The things along the way

Later, I rested my back against the wall of The Bent Lance, my tired feet on the stool in front of me. I longed to pull them out of my boots, but decorum prevented me. It was comfort enough to take my weight off of them, to sit back and let the general merriment of the tavern wash over me like the sun breaking through the clouds. It had been a long time since I was among people.

My mood had improved considerably. A hot bath will always do that for me, and I had been fortunate enough in my negotiations with the temple clerk to earn a spare coin to pay for that luxury. I also had a room for two nights, at least, and clothes that were clean, but still a little damp. And a large glass of Verupian red wine, which was inexpensive and a bit bland, but strong enough. I was surprised to find that it was available at the relatively small tavern and delighted when it was served in a glass large enough to make a nice home for a pet fish.

I usually allowed myself one night to relax, free of any concerns after a successful trip and deposit into the grand history of the land. Only one. After that, I started to get antsy. Some members of my occupation were happy to live freely, taking their assignments when and if they came. Not me. I needed to know where my next coin would come from. I needed to chase a tale or learn about something as soon as I could. I didn't like to sit idly or watch my hard-earned coin disappear between my fingers.

I often took my respite at a local drinking establishment, for they were rich mines of local customs and personalities and they very occasionally led to larger things. I had learned of the survival of a cult of Koskians in the upper reaches of The Spine at one such place, for example, and my account of their existence there had not only earned me my largest sack of coins, but my most prized possession: a gift from the head priest himself. I could feel its cool weight in my hidden pocket right now: a Traveling Stone. I remember his moist, appreciative eyes as he pressed it into my hand and I felt the tingle of its old power.

"Use it sparingly," he advised. "It is only a Minor Leaving and its power grows shorter with each use."

Leavings are magical items or tomes left behind by the Elders. They rely on the touch and spirit of their possessors to work. Traveling Stones—or at least the one I have—are activated by a series of gentle rubs and concentration. I cradle the flat, smooth stone with the index and middle finger on my right hand, rub the back of it with my thumb and think of the place I wish to go and the creature to take me there. I had only used it on a few occasions during the long years it has been in my possession because I fear I will exhaust its properties and because if you take such short cuts all the time, you miss many things along the way. And the things along the way were important to me—as they should be to everyone.

Alas, those were the places where a stranger was always welcome at a table and they were disappearing as fast as dew under an early summer sun. I grieve, sometimes, for the future, when I think about what is fading from the world and the only thing to keep them alive is the babbling writings of a cranky old woman.

I pushed aside my empty glass and signaled for a mug of ale instead. Apparently Verupian wine made me as cranky as a wet dwarf and as gloomy as a minstrel among the deaf. I shook it off, forced a smile and took a closer look at the other patrons, instead.

It looked like a good natured bunch, nary a scowl among them. The tavern keeper was a lean man with a piercing gaze that shifted around the room constantly. He wore a colorless shirt that was fraying at the collar and cuffs. The gray apron tied around his waist might have been a darker color once. A short, thick cudgel was tucked into it, just above the string.

Near him, a fat man with loose trousers hoisted one of the tavern wenches on his ample lap and curled her hair around a finger as rounds as a cucumber. She giggled and smiled as she tried to subtly turn her nose away from breath so foul it nearly made the poor girl's eyes water.

A boy caught my attention. He was sitting quietly at a wobbly table near the doorway, a shapeless hat resting on the tabletop next to him. His straw-colored hair was pushed down straight, yet it curled up at the ends like the petals on a flower. His expression was solemn. He might have lived ten summers. He stared intently at the door, his hands clenched together with fingers in constant motion. He started and his eyes widened whenever the door opened, but each time he looked crestfallen at the man or woman who appeared there.

He was waiting for someone, and worried about his or her fate, that much was certain. There might be a tale there and I got to my feet, grasping my half-empty mug as I did.

But then the door burst open again, and the boy and I both looked up, startled at the man who stood framed in the archway. The boy let out a sad sigh because he did not know the man. I cursed softly because I recognized him at once.

It was Connell Malak.