Innsiders by C.G. Brill

Innsiders by C.G. Brill

Allethion

“I do not think I very much like going where we are going,” said Geltph. “Too cold. I am already beginning to chip and flake.” He rubbed his upper arms hoping to spark some heat in the endless snow surrounding him. “I just know this is going to end in disaster. Not that I had any say in the matter.”

Geltph and his friend Byrrel sat in a hog-drawn carriage to Allethion, one of the kingdom’s centers of arcane arts. Why exactly Geltph’s scribe-in-chief Edmund Longshort had decided that he should start his journey there was anyone’s guess (not Geltph’s or Byrrel’s, though). Allethion had a reputation for being jerry-built and crude, both its architecture and its people. Geltph’s scribe-in-chief had taken him aside only three days prior in an attempt to breathe new life into his newspaper; Geltph was tasked to stay at different inns throughout the kingdom (and perhaps kingdoms after that, depending on how well people would take to the idea), sleep there, have a few drinks, “assay” them (as Longshort liked to call it), and write some sort of (un)favorable piece about them, depending on his experience there. Knowing Edmund Longshort, Geltph thought that he probably leaned more toward unfavorable words as they brought in a bigger readership.

Geltph’s first destination was about as far away as could be from the newspaper building where he worked and he couldn’t shake the feeling that Longshort had sent him on this quest to be rid of him. Byrrel insisted this was a very Geltph-centric view on the matter and that it must have another reason, but Geltph wasn’t quite ready to believe that.  His scribe-in-chief always seemed to have a plan.

“Kuk,” said Byrrel.

“I know you are not feeling cold and you do not have to worry about your skin, but our journey has been long and I am tired. I need some sleep, and some I do not have to pay for.” He leaned back and yelled toward the coachman over the sound of the bumpy ride: “How much longer?”

“We’s almost at our destination.”

“Great,” Geltph said and turned his attention back to his friend.

“Kuk kuk.”

“I will never understand how this type of weather leaves you unfazed. The grueling cold is not good for my complexion.”

“Kuk kuk kuk.”

“Oh yes, a comfortable bed and a scorching fireplace would do the trick, I imagine. Melt the chill right off my bones.”

“Kuk kuk kuk kuk.”

“We are indeed almost there; I can see the town’s spires in the distance now,” he said, glimpsing out one of the small carriage windows. Geltph pulled his large jute bag, strapped around his shoulder, a little tighter. “Let us push through this last stretch of the journey, what say you? Tuck yourself in a little more.” Byrrel listened and dove deeper inside one of Geltph’s coat pockets. “Cannot even have any pipe-herb in this cold lest my fingers fall off. Brr. At least a hot bath awaits, I hope.” 

With Geltph’s spirits scarcely lifted, Allethion, the human city known for its hoary kind of sorcery, patchwork of buildings, and unforgiving cold, loomed on the horizon, its snowy steeples partly hidden by a thick fog that appeared not to dissipate.

“What’s the name of the inn again?” Geltph asked himself as he walked through the house-sized, icy-blue town gates—ignoring them completely—and then scanned a piece of paper stuffed into one of his coat pockets. “The Centered Centaur,” he said at last.

“Ki ki.”

The Centered Centaur was a simple, but large, stone house dipped in snow and crowned by a thatched roof. It did not touch any of the other buildings surrounding it but there were pathways flanked by unruly snow weeds all around it, leading to and from it. People worked hither and thither: women carried kegs of victuals and wine, a man snow-swept the ground in front of the entrance with a bristly broom, another woman was putting a hammer to the side of the inn, and yet another man tried pulling some of the weeds with slightly glowing hands, maybe in an attempt to make the paths more attractive to potential customers.

Geltph shivered. “Too many people if someone were to ask me,” he said and continued, sighing, “But I suppose no one is.”

“Quaa,” Byrrel said.

“I know, thank you. Stay close and do not let anyone see you for now. You can come out later.” Geltph gently patted the pocket where Byrrel was hiding. Byrrel always had a word of encouragement for him. Then Geltph approached what to him seemed like a crowd in front of The Centered Centaur.

“Good day, ladies and sirs,” he said, a crack in his voice. None of the working folks stopped or even looked up from their work. Louder: “Good day, kind ladies and sirs.”

Now the man pulling the snow weeds stopped and looked up at Geltph, a squint scrunching his face. Geltph felt the scrutiny of the man’s gaze: was it his braided, shoulder-length hair the color of heather; the rings in his pointy ears; the ornaments in his braided beard; or the fact that he wasn’t human that the man stared at him so? Geltph might have felt as uneasy as he’d been in the two hundred and eighty-nine similar situations before (humans, as well as many other beings, were condemnatory all too quickly), but the cold snapped him out of any mental discomfort and so he pressed on: “Sir, are you the owner of The Centered Centaur?”

The man chuckled. “Ain’t no innkeep, I ain’t. That’s Esma you’re looking for.” He pointed his thumb toward the entrance door. “Who’s asking?”

“Just a weary traveler.” Geltph didn’t like to reveal too much about himself to strangers; he’d had quite a few bad experiences with traveling traders to repeat the same mistake.

“Hrmph.”

“Well, thank you kindly for the information. I will be off.”

“Hrmph.”

Geltph and Byrrel made their way inside the inn as the man resumed his work, now working the snow weeds more rapidly, as if trying to make up for lost time.

Esma

“You’d better put that thrice-darned bottle back down or I will put my boot to your behind so ferociously you will not be walking back here anytime soon, Jessemiah!”

“All right, all right, I’m putting it back down.”

“Slowly now.”

A scene unfolded in front of Geltph as soon as he’d entered the Centaur: a woman with broad shoulders was telling off a man with even broader shoulders because Broader-Shoulders was about to hit someone else with a bottle filled with a purple liquid. With the situation thoroughly de-escalated, Broad-Shoulders now turned to Geltph: “Ah, is it someone new?” Everyone in the inn looked at Geltph; there were seven others scattered about tables in the unexpectedly cavernous interior. Byrrel ventured a peek from above the rim of the coat pocket he was hiding in, but instantly ducked back down as he saw the inn’s attention resting on his friend. Beads of sweat formed on Geltph’s forehead and he wished he were at his own abode, taking in a few drags of pipe-herb, and talking to Byrrel about the vagaries of life. But instead, he was here, taking care of a job he hadn’t wanted in the first place, in front of what to him was a crowd of disquietude-stirring spectators.

“Milady, are you the innkeeper here?”

“As I sweat and toil, that’s me. But drop the ‘milady.’ Name’s Esma. What’s your business here?”

“I am here on behalf of Edmund Longshort.”

“Edmund … Longshort? Never heard of him,” she said as she fiddled with the straps of her apron behind her back.

The inn’s staring faces had now resumed their own business as Geltph pulled away from her with an “Excuse me for a moment” to talk to Byrrel: “What do you think happened? Did Longshort not send a messenger pigeon before we arrived?”

“Ke ki kuk,” Byrrel said, shrugging his miniscule shoulders.

“Typical, I suppose. But now what? I surely do not have enough coin to pay for my stay here. This is shaping up to be a disaster already.” Esma, who did not wait for Geltph’s answer but went back to collecting messy tankards of ale, again approached him and said, “Done talking to yourself?” Then she moved over to a bucket behind a counter and started cleaning the grime off the mugs she’d collected.

Geltph nodded and followed, took a deep breath to steady himself, and said, “Uhm, Lady Esma—”

“Just Esma.”

“Right, sorry. Esma. I am a scribe and researcher for The Parsing Parchment,” he said and Esma’s ears perked up, “Edmund Longshort is my scribe-in-chief and he sent me on a quest to discover the many beautiful inns around the land, and then write about them.”

“What for?”

“To establish a new section in the paper which will positively assay your inn. And other inns to come. Perhaps.”

“My inn needs no assaying.” Byrrel moved in Geltph’s coat pocket; the latter thought his friend might be getting restless in his confinement. It was about time to release him.

Geltph had an immediate answer for this: “I can see you have many patrons—but what if you could have more? What if everyone were to know your inn’s name? What if the king were to know your inn’s name? I have heard tell he has The Parsing Parchment read to him.” Geltph had no idea whether the king indeed had The Parsing Parchment read to him, but he tried to come up with a convincing, if likely false, argument for him to stay the night and get paid at the end of his work quest.

Esma stopped washing the tankards and looked as though lost in her mind. After what seemed to Geltph like a full minute of the innkeeper’s silence, Esma exclaimed, “Ha!”, startling Geltph. “And what’s your role in all this?”

“I will just be recording everything I see with pen and paper.”

“Everything? The good and bad?”

“Just the good,” he said, not knowing if it was a lie or not.

“And you’re sure you’re not just another long-eared crook, secretly trying to defame The Centered Centaur?” After another short pause, she added, “Although you sure don’t look it,” looking Geltph up and down.

“I do not look it and I do not be it, either.”

Esma raised an eyebrow at this turn of phrase. “All right, I believe we have ourselves a deal. That’s five glints a night, then.” Esma held out her left hand palm up.

“About that …”

“Ahh, there it is …”

“You see, Longshort was supposed to send you a pigeon with a message and the required glints but it appears he did not do so.”

“Meaning you can’t pay?”

“Meaning I cannot pay.”

“So you roped me into this pipe dream of yours just to drop me like a hot honeyed carrot. Oh, well.”

Uncomfortable, Geltph held onto his jute bag more tightly and, reminded of its contents, proclaimed a chancy idea. “Well, you see, there is one thing I could offer if you are interested.” Geltph wasn’t sure if he should even bring it up but he’d carried his bag all this way and he wasn’t going to let it go to waste if there was even a slight chance this may work. He needed to do his work, after all. “I have this bag of things here.”

“I don’t buy from peddlers.” Esma side-eyed his half-open bag nevertheless. “Wait, these are just clothes, wigs, and face paint from what I can see.”

“Yes, because, you see, I am a performer. Well, I haven’t ever performed in front of anyone, to be sure, but I do perform.”

“Oh, so you’re one of those vizards, aren’t you?”

“Indeed! So you have heard of vizards?”

“I haven’t just heard of them, we have another one of yous staying over and performing tonight. ‘scuse me.” Esma went to break up another brawl that was about to start in one of the inn’s corners. Geltph gulped and reconsidered if he should really offer his vizardry as a means to pay for the night. He judged the crowd unreceptive to this kind of performance. But as he could tell, there was no other option. No one was going to give him the glints he needed to pay for the night and he surely wasn’t going to get pruned hands washing dishes for his stay.

Another performer, though. Geltph had never before met anyone else who pursued vizardry and to meet another performer right here was serendipitous indeed. Or was it inauspicious?

Esma now returned, a rag in one hand, another wooden bucket in the other. “Tell you what, you find your fellow vizard and the two of you give me a good show together tonight and your debt’s settled. Sound good?”

“Wait, I have not accrued any debt yet.”

“You’ve been costing me lots of precious time just talking to you. I think that deserves some compensation, don’t you? Could’ve lost a patron or two in the meantime.”

“But no one else has come in.”

“Never you mind that. What say you, do we have a deal?”

The thought of having to perform alongside another vizard made Geltph’s heart pound and rise into the back of his throat, making it hard to swallow past the heartbeats. Geltph was what was known in the vizardry community as a ‘bedchamber vizard,’ someone who performed only within the confines of their own homey walls. He’d never even met anyone else who knew what a vizard was. “Could I use your privy first?” he asked Esma.

“Sure. Just outside, follow the path to the right and to the back of the building. Door might be frozen shut but just give it a good wiggle and a yank. And remember, time’s glints, so you’d better make up your mind soon. Find me after, I’ll be around.”

The door to the outhouse wasn’t frozen shut, so Geltph slipped inside and latched himself away from the world for a moment. “Byrrel, you can come out now.”

Geltph felt Byrrel stretch in his chest pocket and then, slowly as if frozen, he stuck his head out. Byrrel was a russet squirrel with a bushy tail, a white stripe from head to tail, and triangular ears. Geltph continued: “Sorry we are not at a nicer location but I need to talk to you. You heard the whole situation, right? What should I do?” As he asked Byrrel the question, he took out his pipe, some pipe-herb, and a small metal box from his bag which contained a blazeflint and some brimstone matches. Blazeflints were incredibly rare and he protected his as if it were a treasure; because, in fact, it was. He touched one brimstone match to the blazeflint, instantly setting it alight, filled his pipe with pipe-herb, and lit it in turn. As he took a deep breath from the pipe and the herb-flavored smoke filled his lungs, he felt his mind untangle a little.

“Thank the gods this worked despite the cold.”

“Quaaa?”

“Yes, I think I feel better. But now what should we do?”

“Ko ki ku? Ke ke.”

Geltph sucked on the pipe and his words came out strained with his held breath. “No, I do not want to lose my behind to frostbite. Or lose my livelihood.”

“Ku ku.”

“I suppose it is the only option then. But what if the other performer is better than me? Will they boot me from the Centaur? Will I be able to finish the piece I need to write?” Another suck on the pipe. “Byrrel, this will be a disaster, I can already see it.”

“Kik ka.”

“You are as sanguine as ever.” He took another deep pipe-herbed breath and felt his head swimming. “I am ready, I suppose. I am scared but I shall do it anyway. Thank you for your words, my friend.” He shivered.

“Esma, I have decided that I will indeed perform and write a piece about The Centered Centaur,” he told the innkeeper when he returned.

“Good. T’other vizard’s up the stairs in the back, second door to the left. Your room is just opposite theirs. Please fill in your name and the date you arrived in this book here.” She handed Geltph a black book and quill and he signed his name: Geltph Yrhalen.

“Geltph?”

“The ‘t’ is silent.”

Esma chuckled. “Welcome to The Centered Centaur then, Geltph the elf.”

Lavinia

After dropping off his bag and Byrrel—the latter nimbly climbed up the wall to the rafters and disappeared through a hole—Geltph was ready to meet his fellow vizard. He was used to Byrrel scouting out the nearest kitchen for some treats, so he didn’t feel too concerned about his friend. But Geltph wasn’t truly ready, just as ready as he’d be at the moment. The pipe-herb had given him some courage and so he found himself rapping at the other vizard’s door. Knock, knock.

“What is it?” came a full-bodied voice from within.

“Good day, sir, Esm—”

“Sir?” The other vizard flung open the door and in front of Geltph stood a tall, primped woman with large ebony hair, her face half-made up with several different painting techniques Geltph had never seen before. “Who you callin’ sir, elf?” she said with a look at his ears poking out from under his heather-colored hair.

“My apologies. I did not mean to offend you. As a matter of fact, I came here to work with you.”

“You may be cute but I ain’t work with others, thank you,” she said, closing the door to her room.

Geltph knocked again: knock, knock, knock.

“Apologies but I was not done explaining myself.”

“I was.” She started closing the door again.

“Wait, wait, please. I need us to do this together, my livelihood is on the line.”

“Your livelihood ain’t none of my business.”

“I understand—uhm, what is your name?”

“Mistress Lavinia. Lav, if you’re uncouth.”

“I understand, Mistress Lavinia. You see, it all started with me going to—”

“Just a second. I don’t care about the story of your life. Just the most important details, pray. I ain’t got all day. As a matter of fact, I need to get ready for my performance.”

“That is exactly what I am here for. I am to perform with you.”

“Never.”

“Esma said so.”

“She did? Hmm. Then I need to go talk to that cow. Just a minute.” With that, Mistress Lavinia went downstairs, her kaftan making it appear as if The Centered Centaur was located at the intersection of the four winds.

Mistress Lavinia and Esma returned together a couple of minutes later, as Geltph stood where Lavinia had left him, touching his two index fingers together.

“Esma, tell this oaf of an elf I ain’t work with others,” Mistress Lavinia said.

“Lav, please, I’ve already been through enough tonight. Can’t you just get along and do the performance together? The elf’ll scribble a piece in his fancy newspaper about our quaint little inn here when he’s done. It’ll be good for business. Yours too.”

“Well, why didn’t you tell me you’re a scribbler?”

“A scribe, yes. I was going to but you cut me off,” Geltph said.

“I don’t cut people off, I shorten their breath. Get that right when you write about me.”

Esma gave Mistress Lavinia a disapproving look. “Lav,” was all she said.

“All right, all right. I shall perform with the elf if that’ll keep me working here. But you’d better not steal my performance. Have you ever even done vizardry? Can you even craft your own visage?”

“I might not be a professional such as you but I know a few tricks.”

“Come on in, then. Bring your own guising material. You ain’t using mine.”

“Thank you, Lav,” Esma said and turned to walk back downstairs. “Back to some real business,” she continued, winking at her over her shoulder.

Glints

“Remember, don’t be in my way. Your area on the dais is to the left. Always to the left,” Mistress Lavinia said to Geltph. “If you follow what we rehearsed, we’ll be fine. I might actually be able to show my face here again if you stick to the plan. You ain’t half bad.”

They’d been rehearsing for the better part of three hours, first with Geltph out of vizardry, then with him in it. Esma checked up on them a few times, perhaps to make sure they weren’t strangling each other, and to provide them with food and drink.

“I think I have demonstrated that you can trust me. I will not disappoint you or besmudge your reputation.” I hope. Mistress Lavinia’s reputation, Geltph had learned while getting ready with her, far outstretched the confines of this Allethionian inn. According to her, she was known the kingdom over, and perhaps beyond, which was unusual because vizardry was known to be a breadless profession. Geltph felt inspired by her confidence.

While Lavinia and Geltph were rehearsing their steps, Byrrel had returned with a few nuts and was now chewing on them.

“Oh gods, what is this spry critter?” Lavinia shrieked as she tried to smack Byrrel with a piece of her clothing.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Gelpth said as he jumped and took the blow. “That’s Byrrel. He is a squirrel I met when I was but a boy. Mightily harmless. And he knows some tricks and sometimes even listens to the things I have to say.” Geltph thought it was always better not to let people in on the special relationship he and Byrrel had. Or that he understood Byrrel’s quaing and kuing. While magic was a craft in this world, the beings who wielded it were often frowned upon and avoided. Or worse.

“So he’s yours?”

“He is not so much mine as he is a friend of mine.”

“Hmm. And you said he knows some tricks?”

“Yes.”

“Could he take this bag of snow flowers here and shower us with it from the rafters? I can’t tell you how many squires, swains, and scullions I’ve already asked. But they all found the task to be ’neath them.”

“Could you, Byrrel?” Geltph asked. The squirrel nodded his tiny head enthusiastically.

“It’s settled then!”

The dais in the back of the inn where they were to perform was barely big enough for one being, let alone two. For their performance, Esma had asked a quarter-famed singing bard to play some of the kingdom’s most popular songs; off-dais, naturally. The dais was decorated with floor candelabras, excitedly illuminating the performance space. It was the most elaborate set-up Geltph had ever seen. He had stolen away one night when he’d still lived with his parents to see another vizard performer in a seedy establishment that resembled the back of an inn more than the front of one, but it had been the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Now he was part of the actual performance, and the whole production far outdid the one he witnessed back then.

Geltph stood on the dais in full vizardry: his auburn wig perfectly concealed his own heather tresses, his face was crafted to impress many gods, and the cotehardie Mistress Lavinia let him borrow fit him like, well, a snug cotehardie, despite the apparent size difference. He felt powerful and beautiful, just the way he’d hoped he’d feel.

His eyes stole glances at Mistress Lavinia as they assumed their positions on the dais, standing next to each other. He ignored the crowd of mostly human men who glared at them from behind tall tankards of frothy ale. Then the bard began to play the first notes of “Will ‘tlass ever return?”, a song about a miller’s daughter who gets lost in the forest, and never finds her way back home. Despite the gloomy theme, the song was quite popular around the kingdom. Geltph ventured a quick look at Byrrel up in the rafters who was ready to beflower them at the right moment. His squirrel friend held up a tiny finger, signaling his readiness and giving Geltph one last push of confidence.

Esma stepped onto the thronged dais and addressed the suspicious-looking crowd—in the last three hours, the number of patrons at the inn had quintupled in size. She said, “Get ready for the performance of a lifetime, everyone! Behind me stand Mistress Lavinia and … Geltph the elf … and the two of them are about to hot up Allethion like it has never been hotted up before! And the gods know we sure need that around these parts,” she said this last sentence more to herself than anyone else. Louder again, she continued, “Not lukewarm, oh no, but scalding hot! Now put whatever appendages you have together and give it up for the two of them!” Esma stepped off the dais and vanished, no doubt hunting the next empty tankard or dirty plate. Two women in the back applauded.

One breath, two breaths, three breaths, four breaths, then the bard began playing and Mistress Lavinia and Geltph began their performance. It was an intricate-looking dance—Mistress Lavinia had been shrewd enough to alter her own performance to include Geltph. Though the cotehardies they wore were tight, the fabric seemed to flow and dance with every movement. Mistress Lavinia was clearly more experienced and upstaged Geltph with her emotional performance, but she also offered him the stage enough to balance out this imbalance between them. Geltph had never felt more alive in his life and as he moved his mouth to the words of the bard (he was happy he knew the song and didn’t have to learn the words on top of everything), the inn around him lost its edge and became fuzzy.

The men who had seemed so daunting at the start of their performance slowly mellowed and here and there, an appendage started moving to the music.

At the last third of their performance, it was time for Byrrel to shower them in flowers as the final act started. Byrrel was waiting patiently in the rafters above the dais, with a small sack filled with white snow flowers. When the bard sang, “May she ever be lost, may she never be found”, Byrrel opened the sack and poured out the flowers. They resembled oversized snowflakes falling slowly on the dais and Geltph and Mistress Lavinia performed through a flurry of snow.

The audience now went wild and the few moving limbs had turned into entire bodies. Everyone seemed to be shifting to the music, tankards were raised, and glints were thrown on the dais. As they performed, Mistress Lavinia caught some of the coins, or picked some up from the ground, and put them in a pouch sewn into her dress. I’ll have to remember that, Geltph thought, as he didn’t know where to put the few coins he collected, and so he just stuffed them into the side of his shoes.

The peak of their performance saw Mistress Lavinia get on top of a rickety chair, jump off it, and land in a split on the dais, while Geltph was on the ground, pounding it with a fist and his hips. The bard’s voice trailed off and the crowd erupted.

Phaltgrya

Esma approached them and helped the two performers off the dais and back upstairs. The audience still clapped for their performance. The bard picked up the music again so that the crowd would remain entertained as Esma talked to them upstairs.

“What an excellent performance!” Esma said.

“Thank you,” Geltph said, still out of breath.

“You have witnessed the birth of a new vizard tonight,” Mistress Lavinia said and clapped for Geltph.

“Thank you, but this would not have been possible without your professional attitude, Mistress Lavinia,” Geltph said.

“Drop the Mistress, pray.”

“Can I hire your services on a regular basis?” Esma asked Geltph.

“As much as I would love that, I am not sure that is possible for me,” Geltph said. Byrrel had found a comfortable spot inside Geltph’s wig and seemed to be sleeping there. “I have different obligations and I cannot just up and leave everything, I am afraid. But I loved tonight with every part of my body.”

“Well, more’s the pity, but I get it.” Esma turned to Mistress Lavinia. “But you, Miss Everything, you have a regular spot here. I already knew you were great but tonight has shown me you need to be The Centered Centaur’s staple performer. What say you?”

“I’ve been your unofficial staple performer for a while now, so that doesn’t come as a surprise. But thank you, Esma. I accept.”

After more thanks and commendations, the three of them dispersed. Geltph went to his room and changed back into his elf self, which felt like stripping a part of himself he’d like to keep about him all the time. He’d promised to give Mistress Lavinia back all the items she’d let him borrow.

“Ko ki,” Byrrel said.

“Byrrel, tonight would not have been as successful without you. Thank you. I know I have been a pain throughout our journey here but I feel hopeful now.” He petted Byrrel’s head. “But now I need to write this piece about the inn. I did not even properly experience anything and now it is awfully late.”

“Ku ku. Quaa, quaa. Ke ki ka ku ku ku. Qua.”

“Oh really? That’s what you were doing when you left earlier? All right, tell me everything and I will write it down. This almost feels like cheating but I’ll gladly accept. I am too tired to explore what this place has to offer this late at night. I do not know what I would do without you, my friend.” Byrrel nuzzled Geltph’s neck in approval.

“Ke ke. Ki ki?”

“Thank you. And yes, I think I did come up with a name for myself. I think it will be Phaltgrya.”

“Not sure how that’s spelled but I love it!” Mistress Lavinia’s resonant voice sounded from outside Geltph’s door, which was ajar. Geltph opened the door fully; she was now back to her male self. “It’s a good name. And you’re a good performer. Look for me if you need work in the future. I’ll put in a good word. It was a pleasure, Phelyria. You’ve shown true courage tonight. The gods know the world needs more of that.” She nodded her head and made off to leave.

“How can I ever repay your tutelage?”

“If ever we should meet again in the future, teach me something I ain’t know. Then we’re settled.”

“You can count on me,” Geltph said. Mistress Lavinia blew him a kiss and left. I might have to work on that name, though, Geltph thought.

He took a few more notes of Byrrel’s account and then fell asleep stroking Byrrel’s fur as he lay curled up on the bed close to Geltph.

After a few short hours of sleep, Gelpth packed his bags, Byrrel hopped back in his coat pocket, and the two of them went downstairs to have breakfast: sourdough bread with cheese and leftover poultry from the night before, as well as porridge with elderberry sauce.

Geltph’s assay of the inn was heartfelt and when Esma read it in the paper one week later, her mouth cracked into a smile: “I am not sure how snowy Allethion does not melt under the welcoming heat of the city’s premier innkeeper Esma who will serve any weary traveler a hot meal, brawny mead, and unmissable entertainment.”

Mr. Longshort had cut the part where Geltph talked about the wondrous vizardry performance of Mistress Lavinia and himself—but he didn’t find out about that until the paper was published. Yet another one of Geltph’s sincere accounts of the world had been clipped and sent to the void. Not that he really thought it would make the cut. But an elf could dream.

After having finished up his breakfast and polished up his piece, Geltph said goodbye to Esma.         

“Come again, all right? You’re good for business,” Esma said.

“I will. I had the best time with you. Thank you for giving me an opportunity.”

“The pleasure was and is all mine. Where are you off to now?”

“I am bound to the nearest inn. Ponypincher’s, I think?”

“Ah yes. I know of them. Haven’t been in business for too long. Definitely nothing like The Centered Centaur. But anyway, good luck on your travels, Geltph the elf.” Later, when Geltph thought about their conversation again, he felt as though there was something Esma didn’t tell him about the inn but a newly formed bud of internal disquietude about his adventures ahead mixed with a pang of nostalgia about leaving behind such a loving place left him oblivious at that moment.

“Thank you. And you will be the first to receive a copy of The Parsing Parchment in a few days. I made sure to let my scribe-in-chief know about your kindness and the excellent performance.”

Geltph waved at Esma, held on tightly to his shoulder bag, and stepped out into the harsh cold, with Byrrel snoring softly in his coat.

* * * * THE END * * * *
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