Naitachal squirmed uncomfortably. "Is it safe to sit up?"
"For now," Lyam said, and Naitachal got up off the floor and seated himself across from the Captain, rearranging his black drapery. "Perhaps their guard was down; after all, the Prince is back in the dungeon, and the real search is taking place in town. We will have to be careful once we get closer to the tavern district."
Trees quickly gave way to brick buildings, tile roofs, the rock walls of the larger estates, all towering over the carriage.
"So where is Alaire hiding?" Naitachal asked, curi- ously, wishing there were some way to ease the knot of tension in his back and neck.
Lyam rubbed an old scar nervously. "A place c The Dead Dragon Inn. The owner is hiding him in the basement. Kai did well, putting him there. The owner is a good friend and dislikes the Crown for the taxes they weigh against the taverns. With the Swords o Association wandering about down there, that would be the safest place to hide."
Provided that the reward does not tempt him to regain some of the money gone in taxes, Naitachal added, but only to himself. And provided that the owner is not aware that his "protector and friend" is currently languishing in the King's dungeon.
Chapte Alaire emerged slowly from a deep, but restless, sleep. A confused and disturbing dream melted away as he became aware of his surroundings. First, the lumpy hay mattress, then the dank, musty odor of the room and finally the warmth and the humidity, and the sweat that had beaded on his forehead. He opened his eyes and tried to focus. The room was dark except for the orange glow of the stove.
He sat suddenly upright, banging his head on the bunk bed above him; the sudden pain forced more wakefulness into his stiff body, his slow, numb mind.
Where am I? was his only thought.
Loud tavern sounds filtering down through the ceil- ing answered his question. I'm under The Dragon Inn. Kai brought me here.
The room had no windows, which added to his confusion. Uncertain how long he'd slept, he didn't know if it was day or night.
What about Kai? he thought, with a sick suspicion that something terrible had happened to him. A Master. Naitachal, what are you up to right now?
He felt exhausted despite the long, deep sleep. The spell. Right. I've never reached that far, that deep for the energies before. Naitachal told me of mages who reached too far, even after years of experience, and scorched their own minds with energies too powerful for even them to handle.
His raging headache was a good indication he'd done the same thing, on a smaller scale. What should I expect? The spell turned back death. It reassembled flesh, it restored blood. Looks like my head is going to pay dearly for it now.
He must have slept all day, and he was tempted to go ahead and sleep another day, but something told him it was time to get up, that something was afoot.
The Swords of the Association are all over the place by now, he thought. Would they ever think to look down here?
Evidently, they hadn't yet. The sounds overhead, the singing, the stamping of feet, indicated the tavern was open and doing business, meaning it had to be night. He reached under the bed to make certain his harp was still there; it was, along with his other posses- sions. Kai must have left as soon as I was asleep, he thought. Gotten must be upstairs working. So that left him with one question. What am I to do now?
He remembered that Kai had warned him they had to destroy the old clothes as soon as possible, and groped under his bed for the bag that held them, find- ing it by touch alone. He tossed the canvas sack with the bloodied garments into the stove, then added more wood to it. In moments a raging tire burned, destroying the evidence. The wool clothing stank as it burned, but it was something he was going to have to put up with.
As the stove crackled and popped and the light increased, his eyes fell on a crude oak table, and the food left for him.
Well, they aren't taking too bad care of me, I guess.
Though his head hurt, his stomach was in good shape, and complaining bitterly about how little he had been putting into it lately. The food they'd left him wasn't bad; a plate of meats, cheeses and a warm stein of ale.
There was also a kettle, a mug with dried herbs, and a rough note scribbled on a piece of parchment. He had to hold it up to the light of the now-blazing stove to make it Ki sed you wood haf a baad hed wen you wok up, so i lef a mug o w G Alaire read the note twice before he understood what the barkeep was trying to tell him. "A remedy, for exactly what I have now," he thought with gratitude, although the remedy sounded a little dubious. He set the kettle on the stove to heat up. "Willow bark," he said to the mug, without much conviction. "Righ I'd try anything."
Waiting for the water to boil, Alaire stretched and scratched. He felt grungy, particularly after sleeping in his clothes; a hot bath would be really nice right now.
But the only hot bath he knew of was at the palace; it might as well have been in Althea.
Not bloody likely they'd let me get a bath if I went back to the palace now, he thought dismally. Gods, a good-long soak would be heavenly. Or maybe an hour in that sowna Now that was a great bathing invention!