The hostler was still putting grain into our horses' feed bins. Perhaps because I was there, they got a more generous shake of oats. I saw nothing unusual in the stables. There were three plug horses of the kind such a place usually kept for hire, and a battered cart. A cow in a byre probably provided the milk for the guests' porridge. I disapproved of the chickens roosting in the rafters. Their droppings would foul the horses' food and water, but there was little I could do about it. There were only two other horses stabled there, not enough to be the mounts of those we followed. There were no hunting cats tethered in empty stalls. Well, nothing was ever easy. The hostler was competent at his work, but not talkative, nor even curious. His clothing was pungent with Smoke; I suspected the herbs had mellowed him past caring much about anything. I got our bags and, heavily laden, made my way back to the inn.

The finest room was up a flight of worn wooden steps. The climb taxed me more than it should have. I knocked at the door, then managed to open it for myself. It was the finest room in the sense that it was the best sitting room at the inn. Lord Golden was enthroned in a cushioned chair at the head of a scarred table. Laurel sat at his right hand. There were mugs in front of them and a large earthenware pitcher. I smelled ale. I managed to set the bags down inside i the door instead of just dropping them. Lord Golden deigned to notice me. “I've ordered food, Tom Badgerlock. And arranged rooms for us. As soon as they've made the beds up, they'll show you where to take the bags. Until then, do be seated, my good man. You've well earned your keep today. There's a mug for you.”

He nodded to a seat at his left, and I took it. Someone had already poured the ale for me. I'm afraid I drained off that first mug without any other thought than that it was sustenance after a long day. It was neither the best nor the worst brew I'd ever tasted, but few draughts had been as welcome as that one. I set the empty mug down on the table and Lord Golden nodded permission at the pitcher. As I refilled our mugs, the food arrived. There was a roast fowl, a large bowl of buttered peas, a meal pudding with treacle and cream, crisp trout on a platter, bread, butter, and more ale. Before the servingboy left, Lord Golden added another request. He had badly bruised his shoulder that morning; would the boy bring him a slab of raw meat from the kitchen to draw the soreness from the swelling? Laurel served Lord Golden and herself and then passed the dishes on to me. We ate in near silence, all of us very intent on the food. In a short time, the fowl and fish had been reduced to bones on the platters. Lord Golden rang for the inn servants to clear away. They brought a berry pie with clotted cream for a sweet, and more ale. The slab of raw meat came with it. As soon as the servant was gone, Lord Golden neatly wrapped it in his napkin and handed it to me. I wondered with weary gratitude if anyone would notice its disappearance. A short time later I became aware that I had eaten more than I should have done, and drunk more than was wise. I had that sodden, overly full feeling that is so miserable after one has been hungry all day. Lassitude crept over me. I tried to hide my yawns behind my hand and pay attention to the hushed conversation between Lord Golden and Laurel. Their voices seemed distant, as if a noisy river rushed between them and me.

“One of us should have a quiet look around,” Laurel was insisting. “Perhaps some questions asked downstairs would discover where they were going, or if they are known around here. It could be they are close by.”

“Tom?” Lord Golden prodded me.

“I already have,” I said softly. “They were here. But they either moved on already, or are at a different inn. If a town this size has more than one inn.” I leaned back in my chair.

“Tom?” Lord Golden asked me with some annoyance. In an aside to Laurel he observed, “It's probably the Smoke. He's never had any head for it. Just walking through the fumes puts him into a fog.”

I pried open my eyes. “Beg pardon?” I asked. My own voice sounded thick and distant in my ears.

“How do you know they were here?” Laurel demanded. Had she asked that before?

I was too tired to think of a good answer. “I just do,” I replied shortly, and then directed my words to Lord Golden as if we had been interrupted. “There's also been blood spilled in the street outside the inn. We should go carefully around here.”

He nodded sagely. “I think our wisest course is an early bed and an earlier start tomorrow.” Without letting Laurel voice any objections, he rang the servants' bell again. He was told that his rooms were, indeed, ready. Laurel had a tiny room to herself up at the end of the hall. Lord Golden had a more substantial chamber, with room for a cot for his man in it. The maidservant who had come at the bell insisted that she would carry Laurel's bag up to her chamber for her, so we said good night there. I avoided her eyes. I was suddenly tremendously weary, too weary to even attempt our roles. It was all I could do to shoulder a share of our bags and follow the servant to Lord Golden's rooms. He - , stayed behind, chatting with the innkeeper about replenishing our travel supplies before we left in the morning.