THE DECK BOARDS outside the Waystone creaked with age, and inside the low hum of conversation had fallen abruptly silent. The room waited. After a moment, the door swung inward.
Old Cob stepped through, familiar and worn as an old coin. He made his way to the bar and settled into his usual place, the grooves of the stool seeming to fit him by now. “A pint o’ cider, Kote,” he grunted. “Helluva long morning. Don’t s’pose there’s any o’ that pie left?”
“No pie, I’m afraid,” Kote said. His hands worked with the assurance of long habit as he pulled a tankard off the shelf, wiping its rim before filling it from the tap. Each movement was efficient, unhurried. If the creak of the boards outside had troubled him, it didn’t show.
Cob clicked his tongue, disappointment quick and sharp. “Pity, that. Best thing to keep you going, you know. Something warm and sweet.”
Kote slid the cider across the counter with a nod, and Cob took it with both hands, drinking half in one pull. He let out a satisfied sigh, setting the tankard down with a soft thunk against the wood. “Now, that’s good. Nothing like cider to settle the dust in your throat.”
He leaned against the bar, his face shifting into something more serious, though his voice stayed casual. “By the by, I had a talk with the Bentleys earlier. Seen ’em packing up all their things. Big wagon hitched out front, stuff tied down like they meant it for good and proper leavin’.”
“Did they say why?” Kote asked, still polite, still calm. He wiped down the bar with the white linen cloth in slow, methodical circles.
Cob nodded, his lips pressing thin. “Aye. Say they saw something lurkin’ in their backwoods last night. Not quite a man, exactly. Mary say it didn’t walk right. Legs too long, or too lean. Arms hanging all too low. Gave her the shivers, summat fierce.”
His eyes darted to the window. “Couldn’t talk her outta it. Say she knew what she saw and didn’t want to stay and see it again.”
Kote folded the white linen cloth slowly, precisely. “That’s a bit of bad luck,” he said mildly.
Cob snorted, finishing off the cider with a flick of his wrist. “Luck?” He set the tankard down and jabbed a thumb toward the door. “Luck ain’t got a whit to do with it. It’s all this blasted nonsense springin’ up. Shep gone, Carter bringin’ in that odd thing from the woods, soldiers n’ bandits thick as flies on the road. I tell ya, Kote, the Bentleys might have the right of it, runnin’ while they’ve got the legs for it.”
He pushed away from the bar with a groan, his joints popping loud enough to carry in the quiet. “Anyway, I’d best be off. Things to tend to, as ever.” He gave Kote a short nod and turned toward the door, boots heavy against the floor.
The door closed behind him, and the silence that followed seemed heavier than before.
Kote remained behind the bar a moment longer, quiet and still. There was nothing unusual in what Cob had said, not really. People had left town before. People had come back.
Still, he listened until Cob’s footfalls faded into silence on the deck boards out front. Then he moved back to the table at the far end of the common room, where the Chronicler sat reviewing his notes, one hand absently rubbing at his wrist while the other traced back through the last few lines he’d written.
“Where were we?” Kote asked, his voice lighter now, casual.
Chronicler looked up from the page. “You were on your way to Renere,” he said, dipping his quill and positioning it above the paper.
Kote nodded, but the moment to begin didn’t come right away. He rested his hand on the table, his fingers just brushing the edge of the wood. The fire’s light chased shadows down the wall, their shapes twisting and flickering. He glanced at the door, just once, before reaching for the story again.
“Yes,” Kote said softly. “Renere.”
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