Free A Crown Imperiled by Raymond E. Feist

her services. A plump woman of middle years, she turned and said, ‘I’ll be with you good folks in a moment.’ Then she returned her attention to the four young men she had just served. ‘That’s a silver for four,’ she said.
    ‘Why don’t you wait until we’re done?’ asked one of the young men sitting at the tiny corner table. He was obviously a labourer of some kind, a stonemason’s apprentice, given his large arms and shoulders and the covering of stone dust on the apron he wore over his heavy woollen shirt. His three companions were likewise scruffy and ill-kempt; none of them appeared to have shaved in a week.
    The woman laughed. ‘As crowded as it is, I might not get back here until an hour after you left.’
    ‘Where would we go?’ He waved towards the door. ‘We step outside and one of those watchmen will fetch us back.’
    Trying to keep the tone light, the woman laughed again. ‘Those silly boys?’ Her expression turned serious. ‘I’m sorry, lads, but I have my instructions. Pay as you go.’
    Miranda could smell trouble coming and glanced around the room. The bartender looked burly enough to handle two, even three of these boys, but he was on the other side of the room. She glanced at Nakor, who nodded. The room was packed with people who were tired, bored, irritable and drunk. It was ripe for a brawl or a full-on riot.
    Miranda gently pushed the serving woman aside, leaned over and said, ‘Pay up, that’s a good fellow.’
    ‘I am not your good fellow, woman,’ said the young man with a defiant sneer. ‘I’m a mason from Natal trying to get home after a long job away. I’m a man whose ship was heading south before we reached this miserable city.’ His voice rose. ‘I’m a man who has been shut up in this inn since then, with no way to get home, and I’m in no mood to argue with whores!’ He took a drunken backhanded swing at the serving woman who nimbly stepped aside.
    Her eyes widened and she shouted, ‘Whores!’
    The man was half-out of his seat when Miranda reached out, put her hand on his shoulder, and shoved him back into his seat so hard he cried out in pain, the pop of his shoulder joint loud enough to be heard. She continued to squeeze and the effect was instant: his eyes widened and he opened his mouth, but was unable to make a sound save a slight whimper. Colour drained from his face and tears started streaming down his cheeks.
    She released him and turned to the serving woman. ‘You all right?’
    The dumbfounded woman could only nod, and the mason’s three companions backed their chairs against the walls in a futile attempt to put more space between themselves and this insane, but obviously powerful, woman.
    Miranda stared at them, ‘Where do you idiots sleep?’
    One of the gasping man’s companions said in a terrified whisper, ‘Basement.’
    Miranda simply said, ‘Go!’
    All four men struggled quickly to get out of their seats, two of them helping the injured man away. Nakor laughed as they vanished into the crowd. ‘Well, now we can sit down,’ he said.
    As they did so, the serving woman said, ‘Thank you.’ She blinked for a moment like a barn owl caught in lantern-light, then her happy expression returned. ‘What can I get you?’
    ‘What have you to eat?’ asked Miranda as the famished Nakor nodded enthusiastically.
    ‘I’ve some mutton on the spit that’s edible. We’ve almost been eaten bare by this lot. It’s lovely to make coin, but when there’s nothing to buy . . .’
    Miranda beckoned her closer, then spoke softly, ‘There’s a wagon train from LaMut parked outside the city walls waiting for someone to let them in. Good, fresh food, flour, butter, everything you need. You might want to tell your employer and have him send someone down there to make a deal before the other innkeepers in town find out.’
    The woman brightened and said, ‘Thank you, I’ll tell him straight away!’ Then she leaned over. ‘Got some stew about to