Free Flight From Blithmore by Jacob Gowans Page B

Brandol who proved more difficult. As an
apprentice, Brandol had made a name for himself among the trade masters as a
hopeless cause with no self-confidence. Henry visited everyone he could think
of, but the best answer he got was from a cabinetmaker on the outskirts of
town: “I’ll think about it.”
    It
was evening when Henry left the cabinetmaker’s shop, and he was still far from
the heart of Richterton. Homes and places of business were few and far between
in this area, and Henry came upon a small quiet tavern with only one horse tied
to the post. As he passed the tavern, he looked a second time at the horse.
    “Ghost?”
he muttered as he rode closer to the animal. On the third inspection, Henry was
almost certain this was Ruther’s horse. He tied Quicken up next to Ghost and
went inside.
    The
tavern was empty save for two people. One man sat at a table carving a small
block of wood, and his eye was on the second person across the room—a cloaked
figure with red hair sticking out from under the hood. He was slumbering deeply
with his head resting in his arms on a table.
    “Are
you the owner?” Henry asked the first man.
    “Aye,”
was the answer.
    “You
know this man?”
    “Nay.”
    “How
long has he been here?”
    “’Bout
three hours. Came in ‘ere like the devil was after ‘im. Asked to tie the ‘orse
up in back. Said ‘e could as long as there weren’t no problems. Drank himself
to sleep about an hour ago. Brought his ‘orse round front ‘cause it was
bothering mine. Temper-y-mental, mine is. Figured I’d throw ‘im in the cot out
back ‘til morning if ‘e don’t wake up soon. Gets busy ‘ere soon and I need all
the space I ‘ave.”
    Henry
moved to the sleeping man and pulled the hood off his head. It was Ruther. He
had a large bruise around one eye and a puffy upper lip still oozing blood.
“What happened to him?”
    The
owner shrugged. Henry shook his friend vigorously until Ruther’s eyes opened.
    “Hello,
friend,” Ruther croaked. “What time is it?”
    “Time
to go home,” Henry said, pulling on Ruther’s shoulders. As he helped Ruther up,
Henry turned to the owner again. “How much is owed?”
    “One
silver and five coppers.”
    “Good
grief, Ruther. You drink like a fish.” He reached into Ruther’s purse and found
it almost empty. He thought this odd considering Ruther was coming home from
telling stories for the last several days. He reached into his own money bag
and handed six coins to the owner and thanked him.
    “No
. . . no . . .” Ruther protested on their way out the door. “I can pay for it.”
    Henry
helped Ruther onto his horse and they slowly rode into town side by side.
Ruther came to his senses about halfway through the journey, and Henry told
Ruther about all that had transpired since Ruther left.
    “I
wish I’d known this story days ago,” Ruther commented. “I could have made a
small fortune with it!”
    “Thank
you. That’s very comforting.”
    Ruther
swayed in the saddle a bit, then caught himself. He began whistling a low tune
that Henry vaguely recognized. Then he abruptly stopped. “Where do you and
Isabelle plan to go? South? I would, it’s warm almost all year around.”
    “Probably
west, but we aren’t certain—”
    “The
funeral is when?
    “Just
four more days. We need someone to forge legal documents for us first. Records
of identity, certainly. Writs of passage, too, if possible.”
    “I
know a man who can make excellent records of identity. He’s among the best
forgers in the business, but it’ll cost you. Most won’t forge writs of passage
these days.”
    “Why
am I not surprised that you know forgers?” Henry asked. “And what happened to
your face?”
    Ruther
grinned, making his puffy, split lip more pronounced. “Some buffoon didn’t like
my story’s ending, so he hit me in the face. He was drunk and chased me out of
there.”
    “Rough
crowd.”
    “You’re
telling me. I’ll never go back there again.”