As afternoon rounded into evening, a coming storm darkened the sky in the west, like early dusk. The clouds pulsed with lightning, and soon were near enough that their thunder could be heard. Wind had begun to gust and swirl when an inn came into sight at a crossroads ahead. Cyncaidh shouted an order and they began to canter, slowing at the last minute, thudding into the hoof-churned yard. Stable boys ran out through the first skirmishers of rain to help the soldiers with the animals, while Varia and Hermiss slid down and ran inside, to stand panting and red-cheeked in the potroom.
Poorly-lit and steamy with moisture, it was already mostly full of travelers, men. They were the only women, and stares, leers, and randy comments were the order of the moment. The men inside didn’t know about the soldiers. A twentyish potboy came over and said loudly, “If you’re here to do a little business, you’ll owe the house a half share.” Then guffawed, smirking around at the men seated there. There were whistles and cat yowls; mugs banged on tables.
Varia would never know why she said what she said next. Perhaps it was a reaction to the smart-mouthed potboy: If he wanted an uproar, so be it. Whatever the reason, she said it loudly: “We’ll eat first. Then, if you can let us use a bed . . .” The cat yowls and whistles swelled, and there were shouts of “you can use ours!” followed by laughter.
They sat down at a table, and Varia quickly realized how seriously she’d erred, for several of the bolder men came leering to their table, leaning over them and making propositions. Hermiss was big-eyed with fright, and Varia, feeling responsible, stood up abruptly.
“You’ve got us wrong!” She said this loudly too. “We want the bed for sleeping!” That turned most of the yowling to laughter, and for the moment disarmed the more aggressive. Then someone called, “She’s playing with you, Barney!” and one of the men grabbed her.
“Just a little kiss to start with,” he said, and pushed his stubbly face in hers. She grabbed him rather as she had Xader, though much less strongly. The electric charge she gave him wasn’t as strong, either, but he screamed, leaping backward with a force that astonished everyone but Varia, to lay curled on the floor mewling.
“Come on, Hermiss,” Varia said, “let’s get out of here.”
No one got in their way, and outside, they stood under the entryway roof, watching rain pour down. Lightning struck nearby with a tremendous snap! BLAM! that shook the porch and almost knocked them down.
A minute later Cyncaidh came loping longlegged through the deluge and stopped near the two girls, grinning like a boy. “We made it just in time! I’m not sure what the possibilities are for lodging though.” With his head he gestured toward the stable. “There were barely stalls enough for our saddle mounts. The remounts and pack animals are tied in a shelter without walls.” He looked at the two women more closely now, examining their auras, especially Hermiss’s. “What’s wrong?”
“I said something stupid,” Varia told him.
He peered at her a moment, then went in, leaving them outside. Two of the soldiers loped up, also drenched and grinning, nodded to the girls and followed their commander.
“What’s going to happen?” Hermiss said timidly.
“Nothing.” I hope. “Wait here.”
Varia went back in, her senses turned high. The air was a mixture of resentment and caution, but gratefully she sensed no impending violence. The man she’d grabbed had made it to hands and knees, to puke out his supper and ale on the plank floor. There wasn’t one whistle or cat yowl. She stood behind Cyncaidh, who was waiting to arrange for seating and beds, and murmured: “I’m afraid I caused some trouble.”
“I’ve noticed.” His tone was dry, acid.
“I didn’t intend to.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
The innkeeper came out then, and recognizing Cyncaidh as an ylf, nodded deeply, almost a shallow bow. Food, he said, was no problem. But as for rooms . . .
When his troops had gathered at the table, Cyncaid told them they’d bed in the hayloft that evening. And no doubt pay for it, Varia thought. She wondered if she was to blame, and decided she probably wasn’t; the place was simply full. Then Cyncaidh turned to her and told her a bed of hay was being made for Hermiss and herself in a box stall normally used for storage.