A serving maid approached, her apron dirt-stained and her face haggard. “How may I be of service to you sers?” she offered.
“Some drinks, perhaps?”
“Well…there’s water, though some’s sayin’ that be where the plague be from, don’t know as I’d trust that. But it** free. Then there’s the redberry juice, that’s a gold. Beer’s three, wine’s six.”
“Six?” echoed Kzahar in surprise. *It used to be two.”
“It’s dear these days,” she sighed. “Everythin’s dear.”
Bond was fumbling in his pockets, finally finding his purse of gold. It jingled happily as he withdrew it. Krystal laid a hand on his arm to stay him. “Save it for the horses,” she murmured. Turning to her tablemates, she declared, “Waters for all?”
There was a general consensus, but the serving maid tutted disdainfully. “Your funeral,” she sighed, and waddled off. Bond leaned back in his chair, wondering how to go about his business.
When the woman returned, slopping down eight mugs filled with a slightly discolored water, he asked, “I happen to be a singer, and storyteller, on occasion. You wouldn’t happen to have a guitar or flute, or any other instrument lying around, would you?”
“We have a guitar,” she replied slowly. “’Twould be grand if you’d care to entertain, ser, although there’s small company to hear. ‘Tis been a long time.”
He smiled charmingly. “It would be my pleasure.”
She disappeared to speak with the innkeeper, who agreed wholeheartedly, and minutes later returned with a small stool and guitar. She set them down towards the back of the inn, away from the door. A few heads turned at the sight.
19-May-2007 19:15:10