Page 52 of Silverbow
“Could you point me to an inn this side of the river?” She asked.
He shook his head ruefully. “Ought to go back to the Bobber,” he said. “Best inn in Trowbridge. Nothing this side but the sailor’s lodgings. Not fit for a lady, I should think.”
“Thank you.” With a heavy sigh, she turned Arawelo back.
Enya rode across the east end of Trowbridge taught as a bowstring, but aside from a few whistles and shouts that made her blush, she crossed back across the bridge without incident and handed Arawelo off to a stable boy in the spacious yard behind the Bobber.
It was a sprawling inn bigger than any she’d seen before. Voices and laughter drifted out into the street, along with the divine smells of a well staffed kitchen. Enya yanked her hood farther forward before climbing the back steps to where bits of parchment fluttered on the back door.A hair comb and a bit of soap.
A barmaid wrapped in the arms of a patron squeaked when Enya suddenly appeared in the hall, but she pushed beyond the girl and her lover without a word. Steeling herself, she peered around the corner into the boisterous common room. It was packed with men, but two tables were occupied by women with their heads together, speaking in hushed whispers. Enya relaxed slightly at the sight of them.
The innkeeper noticed her standing at the end of his bar immediately and bustled over. Master Ganin was a round man with wispy hair and a crisp white apron. He made no remark on Enya being alone, and showed her promptly to a room on the second floor.
“I have traveled a long way, Master Ganin. Would it be too much trouble to take dinner in my room?”
“Not at all, Miss,” he said, bobbing his head. “One of the girls will be along with a tray.”
“Your best meal, Master Ganin. And a bath, if it is not too much trouble.”
“Not at all, Miss.”
With a dinner spread fit for a feast day and a bath full of suds and rose scented oil, Enya saw why the Bobber was considered the best inn in Trowbridge. She sighed contentedly when she sank into the soft mattress. Gods, how she missed a good feather pillow.
But even as she luxuriated in the crisp, clean linens, she found after sleeping outdoors that the small room seemed to press in on her. It was too quiet, even with the dull buzz of a common room still full of people below. She wasn’t sure what was worse - the crickets and frogs or the quiet.
She had barred the door and jammed a chair beneath the handle, but she still held her breath at every pair of boots that stomped down the hall. Despite the bed, she found little rest. Instead of the dreams of men hunting her, she thought of all those faces downstairs. Faces that would find themselves ten thousand marks richer if they only knocked on her door.
A dense fog clung to the river when Enya stepped out in the morning. As she approached the bridge market, the ships were hidden from view, but it did not dampen the sounds that drifted from the docks. Men shouted to each other over mooring lines, fishermen hauled nets to market, and dockmasters scurried about with great leather bound books, making notations about crew and cargo as they collected the king’s duty.
With the fish market open, the bridge was packed gill to fin, and Enya was jostled as she tried to make her way through the press.
“Rainbow! Brown! Brook! Cutthroat!” A man bellowed over his fish.
“Catfish! Walleye! Largemouth!” Another bellowed over top of him.
“All the way from Durelli! Silk, satin, velvet! Artelaian cotton!”
“Potatoes from the cold cellars in Valbelle!”
The cries were lost in the dull roar of people bidding and haggling. There were spices and sweets, confections and chocolates, leather goods and garments. There were strange fruits she’d never seen before, beautifully blown glass baubles, and one market stall had a cacophony of brightly colored birds in cages.
“All the way from the Summer Isles!” A man shouted, gesturing to the gilded cages.
“Want your aura read, girl?” A hook nosed woman draped in black lace asked as she scurried by.
“No.”
“It blazes like the sun!”
Enya shook her head, hand wrapped tightly around her coin purse and Liam’s carving inside her cloak. There was only one market stall she sought. The pinch faced man made her coppers disappear into a pouch at his waist as she tucked the lamp oil into her cloak.
It was growing too warm to be swathed in wool, but despite the sun that burned away the fog on its ascent, she gave a nervous tug at her hood, ensuring her face was cast in shadow. As she crossed the bridge market, a scurrying boy crashed into her middle. Enya gripped her coin purse, and her hood fell back in the jostle. She righted it, but not before her eyes met those of a man with a jagged scar that ran from chin to ear.
She eyed him with cool disinterest and moved on, but an itch settled between her shoulder blades. Pushing her way to the end of the bridge, she turned out along the docks and darted between the men hauling cargo to waiting carts and wagons. More than one cursed at her underfoot, and more than one whistled after her.
Stepping carefully out of a wagon’s path, Enya stole another look over her shoulder and her heart tried to leap into her throat. The scar faced man was some dozen paces back.If the scar wasn’t enough to set her on edge, the cudgel in his hand surely was, but he didn’t meet her eye again.Fool, she cursed herself as she wove between townsfolk.Bloody fool.
She hoped she was jumping at shadows. A haggard looking woman held out a bolt of cloth as she passed, and Enya paused with feigned interest. From the corner of her eye, she saw the man stop too. Shedidhave a shadow.A blanket roll, a towel, three changes of clothes.
