There was only one crate left of their hefty supply storage when Droelin’s wagon finally rolled through the old stone gates of a city tossed by turmoil. He had been here once, probably fifteen years ago, he reflected. It seemed like an eon ago, but the man steering the wagon was still a young man to his peers. A brilliant young man, admittedly, and one far beyond his fifty-two years.
“Well,” Droelin said, to his unresponsive companion, “this is even worse than I imagined.”
The original chaos of the city had been due to its cliffs, which quickly posed a problem for Droelin’s wheels, but Sheld’s anarchy had made that architectural disarray a faded recollection. Smoke hung over the city still, and the once familiar landmarks seemed to have been torn down to the cobblestone streets. Unable to progress further into the contested city, the wagon was steered into a wide yard next to a three-storey inn, the Importer.
Droelin eyed the stable boy as he pulled a white cloak over his suspenders and wiry arms. A dog was trailing the fifteen-year-old. The mutt’s ears quickly dropped behind the ridge of its skull. “I’ll handle it,” he told the youngster, raising one his hands. The boy hesitated, with a perplexed frown on his face. Droelin waved him away, and set to work unbridling his two, well-trained steeds. It had been expensive to bring them along the Barren Road from Squora, almost as expensive as his single guard.
Of course, the small village had though Droelin had travelled from Lo Mallago, the major stop on the other end of that horrid road. Unbeknownst to anyone he’d encounter on his venture, his wagon had begun its journey in Squora.
When he had stabled the big, black horses, he returned to the side of his wagon. “Down,” he said. His companion, in her dark brown cowl, didn’t respond except by swinging her long legs off the wagon bench and awkwardly landing on the stone ground next to Droelin.
As they began their way toward the small common room of the business inn, the servant boy and his hound made a second attempt at providing hospitality. This time the dog got a whiff of Droelin’s companion’s stench and started to growl. Droelin couldn’t have any of that. “Boy, some hay for the horses, at once.” He flicked the lad a coin from his pouch. There was a mix in there, of similar worth. The one that the servant caught was a silver Maga shilling. The boy’s eye’s widened and he nearly kicked his mutt as he charged for the stable.
Droelin and his accompaniment entered the Importer without further interruption. While the common room was occupied by a few parties engaged in cards or business negotiations, the manager of the inn fortunately had his office in a small room adjoined to the anteroom. Droelin entered quietly, and tipped his head to the innkeeper.
The Importer was run by a thin man with dark brown hair, and a few less years than his tentative guest. He glanced up from a historical book and stared at the man who stood before him. Droelin had slightly darker skin than most Raderans—anyone from Tal’lashar would easily recognize his complexion, but the fairer shade of brown hair and smooth skin under the loose white cloak, made the innkeeper raise an eyebrow. He drawled, “Welcome… Room for one?” His eyes shifted to the robed and cowled woman at Droelin’s shoulder. “Or two?”
“One,” Droelin said. His thrall did not require rest.
The man made a few marks on a clay tablet near his desk. Though the use of parchment had spread across Radregar quite prolifically over the last thirty years, some preferred (or afforded) the old way. “Any special requests or will the normal meals suffice?”
“Extra portions,” Droelin said, smiling. “And exceptional discretion.”
“Discretion?” the man asked. With a shrug, he added, “All my patrons handle their own business. I won’t tell anyone a thing about anyone staying here.”
“No, no,” Droelin said. “I’ll pay extra to have the rooms adjacent to mine left absent, my meals to be delivered by you personally, and that stable-boy’s dog… runs away tonight.”
The man gaped at him. “Excuse me, sir, but my inn—”
Droelin leaned forward, and his hands on the man’s desk. “I plan on staying here for at least the rest of this Moon. I need to see what is going to happen next in Sheld. You can try to stand in the way of my mission, or you can accept the small fortune you will earn during my stay. But either way, you need to decide right this minute.” He started to turn away and looked at his companion. She stood there, her chin and perpetually frowning mouth shadowed by her stiff hood.
It took only a few minutes for the innkeeper to show Droelin to his room. The amenities were scarce, but reliable. After he locked the door behind him, he had his thrall remove the ridiculous outer robe and sit in one of the two chairs, while he unpacked his belongings. The burly woman had been weathered by the journey along the Barren Road, as he had feared. Her flesh had sunken around her cheeks, her right cheek especially, and her cracked lips would be bleeding if not for her body’s inability to properly circulate blood, on account of her being deceased. He had brought gallons of water in that uncomfortable wagon, but had been unable to prevent such small changes completely.
“I miss the old you,” Droelin confessed as he finally sat down on the bedside, exhausted. The woman sat unmoving at the room’s table. Her hair was missing in several spots, but her head turned to face him when he spoke. A forced response to a particular stimulus. “In a way,” he mulled, “Bringing you back here, even as my guard, seems like a lesson that ought to reach the old you.”
Of course, his thrall did not reply. Droelin folded his hands behind his head and got a few winks of sleep, before giving her specific instructions to defend her privacy in the room, while he began his first few hours of reconnaissance in Sheld. The answer he needed, before he could return to his peers west of here, was going to take many days to ascertain. Which of the warring factions would become the new power in Sheld? Would Lerran’s Family return? Would the Atmos Septi, the so-called Grey Brethren, occupy the city as to which they had endeavored? Or would Sheld fall to the chaos of the common people, as had briefly transpired in Elpan, a year earlier? Droelin had a few ideas for first steps in determining these resolutions, but he knew his deal with the Importer—for an entire Moon at least—would be well worth it.