Rising Ch. 08

He leaned forward and squeezed her hand briefly at the apprehensive look she gave him. "Don't worry, you'll be fine. Just try not to be conspicuous."

Ahma tried to force the worry from her face. She dragged Lanion away from their Master and headed toward the stables. The horse snorted two or three times until Ahma turned to the towering horse and rubbed her slender fingers along his neck. "Come on, I'm more scared than you are."

Lanion watched her closely for a moment before following peaceably along up to the stables. A gruff, squat man stepped up to bar their way, crossing his arms over his chest. A long scar ran across the bridge of his nose, and his hair was matted down to his scalp. He wore a patch over his right eye.

"What d'ya want?" He asked shortly.

Ahma swallowed softly. For a moment, her nerves overwhelmed her. Then she steeled herself. She rested one hand along Lanion's flank and gazed up into the man's eyes. "My Master would like lodging from this inn. He'll be here shortly to settle his bill and register."

"Who's yer Master?" he asked.

"He's not from around here. He'll be the tall man with the copper hair and beard. He wears a blade at his hip. He's hard to miss."

"And you're?"

"His personal attendant," Ahma replied.

The stable hand raised an eyebrow. Ahma suddenly realized that probably hadn't been the best answer, especially judging by the way the man's single good eye roved along her body, pausing offensively long on her bosom.

"He don't pay, the horse is ours."

Good luck, Ahma thought. "Of course," she said tightly.

"I'll take 'im now," the stable hand told her.

Lanion shifted, tossing his mane and stamping one thick hoof. Ahma set her hand firmly to the horse's neck. "He doesn't like other people."

"No one 'cept the stable hands allowed in the stable," he scowled.

"I have to make sure your stables are large enough for him. And clean," Ahma insisted firmly. "Otherwise, we'll take our business elsewhere."

The stable hand glared darkly at her, then spat on the ground. "Fine. Follow."

***

By the time Ahma had finally gotten Lanion put up in a decent sized pen (the stable hand tried repeatedly to stuff the war-horse into a too-small enclosure. He finally began taking Ahma's protests more seriously when he narrowly missed a vicious kick from Lanion), her nerves were rough edged and she began to worry about how she was going to manage in a town like this without Methaniel there to support her. She'd been firm and sure of herself, yes, but she got the distinct feeling that she wasn't being taken seriously. She supposed she would learn as time went by how to deal with these folk.

Ahma had rarely left the estate once her brothers left her there. She had never been inside an inn, or a tavern such as this one featured.

She stopped by the front desk and cleared her throat softly. The Wingling clasped her hands to her stomach to hide their shaking. A plump, dark haired woman was distractedly checking over an account of the rooms. Her face registering surprise at the Wingling's presence once she noticed her standing there.

"Evenin', Miss. Can I get you anything?" she greeted her in a cheerful tone that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"My Master wishes to stay the night," Ahma explained. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves. "He's selling some furs at one of the shops right now. He should be in after a moment."

"Right," the woman said, her pleasant tone gone. She pointed to a small, worn out old stool in the corner. "You sit there."

"He instructed me to wait for him in the tavern," Ahma stated.

"You can sit there or get out," the woman snapped.

Ahma stared at the woman for several moments before she sighed softly and walked to the stool in the corner. A small sign beside it read 'attendants'. The stool was nearly blocked from view by a large, leafy plant.

This place was strange, Ahma decided. The people were very rude, and she felt quite uncomfortable around them. Her mind wandered as she attempted not to focus on the negative thought. Hopefully the furs would sell for a reasonable price. She was ready for a bath, and maybe a chance to eat some bread again. She sat, hands folded in her lap and wings jerking ever so slightly from nervousness. She tried not to fidget under the hostile look the serving woman shot her.

Methaniel entered several moments later, a large, swollen purse jingling at his hip. The obviously full coin purse would have likely attracted much undue attention if not for his intimidating appearance.

He glanced around the desk area several times before finally spotting the winged girl sitting in the corner by the plant. He walked to her, giving her a puzzled look. Then his eyes glinted hard as he spotted the sign addressed to attendants.

The Nobleman spun and walked quickly to the desk. He smacked a large fist onto the counter top, causing the distracted woman behind it to jump.

"Sir?"

"My servant was detained," he said, his eyes glinting dangerously.

"Sorry, sir. That's our policy," she said uneasily.

"Perhaps it would be best to embrace a new policy," he said grimly. Without another word he turned and nodded to Ahma. She rose and quickly walked to him.

Methaniel turned to the woman, his face hard and determined. "Show us to a table...acleantable...and gettwomenus."

The woman looked uncertainly at Ahma, incomprehension showing on her face, but she nodded and walked into the tavern.

"It's time for us to have somerealfood," Methaniel smiled to Ahma. They followed the woman into the tavern, and Methaniel handed her a silver coin to pay for their room.

Few patrons were frequenting the tavern this night; most had probably congregated to the larger tavern across the street that was more heavily focused on servant food and drink than the small inn was. A handful of customers sat at the bar and one couple occupied a table. A bored looking man stood behind a short oak bar, glaring darkly out over the room at nothing in particular. Several dirty glasses were scattered on the bar-top in front of him, but he seemed to have intention of cleaning them. He made little effort to speak with his customers.

Soon two flagons of ale were placed on the table.

"I...don't like it here so very much," Ahma said softly as Methaniel gave her a questioning gaze. She knew that it was obvious she was upset, and she knew it would do her little good to deny it.

"We won't be staying long," Methaniel assured her. He sipped at his drink; it tasted like pig swill, but after months spent in the wilderness with nothing to drink but melted snow, it tasted better than the finest wine he'd ever sampled during his days at court.

The bar maid came out, all smiles and smothering friendliness. Her face was painted cheaply, and her top was cut so low that the tops of her areola were exposed. She took their order and wandered back to the kitchens.

"Perhaps when we find a larger town we can find a more suitable environment for you to stay in for awhile. Either way, we need supplies and time to rest, so we'll be here for a day or so. No longer than needed, though."

As a look of uncertainty crossed Ahma's face, he gently told her, "I will be sure you are well treated, and we'll be on our way as soon as we are able. I like this no more than you, but it's necessary. I promise I will protect you."

Ahma nodded, taking a measure of comfort from her Master's words. Their food arrived, a generous serving of fresh breads and juicy fruits, sweet, seasoned meats and crisp vegetables, and even a mellow, rich stew. They ate in comfortable silence, ignoring the occasional stare and strange look from the few other patrons. Many seemed surprised that the apparent servant woman was dining on equal and companionable footing with her Master. Eyes were upon the alluring and rarely seen Wingling girl, but few of them stayed on her face.

They continued to eat, the comfortable silence of the meal punctuated every few moments by a sprinkling of pleasant, lighthearted conversation. Methaniel ate heartily, devouring his food quickly and efficiently. Ahma watched in mild amusement as she kept to a more leisurely pace. He always ate in such a manor, Ahma had noticed, and she assumed it was a habit of having little to no time for meals on a battlefront.

The bar wench returned several times, hanging about Methaniel and asking him annoying and pointless questions while she pointed ignored Ahma. The wench flirted and flaunted shamelessly, and at one point would have practically buried the Master's face in her displayed bosom had he not hastily scooted back. He payed little attention to the woman, ignoring her bold and blatant sexual advances. Ahma, more than a little bit upset by the woman's attitude, wondered if he was simply feigning ignorance or if he perhaps had that thick of a head when it came to the matter of women.

He was, after all, a military man.

Their meal complete, they rose, leaving a few coin upon the table-top. After all, their service had been excellent. Too much so, in Ahma's opinion. The sun had gone down by then, leaving only the lighting of the many lanterns and candles in the small inn to light their way. After a brief exchange with the woman handling the front desk of the inn, she handed Methaniel a key.

Their room was small and featureless, though in better upkeep and condition than the dilapidated common rooms. It would have been cheaper to get such a run-down room, but Methaniel had decided, despite his concern for being conscious with their funds, that after such a long time in the wilderness a nice and comfortable bed would do them much better than the tattered and flayed mattresses of a common room.

The bed was probably the nicest feature of all the room, large and padded heavily with thick and clean blankets. A small hearth was set in the wall across from the bed, and firewood was piled beside it, ready for burning. A small table sat in a corner, round and pitiful, with a vase that held a single daisy. There was a small, squat chest at the foot of the bed. It was empty, most likely for putting possessions and items away if one were to rent out the room for some time.

Master Methaniel walked to the hearth, tossing several logs into the fireplace and fishing out his flint. He had a fire going soon, small but powerful and warm. It filled the room with a soft orange illumination. Methaniel stood and glanced about the room, his brows furrowing as he noticed that there was only one bed. He glanced at the Wingling girl, who had noticed his confusion, and blushed slightly.

"Ahma...what did you tell them when you informed them we needed rooms?" he asked slowly.

Ahma's eyes flew wide and she felt her cheeks grow hot with a deep blush. "Nothing of that sort Master Merie, I assure you! I told them you were my Master and I was your personal attendant."

"I see," Methaniel muttered. He tapped his bearded chin with one finger. "I believe I know why this may be. I found when I went to sell the furs that this is Sefar, a trading post along the northwest Rojinla highway. Sefar, like most of the cities in the Rojinla lands, has a slave based economy. They don't look well on servants and slaves, and do not treat them well. I did not know this."

Ahma nodded slowly, looking crestfallen. She reached for one of the blankets and draped it down on the floor. Methaniel's brows shot up and he stepped to her, quickly gathering the blanket up. Ahma gazed up at him, surprised.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

Ahma blinked, uncertain and confused by the question. "I was going to get some blankets and settle on the floor. Is that ok, Master Merie?"

"It most certainly is not," Methaniel scoffed, and Ahma winced at the tone in his voice. She wilted noticeably.

"You'll take the bed, the floor will be mine," Methaniel continued. Ahma jumped and looked up at him in astonishment.

"N, no Master! You can't do that! I can't let you take the floor...you are my Master!"

Methaniel stared at her for a moment, disliking the panicked look etched across her face. "Very well then. If that upsets you, we will share the bed."

He smiled at her as he grabbed the blankets she'd put on the floor and placed them on the bed, then stretched his powerful limbs and rotating his shoulders. "It won't be all that different from how we usually sleep on the ground. And we're still likely to get rather cold tonight, regardless of the blankets and fire. May as well keep warm like we have been."

Ahma smiled brightly at him, though the blush still lingered in her cheeks. Somehow the thought of sleeping in the same bed with Master Methaniel, even though they'd been so close throughout their travels, sent a jolting thrill through her slender body.

"It's late," Methaniel said, looking up at her and smiling softly, "And I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted."

He pulled his tattered and ripped woolen shirt from his body and smiled at her. Ahma, her own thick dress in heavy disrepair and ripping in several places, climbed into the bed.

"Tomorrow we will tend to more business. We need some changes of clothes for you and I both, and a bath." He chuckled at the glimmer that crept into his Wingling companions eyes at the mention of a bath.

"We will deal with other businesses soon enough. I figure we can stay a few days to rest and recover before we travel again."

Ahma sighed softly as the Nobleman's warm body slid into bed beside her, and suddenly all was warm and wonderful as he pulled her gently to him, holding her close, his chest hard and warm under her face and his arms tight and strong around her.

***

The morning passed with little in the way of excitement. They slept late, and Ahma shivered in pleasure as she awoke from her intense, vivid dreams to find herself nestled firmly in the powerful warm arms of the Master. A thrill coursed through her and she fought hard to push it down, lest her feelings and desires should get the best of her and make her act strangely. He woke shortly after her and smiled down at her gently before sliding out of bed and throwing his old shirt back on. They walked down the stairs, Ahma trailing closely to his heels, feeling oddly meek and timid. She had always, of course, been a properly respectful and still girl, a necessity given her station in life, but through it all she had kept to her spirit and energy. Now though, in the midst of these people, she felt oddly uncertain and bashful.

They ate a small breakfast in the already open, but ultimately empty, tavern before walking out into the streets. The market was busy and bustling, mostly travelers haggling for supplies or goods, or the goodwives of the town, bartering for food to be served on that nights dinner table. For a short time the pair wandered and walked leisurely about the market, looking over the various goods, sometimes out of simple curiosity and others to remember where to find the goods and supplies they would need once they commenced their journey.

Methaniel led them into a small tailor shop, and they began to search through the clothes and garments already sewn and made, looking for some suitable traveling clothing. Methaniel gathered up a tunic, a new cloak, two sleeved shirts, two trousers, and a heavy leather jerkin vest.

The selection of dresses were limited. Forced to act on practicality, Ahma found a dress that was suited for travel after rifling through several racks of clothing. It had a double layer of fabric through the torso and arms. It was made of a course, tough material, the color an overall boorish brown with a small beige pock pattern.

Ahma abhorred the dress from the moment she laid eyes on it. She wasn't a particularly vain woman by any means, but the dress was plain and simply hideous, with no aesthetic quality at all. On top of this, it felt like a canvas sack, and itched her terribly.

Methaniel, for his part, was not completely ignorant of her woes. "The color is...terrible," he said sympathetically. "Not you at all. And I can tell just by handling it that it must be very uncomfortable. But it will keep you warm, at least, and hold up to some road wear. It will have to do, I'm afraid..."

Ahma sighed and stared at the dress. "I won't have to worry about staining it."

Methaniel tried to laugh and gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze. "We'll find something better soon, I'm sure. Wear this for now. It may help you blend in, too."

Ahma knew he was right; it was practical and efficient. It would keep her warm and it would take some considerable wear and tear before it deteriorated beyond use.

They also bought a few pairs of leggings for her and two tunics, allowing her to pick the colors and materials. The merchant seemed puzzled by this; most frowned upon women folk wearing anything but skirts or dresses, and that a servant was being allowed to do so seemed passing strange. They also bought her a long cotton nightgown. It had a modest cut, and would be fairly warm at night. It was soft and the material breathed well; it would be nice to sleep in, she decided. At least she wouldn't have to wear her frumpy brown dress to sleep.

As Methaniel watched her shifting through the clothing in search of leggings, he noticed a great deal of white feathers spotting the blue ones of the underside of her wings. He suggested they buy some dye, if they could find some, and it wasn't too terribly expensive. Ahma's pleasure with this suggestion was obvious from the smile lighting her face.

They searched seven stores before deciding to wait until the next village to try. They simply weren't having any luck.

"We'll find some dye soon enough," he told her with the glint of promise in his eyes.

"I'm certain we will, Master Merie," she agreed. "What are we going to do now?"

Methaniel grinned at her. "I don't know about you, but I'm ready for a bath."

"That would be wonderful," she nodded. She'd been looking forward to just that all day.

On their way back to the inn they noticed a small shop that appeared to be a collection of odd, hard to find items. Shrugging, they stepped inside and were promptly greeted by an elderly gentleman.

"Good day, Sir. Can I help you today?"

"Would you happen to carry...well, feather dye?" Methaniel asked.

"Hmm," the old man murmured, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "I do have a few...just a small selection, you see...but you won't find even a modest few such as these anywhere else in town."

Methaniel nodded and glanced at Ahma. "Let's see the selection."

The old man brought out four bottles. There was a white, as well as a dark red, a brown, and a green.

Methaniel turned to Ahma, his brow raised questioningly. "Any of these?"

Ahma tired her best not to let her disappointment and worries show. She knew what the white dye was for, but buying that as well as a new shade would be far too expensive. If she bought one of the colored dyes alone, it would mix with the brown already in her feathers and turn them a putrid brown. "The brown would be okay."

Methaniel's face dropped in surprise. "You really want the brown? It...doesn't seem like you."

She shrugged. He pattered her arm, "Ahma, what is it?"

"This is the only color I can use. The others will turn my wings brown anyway."

Methaniel glanced at they dyes and turned his attention to the elderly shop owner. "What does the white dye do?"

"That is a special dye that strips color away. Most of the winged folk use it to change colors without making the colors mix," he replied.

"Okay...I'll take one of those, and..." Methaniel glanced at Ahma, "A green?"

Ahma shook her face, her eyes wide with alarm. "Oh no, both of those together are far too expensive, Master Merie! You've spent too much already."

"Nonsense," Methaniel smiled. "Pick or I'll pick for you."