The Golden Falcon

Its ornate crest and signage still as proud as ever, indicating an establishment that had defined the Frolingen merchant district for its entire history. A sign of the city-state's wealth. And a reminder of good times past.

Home. Or damn near to it.

Roland smiled as he strode toward the door, making way for a clump of young tradesmen as they staggered past the baroque structure, absolutely hammered. And to think it was mid-day.

His grin dropped as he noticed the patrol of soldiery marching down the road, a half-dozen men clad in green, the dull steel of their muskets a reminder of the sorry state of Frolingen as of late.

The Malthorians hadn't been the only ones to fall.

At least the small troop wasn't aware of him. On constant alert for Ruthenian incursion of insurgent activity, they had little time for the sort of policing to hunt down a fugitive, even one of such recent notoriety. Besides, what were the odds they'd expect him this far from Brachsenburg, even if the news had arrived?

Not that Roland waited to find out, it never hurt to be careful.

Averting his gaze as the patrol halted the gaggle of drunkards, he slid inside the establishment, vanishing before any questions could be raised.

The sprawling tap room was a welcoming place, well-illuminated and lavishly furnished in a show of opulence that would have even made the wealthiest districts of Brachsenburg or Toulan seem mundane and utilitarian in comparison.

A set of ancient Ruthenian armor stood side-by-side with an Astanian counterpart, empty sockets of the archaic war helms staring at each other across the small space of the foyer, fingers clamped tight around ornate halberds. He had to admit, the choice of decor was odd, especially when compared to the sumptuous seating and decadent artwork that seemed to define the spacious room. Old man Leidt really had been a bit off at times. Not that Roland could say he was complaining. Absentmindedly, he allowed his eyes to wander the room, lips twitching upward at the statuette of a nude nymph standing by the concierge's table.

“You quite done staring?”

“No. No I'm not,” he said bluntly, his gaze turning toward the young woman who had addressed him, “How have you been, Clara?”

Slender and elegantly dressed in a supple black dress, her green eyes twinkled with amusement, drawing a knowing smirk out of the witch-hunter. Strange, he thought, how she seemed even more beautiful than last he had seen her. Certainly, the years running her late father's business didn't seem to have left their mark.

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“Better than you, I'd wager,” the woman said. At least that hadn't changed, her tongue was as glib as ever, “I take it the journey was unpleasant.”

With a small bow he reached for her outstretched hand to lightly kiss the back of her palm. The softness of her skin, the scent of bergamot and lemon lingering in the air, the warmth of her touch. It all stirred distracting memories of their last meeting. How many years had it been? Two? Three? He could not recall. But the sensations- Those were difficult to forget.

“Just a bit,” he snorted back laughter at his own understatement.

There was no point in mentioning Hellik's corpse pooling blood on the frosty grounds of Ernheim. The groveling thanks of the falsely accused and his mother, whose miserable existence he'd only prolonged. Nor his detour through the Trevigen wilderlands to avoid Helmstadt and any further entanglements. No, none of those things were needed in the moment.

“Well, you are here now,” she continued, content to avoid discussing his adventures, “And you're expected.”

No doubt he'd been noted the moment he'd crossed into the city, if not sooner. There was little that escaped insurgent eyes within the restless town. He wondered if the news of Orrin had reached this far. If she knew.

“You already got our room?” he asked, keeping his tone as flat as possible.

Clara raised a single eyebrow at the question, allowing a wry smile to trace her lips.

“No,” she said flatly, indicating for him to follow behind her.

Roland did so slowly, maintaining just enough distance to keep an eye on her shapely derriere.

“You aren't half as clever as you think, you know,” she said simply, not deigning to turn around.

“Who said I was trying to be?”

“Good point,” she agreed, leading him up the stairs toward the rooms above, “I do sometimes forget who I am dealing with.”

“Oh? And who might you be dealing with?”

“An idiot.”

The witch-hunter snorted at the statement, but made no remark.

“There have been some- interesting individuals here lately,” she said the words slowly, to nobody in particular.

“How so?”

“You will see soon enough. Argus has been- Reaching I suppose.”

“He's always been reaching.”

“True,” she chuckled and shrugged, “But I think this- this is something else. With the vote coming up, he's desperate. The meetings they've been holding, the people coming from the north. It's strange.”

Roland didn't really know what to say to that. By dint of her father's own commitment, the woman was more deeply embedded within the Frolingen resistance than most, and her clear misgivings did nothing to fill him with confidence. He just hoped he could ride out whatever nonsense Argus was involved with in peace.

“Are the passes snowed over?” he asked abruptly, shifting topic from the uncomfortable question of his local contacts.

“Yes. Yes they are. First storm came in last week. Looks like we're going to have another. You in that much of a hurry to get out of here?” she asked simply, never quite dropping that well-humored veneer.

“Well. I wouldn't mind it. Was hoping to visit the old Spire-guard.”

“Again?” she shook her head in disbelief, “It'll have to wait. That's for sure. The passes are in no condition for travel.”

“I'll take your word for it,” he nodded in acknowledgment as she led him to the heavy oak door of a third-floor suite.

With a small flourish, she handed him a small key, “Your usual room is ready, for whenever you're done in there. I had Jorr bring up some fresh clothes”

“My thanks.”

“Of course. Dinner's at seven,” she said quickly, “The fried partridge is really quite excellent.”

“I'm thrilled to hear it,” Roland answered with a small smile, pocketing the key and raising his fist to knock on the door.

"And the baths, they're reopened now, you might want to pay them a visit before dinner,” Clara said pointedly, wrinkling her nose and making him all too conscious of the rank stench of sweat and horse that surrounded him.

““Oh, and one last thing. If you need anything else-,” she added finally, leaning a little closer, the mischievous twinkle bright in her eyes, “If you need anything at all. Don't hesitate to ask. I have the spare key after all.”

Her green eyes flickered as she gave him a little wink, departing back down the stairs in ghostly silence.

“I just might do that,” he said dryly to nobody in particular as his eyes lingered on her departing figure, “Perhaps we can- reminisce.” He chuckled softly to himself at his own crude humor, finally knocking on the door with the sharp rap of his knuckles.

Depending on how this meeting went. He just might be needing it.