Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, places, etc. created by Mercedes Lackey.

CHAPTER 4: Torrigan

Torren flapped his wings, trying to regain his equilibrium in the face of the wind's continued onslaught. Tiny hailstones bit into the soft flesh beneath his feathers, which were quickly becoming drenched.

:I'm cold, wet, misserrrable, and I'm cerrrtain I'll catch a cold frrrom thisss.: Torren complained to his partner. And he meant every word. Unfortunately, they happened to be flying over a lake at the moment. And if that weren't bad enough, the lake they happened to be flying over just so happened to be Lake Evendim itself.

:Of course, we would just have to be caught in the first big spring rainstorm right at the moment we were half-way across the biggest lake this side of the continent. Figures.:

:You sssshouldn't be complaining. I'm the one who'sss experrriencing it perrrsssonally.:

:You're the one who wanted to take a look at "one of the most historically significant locations in Valdemar." What was it you said? Ah, yes, I remember now: "An educational opportunity to fly over such a historic monument of civilization's most significant war must not be passed." And you know what I say to that? To the nine hells with your "historical monument!" Curse you, you stupid featherball:

:Asss I rrrrecall, you werrre the one who wanted to sssee that little merrchant-town.:

Rigan was incensed. :What do you mean, 'little merchant-town'? Sure, it used to be a trading town, but since the war with Hardorn and our treaties with the Hawkbrothers, it's now the largest trading outpost in western Valdemar, practically a city! And just because I want to see the place doesn't give you the excuse to insult—":

:Apologiesss. But we usssually tend to avoid the morrre heavily-populated arrreasss. Arrre you rrready to finally sssee sssome civilization:

Rigan was struck with a sudden doubt. :No, never mind. It was a stupid idea, anyway, and I know how much difficulty we have with being around so many people…:

:I'll be fine: the gryphon said lightly. :It will be a change. We may even ssspend a few daysss at an inn, decsside wherrre we ssshould go frrrom herrre. Rrrigan: his tone turned serious. :About the way we have been living thessse passst few yearrrs; I think it would be bessst if--: Torren broke off with a sudden yelp as lightning struck by too close for comfort.

:What was that, Torren:

:It wasssn't imporrrtant: the gryphon sent awkwardly. :Jussst that ssspending sssome time in thisss town might be a nicsse change of pacsse.:

:I suppose so. Maybe we'll even find some temporary employment there; I've been wanting to do something for quite a while, but in our condition, well…:

:Yesss: the gryphon responded thoughtfully, and added, as if to himself. :We'll sssee about fulfilling both of ourrr dessirrresss in the town…:

The clouds rumbled, letting loose another barrage of hailstones and stinging rain.

:…As soon as we get out of this gods-cursed thunderstorm: thought both simultaneously.

o.o.o.o.o

Westridge was a bustling town, Torren noted with some discomfort. Some of that discomfort transferred itself onto Rigan, and he could feel Torren shifting restlessly deep within their shared body.

Rigan cursed inwardly. He'd forgotten how claustrophobic the gryphon could be, and they weren't even in the town proper yet. He pulled his cloak more tightly about himself as though it were a shield, silently fretting over his hair, his clothing, the almost imperceptible aura of otherness that clung to his body, causing people to unconsciously give him space. He passed below the guards standing watch on the city's walls, remnants from a past when Westridge stood sentry against the wild Pelagirs on Valdemar's western frontier.

Rigan could feel Torren's rising panic as walls began to surround them on all sides and he quickly sought a distraction.

"You know, we really could use a horse," he said out loud.

:What:

"Look, I know you can fly, but I think it would be a good idea." A woman passing by looked at him strangely. Rigan colored slightly and continued his conversation internally. :For one thing, we wouldn't have to depend on your flying, and it would be faster than my walking. And what if we became injured? You can still fly, I'm not arguing against that, but when we actually move, we could use the horse. For carrying our supplies, and--:

:Hmm. Firrrsst, you want to tourrr a larrrge town, now you want a horrrsse. Could it be that you arrre finally becoming civilizssed? No longerrrr hiding frrrom the worrrld, now, arrre we, hmmm: Fortunately for Rigan's peace of mind, Torren seemed oddly pleased :Next, you will be wanting to sssettle down, yess:

Rigan froze. :Don't be ridiculous! How can we possible stay in one place, like this? Whenever we stay any place for just a fortnight or two, well, look what happens! No, we can't live among your people--:

:No, I sssupposse not: the gryphon concurred sadly. :But--:

:--And we certainly can't settle in a town. You hate large towns! You know what would happen: By now, Rigan had forgotten that the entire point of the conversation was to divert Torren's attention from the town they were now in.

Just then, Rigan caught sight of an inn—a cheerful looking place with brightly-painted shutters, situated across the street from a group of large warehouses built for caravan traders to store their goods. It was a tall building, with small balconies on the upper two levels. Three sides surrounded an interior courtyard, with a detached stable completing the square-shaped complex. A blue-painted sign proudly declared the place to be the Lakeside Inn, though it was only the town's eastern limit which bordered on Lake Evendim's shore, and not actually the inn itself. :That looks like a respectable place. Let's stay there tonight.:

o.o.o.o.o

As usual, Rigan and Torren took the most inconspicuous seat in the darkest corner furthest away from the entrance to the inn's tavern room. Once situated, they discussed their next move.

:Ssssoo, oh wondrrrouss plannerrr, what sshall be ourr firrsst move? Horrrssse, orr sshould we jusst procsseed dirrectly with moving on to the next village:

Rigan ignored the gryphon's sarcasm. :Horse, definitely. I hear the Tale'sedrin have brought up some fine beasts this spring. And, if you're nice, we can go see that temple you've been wanting to record about in your journals.:

"Paki!" someone shouted. "PAKI!" They turned around, curious, only to be nearly knocked out of their seat by a passing whirlwind. The whirlwind came to a screeching halt several paces away, near the fireplace where a scarlet-clad figure bent over a worn saddlebag. The former whirlwind, Rigan and Torren noticed, was actually a boy in his mid-teens who could only be described as striking with his pronounced cheekbones, dark skin and black, longish hair drawn back into a haphazard braid. He clutched a ladle in his right hand. Apparently, he was the inn's cook.

:Shin a'in: Torren announced.

:Huh:

Shin a'in blood. Half-brreed. One of the clansss trrade up herre. Since the mage storrrmss:

:Oh.: Interest piqued now, Rigan paid closer attention to the duo by the fireplace. The figure bent by the fireplace was in woman in her mid-forties with medium-length hair, light-brown in color. As they watched, the woman bent down again to stuff a beautifully crafted lyre into the saddlebag.

A Bard. But what would a Bard be doing here at this inn? Rigan and Torren took in their surroundings. The tavern was certainly large and clean enough, but obviously suffering from neglect. There were only a few patrons scattered here and there, and, with a few exceptions, their garments suggested that they were clerks from the warehouses across the street. A single serving girl hurried from table to table, disappearing behind the same swinging door through which the boy had made his own entrance, then reappearing laden with dishes she distributed to the few customers. She then collected the empty dishes and orders from the various patrons before rushing back through the swinging door, continuing this same frantic routine over and over again.

Hmm. Rigan looked down at his own meal. Or at what had been his meal; the food had been surprisingly good. And yet there were so few customers…

: This place is sorely in need of better management.: Torren kept silent.

"What's the matter, Jaron?" The two turned their attention back to the Bard and her companion by the fireplace. The Bard shook her head.

"My fiddle, boy. The one your mother saves in the back for me, for when I come up here to Westridge for a visit? Always kept it in the accounting room. Thought I'd play something cheerful on it for your customers." The Bard broke off and looked around the tavern room. She blinked and turned back to the adolescent. "Or what remains of your customers, I should say." Jaron fixed the boy with a look. "What in Havens name is going on here, boy? I know your mother's been having a bit a trouble running the place the last couple of years—she wrote me about it—but never in the years I've known her has it been this bad!" The boy shuffled awkwardly as Rigan and Torren observed the pair with interest. "Now, what's happened since the last time I visited?"

As the boy opened his mouth to speak, he was cut off by a loud sploosh! followed by a cry of alarm. Then came the sound of a chair being overturned. The boy, the Bard, Torren and Rigan all shifted their attention to the other side of the tavern where the commotion had originated.

One of the clerks was clutching the serving girl's arm while trying at the same time to hold his dripping shirt away from his body. The man was carrying on while the girl, a child of about ten bearing features similar to those of the boy, squirmed in his grasp.

"I cannot believe this!" The man practically howled, "Just spilled ale all over my one good new tunic of the season, right before I have a meeting with the head of the Weavers Guild, and doesn't even apologize…" and so on in this vein. Before any of the other customers could intervene, the girl stopped her squirming and kicked the man squarely in the solar plexus, scampering away while he doubled over in pain. She took refuge behind Rigan, ducking behind his back. Rigan and Torren started. What does she--?

"Hey!" The man, now somewhat recovered, tried to grab at the girl. "Now wait just a minute," Rigan blocked the man's advances. He looked around for the retired mercenary which such a large tavern usually would maintain on its staff, but that little detail, like the rest of the inn, had apparently been neglected as well.

Wonderful.

"Maybe you'd like to step outside and have some fresh air to clear your head," Rigan said as placatingly as he could. "I'm certain that the innkeeper will deal with the girl." Already he could feel Torren mantling within, bristling for a fight.

"The innkeeper's just a kid, too! He was standing right there—" the clerk pointed in the general direction of the fireplace. "And the exact same thing happened to me a se'nnight, too!" He finally succeeded in grabbing the serving girl's collar.

Out of the corner of his eye, Rigan could see the Bard approaching, a determined expression on her face. The teen boy was also approaching, his features set in an angry expression, oddly enough directed at the younger girl. But both were still several paces away, and so Rigan stepped in front of the girl and tugged at the clerk's arm, detaching his hand from the girl's collar. The other man staggered back a few paces, a bit tipsy from ale. As he tried to regain his balance, his other arm swung out sideways and bopped Rigan in the face.

Thwack!

And Rigan's final thought, before Torren took over, was why do we always attract these types?

The boy and the Bard both ducked as the drunk flew through the air to hit the wall behind them with a loud thump. He slid down the wooden panels with a groan. Torren inhaled a sharp gasp and quickly turned to hide his face away from his fascinated audience. Golden eyes faded to blue, and Rigan sighed as his fingernails returned to normal length and the twin fires below his shoulder blades faded away. Torren had managed to regain a fair amount of control this time, a fact for which they were both grateful. They collected themselves and Rigan turned back to face the tavern.

Only to come face-to-face with the fascinated expressions of the Bard and her young comrade.

"That was an interesting trick," the Bard commented. The boy just stared at Rigan, turned to glance at the prostrate clerk, and gulped. The serving girl followed her brother's gaze, and then turned to look up at Rigan with almost sickening adoration.

:It'sss the grrryphon charrrrm.: Torren sounded smug, though somewhat shaken. :They'rrrre alwaysss attrrracted to the grrryphon charrrm. It'sss only naturrral.: Rigan mentally rolled his eyes and walked over to the clerk.

"Sir, I must apologize," he said gently. "I'm afraid I overreacted a bit."

" 'Overreacted'?" the Bard muttered to herself. "I'd give that 'overreaction' a high score for impact, 'cept that the trajectory was off."

Rigan ignored the sarcastic comment with great dignity and helped the man up to his feet, guiding him to a nearby seat. "You had every right to be annoyed at the serving girl, though mayhap a little too much drink made you overly harsh."

The clerk looked somewhat wary of Rigan, but seemed placated at his little speech. "And what about my tunic?" he demanded.

Rigan let out a deep breath. "I'm certain that the innkeeper will not let such an incident go without compensation this time, sir. Why don't you get cleaned up in one of the guestrooms upstairs, and then the innkeeper will see about replacing that tunic?" He looked over at Shin'a'in teenager who nodded, an expression of profound gratitude on his face.

Rigan turned back, and set his features into the customer-pleasing smile honed by a childhood of working at village shops and inns. "Well," he said cheerfully. "That takes care of our little problem now, doesn't it?"

o.o.o.o.o

"Let me take care of that for you," the boy said, reaching for Rigan's bruised cheek with a cold, damp cloth. "By the way, my name is Khaliko. What's y--?"

"I thought that your name was Paki," Rigan interrupted. The boy turned red while the girl and the Bard laughed. "Actually, his full name is Khaliko Anu'shka. But we all call him Paki. And this little scamp here," she nodded at the girl, "is called Ramla Anu'shka." She stood up. "And I'm Jaron Lalo, Master Bard at your service." She bowed. "Here on vacation. And you are…?"

:Ssince we both made ourrsselvess known to thiss interrresssting grroup: the gryphon said dryly, interrupting Rigan's response. :Perrhapss we sshould give them both ourr namess. Of course, Torren Rigan sounds rather silly, doesn't it: Rigan blinked.

Well, I suppose that's only fair. Torren plus Rigan, Rigan plus Torren—Rigorren? No…Ganren…Torrigan. Yes! He turned towards Jaron.

"My name's Torrigan. And I'm glad to meet you all."

:That isss the bessst you could come up with:

:Shut up, featherball.:

"And we, in turn," said Jaron, "Are quite glad to meet you. Especially Ramla here. Speaking of which, Paki, you still haven't answered my question." She turned toward the boy, who swallowed and looked at his feet. "A year ago, any patron's complain would have been addressed without needing to bully a hireling! And your mother would never have let—" She stopped and sternly looked at Ramla, who returned the glare with an angelic expression. "—And your mother would never have let this place fall into such disrepair. So out with it, boy; what in Havens name has been going on? Where's your mother?"

Paki only withdrew further. "She's gone," Ramla said, her face carefully blank.

"Gone? As in, back to the Dhorisha Plains to be with the rest of her Clan? Or…" Jaron stopped short. Rigan and Torren understood; the answer was plain in the faces of the two siblings. "Oh."

"What about their father?" Rigan interjected.

Jaron shook her head. "Johab died some years ago, during the Mage Storms. The Change-circles spawned some unholy things, especially so close to the Pelagirs, and there were some already created before they got the shield-wall up; Johab volunteered for a party to hunt them down before they got into the city. He didn't make it back from one of the hunts." Rigan and Torren could only understand; they both knew very well the "unholy things" created by the Change-circles.

If I hadn't gone storming out after what Widow Marmon said. So self-assured that I could get anywhere I wanted in life on confidence alone…vowed I'd make something of myself, poor as a temple-mouse I might be, and to the hellfires with what everyone else said! But the thunderstorm—should've realized by then they always accompanied those Mage Storms. Walked right into the teeth of one, over that rickety old bridge when the lightning hit. I would've drowned too, if Torren hadn't saved my sorry behind. I owe him a lot, though I sometimes think death might be easier than what followed…

But it was no use to reminisce on "what-ifs;" maybe, when all was said, they had been luckier than some. And maybe they could find something to do with their lives, as entwined as they were. Some way to become more than recluses, find their niche somewhere…

Jaron was talking to the siblings now, oblivious to the other pair's ruminations. "…both of you, trying to run this place alone. I can't fathom it."

"It gets worse, Cousin." Paki said dryly, and he chuckled a bit despairingly. "We've competition now. Town keeps growing, and none of the merchants want to deal with a couple've kids. And now the grain-growers, they say they don't have to follow through on the deal to keep us in flour or cornmeal for the next year…"

"When'd you sign it?" Rigan broke in.

"Huh?"

"The contract, youngling. When did you—your mother, I mean—sign the contract with the local farmers? And was kind of deal was it?"

Jaron and Paki traded mystified expressions. "Um, Mother signed one five years ago, then renewed it two years ago for a three-year deal. And she paid ahead part of it. I think. I mean, there's so many contracts and things she left in her desk in the accounting room, and I've been trying to get them all figured out since she d—since she left us."

"Um." Rigan's mind was racing now, long-repressed memories coming to the fore. He remembered working at the tavern, the shops in his hometown, learning all he could so he'd never end up a beggar on the streets. "They can't do that."

"But they said, that as mother's not here and it's just us kids, 'sides as we can't pay them back half of the--"

"They still can't do that. Laws, regulations. They're legally bound to hold to the contract, whether or not your parents are alive, so long as you continue to run the inn and the inn was legally passed from your mother to you. And they have to wait a certain period while you get the inn back to running normally again. One of my old employers, she made sure it was still law, in case something happened to her and her young brood had to take over." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Here now, where's that contract? I'd like to take a look."

Paki blinked, but he led Rigan to the small office area he dubbed "mother's accounting room," with a fascinated Ramla and mildly amused Bard in tow. The accounting room, it turned out, was located in a small area behind the kitchen—which Torren suggested was probably because the oven fires would keep the room quite cozy in winter—and was furnished with a large desk, a worn bookshelf carrying various tallying books, and a sturdy chest of drawers. The desk itself contained a variety of pens, charcoal pencils, inkbottles, parchment and writing slates; the top of the bookshelf was ornamented with some odd little figurines Rigan assumed to be of Shin a'in origin. The chest was crammed full of various papers and documents, plus one battered, ugly fiddle which Jaron immediately grabbed and hugged to her chest. It took Rigan all of thirty seconds to make sense of the system in which the papers were organized, and about three seconds more to immerse himself in the inn's business matters.

Apparently, this place was quite an operation. Whoever said that Shin a'in horse traders know their finances definitely knew what she was talking about. He settled down to the pleasure of sorting, filing and putting a royal to mess finally to rights. It was like being thirteen again and helping the village apothecary keep inventory.

"Just a little effort and you can have this place running ship-shape again," he pronounced to the dubious little group crammed into the small room.

:The weaverr iss one with the loom, I sssee.: the gryphon commented dryly as Rigan rifled through the file marked "Contracts—merchants—kitchen." :Shut up, featherball.: Rigan responded absently. "Aha!" he declared, fishing out the contract he had been looking for. "Here we are. And, see?" He waved the contract in front of Jaron and Paki. "Legally tied and bound, as I said. But…" he continued, skimming the last few lines of the document, "you could really do better. This is a good contract for when it was made two years ago, but Westridge has expanded since then. What about those caravan warehouses next door? I'm pretty certain that they represent some other farmers' groups, and I've heard village folk say with prices as they are right now--"

"Hold on there, just a moment," Jaron interrupted, laughing. "And they say that Bards are masters at grabbing an audience. Have you ever run an inn before, maybe your mother or your father was one? You are a bit young."

Rigan blinked. "Erm, no, not exactly, though I worked at one for a brief time, as a server." And I'm not that young. Especially not when you add Torren's age to mine!

"A bit knowledgeable for a server, though, aren't you, Torrigan?"

"Working in an inn gave me some insight and ideas for how I'd run one some day. Or my own shop."

"Really." It wasn't a question so much as a statement, and there was a hint of something in the Bard's voice. "You don't seem the greedy type, though." Jaron seemed to address that last statement to herself.

Rigan was more than a little put out. :What, by the Lord and Lady, is wrong with ambition? Why do people give me such strange expressions when my interest in something is more than just as an average hireling? Like when Widow Marmon said that as just a poor orphan, I should content myself with having found any halfway decent work at all. Just once, I'd like to meet someone who understood my desire to pull myself up in this world. Just once.:

:Errr, Rrrigan? You may like making plansss, but living asss we do, therrre hasss alwaysss been a perrrfect excussse forrr you to avoid purrrsuing them. Assk yourssself: do you rrreally have what it takesss:

Rigan bristled. :Well, I'm not going to allow the next opportunity to pass me by.:

I'm through hiding. But Rigan was visited by the brief thought that he'd just been goaded into doing something. He tried nudging Torren further, but received no response. He gave up and worked to explain himself to Jaron.

"It's not greed! There's just a challenge, I suppose you would say, in building something up larger and stronger. If anyone knows how important that kind of security is, it's me. Even in Valdemar, a kid without family has to work hard to find a place for himself, or end up begging in the streets. And since there's nothing to tie me down, why not take the risk in going out to find that place?"

"So you'd be willing to take a lot on." Rigan looked up. Yes; the Bard was definitely smiling, and Paki seemed optimistic. Ramla looked worried.

Rigan blinked. "What are you--?" He stopped. Yes, Jaron was definitely grinning and Paki wore an expression of a lost pilgrim who, after having traversed a parched desert for many days, has finally discovered a source of fresh, clean water. And Torren, in that shared part of him, laughed and said :Thisss iss the besst chancsse we everr had, and we'rrre not going to rruin it.:

"Oh."

I suppose we did find a place to stay, after all.