that shared it.
Waking about sunset, he found water and a washcloth, and felt much refreshed
hungry and thirsty, too. He made his way to the taproom below. Dusk was blue in
windows and open door, black under the rafters. Candles smeared weak light along
counter and main board and on lesser tables at the walls. The air had grown
cool, which allayed the stenches of the Maze. Thus Cappen was acutely aware of
the smells of beer – old in the rushes underfoot, fresh where a trio of men had
settled down to guzzle – and of spitted meat, wafting from the kitchen.
One-Thumb approached, a shadowy hulk save for highlights on his bald pate.
‘Sit,’ he grunted. ‘Eat. Drink.’ He carried a great tankard and a plate bearing
a slab of roast beef on bread. These he put on a corner table, and himself on a
chair.
Cappen sat also and attacked the meal. ‘You’re very kind,’ he said between bites
and draughts.
‘You’ll pay when you get coin, or if you don’t, then in songs and magic stunts.
They’re good for trade.’ One-Thumb fell silent and peered at his guest.
When Cappen was done, the innkeeper said, ‘While you slept, I sent out a couple
of fellows to ask around. Maybe somebody saw something that might be helpful.
Don’t worry – I didn’t mention you, and it’s natural I’d be interested to know
what really happened.’
The minstrel stared. ‘You’ve gone to a deal of trouble on my account.’
‘I told you, I want to know for my own sake. If deviltry’s afoot, where could it
strike next?’ One-Thumb rubbed a finger across the toothless part of his gums.