Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
At the top of the stairs, I find myself in a hall that stretches out a building length in both directions. Somehow, the second floor is twice the size of the lower, suggesting the space has been retrofitted over the other stores and enterprises of commerce on the first level.
“This way,” the woman announces, as if she’s a herd dog and we’re sheeplings.
I glance at Merc, who’s planted his boots. His eyes are narrowed, but it’s not at the innkeeper who’s scuffing her way off to the right. He’s assessing all the doors, particularly the ones that are going to be behind us if we follow our felted leader. It’s like he can see through them, even though I know he can’t.
I wait for him.
What a dreary place this is. Though there are regularly spaced lanterns throwing yellow light, it’s a dingy gloaming up here. Then again, even the interiors are done in that weathered gray boarding, leading me to believe the town either got a deal or felled an entire forest of whatever tree it is.
When Merc gives me a brisk nod, I start walking to the right. The number of rooms is nearly unfathomable to me, and I can hear people on the other sides of the doors, the men and women emitting … certain noises … that are familiar to me.
It’s clear that mead, iffy food, and shelter are not the only things on offer.
Fortunately, the “certain” sounds diminish the farther down we go, suggesting that the hourly rooms are the ones at the top of the stairs, and the lodgings are at the ends. This makes sense, given the traffic.
“Here ya go,” the woman says as she throws open the very last door.
As luck would have it, there’s a flash of orange lightning just as I step into the darkness, and the peachy illumination flickers in through the closed shutters.
“The lamp’s here on the table.” As she turns the glowing wick up, thunder offers a threatening commentary. “You get one measure of oil with the price of the room. Extra costs. If you’ll be wanting soap, it’s extra. But the blankets are included and so is the en suite. You said one night, but you’re going to be here longer, Mr. and Mrs., so I’ll be needing more payment tomorrow morn before the bar opens at ten.”
Merc’s still out in the corridor, and I have the sudden thought that he’s going to stay there and guard the door as I sleep.
“We’re here for tonight only,” he announces.
The innkeeper laughs as another streak of lightning licks into the room, like something that’s locked out and testing weak points for entry.
“The rain’s comin’.” She points to another doorway. “The en suite. It’s the only one in the building. You’re lucky. Only one meal included downstairs.”
“You’ll bring the food up here to us.”
Merc presses a coin in the woman’s hand as she opens her mouth—and she checks to see what it is before smiling.
“Whatever you be wantin’—”
“Tell anyone you care about not to open that door without an invitation.” He points to what she unlatched for us. “Otherwise, they’ll be dead before they hit the floor. And the same goes for any of our possessions. If they’re moved even a hair, I will know and I will do something about it. Are we clear.”
The temperature seems to drop, not just in the room, but along the corridor and throughout the building, and the woman’s expression of bored tolerance shifts into a something entirely serious.
She nods once as she eyes the scar on his face. “What time do you want your food, sir.”
“Now. My wife is tired and hungry.”
“As you wish.”
She closes the door silently, and I look at the gray panels as the sound of her shuffling footfalls disappears.
Suddenly, the reality that we are here, in the Badlands, at the Outpost, settles on me like a cloak of nettles.
Our arrangement has been fulfilled. At least on his side.
And I wonder how long he will stay with me. Only the night, apparently.
For all the distance we’ve traveled, and all the time I’ve had with my inner thoughts, I never considered what I would do when I was finally here: The trip was so dangerous, the destination seemed irrelevant.
I’m not ready to be on my own yet—
“You need to sleep,” Merc informs me. Like he’s diagnosing an injury.
My eyes go to the bed.
It’s very large, and I’m entirely unsurprised that the blankets are made of red and brown felt. There are two thin pillows set side by side, and the headboard is of course made up of that gray wood that reminds me too much of the rocks in the lake basin. As I slip off my pack and put it at the base of the mattress, I glance around. The rest of the room is just as simple. There’s that table with the lamp, and a dresser that looks as exhausted as I feel. Across the way, a bowed-out section, marked with the set of shutters, offers a window seat, but there are no cushions. Just more of that wood—