The newcomer made his way slowly, wearily toward the inn’s counter. Watching eyes followed his steps. From his soaked, tattered clothes he left water, mud, and a few broken twigs scattered across the floor. One or two guests with harsher, more angular faces shook their heads in disapproval atop their thick, column-like necks, but as the familiar, ceaseless hum gradually filled the room once more, their gazes turned back to their own tables. By the time the dripping figure reached the counter and cast his sack down beside the leg of a chair, laughter had already returned, and the rush of fresh air had been swallowed without a trace by the slow, rolling heat of bodies.

  The man threw back his hood. As the innkeeper’s eyebrows climbed toward his nearly bald crown, his bearded face broke into a broad, creased smile.

  “Mest! What a joyful surprise! I haven’t seen you in a thousand years!”

  “The pleasure’s mine, old Hobb. Forgive me for bringing half the forest in with me,” he said, glancing toward the door.

  “Think nothing of it. Worse has been on the floor tonight already — and worse still will be, once the guests can no longer find their way to the yard. Though they won’t get the chance this evening. I’ll be sending them home at once — let them drink in their own houses, or at one another’s. Today is a great day, and it must be celebrated! The place will be ours alone.”

  Hobb was already about to set himself to herding the company out into the rainy night when a calming hand rose to bar the path of his hasty enthusiasm.

  “If you do that, I’ll be going with them. Would you raise a stir only to sit sipping in deafening silence? Perhaps in your old age you’d rather hear the beetles gnawing than the sound of music? Leave them be. Let them drink. I like a bit of bustle with my ale — that’s when the mood is right.”

  “If that’s your wish, so it shall be, my friend. But really now — we’ve barely greeted one another and already you age me twice over? I’m no doddering old man yet, only growing ever more manly by the day.” He laughed heartily. “It’s good to see you again.”

  They clasped palms and shook hands firmly over the counter. As a consequence, a thick cloud of dust rose from Mest’s arm and went straight for the innkeeper’s face. Hobb coughed, waving the air away in front of him. Once the brownish haze had somewhat settled, he fished a cloth from the pocket of his apron and set about wiping the mugs again — the very same ones that had been clean a moment earlier.

  Mest unbuckled his sword, leaned it against the base of the counter, then lowered himself slowly onto a stool, as though rust had crept into his knees. His friend studied him with care.

  “You, my friend, haven’t changed a bit since the last time I saw you — and that was years ago. How many was it? Five? Might be six by now. That is, of course, aside from becoming ever more ragged and filthy.” He leaned closer. “What’s your secret?”

  “I spend a lot of time wallowing in mud.”

  “That’s not it, damn you! How do you always stay so young? How long have I known you? It must be twenty-five years since we first went adventuring together. And you still look like a man in his thirties — and not even the later ones.” He wagged a finger. “Something isn’t right here.”

  “Why, the seat hasn’t even warmed beneath me and already…?” Mest sighed. “Every time we meet, you start pestering me with this. But if you insist, very well — I’ll tell you this once. First, though, give me whatever he is drinking.” He gestured towards a man nearby who was slapping the table and laughing with his mouth stretched wide. “It seems to put him in a fine mood.”

  “You’re right — forgive me. I was so glad to see you I forgot to ask what you’d like. But leave that piss-water alone and drink this instead.”

  He snatched a bottle from the shelf and, with great care, filled a small shot glass. The reflection of the ceiling rippled suspiciously slowly on the surface of the crystal-clear liquid.

  “This is my own creation. Made from apples. You’ll like it. I don’t hand it out to just any drunken swine. I simply call it…” He let a theatrical pause hang in the air, his hand making a mystic flourish. “‘The Distillate.’ Fitting, don’t you think?”

  “Reserved only for filthy old friends?” Mest bowed slightly from his seat. “I’m honoured.”

  He lifted the drink to his nose, then — like a man about to dive headfirst from a cliff — blew out a breath. He tossed it back in one go and slammed the glass onto the counter.

  “Pff.” His eyes widened as he shook his head. “That would wake the dead.”

  “See?” Hobb grinned smugly. “That’s because it’s full of love and care. I told you you’d like it. So then?”

  “So then what?”

  “So then how is it that time doesn’t touch you?”

  “I get plenty of fresh air.”

  “Oh, go on with you.” Hobb laughed, flicking his cloth at him. “I’ve missed you. How are you? What wind blew you into our little town?”

  Mest leaned back on his stool.

  “Well, as you said yourself — I’m ragged, filthy, and soaked through.” He paused to scratch his face. “Though some of the dirt may have washed off in the rain… the rest probably came off when I walked in.”

  Hobb shook his head fondly and began wiping the next mug. To a good innkeeper, a cloth is like a sword to a warrior — indispensable, and it must always be stroking something. An unspoken rule.

  “Besides that, I’m hungry, thirsty, and I can’t remember the last time I slept in a bed — especially with both eyes closed. It’s possible I’ve forgotten how. Might be worth trying, see if I still can.”

  Hobb set the cloth down and came around the counter.

  “Just look at what a fine friend I am — polishing mugs as if lives depended on it, while leaving you here dripping wet. Give me your cloak and vest, I’ll hang them up by the hearth.” He nodded towards the far end of the counter. “You’re soaked through. And I’ll draw you a great bowl of stew straightaway, before you starve to death on my watch.”

  “Thank you, but don’t trouble yourself with food just yet. If I eat right away, I’ll end up asleep on the counter, and you’ll be listening to my snoring instead of conversation. For now, I’ll just drink a little — and even then, I’d best wait for your distillate to settle before it quarrels with the next one. I must confess, I’m out of practice.”

  “You? Nonsense. But I won’t argue — I’ll press more drink on you a little later then. Now give me those filthy rags.”

  Mest stripped down to his shirt and handed over his clothes. When Hobb returned, he sniffed theatrically.

  “They smell.”

  “That’s the important part. As long as I can smell them, I know I’m alive.”

  “And that it’s time to wash both yourself and your clothes — though I already pity the poor stream.”

  His gaze caught on Mest’s right arm. A rough, thick glove covered his hand, and from wrist to elbow a decorated leather bracer was strapped tight with sturdy buckles. At its centre ran a strange inscription, formed of elegant, curved letters.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “Your right arm’s injured again?”

  Mest opened and closed his fingers a few times.

  “My luck. But I can still swing a sword with it. See? It moves. Nothing serious.”

  “Hm… and what’s that writing? I don’t recognise the language.”

  “Just a quotation.”

  “Oh? And what does it mean?”

  “That’s a secret.”

  The cloth swung again in resignation. Hobb tilted his head thoughtfully.

  “And aside from that — picked up anything new?”

  A deep, clawed scar ran down the right side of Mest’s face.

  “No… I don’t think so. It’s not such a bad thing, really. Gives me a certain manly charm. Like mystery.”

  At a nearby table, a man tried unsteadily to rise from his chair. In a rough, slurred voice — with the unmistakable tone of a lout — he shouted towards the counter.

  “Hobb! Why don’t you hang my clothes up? I’ve thrown up a bit too. Or am I not cultured enough?”

  “I can see your head’s no longer in your mug, but your mouth still works!” Hobb snapped. “Please shut it, Jasu, and keep drinking.”

  Jasu muttered some unintelligible curse and sank back into his ale.

  “Pay him no mind, Mest. Young and drunk — and on top of that, in a foul mood. And stupid as a mule, besides. Still, he’s not a bad lad.”

  “At the moment, I’m paying no mind to anything.”

  From another table came a more sober voice.

  “Our dear leader! Might we steal you for a moment? Could you give us a generous serving of everything? No need to list it — you know what we mean.”

  Encouraged by this, a few more requests followed from here and there.

  “You see?” Hobb wagged his finger. “I should’ve sent them home. One can’t have a proper conversation like this. My apologies — give me a moment to serve them, or they’ll grumble all night.”

  He began filling bowls and tankards, piling them onto a broad wooden board. Hoisting nearly two tables’ worth of food and drink onto his shoulder, he made his way into the crowd.

  Mest looked around the room. Everywhere sat carefully selected pockets of good cheer; only Jasu drank alone at his table, wrapped in a timeless, gloomy aura. As he passed his fingers through the flame of the candle before him, sombre shadows crossed his face.

  Mest watched him for a few moments, then sighed softly. He turned towards the hearth and raised his hand towards the fire. Warmth spread through his body, his muscles slowly releasing their tension. His soaked shirt and trousers began to dry. For a while, he simply listened to the ebb and flow of the room’s noise. Rain tapped rhythmically against the windows, and the wind seemed to be rising — a faint whistle slipping through the cracks in the shutters.

  He hummed quietly to himself.

  “It’s good here, damn it. It would be nice to settle down… at least for a while,” he said softly to the crackling logs. As his gaze sank into the flames, his thoughts drifted, losing themselves in the mist of distant memories and dream-images, growing ever more indistinct with the passage of time. A faint smile touched his lips. “Look at that — wandering off again, talking to myself.” He shook his head. “There’s no sense clinging to a past that never happened. My future lies elsewhere.”

  He dug deep into his pack and, after a moment of rummaging, placed a small wooden box on the counter. He opened it carefully. “At least these didn’t get wet…”

  It had two compartments. In one lay broad, thin, dark-green leaves, neatly unfolded; in the other, a small mound of crumbled plant matter. He laid a leaf in his palm, sprinkled a little of the smaller pieces along its centre, and carefully rolled it into a cylinder.

  “High time I had a smoke.”

  Hobb set a few empty dishes down behind the counter.

  “And who have you been talking to while I was gone?”

  “Myself. Though more often than not, I’m poor company. I seem to have spent too much time alone — grown used to thinking out loud. My mind’s gone a bit stale.”

  Hobb laughed.

  “Then let’s continue our conversation, so you needn’t resort to yourself.” He gestured towards the invitingly crackling logs. “Wouldn’t you like to move closer to the hearth? You can hardly feel the warmth from here.”

  “This will do, thank you. You know I dry easily.”

  “Just don’t fog up my counter in your haste.”

  The innkeeper watched his friend’s fiddling with suspicion.

  “What’s that, then?”

  “This?” Mest said. “A substitute for a pipe. Too much bother with those. This at least doesn’t need packing — only rolling.”

  He put his handiwork to his lips. Holding two fingers near its tip as though about to flick it, his hand suddenly stalled. He glanced back towards the revelling guests. His mouth twisted, and he lowered his hand. Lighting the end from a candle, he drew in deeply. Leaning back, he exhaled the silky grey smoke towards the ceiling with a sigh of relief.

  Somewhere behind them, someone fell off a chair and became the object of general laughter.

  “I see you’re still very cautious,” Hobb said. “And rightly so, even if most eyes are already crossing from drink. You never know who might be watching.” He leaned on the counter. “Did you come up with this cleverness yourself?”

  “I’d love to boast that I did… but no. I saw it elsewhere — certainly not around here. In any case, the blend inside is unique. I call it…” He accompanied the words with a mystic gesture. “‘The Leaf.’ Fitting, don’t you think?”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it. I always learn something new when you pass through. And what about that fine pipe you had dangling from your mouth last time? Still got it?”

  “That battered twig?” Mest tapped a little ash from the end of the leaf. “Still have it. I smoke it when I’m not too lazy to clean it — or when I actually have the time. Which is to say, almost never.”

  “You’ve got the time right now.”

  “Indeed I do. And right now, I’m lazy.”

  The cloth returned to Hobb’s hand, and it resumed its endless service. Mest gazed thoughtfully at the slowly glowing ember.

  “A lot has changed here. There’s real abundance now…” He nodded towards the room. “I see people even have time for revelry. I barely recognise most of them.” A smile tugged at his lips. “And if I heard correctly, you’re a ‘town’ now — and you’re their ‘dear leader’?”

  Hobb planted his hands on his hips and puffed out his chest.

  “Well, you see, I’ve become the head of the region. Not officially, mind you — nothing written down, no grand residence, no need to request an audience. The locals simply wanted me to guide our little community, and I do my best. It seems I’ve earned some authority in their eyes. They listen to me on important matters — even the newcomers.” He spread his arms wide. “And on top of that, I hold the most important role in the communal house.” He laughed heartily. “I’m the innkeeper!”

  Mest hummed and wagged a finger at him.

  “I always suspected you’d end up taking charge here one day. You know the world, you think sensibly — and you’re a good man. You’ve earned it. I’m glad you’ve finally settled.”

  “Don’t say things like that, you’ll have me misty-eyed,” Hobb said. “But thank you, Mest — it truly means a lot coming from you. I only regret that you can’t stay. You deserve a quiet life too, at least for a while.”

  Mest waved it off.

  “Not my style. Besides, don’t feel too sorry for me, old man — you’d soon grow tired of me.”

  Hobb shook his head with a smile.

  “Perhaps… but I wouldn’t mind. All the same, we really can’t complain. Things are good. Since the road to the west opened, far more travellers pass through. We’ve paved the roads that way too — wagons roll much more smoothly now. When merchants arrive, we sell them what we have, they buy it, then sell us what they have.” He spoke while tapping one of the smaller casks. “The land’s fertile now, as you can see, so we’ve plenty to sell — and still enough left for ourselves. On top of that, the Order allowed places like ours to collect tolls — fair ones, mind you. Neither they nor we want people taking longer or more dangerous routes, when they’d otherwise lighten their purses or loads here. And quite a few travellers never continued on at all — they settled, some with families. Skilled smiths, farmers, carpenters, and the like. They came after your last visit — that’s why you don’t recognise many faces. Each of them helped make our life what it is today. Places like this are rare… but you know that better than anyone.”

  “No doubt about it. And the old ones — where are they?”

  Hobb’s mouth tightened with a trace of bitterness.

  “They still come by, now and then — but rarely. You know how it is. We were a small community once, and with all this bustle, many moved out to the surrounding villages. They’d grown used to the quiet. The world’s running past us.” His gaze lingered on the fire in the hearth. “It wasn’t bad before, either — the small community. It felt like family.” A deep sigh left his chest. “Still, the western road saved our lives. Suddenly we found ourselves between two great cities — Belor to the east, Adern to the west. An unbelievable stroke of fortune. Trade flourished at once. And you know how it is in cities too — much the same as here. Day is day: people work, build their lives. Night is night: everyone rests.”

  Mest continued to exhale smoke, tapping ash from the leaf.

  “It sounds very idyllic. I remember your inn was just being built the last time I passed through.”

  “That’s right. And since then — though it still feels strange to say it aloud — everything’s improved.” He returned from the cask and set a full tankard on the counter. “See? We’ve even got beer in abundance. Don’t worry — that distillate has settled in you twice over by now. Drink up!”

  “Thank you.” Mest dug deep into the small leather pouch at his belt, his hand emerging after an unreasonably long search. He stared at the single worn, filthy copper coin lying in his palm. “I’m afraid this is all I have. I was hoping I might sell a thing or two around here.” He passed the coin to Hobb. “Here.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous — we’re friends. You’re my guest for as long as you’re here, every day. After all we’ve been through together, after what you’ve done for us — you think I’d take money from you? What sort of man do you take me for?”

  “A good one,” Mest said, pressing a hand to his chest. “Thank you, from the heart.”

  He lifted the tankard and didn’t set it down until it was empty. Nearby tables listened with interest to the steady, loud gulps. When he finished, he placed the empty mug gently on the counter.

  “That was needed. I thought I might dry out entirely. Thank you.”

  “Another?”

  “I will.”