Of Truth and Beasts

Wynn hurried up to the nearest guard, a stout man, cleanly shaven though rough featured. As Ore-Locks peered through the open front door, both guards eyed Wynn. The closest nodded respectfully.

“Commander Molnun, at your service,” he said. “Welcome.”

“Does this establishment offer rooms?” she asked.

“The finest in Drist.”

“And secure?” Chane asked.

The “commander” looked Chane up and down with only his eyes, never moving his head.

“Yes, sir ... the best to be had.”

Chane looked the man over in turn. His outer leather tunic did not hide hints of a chain shirt beneath it, likely with quilt padding under that. Though properly closed, the tunic was a loose fit; the commander valued mobility over show. His sword hung low rather than being cinched against his belt like some preening noble wanting to look dashing would wear it. This one had to be ex-military.

If the establishment hired standing mercenaries, it would not be cheap.

Wynn seemed to realize this, too, and cast Chane a troubled glance.

“I will pay,” Ore-Locks cut in, perhaps guessing the problem. “We should stay here.”

Chane warmed with discomfort but did not argue. He should have procured more money by now. The commander nodded to Ore-Locks.

“Be certain you carry a lodger’s voucher whenever you plan to leave and still return.”

Chane nodded and reluctantly ushered Wynn in.

As Wynn followed Ore-Locks through the weatherworn, hand-carved front door, she tried to stifle her growing annoyance with Chane. Much as she was accustomed to his overprotective nature, tonight he was dangerously close to overbearing. He’d known from the start that this journey would hold surprises. True, Drist was worse than even she’d expected, but they were here. They—he—had better make the best of it. But once inside, she stopped thinking about Chane at all.

A huge oval rug of deep brown with a circular pattern of white flowers and light green, leafy vines was spread under her feet. The foyer walls were stained a rich shade of cream, with amber curtains on the windows from the high ceiling to the polished wood floor. From somewhere unseen, the soft, resonant tones of a skillfully played wooden flute filled the air, which was scented lightly with sandalwood.

“Oh ... no,” she said softly.

Unlike the old guild hotel in Chathburh, the interior here was in its prime. This was going to cost more than she’d first feared.

She half turned left to see a solid walnut counter with gold inlay. The young man behind it was well dressed in a white linen shirt and black satin vestment. His face was oval, and his skin was as olive toned as hers. His hair and eyes were both light brown, like hers.

Chane stared at him.

“May I help you?” the young man asked politely, and his gaze dropped briefly to Shade. “I am Mechaela. What do you seek this evening?”

The question seemed odd. What would weary travelers seek besides lodging?

Two men, dressed similarly to this host, walked past Wynn and into a wide parlor on the right. Neither was armed, and Wynn took a few steps, peering after them.

Low couches of plush padding filled that room. Small tables held crystal vases loaded with fresh flowers, though where such came from in late autumn, she couldn’t guess. Seascape oil paintings of unimaginable clarity graced the walls.

She spotted an archway at the far side that led into another room of similar decor. Three men sat playing cards at a polished obsidian table. Their finery might have marked them as nobility, if this had been any city but Drist. A willowy girl appeared from out of sight and poured wine for the gentlemen. Her gown of overlaid gauze was a bit revealing.

To the far left of the nearer room was a tall set of closed doors. Closer still was a curving staircase that stretched upward. What kind of place was this?

“Three rooms,” Ore-Locks said.

Wynn turned back to find him at the counter with the young host. He was already untying a lanyard strung with punched dwarven coins, or slugs.

“Two rooms,” Chane corrected, and looked down at her. “You are not staying here alone. I will sleep on the floor.”

Wynn bit the inside of her lip, not wishing to make a scene.

Mechaela raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, though he did glance at Chane’s and Ore-Locks’s sheathed blades. He reached out with one finger to tap the long iron staff leaning against the counter.

“Of course, you’ll need to relinquish your weapons. You can retrieve and return them upon coming and going.”

Chane blinked. “No.”

Ore-Locks appeared equally surprised.

Shade rumbled, perhaps sensing the sudden tension.

“Chane!” Wynn whispered. Would he ever stop being so difficult?

“No,” he repeated.

“Is there a problem, gentlemen?” said a smooth voice from behind them.

Wynn spun around.