That had been three weeks ago. Alterith’s small store of daens had been used up now, and he had no coin for the rent, which was due tomorrow. He had tried to find employment as a clerk, but the word had gone out that he was ‘suspect’ and a ‘Kilt lover’. No Varlish businessman would even give him the benefit of an interview.
The winter was proving a harsh one, and many of the roads south were blocked by snowdrifts. With no income, no savings and no work Alterith faced a bleak future. If he sold his books he might have enough money to buy passage to Baracum, but he knew no-one there. Life had been good this year, despite the departure in the spring of Gaise Macon to the capital, and the loss of income that had entailed. Now he was to pay for his happiness.
Discarding his blanket he put on his shoes, locked his door, and descended the three flights of stairs to the dining room. The other ten guests were already at table. They ignored Alterith as he took his place. He ate in silence, listening to the conversation. More talk of civil war in the south. The legendary cavalry general Luden Macks had been arrested for treason, but had been acquitted by the people’s court. He had been rearrested on the orders of the king and tried by the Privy Council. He was due to hang within the month. There was also talk of unrest in the north. The Black Rigante had apparently murdered Colonel Linax, and the Moidart was mustering troops to move against them in the spring.
Alterith finished his meal, mopping up the last of his gravy with a piece of bread. The landlady, a sour-faced widow named Edla Orcombe, approached him as he left the table. She had always been polite, though never friendly. During the last few difficult weeks that politeness had worn thin. ‘I have had enquiries regarding rooms, Mr Shaddler,’ she said. ‘Will you be keeping your room past this present month?’
‘We will speak tomorrow, madam,’ he said, aware that the other guests were listening.
‘Indeed,’ she told him. ‘Oh, by the way, a young Kilt came by this afternoon to see you. Called at the front door, if you please. He left a note. It is upon the table in the hall.’ Alterith thanked her and walked out into the corridor. The note was where Edla Orcombe had said it would be. It was wax-sealed, though the seal had been broken, the note obviously having been opened and read. Alterith swallowed his annoyance. Unfolding it he saw that it was signed in black ink by someone called Maev Ring. He had heard the name. The clanswoman had a small business making clothes. She was also, he seemed to recall, the mother of the troublesome Kaelin Ring. The note was short and to the point. It invited Alterith Shaddler to call upon Maev Ring the following day two hours before noon. Cursory directions were provided.
In normal circumstances Alterith would have sent back a note politely refusing the invitation. He was not comfortable in the presence of women. On this occasion, however, it gave him an opportunity to leave his lodgings for a day, avoiding the questioning of Edla Orcombe, and the embarrassment of admitting that his funds were gone.
He slept badly, the wind rattling the window, ice forming on the inside of the glass. The morning sky was dull and overcast, the temperature well below freezing. Alterith rose and dressed. He shivered as he did so, his hands blue with cold. He descended the stairs to the dining room. Breakfast was being served, and a fire was blazing in the hearth. Alterith poured himself a cup of hot tisane and sat by the fire. It would take him almost an hour to walk to Maev Ring’s home. His teeth would be chattering by the time he reached it.
Edla Orcombe moved into the dining room, heading past the tables, her small eyes fixed on Alterith. His heart sank. ‘Good morning to you, Mr Shaddler.’
‘And to you, Mrs Orcombe.’
‘Will you be requiring dinner this evening?’