“I’m not sure it is my place to say such things. There is sound reason behind his sour temperament. What you must understand is that Robert has suffered a great deal and that his friendship requires more than most are prepared to offer in exchange for the ample brooding and sharp tongue. Be patient with him. Robert may not be the most pleasant, but should you earn his loyalty, then your life will be greatly enriched.”

  “You speak in riddles, Ignatius. How has he suffered? I don’t understand at all.”

  “I’ve said enough. If you desire to know more, your efforts will have to be with him.”

  “It seems like an enormous task.” Said Morell.

  “Perhaps. But to truly win the eye of dearest Siouxsie then you must be up to that task, yes?” Morell drew quiet with contemplation as he considered his options.

  “Yes.” Said Morell. Hearing this, Ignatius put his arm around the boy and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

  “Then you’re braver than most.”

  The witch and the boy chewing on mushrooms entered the small village without raising too many eyebrows. Each walked casually with their hands off their weapons to seem less threatening. At a glance Morell counted around thirty small homes. A few structures had two stories. The sound of pounded iron just out of sight told them a blacksmith was hard at work. Men women and children crossed their paths with simple greetings or glances before continuing on. For the moment it was peaceful.

  “I see no soldiers or king’s men.” Remarked Morell.

  “Nor I.” said Ignatius, his eyes darting from side to side to catch every detail. “Let us hope our luck continues.” The pair passed a small market where Morell’s eyes grew large at viewing freshly baked bread and. Full potatoes and gumfruit had been stacked into pyramids atop a man’s cart. Somewhere not far away the aroma of beef cooking snaked its way into their nostrils.

  “That smell,” Morell swooned as he licked his lips. “I haven’t had cut of beef in the longest time.”

  “It does smell quite good.” Ignatius agreed. “Keep your wits for now. Don’t let your gut distract you.”

  “N-no, of course not.” He said, looking back to where he thought the smell was coming from.

  “Step lively, I see an inn.” He followed the witch and the two came upon a two-story building near the tree line with stables behind it. Hanging over the door on half a dozen metal links was a weathered wooden sign with the words “THE WAYWARD ARCHER” carved in fancy text. Ignatius pushed open the door and the two found themselves in a cozy tavern already half filled with patrons enjoying whatever was in their wooden cups. A few small windows let enough light in for them to find their way without running anyone. Ignatius neck craned to take in the room from bottom to top, his eyes watching the tall ceilings crisscrossed with thick wooden crossbeams. Morell followed him over to the bar where a large man with an even bigger beard finished topping off a wooden cup with mead before approaching the two.

  “What’ll it be?” The man asked leaning close to put his hands on the smooth wooden bar.

  “Good morning, I’ve never been here before. I’m in want of lodging for me and my friends.” The man looked upon the singular Morell with a disapproving look.

  “Is this your friends?” The barkeep asked him.

  “One of them, yes. I have four more coming along later.”

  “Then you’re in luck.” Said the barkeep as he began his well-rehearsed rapid fire list of his fares. “I have beds for a copper a night. Hot baths with soap are an extra copper each. Meals are a copper each and drinks are a copper each. Water is free. Laundry is a copper. No witches.”

  “No witches?” asked Morel with a bit of shock. “Why no witches?”

  “We don’t want their kind in here causing trouble. The last thing I need is one of those little fire starters in here burning my business to the ground.” Morell pouted and looked at his boots whereas Ignatius maintained a rigid composure. “Why? You’re not travelling with witches, are you? Are you a witch, boy?”

  “N-no, sir.” Morell said without looking up.

  “What about fauns and centaurs?” asked Ignatius.

  “fauns and centaurs can stay in the stable. I don’t let them in here, their hooves and shoes score the floorboards. Stable fees-”

  “Are a copper each.” The witch finished for him. “Yes, I’m detecting a trend here.”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  “Look something familiar to me.” said the man looking at Ignatius. “Have you been in here before?”

  “Never.” Said Ignatius. “Can’t say I’ve ever been this way. But what about a special centaur? I happen to be travelling in the company of the honorable Hoxley of the plains who is a well-known traveler in these parts.”

  “The messenger girl with the horns?” The barkeep perked up, the corners of his mouth almost turning up into a grin. “White woolen hair? Carries a pugil?” Upon hearing her description, two men seated in the far corner of the room turned their heads toward the conversation. Ignatius noticed this and turned a long gaze upon them until they turned away again.

  “Yes, the very same.”

  “Why, she usually stays in the stables at night when she’s passing though! Where is she? Does she have a parcel for me?”

  “I cannot say what is in her pouches but yes she will be along soon.” Ignatius said, digging into his money pouch for coins. “I would like something on the second floor. Something private with a window for fresh air.

  “Yes of course, Sir.” Said the bearded man who appeared to be a little more at ease.

  “Very well then, I should like five beds and a stable stall, six baths, and meals for all.”

  “Twenty copper.” said the man. Ignatius dug out the coins and began stacking them on the bar with long articulate fingers. When finished he pulled his hand away. The barkeep was about to take them when Morell spoke again.

  “Eighteen.” He said.

  “What’s that?” asked Ignatius “The man says the charge is twenty.”

  “Six threes are eighteen not twenty.” he said.

  “Are you sure?” He asked before looking to the barkeep who stood unmoving and looked surprised that the boy could count.

  “Quite sure.” Morell said before approaching the bar and grabbing the coins. He quickly laid them in rows of six as he repeated the services they were purchasing: “Beds, baths, and meals.” With one chubby finger he pulled the last two coppers to the side so that it sat alone. “Eighteen not twenty.” Both the boy and the witch looked to the man who had obviously attempted to pad his coin purse with quick words. Everyone knew what had transpired, but Ignatius, attempting to be diplomatic, let the man off the hook with silvery words as he glared him in the eyes.

  “I think what the man said was that it was eighteen for the boarding but it would be an extra copper for the large cup of mead he knew we’d be needing to wash the dust of the long trail from our throats, yes?”

  “Yes, sir, yes sir, quite right!” The barkeep bellowed, swiping all the coins off the bar into his other hand with a long sweeping motion. He quickly pocketed the money and snatched a cup before filling the cup with a golden fluid from a tapped barrel behind him. The cup hit the bar. “I’ll see to your lodgings straight away.” The man said before vanishing behind a curtain at the far end. Morell looked to the cup and then Ignatius. Ignatius nodded to the cup.

  “You earned it with your sharp counting.” Take it, it’s yours.”

  “Can I? I’ve never had it before.”

  “My dearest Morell,” Ignatius pushed the cup close to the edge before lowering his voice “You’ve just spent the night on a freezing mountain fighting for your life against a force that outnumbered you ten to one before slaying frozen beasts made of dark magic. There are none more deserving than you to have a drink right now. Drink it for our departed Idris. If he were here, he would take it.” Morell eyed him cautiously for a moment thinking it was a test. When the witch’s warm smile didn’t waver, Morell snatched the cup from the bar and began chugging the strong drink like men thirst for water in the desert. Half the cup was long down his throat before Ignatius could utter an exclamation of shock.

  “Good heavens, Morell!” he said, reaching out to try and grab the cup. “You don’t have to-“ Morell smacked his hand away and kept gulping until the contents of the cup were in his belly. Once finished, Morell slammed the cup on the bar before unleashing the longest, rudest, gut-fueled burp the witch or anyone in the bar had ever heard uttered in their lives. One man in the back of the room who’d been sleeping off his own mead induced haze awoke with such a start that he nearly fell out of his chair. Morell smacked his lips with satisfaction.