The Smiling Stallion Inn Page 3

  Unfortunately, visitors to Coe Baba were usually few and far between, and they didn’t stay long in town. So the inn had to make most of its income from locals patronizing the bar and eatery. The restaurant, bistro, and pub that had opened up in town within the last few decades siphoned off some of their income, but most locals still preferred the inn and he was proud of that. The place was a mainstay in Coe Baba, and the proprietors—his parents, Geda and Habala—were respected and well-liked.

  Uncle Smidge was busy sweeping the common room and Basha’s parents were over at the bar deep in conversation. He headed across the common room for the bar and his parents.

  * * * *

  “Did you sell them that scrap of parchment with the Old Language written upon it?” Geda asked his wife as Basha came up to them.

  “I did sell it to them, and they were trying to decipher it, but I could tell they had no idea what it meant,” Habala said. She stood in front of the counter, a tray held in one hand, as she waited for her husband to fill a couple of drink orders for the guests.

  “But why do you have to sell our customer these trinkets all the time?” Basha indicated the tiny pewter horses his grandfather had cast and his father himself was busy arranging on the tray now. “It seems like the kind of greedy thing Lapo would do.” Sometimes, he wondered if Lapo was secretly Geda’s role model.

  “Basha,” his mother warned him.

  “Souvenirs, Basha, souvenirs,” Geda explained as he slammed a glass down on the bar and turned to tap a cask full of ale from behind the bar. “The horses I make are not trinkets, but mementos.” He filled up the glass. “Souvenirs are a way of ingraining the Smiling Stallion Inn into people’s minds so that they’ll come back here, year after year, no matter what.” Another glass was placed on the tray. “If we didn’t do this, we wouldn’t be able to earn enough money to keep out of debt.” Geda dropped another rearing pewter stallion onto the tray. “I’ve got to stay one step ahead of Lapo, who will steal this place right out from under me if he ever gets the money, land, and manpower he needs to build an inn outside of town, closer to the Oracle.” The final glass. “And so I have to think like him sometimes—I have to be a bit unscrupulous sometimes in order to succeed. Besides, they practically beg me to give them mementos of their pilgrimage to see the Oracle.”

  “You think like Lapo too much sometimes,” Basha said, snatching a pretzel from a bowl on his mother’s tray, the theft earning a slap on the hand from her. “There are snacks for you in the kitchen,” she told him. “These are for our customers.”

  “If we give them free pretzels with their drinks, that’ll keep them coming back, if only to drink,” she said, hoisting the heavy tray of drinks and pretzels over her head as she sashayed between the tables to deliver the order to a table in the back.

  Geda grabbed some clean plates from behind the bar and ladled mashed potatoes with a vengeance from a pot onto the plates. “These people spend willy-nilly like their money is free to take, and so I take,” Geda went on, scooping out sausages from another pot onto the plates. “These souvenirs will inspire them when they think of the Oracle and all that they learned from her. They get something in return.”

  “A horse trinket?” Basha grumbled. “How does a child’s toy remind them of the Oracle?”

  “Basha, please try to understand your father; he’s just trying to do his best,” Habala said, returning for the tray of food.

  “It’s almost as bad as what the Oracle and her priests do to their worshippers, practically robbing them blind,” Basha argued.

  Geda handed napkin-wrapped silverware over the bar to Habala. As she left with the order, he braced his hands on the bar and returned his attention to Basha. “You must realize these people come all the way here, just to hear the Oracle’s words, and the priests steal money from them, as you say, in exchange for that privilege. Who cares if I profit a bit as well, so long as I support my family?” he asked. “What is so wrong in that?”

  Basha sighed, disappointed in himself, and turned back around to face his father. “I just always wondered…”

  “Wondered what?” Geda said when Basha didn’t finish his thought.

  “Do you think the Oracle can see or hear the future?” Basha asked.

  “No one can see the future; it’s impossible.” He glanced around to make sure the worshippers weren’t listening to him before he added, in a low voice, “It’s ridiculous, believing that someone like the Oracle of Mila can see the future. If they could, it would drive them half crazy. What could they do to prevent the bad things?” he questioned. “Nothing, that’s what,” he said, answering his own question.

  “I don’t know, maybe it could be useful. Especially if you were planning on something for the future,” Basha said.

  “What would you have planned for the future?” Geda asked, picking out another glass to fill.

  “Geda, you shouldn’t ask him that!” Habala said. She knew she was too protective of him sometimes, but if she didn’t stand up for Basha, who would?

  “I’ve plans,” Basha insisted. “I’m going to have the future I want.” However, he was only half certain of what he wanted.

  Geda got another tray to disperse the load that Habala would have to carry to deliver her next order. “Not everything goes according to plan.” He sighed. “You should go, Basha,” he said, moving plates and glasses onto the other tray.

  “Go? Go where?” Basha asked.

  “To the…” Geda looked up. “You haven’t forgotten what day it is, have you?”

  “No, I—”

  “The militia tryouts, Basha!” Geda cried. “Oaka’s already left!”

  “They’re today? But I thought they weren’t until…” He’d forgotten the day.

  “Sir Nickleby shouldn’t have scheduled tryouts so soon before the Courtship Ritual,” Habala said to herself, picking up her tray.

  “What should I do?” Basha asked helplessly.

  “Go! You don’t want to miss those tryouts, do you?” Geda asked, staring at him as he balanced his full tray of glasses, silverware, and plates.

  “No, I suppose not,” Basha sighed. He was resigned to going, but how could he keep his mind on fighting with upsetting thoughts of Jawen still rattling around in his head. He was ill-prepared for sword play. Still, as he’d no choice now; he would go try out. “I’d better go change and fetch my sword.” He turned and almost ran straight into his Uncle Smidge, coming back to the bar with broom in hand.

  “Hey, there, Basha.” Smidge grinned. “How did it go with Jawen?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it now; just leave me alone,” he told his Uncle as he headed for his room.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Smidge asked Geda as he watched Basha hurry down the back hallway.

  “I don’t think it’s going well at all with Jawen,” Geda said as he and his brother switched places so Geda could step out from behind the bar and help Habala serve their increasing crowd of customers.

  “Maybe he’s trying too hard,” Smidge said. “Sometimes it’s best to leave a reluctant girl be until she sees she might lose her suitor. Maybe he just needs to let Jawen make the next move.”

  “I just hope Basha isn’t setting himself up for a big disappointment with that girl,” Geda muttered.

  “I’m sure he knows what he’s doing,” Habala said as they headed for the tables with their trays. “He’s been pursuing her for years now, and she hasn’t always been particularly receptive to his attentions, but surely she knows and he knows what he’s doing, right?”

  “We can hope,” Geda said as they broke apart and headed for separate tables.

  * * * *

  East of town, those on the road to Sir Nickleby’s to watch or participate in the militia tryouts were unaware they were being observed from the brambles alongside the road. Oaka and Sisila nestled close to each other in a hollow in the bushes. Laughing and chatting with one another, the pair tried to guess who might win the coveted spots and who
might fall by the wayside.

  Oaka sipped water from his canteen as he pondered the militia tryouts. They were entertainment for those who had little diversion in their hardworking lives, but for those competing, it was a time for young men to prove themselves worthy and to show off in front of their girlfriends and parents. Oaka had what he wanted—the girl he loved just as much as she loved him—but he didn’t forget where his priorities lay, with the militia tryouts.

  Oaka had never been much of a student. Most of the time he and the rest of his classmates either fell asleep, stared out the window, whispered to one another, or just fidgeted in their seats. Occasionally, they’d cause a major disruption, with Oaka usually leading the chaos and mayhem. Unfortunately, he had a problem with authority. Sometimes he was tired of being told what to do, so he didn’t know how well he’d fare in the militia if he made the cut. Still, he was determined to make it, not only because his parents expected it of him but because he wanted to make Sisila so proud of him she’d say yes when he asked for her hand in marriage. And perhaps her father would sanction their marriage as well.

  He turned his head to admire Sisila for a silent moment before he chastely kissed her on the cheek. She turned and smiled wickedly at him before tackling him. He didn’t try to resist but fell over instead, taking her with him. She pinned him to the ground and licked his lips. Oaka laughed, able to free his arms and wrap them tight around her. He rolled them over and into the stickers. They ignored the small pricks and giggled. They kissed each other fiercely until Oaka rolled them back into their little hollow, tired yet exhilarated from their wrestling. Oaka leaned over her again to admire her beauty as she lay there, needles, leaves, and grass stuck inside her tresses. Breathing heavily, he felt his heart pounding, the fire burning inside his loins and he wondered if he could ever have enough moments like this.

  “Oaka, will you be asking for me tomorrow night?” Sisila asked.

  Forever young—never growing older, but growing up with the woman he loved was what he wanted. “Of course I will, Sisila,” he said, smiling. “There isn’t anybody I love more than you.” He leaned down and kissed her again on the mouth. Having fun with her, being together—there wasn’t anything else that mattered more to him.

  “Oh, Oaka!” she cried, sounding happier than ever before.

  “And when I…win a…place in…the town’s…militia…” he told her between kisses to her forehead and cheeks. “I’ll be just as grand as any nobleman your father would have you wed.”

  “I don’t care what my father wants. I want you,” she said, staring deeply into Oaka’s eyes. “There isn’t any other man, nobleman or otherwise who could make me as happy as you do.” She smiled up at him. “I love you more than life itself.”

  Feeling the same way, Oaka smiled at her, but then the uproar of the crowd reached them from Sir Nickleby’s. The couple raised their heads as Oaka said, “Uh-oh. Sounds like the tryouts are about to start.” Oaka got up to peer out of the bushes. “Yep, there’s Sir Nickleby,” he said, spotting his aged mentor crossing the meadow in the distance.

  Sir Nickleby was in his late fifties, gray-haired yet robust, maintaining his health and character through vigorous exercise and a good diet. He trained all of the young men who wished to fight, not to mention heading up the militia and breeding horses. He was a busy old man. Of course, he had assistance in his endeavors, especially at the stables he owned, but still, he ought to be retired. That would stop him from complaining about young men who slacked off and joked around.

  “You know, Sir Nickleby ought to be tried, or at least questioned,” Oaka said, glancing around, “for what happened with that forest fire.” He sighed and asked Sisila, “Where’s my sword?”

  “Are you serious, Oaka?” Sisila asked, sitting up. “Sir Nickleby isn’t responsible for what happened. It was an accident. He said so; surely we should believe him?”

  “Sir Nickleby was the only witness. He could be lying to save his own skin. My uncle Smidge said it was all very suspicious.”

  “Sir Nickleby is a gentleman, and he’d not harm anyone without just cause.”

  “Just cause? Like his years of warfare, fighting and killing?” Oaka remarked. “Where is my sword?” he repeated, scratching the back of his head.

  “Oaka, Sir Nickleby is a good man. In spite of what profession he took up, he did so in defense of our country, to ward off evil people like Doomba, and now, all of these years later, he has trained my brothers, you, Basha, and so many more. He seems nice from what I know of him. And I can’t believe him to be so ill-willed as to kill his own men.”

  “You’re too kindhearted, my dear Sisila. You should remember a good man is not always a gentleman…and vice versa.”

  “Oaka, you can’t seriously believe Sir Nickleby really would do such a thing. You aren’t considering openly blaming him, are you?”

  “Uh…maybe.” Oaka did believe Sir Nickleby should be tried, or questioned at least, as to what had happened, since no one had seriously considered the possibility that Sir Nickleby could conceivably be lying. He’d told a tale that seemed convincing, and likely enough, but still Oaka thought it should be thoroughly checked out.

  As the drums and fifes began to play, Oaka grabbed his canteen and stood to attach the bottle to his belt. “Now, where is my sword?” he asked, looking around for it. He didn’t want to be late for tryouts and be reprimanded by Sir Nickleby for tardiness. The man could be brutal.

  “Oaka, whatever happens, you’ve got me,” Sisila said.

  “Ah, here it is,” Oaka said as he spotted his weapon and pulled it out the brambles. “I know, and I value your commitment to me.” He bent and kissed her cheek. “Wish me good luck?”

  “Of course. But—”

  Sisila took his hand and he pulled her up “…just in case you don’t make the cut today, I want you to know, you don’t need to be a soldier or anything grand for me to love you, my wise fool.”

  The wise fool, Oaka thought, the trickster of song and rhyme, what a thing to be. He’d been fond of calling himself that since he was a child, and everyone in Coe Baba knew him by the moniker. It was based on the immortal character of song and story, passed down through the generations, about a man who could take advantage of others without too much consequence, except for the occasional misdeed running afoul. The moral of the story, to do well for the sake of doing good things as the wise fool would eventually have to lose.

  But Oaka didn’t want to lose, not today. Not with Sisila being Baron Augers’ youngest daughter. At least she’d moved out of his house before they’d gotten serious about each other, but he still didn’t want to give the baron any more arrows with which to shoot him down tomorrow when he asked Sisila to marry him.

  Focusing his attention on a branch, he pointed his blade at it, imaging it to be Baron Augwys. The baron was supposed to be in cahoots with Lapo—all signs pointed to it—and his father spoke bitterly sometimes about rebelling against their unfair practices. Oaka didn’t have much knowledge of commercial or political affairs, but sometimes he felt the injustice of such a man considering him beneath his daughter. It burned inside him as hotly as a bonfire.

  Suddenly, the branch Oaka’s blade had been touching caught fire and flamed up. It was as if his thoughts, force, passion, and anger—especially when the thoughts of Sisila were mixed in—had all been directed through his sword at that one branch.

  The two of them quickly evacuated the bushes, and Oaka used his canteen to extinguish the growing flames. They stood there a moment, staring at the blackened branch in shock.

  “It happened again,” Sisila said, amazed.

  “The hayloft was different,” he said, trying to get the image of Baron Augwys bursting into flames out of his mind. “That happened in late Suma,” he said. “There was a drought going on, and we were causing a lot of friction.”

  “Then what happened here?” Sisila asked.

  “The light,” Oaka said, looking up at the sun and then
down at his sword. “The sunlight must have reflected off of my blade. I polished it pretty well this morning; it probably magnified the heat.” Good thing he’d been paying attention at school when that information had been taught, instead of just goofing off. Oaka knew he had some kind of problem, but he couldn’t quite understand what.

  She stared at him, opening her mouth, but then she sighed and told him, “Oh, never mind; go and have your fun.” Oaka smiled at her and then raced off down the dirt road toward the meadow. Then she called out to him, “Remember, I’ll be waiting!”

  “I’ll always remember that!” Oaka called back to her. When she couldn’t see his face any longer, the smile slid off his face. Lately, the spontaneous fires were getting more frequent, especially as he got closer to tying the knot with Sisila. Usually they happened before or after he got excited at the mere thought of being intimate with her. The fires didn’t start when he was asleep or unconscious; they only started when he was awake. Normally, he’d get up in the morning and try not to think about anything that would excite him in any way. He usually let his mind wander without focusing on anything specific but that wasn’t helping much anymore. He feared he was losing control and that his mind would eventually wander back to something that angered him or he’d become stimulated when with Sisila, and fire would once again be the result. At least the flames were small still, and he could quickly put them out.

  Magic was a remnant of the past, an uncommon ability among the people of his world. Those who possessed it usually wound up separating themselves from the outside world. It was either not believed in, or else it was too heavily believed in by those who were too suspicious of the powers some witches and wizards were said to possess. There were even some townspeople here in Coe Baba, who looked as unkindly upon magic as they did in the country of Urso, where witches were burned. He wasn’t afraid of magic, not in the least, but he wouldn’t advertise it if he had any, especially when he wasn’t even certain that it was magic that he possessed. Maybe he just had some bad luck in accidentally starting fires out of thin air. He groaned at the thought.