker, that said the worship of her was the worship of excess, and to drink oneself to death was called Ysonne’s kiss. He trailed his finger along the statue of Demesque and Karilail, the twin child god and goddess of innocence, holding between them a sword held aloft, to strike down undeath and corruption. Martimeos drew his finger back with a hiss, frowning at the bead of blood that stood out on it - someone had carved that sword to a keen edge, and it had plucked him. Here was Old Scratch too, the scourge of sinners, tall and grim in a long duster and face hidden beneath a hat, holding iron chain and manacle. The Lady of Clear Waters was there as well, along with a dozen others, some of which Martimeos thought he had heard of, perhaps beneath other names, while others he had no inkling of at all.

And there, standing outside the house, the Dark Stranger. His icon was carved crude and unfeatured, and painted pitch black. The Dark Stranger was never allowed into the god’s house - to place him there was to wish dark fortune on the inn and even the whole village or town it served. Martimeos had seen a man beaten bloody for doing it in jest. But nobody dared to ignore the Dark Stranger entirely. He always got his due, and was always included in every shrine, just outside. The god of death and undeath, tales of the Dark Stranger sometimes told of him granting wishes, only for them to go awry on those who had wished them. He was a trickster, and a prankster, though his tricks could be light-hearted or claim people’s lives and souls. None knew him, and there were those who said that it was demons who must pray to him, or fae.

But it was not the shrine that held his interest, for other relics decorated the common room of the inn as well. A large wooden panel hanging from a wall was painted as a map that centered on a place called Farson’s pass, a walled town placed between a range marked as the Bleeding cliffs, and taking in some of the countryside surrounding it as well. Martimeos had heard of it. Had heard of it all too well. Next to it was tacked a banner, featuring a rearing, snarling black cat on a red and gold field. Other wood carvings in relief, much like those on the door, hung on the walls as well, and in another corner a finely-wrought helmet on a stand with a horsehair crest. There was even a bookshelf on the wall, with at least a dozen books. Elyse had abandoned her entreaties to the cat - it appeared to have run off - and was currently looking at these hungrily.

“I’m comin’,” a gruff voice shouted out from somewhere above them, and the sound of footsteps quickly climbing down a flight of stairs. The man who eventually appeared before them certainly had a strange look about him for an innkeep. He wore a fine-tailored green vest and loose-fitting breeches, of the sort that a well-to-do merchant might own. Though he was clearly old - his hair had gone to silver - he moved surefooted and straight-backed. Slim, and angular, with sharp, light blue eyes, and something about his voice carried the confidence and snap of authority. Martimeos would have bet good Aurelic gold that the man had been a soldier, and for a long time at that. “I apologize for not being here to greet you folk,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag absent-mindedly. “Fortune mark me, but I have no guests for the longest time, and now there’s three of you. I…” he looked up from his hands to take a good look at them, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion, taking the two of them in. “The name is Ritter,” he said after a heavy moment. “What brings you to Silverfish, strangers?”

Martimeos introduced himself and Elyse once more, though the witch still had not torn her eyes from the bookshelf. “We are travelers,” he said simply, “And would pay well for rooms and food and resupply, if you have it to sell. Your man, Finnel, recommended you…”

Ritter must have seen his searching eyes, because he shook his head. “Finnel’s gone out the back,” he said, “Poor man doesn’t like to be away from his ‘Lady’ for too long.”

“Can we read the books?” Elyse called out. Both Martimeos and Ritter turned to look at her. The witch was fidgeting as she stood by the bookshelf as if restraining herself from grabbing some of the books and running. “That’s why you have them out here, isn’t it? So people can read them?” Her eyes twitched back to the shelf. “Is that really a whole book on the life of Véreline Valoir you have?”

Ritter had been giving the two of them a hard stare, almost on the edge of being inhospitable. But at this, he softened, and gave the witch an indulging smile. He strode over to the bookshelf, and took down a book whose cover was carved in lacquered wood, and painted to show a smiling, fair-looking blonde woman, surrounded by a ring of masks. “Well, I don’t know if it’s all true,” he told her. “There’s some who say Véreline commissioned the scribing of this herself, out of braggadocio. But it surely is full of stories about her.”

“Oh, you must let me read it,” the witch said in a tone that was less a request and more a demand. Elyse did not seem to notice that she was letting her excitement get the best of her. Her dark blue eyes seemed pinned to the book even as Ritter held it.

Lucky for her, the innkeep had warmed to the subject now, and only chuckled at her strident tone.“If you are so interested in Véreline, you have come to the right place. You found Finnel at the temple…perhaps you saw the manor, out on Rook isle, as you came through?” When they nodded, he took on a lecturing tone, and seemed pleased to do so. “Well, in the time of Old Aurelia, there was a kingdom that ruled much of the land around Nust Drim, and swore to the Aurelic crown. Hallic Nust, it was called.” His smile grew a little sad. “The old lake lords might have ruled still to this day, but they were proud, and it is said they died to a man in combat against the traitors following the Gully Man. And then plague and famine swept away what was left of their kingdom.” He shook his head, seeming to catch himself, and smiled again, and held up the book. “But in the glory days of their rule, a Hallic princeling called Tennelyan fell madly in love with Véreline, and she with him. He built the manor for her here, and the shrine was his too - the Lady of Calm Waters was a Hallic goddess - and it is said this very inn was their guest house.” He gave a wry laugh. “It is said Véreline broke Tennelyan’s heart in the end, but that seems true of all her stories.”

The witch was unabashed in her glee over this. She clasped her hands together, and the smile she gave Martimeos was full of so much honest happiness that it actually made him smile in return. He ought to focus on the task at hand, he realized - it was hard to do so while a pretty girl smiled at you. “About the rooms,” he reminded Ritter.

The innkeeper gave a start - he had been busy smiling at Elyse in a grandfatherly sort of way, and seemed as if he might have been on the verge of opening up the book in his hands and reading them a tale. Instead now he sighed, and put the book on his shelf, and regarded them both with a flat stare - though perhaps not as hard as it might have been, had Elyse not asked him about the book - and nodded towards a table. “Why don’t you take a seat. I’ll fetch some wine, and we can discuss rooms then.”

Martimeos was feeling a bit nervous as he sat at a table across from Elyse. Why did it feel as if Ritter was upset to see them? The witch had softened him up a bit, but even now he seemed oddly hesitant to house them for a man who certainly could not be making all that much coin, being an innkeep to this abandoned village. He worried over this, hand tracing the hilt of his sword, while Elyse whispered excitedly to him. He wondered if Ritter’s fondness for her might have lasted, if he could hear what she was saying. She obviously thought she was being subtle, but she was clearly suggesting that they steal some of those books and run. It seemed half-jest and half-honest. He ignored her, wondering what might be about to happen to them.

Ritter certainly did not leave them in mystery for long. He hurried back with a green jug and three cups - apparently when he said he was going to fetch wine, he meant some for himself as well - and served them both, then pulled up a chair to sit at the end of the table so he could look at both of them at once. “So,” he said finally, as he settled in, glancing in between the both of them, “What is it that brings a wizard and a witch both to our little village?”

Martimeos sputtered into his cup. “I think you must be mistaken,” he said hoarsely, wiping wine from his chin with the edge of his cloak. “We are…”

“Travelers,” Ritter said dryly. “Aye, I heard you the first time, and the lie doesn’t taste any better the second time going down. I’ve walked long with your kind, and you learn to have an eye for those who work with an Art, even if they don’t make it obvious. Besides, travelers? No one travels these lands idly these days. You’re a wizard and a witch with the wanderlust on you.” He inclined his head sharply towards Elyse. “Either that, or she’s a witch, and you’re the poor sod she’s beguiled into serving as her sword-arm. So which is it?”

Elyse actually had the temerity to laugh delightedly. He frowned at her as he put his cup down. “The first is right,” he told the man. “I am a wizard, and she a witch.” An eye for their kind, was it? Martimeos had not heard of that one before.

“Well, it seems we did not do a very good job of keeping ourselves hidden.” Elyse sipped again at her wine and set the cup down with a heavy clunk. She had already drank it all. She certainly didn’t seem very worried about staying here. She had seen the books and all caution had flown out of her head. He suddenly wondered if she had ever drank wine before at all. He suddenly wondered if it was safe to be drinking the wine that Ritter gave them.

Ritter seemed to notice him tensing, because he put his hands up. “Easy, lad. I’m not so fool as to cross a wizard and a witch both. It was wise of you not to stroll in here announcing to all what you were. I have nothing against it, but those who use the Art are not very well received in Silverfish these days.” He scratched his chin, considering. “Maybe it is well that you didn’t run into anyone on the streets, either. Except for Finnel, but he’s harmless. I think most would not be able to tell you for what you are, to look at you, but you don’t exactly look reputable, either. Folks around here look askance at outsiders.”

Martimeos bit back on his curiosity - why did the people here distrust the Art and outsiders? - to focus on what was important. “We mean no ill will towards you or anyone here.” He had relaxed a bit. He did not think that Ritter was going to be the one to attack them, or that he tried to poison their wine. At least, he hoped that he was not, because Elyse was well into her second cup already. “All we look for right now is some shelter and some resupply.” And some questions answered. But he could get into that later. “If our presence at the inn would be burdensome to you, we could shelter in one of the empty homes at the edge of the village. We are well able to hide ourselves.”

Ritter’s eyes widened a bit. Even among folk who held no special fondness for the Art, it was sometimes seen as bad luck to refuse those who practiced it. Perhaps this was simply a practical belief. “Hold on that, wizard. You’re welcome in my inn, as long as you have the coin.” He sighed and jerked his head towards the door. “You aren’t going to have people banging down the door on suspicion, if you’re worried about that. Folks around here, they’re mostly old. Too many aches to be causing all that much trouble.” He paused, considering, and then leaned in, elbows on the table, to look at them over clasped hands. “Just tell me this now. Were you…looking for someone, coming here?”

How could he have known? Martimeos tried to conceal his shock. Might Ritter have actually seen his face, years past, and known that Martimeos would be looking for him? What could he say to the man?

Elyse saved him from the trouble. “Looking for someone?” Her speech was slightly slurred, and red spots bloomed in her cheeks. The wine was getting to her head quickly, it seemed. “We came here running from demons and fae. All we’re looking for is a good bed.”

Ritter eyed her, suddenly alert. “Demons, you said?”

“In the One-Road-Wood,” Martimeos replied, discreetly sliding the jug of wine towards him and pouring the last of it into his cup. He wished that the matter of demons had not come up. Ritter might know something of wizards, but if demons had recently appeared nearby, and a wizard and a witch came strolling into a village…some folk might be inclined to make connections. “Vultures, in the shape of men, and with eyes in the back of their heads. They very nearly did us in.” No need to mention the Dolmec. Telling of that one would do more harm than good. Dolmec did not usually seek people out, but there were always folk who would hear of one and think they were clever enough to barter for a Telling or some other gift, and the demon would eat those sort of folk alive.

The innkeep grimaced, running a hand through his short silvery hair. At least he did not look like he was immediately blaming them. “That is poor news indeed. It is just as Coxton said.”

“Coxton Praet? The huntsman? He lives?” That, at least, was a piece of good news. “I was told he had a house in the One-Road Wood, but found it abandoned and ransacked. I thought he had been killed.”

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“Not he. He tore in here, oh, about ten days back, I would say. Shouting about demons in the woods. Wouldn’t shut up about it either, even soaked with brandy. He’s taken up in one of the old houses around here, I think.” Ritter chuckled softly to himself. “Demons. It would take more than that to kick old Coxton down, wouldn’t it.” The innkeep smiled fondly, his sharp eyes misting over in remembrance. “He’s gone a bit odd, now, but he made his way back here with nary a wound. I thought he might have been seeing things, or….” he shrugged uncomfortably, then frowned at the table. “We’ve not had a merchant from Twin Lamps in half a year, demons in the One-Road Wood. Farmer’s gone missing from their farms. Everything’s coming apart, it seems. Just the way of the world these days, I suppose.”

Martimeos thought the man might say more, but night was coming on, and Ritter wanted the matter of their rooms settled. He charged fair prices for one who must see so little custom, which only settled the matter in Martimeos’ mind that the man must have some wealth stashed that he lived off of. The price was fair enough, in fact, that Martimeos did not feel foolish or wasteful in getting a room for each of them. The rooms that Ritter showed to them, up a winding staircase, were less decorated than his common room but they were clean and well-kept, if a bit musty - nobody had stayed here to open the shutters in quite some time, it seemed.

The innkeep demonstrated the locks on the doors to Elyse, apparently wanting to reassure her that she’d be quite secure in her room. She merely laughed at his concern, but Martimeos did think it a bit odd. Normally an innkeep would avoid suggesting that his guests might not be safe in their rooms. For whom did he worry? Ritter would not have worried about convincing the witch of her security from Martimeos himself - while haggling for the price, Elyse had suggested they take the cheapest room and share a bed to save on coin, and then laughed at his blushing. The wine was making her very bold. She had said it, most likely, to get Ritter to lower his prices, but then again…those who practiced the Art gave up their own customs, it was said - a consequence of traveling widely. Wizards and witches were odd as a rule. Certainly he was already odd, and would probably grow stranger still.

With a groaning sigh, Martimeos set down his crossbow and his pack, and then after a moment’s thought, unbuckled his sword from his waist and lay it down as well.He could see through the open door that Elyse was sprawled out on her bed, sighing contentedly. His own bed was tempting - it had been quite some time since he had slept in one, and this bed was decent, stuffed with wool and draped in fur blankets - but he had some questions he still wanted to ask Ritter, and it would be easier with Elyse not there. But the moment he went to his door, the witch leapt from her bed and went to follow him.

He wished she had not. Though why that should be, he could not explain to himself. She was bound to discover sooner or later. She was staring at him, wineblooms in her cheeks, wearing a small smile, almost as if she knew what he was thinking, and said not a word as she shadowed him down the stairs.

Martimeos returned to the common room and took a seat at one of the tables, packing a lighting a pipe. Ritter had no maids, it appeared, and the innkeep was not anywhere to be seen at the moment. Elyse sat across from him, and for the moment she just boggled as he blew smoke rings towards the ceiling, three concentric ones inside the other, and then blew tiny orbs of smoke through the center of these. “How are you doing that?” she asked.

“It is smokecraft,” he told her gravely. “A very fine and intricate working of the Art.”

“No it isn’t. There’s no Art in this, I can tell. How are you-”

She was cut off by the appearance of Ritter out of a back room. In his hands the innkeep carried a sword scabbarded in dark leather, and he seemed almost satisfied as he looked at it, as if pleased to be holding it once more. Then he looked up and noticed Martimeos and Elyse staring at him. “Oh,” he said, glancing down at the sword, and then up again. “I thought you two would have been eager to take to your beds. You look hard-traveled.”

Martimeos answered this with a plume of smoke blown towards the ceiling. “I often find I need a good pipe before I sleep. Is that your sword?”

Ritter sighed, and shrugged. “It is. Hearing talk of demons, it got me thinking maybe I should carry it again.”

The innkeep walked to a counter, to set the sword aside, and then after a flurry of rummaging, brought them over a plate of bread and a sharp orange cheese, along with some more wine. “Not fresh-baked, I’m afraid,” he said apologetically. “The kitchens stand mostly empty, what with so few guests, and no one to really hire on as a cook besides.”

He joined them, sitting down once more at the head of the table, and produced a pipe of his own, short-stemmed and carved with a cat’s face on the bowl. Martimeos gave him some tobacco, when he asked. “Thankee. Haven’t been able to trade for some good brown pipeweed in a long time.” When it flared to life in his lands of its own accord, he merely laughed and grinned at the both of them, unsure who was responsible. So the man was comfortable around the Art.

If the bread was stale, it was still good, and so was the wine. Elyse poured herself a very generous cup of this, and Martimeos did as well. The hospitality seemed fine enough, and he thought he could let his guard down a bit in this place. Ritter had a small silver cup of brandy for himself, though. “Earlier,” Martimeos said after a while, “You asked if I was looking for someone.”

Ritter’s eyes were hard ice again, immediately. “If you are, whatever business you have with him, I’ll see no violence done in my inn. We’ve no constable here, but we’ve still got law, and-”

“Calm yourself, man,” Martimeos interrupted him with a frown. “Who I am looking for…he’d not still be here, I think. He would have passed by years ago.” He could feel Elyse staring at him.

The innkeep stared at him, stone-faced, for a moment. He looked to the witch, who had nothing but a look of utter confusion for him. Then he chuckled, shaking his head to himself. “I’m an old fool. ‘Just because a fish jumps over your boat, doesn’t mean it flies.’” He nodded sagely to himself, as if this was a piece of fine wisdom.

Martimeos did not catch his meaning, however. “Who did you think I was speaking of?”

The old man sucked his teeth for a moment, appearing reluctant to talk, but then he gave over. It may well have been because he was talking to a wizard and a witch. Many folk were reluctant to cross those who practiced the Art, or hide things from them. Some rumors said that a witch could tell when you lied. “Well, you have to realize, nobody has come to stay here for some time. I give out these rooms to the occasional merchant, and even then, I haven’t seen one of them since spring. But another lad came in only a couple of nights before the two of you, and he seemed hard driven. Like he was running from something.”

There was something in the man’s tone that said he thought ill of this particular guest. “Is he the reason why you felt it so necessary to show us how the locks on our doors worked?” Martimeos asked.

Ritter grimaced, throwing back another gulp mouthful of brandy. “Yes,” he admitted. “I make no accusations, mind. But he seems like the troublemaking sort to me, for all his smooth tongue.” He fiddled with his pipe. “But nobody ever comes here, and then you two come in right after him…”

The innkeep trailed off. Elyse was twisting her cup between her hands, and giving Martimeos a very significant look. He knew what she was thinking of. The thief that had stolen from Chesmed and Halle. Suddenly, he became aware that Ritter was giving both of them a very suspicious look. “You’re certain you aren’t after him?”

“I am certain,” Martimeos said smoothly. He had no love for someone who stole from the Traveling Folk, but then again he also did not particularly care. Chesmed and Halle were long gone, and so was any chance of justice, really. It was a bit worrying to share a roof with a thief, though. “The men I’m looking for…they would have been through here seven or eight years ago, I think. Sometime around then. They might have been as many as five, maybe less. One of them…would have looked much like me.” He glanced towards Elyse. Her black dress bled into the shadows at the table, and candlelight revealed little more than her face, but her eyes were watching him intently. “He was my brother.”

The witch opened her mouth, as if she might say something, but then her eyes flicked over to the innkeep. If Ritter was curious about why he was looking for a group such as that, he gave no sign. He merely shook his head sympathetically. “Sorry, wizard. But back then, this village was far more lively than it is now. Far too many visitors passed through for me to remember any given one, and so long ago.” He looked as if he wished he could say more, but then he simply shrugged and settled back on his pipe, smoke drifting from the corner of his mouth.

And that was that.

What to do next? Martimeos scratched his thumbnail against the bowl of his own pipe absentmindedly. His right leg shook. What to do? What could be done? The Dolmec had sent him here and said he’d find his quarry, but that did not mean that he had any idea how to pick up the trail. The innkeep would have been the best bet to remember. Who else, or what else, might set him on his path here? He fell quiet, brooding.

The black cat they had seen earlier, which Elyse had tried so hard to tempt into her clutches, chose that moment to leap up on the table. Immediately the witch was reaching out to scratch it behind the ears, but it shied away from her. It only had eyes for Ritter, who scratched it beneath the chin, eliciting a satisfied purr from the animal. “You certainly seem to have a fondness for cats,” the witch said approvingly, watching him.

Ritter laughed. “I suppose I do. Old King here, he was…” He paused for a moment, glancing between the two of them, then shrugged, taking a draw from his pipe. “He was…I suppose you could say, the good luck charm of the men I served with.” He gestured towards the wall, at the red-and-gold banner with the cat on it.

“You were a soldier?”

“Ha,” replied the innkeep, and there was derision in it. “A soldier fights for a man or a woman who couldn’t care less if he lived or died. I fought only for lovely Fortune, my dear. I was a mercenary.”

“I think you must have been a good deal more than a simple mercenary, to be able to afford to run an inn such as this when you were done.” Martimeos roused himself out of his quiet contemplation and swallowed more wine, and then poured himself another cup. He had come up with no answers about how to find his brother, but in listening to Ritter’s talk, a dark thought had come upon him. He wanted to bury it in the rich purple fog of drink, but he could not stop his tongue.

“You might be surprised, wizard.” A note of pride had entered the old man’s voice. His light blue eyes looked off into the distance, and a small smile played on his lips. “The mercenaries of Farson’s Pass, even the meanest of them, were paid quite well. We knew our worth. But yes, I was the Captain of my own Band before I was done.”

That was what the stories said. That the Soldiers of Fortune out of Farson’s Pass were men of great skill in battle, and a King or Queen would pay a ransom in gold to have them on their side. Martimeos downed another cup of wine. Elyse had asked a question, and Ritter had puffed up his chest in pride to answer it. “Of course,” he was saying. “I could have sold myself off as war counsel, but I have never much liked high company. I have always had an eye for relics, and my collection-”

“Who did you fight for?”

Silence hung in the air for a long moment.

Martimeos had not meant for the question to come out sounding so harsh. There could have been many that the innkeep had served, in his lifetime. And yet.

Ritter had immediately noted his tone, and all at once, the innkeep’s face was stone. His eyes drifted down towards Martimeos’ belt, noting the lack of sword there, and then swept across the room, toward where his own sword lay. He turned his eyes back, and he seemed a bit confused at the turn things had taken, but he did not let it still his tongue. “For many, over the years.” He paused, and the silence was painful. The man knew that was not what Martimeos was asking. When someone asked that question, in that way, there was only one thing it meant in these lands, these days. But he also seemed to know that there was no avoiding the answer, now. “I fought for the White Queen,” he said quietly, in a voice that was almost a whisper.

Yes. The fabled men of Farson’s Pass. So skilled in battle that to have enough of them on your side could turn the course of a war. Men whose exploits had been the subject of song and poem and tale, once. Until they sold themselves to be the White Queen’s dogs. Folk no longer wanted to hear their tales, now. How could the man be confused, how dare he be confused, when he sat here in his inn, not a day’s march from Cross-on-Green? Martimeos knew he ought to be more careful. These were lands that had once belonged to the Queen, and some still might still find a way to remember loyalty to her. But perhaps the sight of Cross-on-Green had left him raw, or perhaps his dreams had left him raw. Something gnawed at him, to not want to let it go.

Ritter saw now Martimeos’ face turning dark as a stormcloud, and he turned to see Elyse flinching away from him as well, and he paled. Perhaps the man had thought himself in welcome company. If Martimeos’ brother had come through here years ago, when the White Queen ruled, perhaps the innkeep had assumed that he had been serving the White Queen. Now that she was gone, though, there were lands where admitting to having served her would have been a death sentence, at least in the years immediately following the war. The Freetowns had hanged many of her servants after her yoke had been thrown off. The innkeep currently looked as if he could feel the noose around his neck. The man was no coward, though. His face merely grew grim in turn. “I had put my sword up and settled myself in this inn ten years before the war ended,” he said cautiously, the way one might speak to a rabid dog, and yet there was something in him, a tiredness that said he knew well why he must worry. “I took contracts for her in her earlier reign. I did not serve her by the time she went mad.”

Martimeos gave a harsh, despairing laugh. He shook his head and bit down on his tongue. Poison seemed to pour into his head again. It was the same bitter tune he had heard before, from others who had once served her. Always it was thus: We didn’t know how bad she had become. Or we served her while she was still good. We didn’t know she’d go mad. And for many, certainly, it had to be the case. But others had to be lying. Others had to be the sort of person who took the opportunity to become butchers when given the excuse. Which sort, Martimeos wondered, had Ritter been?

His thoughts were venom, fire, acid, eating away through everything else. The world seemed so small, a flickering candle in endless dark. He felt heat on his face, and he did not know where it came from. He tried to wrestle his thoughts back into control, through the haze and fog of bitterness. Elyse was sitting next to him now, not across from him. When had that happened? And Ritter had risen from his own seat and backed away, his eyes wide. The candle on the table was a melted stump, its wax flowing over to cover the tabletop, pooling around their cups. Martimeos stared at this, trying to reason through the haze in his head. Had he done this?

“Martim,” the witch said, tugging at his arm, “I think you need sleep, wizard. Come.” Her voice was low and urgent, and there was something in her dark blue eyes that he had not seen from her before.

He let her help him to his feet - he stumbled, how much wine had he drank - but before she could lead him away, he turned to Ritter. The innkeep had lingered on, watching him warily. “What happened here?” His voice was a snarl, no matter how he tried to moderate it. “Why is Silverfish so empty? What happened?” It was her. It is always her. Everywhere her servants went, death followed.

But at this, caution seemed to flee the man, and Ritter’s face furrowed, grew secretive and dark. His age showed on him all at once, and his face was that of the crooked old man he’d be right before his death. “Too many evil things.” His voice grated, suddenly hoarse. He cleared his throat, and shook his head. “Too many evil things. Just like elsewhere. It’s all coming undone.”

“You know not all places are like this. Tell me.”

But Ritter was backing away now, and if anything his face was growing even more stubborn. “Leave off, wizard. It’s not for outsiders to know of. Speaking of it is inviting the Dark Stranger into your dreams.” He had backed away far enough to grab his sword, and he did so with with no haste, but very deliberately. “You see him off to bed now,” he said, speaking to Elyse now. “I…I want no trouble, you hear me?”

Martimeos did not see where Ritter disappeared to, as Elyse pulled him towards the stairs. He let himself be pulled. He felt so odd, so strange, as if his body was not really his own. Had he drunk all that much wine? He had not thought so, and yet he felt thick and fogged, almost feverish. He let himself be pulled along. He wished he had not scared Ritter so. That was what the man had been, wasn’t it? He was scared. There was still more he had wanted to ask, even if he hadn’t gotten the answers he wanted. He could bite down on his anger, he could, he could. It had just been so difficult tonight.

“So it is your brother you search for,” Elyse huffed as they mounted the stairs. She was close beside him, her hand upon his back, as if she was afraid he might fall. Or that he might decide to go back downstairs and do something. “I don’t know what you were thinking down there. I was afraid that Ritter was going to kick us both out for a moment.” What had he been thinking? What had he done? Why could he not remember?

They were down the hallway now, the floorboards creaking beneath their feet, the shadows seeming to watch them. She stopped him in front of his doorway, to look at him. “I don’t know why you felt you could not tell me,” she said in a whisper. There seemed to be something of a sadness in her voice.

He didn’t know either. Except that he did. The hot shame he felt whenever he spoke of it. But she deserved to know. She had been honest with him, and had been a boon, and she should know. He tried to tell her, but all he could manage to say was, “They killed so many.” That was not right. That was not all that had happened. There was so much more to it. “They came, and they killed so many.” That was not all, but his tongue was thick, and so were his thoughts, tangled in agony, unable to think past that simple stark reality, that moment, that singular day which had changed what might have been. They came, and they killed so many.

They came and they killed David.

He couldn’t make himself think on it anymore. Elyse stood, looking at him, lips parted as if to speak, and that was the look she kept even as he closed the door on her and locked it. He had wanted to apologize to her, at the very least, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t stand to think any more. His very soul ached. He crawled into his bed, not bothering to kick off his boots, and hoped for a dreamless sleep. All he found awaiting him were nightmares. Nightmares of black thorns and a ruined face.