gruff

And perhaps some ale as well. My wife's waiting outside. We've far to go." The landlord shouted at someone across the room to have patience, then glared at Simon suspiciously- "You'll need your own jug, for none of mine's walking out the door." Simon lifted his jug and the man nodded. "Six cintis for all. Pay now." A little nettled, Simon dropped the coins on the table. The landlord picked them up and examined them, then pocketed the lot and scurried off. Simon turned to survey the room. Most of the denizens seemed to be Falshire-folk, humble in garb and settled in their residence: there were very few who looked as though they might be travelers, despite the fact that this was one of the closest inns to the city gates and the River Road. A few returned his gaze, but he saw little malice or even curiosity. The people of Falshire, if this room was any indication, seemed to have much in common with the sheep they raised and sheared. Simon had just turned back to look for the landlord when he sensed a sudden stirring in the room.

He wondered if the Falshire-folk had indeed had more of a reaction to him than he'd realized. Then a chill breeze touched the back of his neck. The door of the inn was open again. Standing before a curtain of water sluicing down from the roof outside, a trio of white-robed figures calmly surveyed the room. It was not Simon's imagination that all the other folk in the common room shrank back a little into themselves. Furtive glances were darted, conversations grew quieter or louder, and some of the patrons nearest the door sidled slowly away. Simon felt a similar urge. Those must be Fire Dancers, he thought. His heartbeat had grown swifter. Had they seen Miriamele? But what would she have meant to them in any case? Slowly Simon leaned back-against the long table, putting on an air of mild interest as he watched the newcomers. Two of the three were large, as muscled as the dockers who worked the Hayholt's sea gate, and carried blunt-ended walking staves that looked more useful for skull-cracking than hiking. The third, the leader by his position in front, was small, thick, and bull-necked, and also carried one of the long cudgels. As he lowered his rain-soaked hood, his squarish, balding head glinted in the lamplight. He was older than the other two and had clever, piggy eyes. The hum of conversation had now reached something like its normal level once more, but as the three Fire Dancers moved slowly into the common room they still received many covert stares.

The robed men seemed to be openly searching the room for something or somebody; Simon had a moment of helpless fear as the leader's dark eyes lighted on him for a moment, but the man only lifted an amused eyebrow at Simon's sword, then shifted his attention to someone else. Relief swept over Simon. Whatever they wanted, it was apparently not him. Sensing a presence at his shoulder, he turned quickly and found the inn's proprietor standing behind him with a pitted wooden platter. The man gave Simon the mutton and bread, which Simon wrapped in his kerchief, then poured an appropriate measure of ale into the jug. Despite the attention these tasks required, the landlord's eyes scarcely left the three newcomers, and his reply to Simon's courteous thanks was distracted and incomplete.

Simon was glad to be going. As he opened the door, he caught a quick glimpse of Miriamele's pale, worried face in the shadows across the street. A loud, mocking voice cut through the room behind him. "You didn't really think that you could leave without our noticing, did you?" Simon went rigid in the doorway, then slowly turned. He had a parcel in one hand and a jug in the other, his sword hand. Should he drop the ale and draw the blade, or make the jug useful somehow—perhaps he could throw it? Haestan had taught him a little about tavern brawls, although the guardsman's main recommendation had been to avoid them. He completed his pivot, expecting to confront a sea of faces and the threatening Fire Dancers, but found to his astonishment that no one was even looking in his direction. Instead, the three robed men stood before a bench in the corner farthest from the fire. The two seated there, a man and woman of middle years, looked up at them helplessly, faces slack with terror. The leader of the Fire Dancers leaned forward, bringing his catapult-stone of a head almost to the level of the tabletop, but though his position suggested discretion, his voice was pitched to carry through the room. "Come, now. You didn't really think that you could just walk away, did you?" "M-Maefwaru," the man stuttered, "we, we could not ... we thought that ..." The Fire Dancer laid a thick hand on the table, silencing him. "That is not the loyalty that the Storm King expects." He seemed to speak quietly, but Simon could hear every word from the doorway. The rest of the room watched in sickly fascinated silence. "We owe Him our lives, because He has graced us with a vision of how things will be and a chance to be part of it.

You cannot turn your back on Him." The man's mouth moved, but no words came out. His wife was equally silent, but tears ran down her face and her shoulders twitched. This was obviously a meeting much feared. "Simon!" He turned to look back out the inn's door. Miriamele was only a few paces away in the middle of the muddy road. "What are you doing?