Palma stepped aside when Bannan refused to relinquish the tray, his own grip on the stack less than trustworthy, and laughingly led him to what was more trough than sink. Hams and roasts and plucked poultry hung from hooks overhead, along with braids of fat onions and bunches of spice. On the wooden table that ran the length of the room, gold-crusted puddings fresh from the oven steamed in their crockery beside racks of cooling bread. A crisp-skinned lamb turned on a spit in the fireplace while a stewpot bigger than Bannan’s arms could span simmered on the stovetop.
His lingering glances were noticed. “Hungry?” she teased.
“Famished.”
“Out with you, then.” With a flourish of her apron. “To the bar and tell Allin your fancy. On the house, mind,” with a mock frown.
Freed of the tray, this time he gave a short bow. “My thanks.” Bannan smiled. “And I’ve a package for you, from Master Jupp. I’ll deliver it in the morning.”
Eyes bright, Palma blew him a kiss from two fingers. “That, for not tempting with such a treasure while I’ve pots on the stove! Now off you go.”
The bar sat on a raised portion of the flagstone floor, the rise convenient to prop a boot. Five barrels supported the wide top, joined one to the next by smooth planks. Nicely turned wooden pillars rose above each barrel to meet the ceiling, proof that Endshere’s mill was used for more than grain. The top of the bar was a reddish wood, polished until it shone, and behind was a mirror the size of which Bannan hadn’t seen since Vorkoun. Getting that unbroken up the Northward Road had been a feat.
The truthseer leaned his elbows on the bar top to hold his place. When sure those nearest him were looking elsewhere, he slipped a finger into his collar and pulled it aside to see what the moth had done.
From the sear of heat he’d felt on his skin, he’d half-expected an ugly burn. Or that nothing would show at all, the writing being Marrowdell’s and magic.
But there it was. A set of tiny black marks, the whole of which he could cover with a fingertip and did, as the barkeep noticed him. Replacing his collar, Bannan pretended to admire his reflection. After all, the little mirror in his kit only showing the portion of skin being shaved and blade and there was, to his knowledge, no other mirror in Marrowdell. Not bad, he decided, jutting out his chin and tilting his head. He might never have worn a beard those many years. Or needed to hide his face from an implacable enemy.
Was that about to change?
The grim turn of his thoughts showed on his face, and Bannan deliberately smiled at himself before giving his attention to the man coming toward him. “Keeping busy, I see,” he observed.
Face flushed with pleasure, Allin Anan, for he’d taken his wife’s name, stretched over the bar to slap Bannan on the shoulder. “Ancestors Fortunate and Favored! Glad to see you,” he declared. “Glad to see all of you. I can’t get over it. Mother coming?” He shook his head, his smile lighting the green eyes so like Gallie’s. “Thank you for taking care of them, Bannan. Now, what can I get you? Anything.”
Having seen the “anything” back in the kitchen, Bannan didn’t attempt to decide. “A plate of your choosing, Allin, and something for a dry throat.”
“Done.” The barkeep smiled mysteriously. He waved Larah to his side and bent to whisper in his ear. As the boy ran to the kitchen, Allin produced a small brown cask and pulled a tankardful. “Try this.”
Smelling the spice the moment he took the tankard, Bannan wrinkled his nose. “Heart’s Blood, my nephews drink ginger beer! My young nephews. It’s been a very long day, my friend,” he coaxed, trying to return the offering.
Allin pushed it back, smile widening. “Then Palma’s brew is what you need. Watch the—” as the truthseer gave in and raised the tankard in two hands.
A warning too late. Bubbles shot right up Bannan’s nose. He sneezed, giving Allin a reproachful look. The barkeep merely nodded expectantly. Insult his hosts or drink the stuff? Holding his breath this time, Bannan raised the beer to his lips and took a mouthful.
Ginger it was. His eyebrows shot up as the smooth liquid landed in his stomach with a potent kick. “Tha—” he gasped in admiration. “Ancestors Witness, that’s a fine brew.”
“Isn’t it?” Allin leaned across the bar. “Alas, there’s only the one cask left. The weddings.” Implying a delightful host of conflicting duties. “Would you let Frann know? Palma says she’d not forgive us if she doesn’t get a taste.”
Bannan drank reverently. “I may start to feel the same way,” he warned. “This is almost as good—” As he hesitated—perhaps at his hesitation—his neck warmed where the moth had marked him. “—as good as the tinkers’ beer,” he finished, and took another deeper drink. “You remember it,” this with a searching look at the other man.
Allin made a show of wiping the bar top. “I remember a great many things, Bannan Larmensu,” he replied evenly, then looked toward the kitchen and raised his voice. “Larah! Take our guest’s supper to the Treffs’ table.” His gaze came back at the truthseer, his expression wary but curious. “A discussion for tomorrow morning, when the room’s not so full.”
“And you’re not so in demand.” Bannan nodded and toasted Allin with his now-precious ginger beer, relinquishing his spot at the bar to a pair of new and thirsty arrivals.
He surveyed the room; being half a head taller than most here helped, but too many people were shifting around for him to spot a small woman who, moreover, would be seated. The inn was full of people who greeted one another and smiled and laughed. It was a welcoming place, the heart of a community, and he’d not seen it, that first time through. He’d been in a hurry to leave his old life behind, as if that could be accomplished simply by running from it. Suspicious of strangers. Wary of kindness.
Filled with rage. Hadn’t Marrowdell shown him that unhappy truth?
Then healed him, or at least set him on a path to peace.
Tankard clasped to his chest, Bannan circled the room, turning sideways to fit between those at benches on either side of the long table down its midst, his attention more for the better seats near walls and windows. He found Lorra almost at once. She was deep in discussion with two women and a man he didn’t know, hat feathers flicking back and forth as if she wore an aroused rooster on her head. Frann’s hat—and its wearer—were nowhere to be seen. Finally, the truthseer shrugged and made his way back to the table, eager for his own supper.
The delay had been worthwhile, he decided, upon seeing what awaited him. Half a roast chicken, plums and apples tucked under its skin, lay amid generous slices of golden potato pudding on a platter; a bowl of broth swimming with button mushrooms and leeks sat on a nearby board along with a steaming loaf of bread; and a second board held an assortment of cheeses surrounding a jar of preserves. Daunted, Bannan sank in his chair.
Davi grinned. “Ancestors Witness, if you can’t manage it all,” he offered, “we’re still hungry.” Unlikely, given the mass of empty bowls and platters, topped with bones, in evidence, but Bannan’d seen the big smith eat before. His tablemates were larger still, their girth filling the remaining sides of the table. “Bannan Larmensu, Harty and Hagar Comber, Endshere’s puny excuse for smiths.”
They’d met before, when he and Tir had passed through Endshere. Bannan’d not bothered to learn their names, nor cared. This time, he inclined his head with all possible grace, murmuring, “Well met, good sirs.”
Harty, the elder man, tipped his bald head in response. “Don’t believe anything from this pot o’piss,” he advised in a voice like the crunch of a boot on loose stone. “M’boy knows more ’an he e’er will, and he’s a mere stripling!”
The “mere stripling,” bigger than his father and with hands easily the span of a plate, smiled peacefully. “Well met, Bannan Larmensu.” Hagar Comber had the dark curls of the Anan family—as did many in Endshere—on retreat from a broad forehead. Below bushy eyebrows, his brown eyes were bright and friendly. “Marrowdell’s been good for you.”
Bannan lifted his tankard in acknowledgment. “That it has,” he agreed. How had he seemed to these villagers on his last passage through? Dour, dark, and bitter, he feared. Oh, and a fool too. A hasty one. He took a swallow and grimaced, but not at the ginger beer. “It’s taught me how very much I don’t know about farming.”
That brought a laugh. “Tell us now,” Harty said, big forearms crossed over his chest. “How long did Upsala’s sorry old ox last? I’d have bet it’d drop dead the first day.”
Why that one-eyed trader—but he’d been a fair mark, after all. What did he know of oxen? Being able to tell the truth, Bannan’d learned long ago, was a poor defense against being cheated by an expert. “Got my wagon to Marrowdell.” As for the rest? That once in Marrowdell, the ox had strayed into fields protected by the invisible efflet and been summarily executed for that trespass?
Before he could think what else to say, Davi spoke up. “And then the beast dropped dead!” After the roar of laughter subsided, he added, “Didn’t go to waste,” and licked his lips. “Speaking of which,” with a cheerful wave at the spread before Bannan.
So what the others remembered made sense to them, beyond Marrowdell. It just wasn’t the whole truth. “Help yourselves,” the truthseer offered, uneasy again. It didn’t help that though the chair had a cushion of sorts, it hardly made up for an unaccustomed day in the saddle.
He’d grown soft. Though there had been the fight.
Which, he reminded himself, Perrkin had won. A matter not to be ignored. About to speak of it, Bannan closed his mouth. Why ruin the joy with which the three smiths were adding to their own platters? Scourge was guarding the stable. Ill news could wait.
Besides, he should eat. So the truthseer circled his fingers over his heart and bowed his head, a private and personal Beholding being enough in a gathering like this, and moved his lips soundlessly. “Hearts of my Ancestors, I am Beholden for this food, for it will give me the strength to return home. I am Beholden for this good company and their fellowship. Above all else, I am Beholden for Marrowdell’s Gift, so I not forget she who holds my heart. However far we are apart, Keep Us Close.”
The chicken was Allin’s reminder to him of Marrowdell, which had none, so despite his flagging appetite, Bannan made himself eat some of it. Then he had to taste the pudding, rich and sweet, and by that point, his tankard emptied and refilled with more ordinary but still excellent beer, he found himself enjoying the banter of the other three men, old and good friends.
Much of it concerned poor Devins, and Palma’s eager cousins. “Do I have it right?” Bannan asked incredulously. “There are twelve of them?”
Harty nodded. “Ancestors Lustful and Lovelorn, e’er-one’s hunt’n a husband and helpmate. ’M surprised you escaped. He won’t, poor lad.” He pointed a well-gnawed drumstick at the nearby table where Devins, in his best coat, sat bolt upright at one end as if on trial.
And wasn’t he? The benches to either side of the same table were filled with keen-eyed young women, intent on learning everything possible about this latest prospect. At the end across from Devins sat an elderly woman wrapped, despite the warmth of the room, in layer upon layer of heavy wool. Every so often her thin hand would stretch from the bundling to tap a small, carved tankard and one of the cousins would hurry to refill it.
Bannan looked to his companions. “The lady?”
“Their great-grandmother.” Hagar smiled. “And mine. Great Gran’ll ’ave her say when the rest’r done.” Said with an air of anticipation.
Poor Devins indeed, Bannan decided. He’d confessed to wanting a family; from the look of it, he’d have an entire town if he wasn’t careful.
“Caryn Anan is close to a Blessed Ancestor herself,” Lorra Treff said, none-too-quietly as she came up to their table. “That’s no reason to hang on her every word.” She waved her son back down when he rose to offer his seat. “I’m looking for the other old fool. Where’s Frann Nall?” Her lips thinned. “She has to explain herself!”
The Combers glanced at one another. They knew what this was about, Bannan guessed. By his frown, Davi thought so too, but he spoke to his mother, his tone placating. “Frann went upstairs a while ago. She looked tired.”
From Lorra’s expression, he might have suggested the other woman had gone back to Marrowdell. “Ancestors Frustrating and Futile! Of course she’s not tired. We slept most of the way here. And why? Because trading starts tonight, not tomorrow!” Her lips thinned. “She’s hiding from me, that’s what she’s doing. And she’d better, after what she’s done!”
Harty coughed and Hagar buried his face in his tankard. Big Davi’s eyes went from one to the other, then back to his mother. “What did Frann do?”
Indignation stiffened Lorra into a black-hatted statue. “She—” almost spat, “—traded our barrels of ash for a flute and a cup of ginger beer!”
Bannan kept his face straight with an effort. Hagar choked and his father turned an interesting pink.
“Ancestors Witness, Frann does like ginger beer,” Davi said, reasonably, if not wisely.
“And the rest of us like being clean!” Lorra glared at her son, feathers tipping forward. “Our barrels always go to Endshere’s ashman for an admitted pittance of lye—Heart’s Blood, the woman will never admit she can’t barter properly—but no, not this year. This year, she trades our hard work for a trinket and drink! It’s that thief, Upsala. He played on her weak mind. A flute!” She paused to let them contemplate the enormity of this offense, then swept the table with a stern look. “I want you to get it back.”
“The ash?” Harty raised his big hands as if holding back a tide. “Trade’s done, Lady Treff. Can’t be undone.”
Bannan smiled to himself. Lady Treff? It had to be the hat.
Her son sighed. “Mother—”
“Now!”
To Bannan’s surprise, Davi shook his head. “It can’t be undone. Not if we want to trade here.”
“The wagon was well-loaded,” the truthseer observed, breaking the ominous silence that followed this nigh-on and, for all he knew, unprecedented rebellion within the Treff household. “Surely we’ve something else this ashman would take for the lye.”
She might be furious, but Lorra Treff hadn’t become who and what she was by ignoring opportunity. A brow lifted thoughtfully. “There may be. I must speak to Gallie at once!” Feathers dancing, the formidable head of the Treffs turned and was swallowed by the crowd.