The Fickle Winds of Autumn
25. The Lone Calf Inn

Borwick slammed his fist down on the tavern table; the dazed jugs of ale bounced up in shock.

“A pox on your simple-oaf-mind! You worthless dolt!” he scowled at Pocket.

His disparaging tones were almost lost against the heady background din of the other revellers who crammed onto the low hewn stools and benches of The Lone Calf Inn.

Around him, the wooden floor creaked and groaned in a futile protest under the weight of its jovial customers; they chattered and laughed with an irritating volume, about the success of their busy day in the market.

The tantalising smell of hog - roasting over the well-salted fire - rejoiced in every corner the room; but its succulent bubbling juices and moist seasoned meat had tasted bland and insipid in his irate mouth.

Even the tavern’s fine ales, which usually danced merrily on the tongue and were renowned throughout all the southern counties, seemed stale and bitter.

His nerves grated further as the rosy-cheeked fiddle player in the corner struck out a lively tune. The merry revellers around him squealed with delight as they linked arms and jigged to its discordant, screeching melody.

Even the lively fire which danced in the hearth seemed intent on joining in with the fun. But its hearty welcome did little to invigorate or warm away the dank gloom of autumn.

It had not been an encouraging day’s work - and this tavern had definitely gone down-hill since last he was there.

“I should skin you for your worthless efforts!” continued Borwick.

Pocket whitened and looked away, suitably cowed and quiet.

Borwick stared and waited, daring the fool to answer back.

But if Pocket was useless, he still knew who was in charge.

He had doled out plenty of bruises across his ugly, stupid, grinning face before now - and was more than ready to do so again.

Slaves, women and dogs were not the only things which needed to be kept in line with a good beating.

Shame the simpleton only had the one nose to break.

“That dammed girl!” Borwick barked. “She’s cost us dear! If I ever get my hands on her again - the Surrounder himself wouldn’t be able to put the pieces back together.”

His companions all seemed determined to avoid his eye; they stared down hard at the table and the floor.

Cowards!

He gulped down another tasteless swig of ale.

“At least we managed to get most of the others back, boss,” Dak said.

“And the horses - don’t forget about them,” Pocket added.

“The ones we recaptured were all so weak and worthless, even you two dolts couldn’t mess that up!” Borwick glowered.

He drained the last of his jug and slammed it down on the table.

“And they’ll hardly bring in any profit at the port - this whole trip has been a wasted journey!”

Why had he been cursed to work with such incompetent fools?

Even the ale could not blind him to their worthless failings.

This had not been an encouraging day.

Perhaps another drink would help ease his troubles?

And far better to drink at the bar than sit here with these useless idiots and be constantly reminded of their miserable bungling.

He rose abruptly and forced a path through the bothersome crowd to the bar.

All this jollity was giving him a headache.

He stood next to a snub-nosed little man with balding grey hair.

The stranger smiled up at him; his bleary eyes twinkled above podgy, rosy cheeks.

The stranger swayed gently and held onto the bar for support, getting as close to it as his rotund belly would allow.

“I see your luck be not so good today, master slaver,” he said.

“Luck be damned…” Borwick replied.

“Yes! I see’d your fun and games in the market-square this afternoon. Tis the talk of the town! Ho ho! We all did laugh!”

“There ain’t a-nothing to be a-laughing at - and if I ever catch them that did this to me, I’ll flay them alive and then boil them in salted tar, as a lesson to any others who may think of interfering in my business.”

“Easy now, master slaver,” said the stranger, “no offence intended. It’s just my little bit of fun.”

He took a swig from his jar and smiled back up.

“So you’d be keen to find those that set your slaves all a-loose then, master slaver?”

“I’d be keen alright, may the Surrounder help them…”

“So d’you think there might be something a-like a reward, for those who could be of help to you, master slaver?” the podgy stranger asked.

He stared down longingly at the hollow dregs of his ale and rolled them lovingly around his jug.

“I means, perhaps a coin or two may come their way - if they was to help you with directions and such like?”

Borwick knew this game.

He felt for a coin in his purse and slapped it down on the bar halfway between himself and his new companion.

“Did you see who it was? The boy who helped the girl get away?” he asked.

“Yes, I did see the whole thing clearly,” the pot-bellied man replied, barely lifting his eyes from the glint of the silver next to him. “I see’d who did it - but now, let me see - what exactly was his name now? Hmmm, just let me think a minute…”

Borwick felt in his purse for a second coin and placed it next to the first.

“Where have I seen him before again?” the stranger continued. “Hmm, it’s so hard remembering all these details on a dry throat, friend - you understand how it can be, don’t you?”

A bubbling welt of anger began to bruise across Borwick’s desire for revenge.

But this was at least something to bite on - a chance perhaps to find that wretched girl.

He needed this information; he had better keep his temper in check - for now, at least.

But if it should turn out that this small-town drunkard should dare to play him for a fool…

He slapped another coin down on the bar next to the others.

“Yes, I seem to recall now,” said the stranger, “wasn’t it the Healer’s young lad? Yes, that was him, surely as I’m here before you.”

The Healer’s lad?

That seemed to marry up with the story that Pocket had given him - clearly things were moving in the right direction.

“And where will I find this … Healer?”

“Hmm well now, let me see.” The stranger stared down at his empty jar. “Was it the one way, or was it t’other? This throat of mine feels so parched. How can a man think of things like a road with such a cursed throat as this, master slaver?”

Borwick tried to stop the furious blood from reddening his face.

The prize was almost in his grasp.

He would teach that girl a lesson all right…

He could not give up now.

Surely things were about to become much more encouraging.

If he could just stand the company of this sodden fool a little longer…

He snorted and flexed his shoulders in an effort to relax them.

He produced a fourth coin and added it to the pile.

“Ah yes, I remembers the way now,” the stranger smiled. “Back through the market-square and out along the north road - a ways along there should see you get to where you need to be - a small white stone cottage yon side of the tarn, I seem to recall.”

The stranger’s eyes had scarcely blinked away from the gleam of the coins. He licked his thick lips and stretched out a podgy hand to take them.

Borwick banged his palm down hard and fast over the pile of money.

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“Your information had better be right,” Borwick growled, “or I’ll be back to pay you another visit, my fat friend.”

He released the money and jostled back through the drinkers towards his companions.

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