Page 114 of An Archer's Redemption

Such was the life of an innkeeper—and an innkeeper’s son.

That night, the common room overflowed.

Every major city in the Kingdom was holding qualifying rounds of the annual Tournament of Spires, the chief event of the year where men tried to poke other men with pointy things.

At least, that’s how I saw the games.

There was sword fighting, jousting, marksmanship . . . yeah, I was right—men and sharp, pointy things.

Whatever one thought of the games, the trials drew crowds from all over, and that was good for business.

I raced from table to table taking orders, delivering food, and slinging more mugs of ale than I thought possible. Three separate times, I was called to the kitchen for an emergency cleaning of piled-up tankards, only to immediately fill them for delivery to new patrons. The seasonal nature of the inn’s business could be maddening in slow times, but when things were good, they wereverygood.

The musicians started slower songs, the part of their set designed to calm the rambunctious, highly intoxicated guests before the staff shuffled them off to bed or on to other adventures around town. I shared an appreciative smile with the fiddle player as his bow caressed the strings with a sad, almost melancholy rapture. The guests quieted and sank into the emotional ballad. More than a few eyes were moist by the time the players struck their last chord. With that final note, the players began packing up their instruments and passing their very deep hat one last time to squeeze every drop of juice they could.

I began clearing and wiping tables as most of the patrons took the hint.

One pair of men remained at a table in the corner.

Something in their posture, the way they leaned a little too far and whispered a touch too low, made me uneasy.

I knew both men.

They were among the more successful business owners in town.

What are they scheming about?I wondered.

Unable to overhear any of their conversation, I continued about my work.

When the last of my tables was cleaned and the dishes in the kitchen were put away, I gave the common room one last scan. The two men were still there, still whispering, their eyes still darting around the room. They weredefinitelyup to something.

I couldn’t resist and walked over to their table.

“Can I get you gentlemen anything else tonight? We’re about to close up.”

“Oh, no, Liam. We’re just finishing up. We’ll be out of your hair in a few minutes,” one of the men said. The other stared at his hands and avoided looking up at me.

“In that case, mind if I wipe down your table real quick? I can leave you to your conversation once the table’s clean. Stay as long as you like.”

The talkative man smiled. “Go right ahead, and thank you.”

As I walked away, taking as much time as I could without looking obvious, I caught a tiny snippet of their conversation.

“. . . has to end. Tomorrow’s our best chance to take care of him. Are you with me?”

The other man, the hand starer, spoke. “Aye. Tomorrow.”

And with that, the pair stood, bade me goodnight, and left.

I blew out a long breath.

Nothing in what I heard made any sense, but it caused my stomach to do flips all the same. I didn’t like it one bit.

“Liam,” Ma’s voice called from the kitchen, snapping me out of my thoughts.

“Yes, Ma. I’m wiping down the last table. Be there in a minute.”

The kitchen door swung wide, and Ma appeared in the doorway, her lips quirked to one side.

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