The Arkanist

Chapter Sixteen: Interlude-Tough Times

ACT II

Chapter Sixteen: Interlude-Tough TImes

Hale sat upright in his seat, craning his neck to get a better look out the window. There were footsteps, slow and labored, a soft tapping on the wooden landing just outside the damaged door.

Hale hid the book in his cloak as the footsteps became louder, heavier. After a moment, one of the town farmers entered the inn, his beard streaked with two lines of spindly grey. Hale leaned back in his chair as the man approached the bar, where the innkeeper had just taken up shop. For some time he'd been out front, serving the men and women any supplies they needed, free of charge.

"Aben," he said to the farmer with a grim voice, lowering his gaze. "How are you? How's the family?"

The man called Aben returned the innkeeper a grey gaze, and rested his hands on the mahogany of the bar. 

"Better than some," he said with a voice like rough stone. "But it's still bad. Mary and Elli made it through, Aylar bless them, if he's still there, if he's still watching over this forsaken place. In the old stories Aylar had protected his people against the daemons of the Black when they came, gave them pity. I don't know if I believe those stories anymore. Anybody who does around here is foolish. Aye, my family's still here, lucky as we are, but the farm," he began, shaking his head. "It's no farm anymore."

"What meaning?" asked the innkeeper, cleaning a mug with his hands idly.

"Fences are a scattered heap of twigs," began Aben. "Cattle's gone, scared, I reckon, run off in the night. Betty never liked a flame, not even when I would go out back to care for the moonshadow with a torch. No, she's gone, as are the sheep and the goat we just boat off Lan. Not to mention the land. Even if we had the ploughs to work, the soil's gone rotten, like old milk. It smells of something foul, and it's all black, burnt I think. Not a spot of green left."

Aben scrounged up his nose. "I've got some coin tucked away, but it'll only last so long, and who knows when the levy's gonna come round. Guarantee they'll not take pity on us, never did. You remember last year when Old Lettie had her house burned, bloody coiners didn't bat an eye when they came demanding money."

"Same here," said the innkeeper. "If the coiners come, sure as day I'll be put out. I've not the coin saved, nor the coin to hand them."

"Tough times," said Aben. "All over, really. Can't get any help on my farm because everybody else is in deeper shit. Mr. Tinnery down the end of town, why he's got nothing left. Nothing. Hurts me soul to see him. His family's gone, so is his house, and his work."

"And young miss Roslin," said the innkeeper. "She's made off just as bad. Poor girl: no family left, nowhere to go, no coin, too young to know how to work a granary. Gave her a full loaf and a gallon bottle of water, as I have with everybody come knocking. Least I could do, seeing as I'm on the way out when the levy comes. I've got a couple more down in the cellar, if you're wanting some."

Aben shook his head, his face stiff, pursing his lips. "We can manage."

The innkeeper waved his hand and made for the cellar. "Listen, Aben, you need this. Bread and water. You can't manage, and you know that. You can't manage off pride."

"I won't take food from you," said Aben, a hallow strength in his voice. "We'll get our own."

"From where?" the innkeeper asked. "From who? Nobody else has got anything. I think Wendin's farm is the only one that made it through, but potatoes and carrots will only last so long when everybody else is needing them too."