Anatoly had taken Alexander’s advice and donned a breastplate emblazoned with Zuhl’s crest and marked with emblems of rank. He strode into the village with Abigail a step behind and to the left, his battle axe resting on his shoulder and an expression of disdain on his face. The market was nearly deserted when they arrived, all of the shops were closed and the vendor carts tarped over for the night, their owners cooking dinner and preparing for bed as the light rapidly faded and the temperature fell.
“There’s the apothecary,” Anatoly said, motioning to the building in the corner of the marketplace with his chin. “Either we wait ’til dark and break in, or we find an inn and hope we don’t arouse enough suspicion to attract the city guard, then come back tomorrow and buy what we need.”
“We’ll wait until tomorrow,” Abigail said. “I can’t justify stealing from the apothecary … she’s not our enemy, she’s just a shopkeeper trying to make a living. Besides, we need some rest before we head back.”
“Fair enough, looks like the inn is down there.”
All eyes turned toward them when they entered the ale hall that served as the main room for the inn. The building was constructed of stone, as were most buildings on the Isle of Zuhl. The stone tables and benches of the ale hall were coarsely chiseled without any artistry, but functional nonetheless.
Most of the people in the room were old men, too frail to stand in battle, yet still possessed of the experience from many battles past. They regarded Anatoly with a mixture of scrutiny as if weighing his mettle were they to face him at their prime and respect for a man who still had battles left to fight.
Anatoly ignored them, striding purposefully up to the innkeeper. “One room, two beds for the night and a hot meal for us both.”
“Two silver crowns,” the innkeeper said, picking up a mug that was already clean and starting to wipe it down with the towel thrown over his shoulder.
Anatoly slapped two coins onto the counter. The innkeeper raised an eyebrow at him and nodded almost skeptically before collecting the coins and calling to his errand boy to fetch a key.
“So what’s your business here?”
“My business is Lord Zuhl’s business and none of yours,” Anatoly said.
“Don’t mean nothing by it, just curious is all. Most of the men are with the army. We don’t see many soldiers up here now days, let alone an officer.”
Abigail noticed several of the men seated around the room perk up with interest. She started casually looking around, locating the exits and finding the choke points in the room where she could fight without being flanked or surrounded.
“Who should I tell Lord Zuhl is inquiring into his business?” Anatoly asked pointedly. Before the man could stammer out an answer he continued. “What is your name?”
“Forgive me, sir,” the innkeeper said as the errand boy approached with a key. “Please, your room is ready. I’ll have a meal sent up right away.”
Anatoly regarded him calmly until the man started to fidget, then snatched the key from the startled boy, motioning for him to lead the way. Most of the men in the bar went back to their drinks as if the encounter had played out about like they expected it would. Abigail was relieved for that.
The room was simple, the food was bland but plentiful, no doubt a result of Anatoly’s gruff handling of the innkeeper, and the door was stout with a heavy bar. Even though the bed was lumpy, Abigail was asleep within minutes of lying down.
Sometime in the night she woke to the sound of pounding on the door.
“Open up!” a muffled voice demanded.
She schooled her breathing and tried to calm her racing heart as she slipped her feet into her boots and started lacing them up. Anatoly looked to her while lacing his own boots. She nodded for him to answer.
“Who’s asking?” Anatoly said with an undercurrent of menace.
“Captain Voss of Lord Zuhl’s home guard. We’re hunting a fugitive, a woman with silvery blond hair. I have a report that just such a woman is sharing your bed, so I say again, open up.”
“Fight or flee?” Anatoly whispered.
“Flee,” Abigail said, drawing the Thinblade and cutting open the heavy shutters covering the window.
“Just a minute,” Anatoly growled, “let me get my pants on.” Abigail was already on the ground and Anatoly was hanging from the windowsill when he