15th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY
Suderham, The Pomarj
The wind was starting to pick up.
Minus Alomovar, the party stared at the swaying inn sign above their heads, which displayed a white chess piece.
Argo chuckled. "Should have known. That's the closest any real white knight would get to this place. Let's get inside quick and have some fun before Lord Killjoy shows up and starts giving the bartender a temperance lecture."
"You just love doing that, don't you?" Nesco interjected, her face suddenly hardening.
Bigfellow's look of puzzlement was genuine. It turned to something more akin to curiosity as Nesco took two steps towards him, her eyes blazing.
"I can see you have no idea what I'm talking about, Argo, so I'll fill you in; it's Aslan. Yes, that same paladin that you keeping running down all the time. He's given us faith when we've been in despair and hope when everything was hopeless more times than I can count, and I haven't known him a fraction of the time you have."
Everyone was staring at the two rangers now. Nesco continued, her expression becoming more animated every second, as if her face was a broken dam that a stream was pouring through.
"Why do you do it, Argo? Why do you constantly belittle and insult him? Don't invoke Zeus- there's nothing in the Thunderer's creed about being a jackass towards those radically different from you. And don't tell me it's just manly camaraderie; I saw plenty of that in the Azure Order, and it's not that either. No one grates on anyone here the way you do on Aslan. You must know it upsets him. You call yourself his friend. Are you? Are you really? What's wrong with you, anyway? Why can't you just-"
Nesco abruptly broke off and whirled around so neither Argo nor anyone else could see her battling for control.
But they could all hear it was a struggle she was losing.
Zantac leaned in close to Cygnus. "What did that come from?" he whispered.
"Don't know," his peer whispered back.
It seemed to Zantac that Cygnus was about to say something more, but then he abruptly stopped.
Another awkward silence ensued. Inevitably, their team leader felt the pull of inertia the most.
"All right," Elrohir spoke up. "We're going to head inside now. We'll play it quiet until Aslan- excuse me, Alomovar- shows up with our money. That reminds me; if any of you haven't thought of another name for yourselves, do it now. We can't disguise ourselves like Aslan can, but every little thing that can give us a few extra days, or even hours, of anonymity will be immeasurably helpful. The mere fact that we weren't all arrested at the main gate leads me to think we still have the element of surprise on our side, at least for the moment."
Everyone looked at their group leader, and then at Nesco. She was still trying to tamp down the fire raging in her heart and did not return their gaze.
"Elrohir," she asked the ground beneath her feet, "I think I'd like to wait outside here until… Alomovar shows up. I could use the fresh air."
He nodded. "Okay, Nesco." The ranger placed his hand on the inn door and took a deep breath. Even from outside the clamor within was noticeable. It was probably deafening within; the clientele was apparently a lot rowdier than the average visitors to the Brass Dragon.
Just before Elrohir pushed the door open, Nesco, staring through blurry eyes at the few lit oil lamps that lined the boulevard, heard the sound of someone coming up close behind her. Whoever it was, they were clad in plate mail, and with Elrohir at the door and Aslan not yet arrived, that only left one possibility. Nesco clenched her fists. She really didn't want to-
"It's not really me you're angry at; is it, Lady Cynewine?"
The fire rushed out of Nesco's heart. It was replaced by a cold so intense, it made her body tremble, and her tears threaten again.
"As totally opposite as we may seem to you, Aslan and I know each other, and I happen to know he values honesty more than any other single human trait. Now that's foolish in my opinion of things, but that's how it goes."
Argo leaned in closer. "And so because I am his friend, I'm always honest with Aslan, Nesco. Good or bad, he knows exactly how I feel about him."
Now even closer. Closer than the beggar had been. Bigfellow practically hissed in her ear.
"Can he say the same about you, Lady Cynewine?"
Nesco felt as if the cold had grabbed her heart and stopped it.
By the time she could force herself to start breathing again, Argo had already resumed his position in the rear of the group. Nesco just stared at his back as her friends entered the loud and smoky confines of the White Knight inn.
"By Boccob's staff," Zantac breathed. "This isn't an inn- it's a factory!"
The place was gigantic Elrohir had assumed that the large stone blocks that constituted most of the streets of Suderham were carved up into innumerable tiny homes and storefronts, but that didn't seem to be the case; not if the White Knight was typical in any way.
The common room was larger than the hall of pillars they had battled Wimpell Frump in. It had to be at least two hundred feet long, and at least half that wide. Lanterns hanging from hooks high up on the walls gave adequate illumination, but the room was nevertheless bathed in pipeweed smoke. It was even worse here than at Grandien's back in Willip, Argo realized.
The center portion of the room was filled with long, rectangular communal tables, rather than the private ones at the Brass Dragon. The benches on either side of them were at least three quarters filled with people of all sorts, eating, drinking, laughing, talking, singing, shouting and smoking.
Servers, who were without exception girls and women ranging from barely out of adolescence to perhaps their late fifties were wending their way through a smoky gauntlet of groping, squeezing and pinching hands to bring food and drink to the tables. Their attitudes at this seemed to range from mild distaste to flat-out enjoyment.
Elrohir caught Bigfellow's eye, and the same thought passed between the two. Although this type of behavior was more the rule in taverns than the exception, never had they seen it practiced to such a degree here. The rangers could see a staircase leading up to a second floor balcony that lined the south wall. The wall upstairs was lined with openings, each one covered by a red curtain. Servers and townspeople could occasionally be seen coming in and out of them.
"Aslan is going to tear his beard out when he sees this place." It was Argo who put the communal thought into words.
Elrohir's expression was grim. "Aslan would, but I'm hoping Alomovar will hold his tongue. He knows what's at stake here."
Cygnus stared around in amazement, but soon caught sight of Talass' surprisingly bemused expression. "You don't take offense at this, Talass?" he queried.
The priestess gave the Aardian wizard what might have been almost a smirk. "It's you I can't believe, Cygnus. You worship Odin the All-Father, but clearly you've never been to one of his temples. This is nothing new to me."
"I came to his worship later on in my life, Talass." The tall mage looked around again. "I take it collecting tithes isn't much of a problem for Odin's priests."
Now Talass' expression did turn sour. "True. Revelry will always be more popular than justice, it seems."
The group continued to take in the sights. All the way across from where they had come in, on the east side of the room, was a bar that stretched nearly the entire width of the inn. The servers were constantly going to this bar and heading back to the tables laden with trays in a matter that reminded Elrohir of ants. At least a dozen men were working behind the bar, pouring drinks for the solid line of townsfolk who sat shoulder-to-shoulder from one end of the bar to the other. Other men- youths, generally- were moving in and out through one large archway that presumably led to the kitchens and storerooms.
By the northwest corner was another staircase leading up to the second floor. This balcony, however, did not connect with the other one. Only one door on it could be seen, a stout wooden affair banded with strips of iron.
Tojo began to point towards the bar, but Elrohir made a motion for the samurai to lower his arm. "I see him, Tojo," he said quietly.
Portions of a large white mass could be seen intermittently between the mass of servers and customers. It soon became apparent that this was a startlingly white smock worn over an equally white sleeveless shirt.
The man clad in these near-blinding clothes had to be close to four hundred pounds, if not over it. He wasn't particularly tall- six feet at the most- but despite his obese build moved with purpose behind the bar, taking orders sometimes but more often directing other employees.
"I think that's the man we need to see," mumbled Cygnus.
"I can see him just fine from here, thanks," Zantac replied, shielding his eyes with his hand from a mock sun glare.
Cygnus turned to his fellow mage with an innocent smile. "You're quite right. Nothing worse than someone who dresses so loudly it hurts to look at them; is there, Zantac?"
The Willip wizard sneered back as he reached out to tousle the brown hood of Cygnus' frock robe. "Funny. Shouldn't you be penning scrolls in some monastery, Friar Toothpick?"
"Turn it down, you two," remanded Elrohir. "And keep in mind all of you that we don't have any money yet," he continued. "I suspect we may have to spread some of it around."
"Plus we may well need rooms for the night," added Talass.
Zantac shrugged. "What then; do we just stand around until Aslan gets here?"
Argo suddenly took a step forward. "Not at all."
And with that, the big ranger stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out the shrillest whistle any of his friends had ever heard from him.