Except for one night when he had left the drovers who’d sold him an elderly but sturdy pack-beast to carry his possessions, and was proceeding on his own. He was nearly to the Benden Hold borders, the head drover had told him, and recommended the inland road as being the shorter way. He’d passed a Runner Station mid-afternoon, but decided to travel as far as he could that night. As the sun was nearly down over the mountains, he was beginning to look around for any shelter, even an old Thread halt, when he came across a runner trace. These were always laid out as the straightest distance between two points, so he switched to the narrow, mossy trace and was ascending a hill when he saw lights ahead, off to his left, snug against a forest. The trace was bisected by a wider road that appeared to lead directly to the hold, so he turned, his elderly pack animal moaning in protest.
“It’s near by. Not much further, and you can eat, too.”
The animal groaned on a different note. If Robinton hadn’t been so tired and hungry, he’d have been amused at the variety of sounds the beast could make.
As he approached the cothold, he smelled tantalizing odours coming from within and his stomach growled. So did several canines within the cot. The pack-beast gave off a loud, slightly fearful protest.
“They’re inside and can’t hurt you,” he told the beast as he resettled his tunic, pushed his hair neatly behind his ears, and courteously rapped at the door.
“Who’s there?” a sharp male voice demanded, and then told the
canines to shut their fuss. “Can’t hear over the noise.”
A female voice murmured something.
“A traveller, in need of a night’s lodging,” Robinton said.
“Can you pay?”
“Certainly.” A harper was expected to sing and entertain for supper.
He would usually offer a half-mark, but was always refused.
The door opened a crack, but he couldn’t see the face of the man, the light being behind him.
“Who be you.”?” the man asked.
“Robinton’s my name,” the journeyman replied with a slight bow, and put his hand to his belt pouch. “I have good Harper Hall marks—”
“Ha! Harper Hall.” There was contempt in the voice.
“They’re good at any Gather,” Robinton said, more than a little taken aback by the response.
“Do let him in, Targus. We’ve more than enough stew,” the woman said. She pulled the door open, peering out at him. “Why, it’s only one man, Targus. And carries no weapons but an eating knife.” She swung the door wider and Robinton could see four large men seated at the table. “Sortie, boy, go put his pack-beast in the lean-to, and come in, Robinton, you said your name was? I’m Kulla,” she told him.
A gawky lad appeared and slipped past Targus, taking the lead rope from Robinton’s hand and clucking encouragingly at the pack-beast. The animal started to resist, but Robinton swatted him across his stubborn rump and he followed the boy.
“I really appreciate your hospitality, lady,” he said, ducking his head to step into the room. He nodded impartially around at the others. “I’m on my way to Benden Hold.”
“He’s a harper, Pa. That’s blue cords on his shoulder,” one of the diners said, pointing with his knife at Robinton’s left arm.
Targus, scowling deeply, hauled Robinton around so that he could see the offensive cords himself.
“Now, you see here, Targus,” the woman said, planting both fists on her ample hips and glaring at her spouse. “You keep me from Gathering, but if a harper comes to my door, I’m not turning him out. Not that I’d turn anyone away so late in the night.”
She grabbed Robinton’s other arm and pulled him away from Targus’s grasp and towards the table.
“Brodo, get a plate. Mosser, a cup. All we’ve got’s beer but it’ll quench a thirst.” She angled Robinton towards the table and pushed him into what he took to be her own chair. Taking the plate from Brodo, who was grinning as he passed it to his mother, she filled it amply and gestured for him to be seated. “Erkin, the bread’s by you. And, Targus, you sit. I’m so eager to see a smiling face that I’d eat with a watchwher who did.”