The Iron Hound

7.3

Quin was easy to slip away from. He'd fallen asleep, half propped against the wall next to the cot in their shared room. Sergeant Elder was another matter. Baethen had a feeling he'd been instructed to keep a watchful eye on him. He'd felt his stare bore into his back whenever he moved. The best course of action was to be open about his intentions.

He stood, the cot beneath him creaking, and reached for the cloak he'd draped over the mattress. When he turned, as expected, the sergeant's stern gaze was fixed on him. He watched in silence as Baethen flung the mantle over his shoulders, buckling it into place. He continued to watch as he took tentative steps out of the guest room. Just as he reached for the door he heard the groaning of the sergeant's armour.

Jaw setting, he turned the squeaking handle and crossed the threshold. The corridor's deep red carpets cushioned his footsteps as he picked up his pace.

"Varlet," came the sergeant's deep voice as the door shut with a click.

Baethen weighed the outcome of ignoring the man or facing him. His teeth clattered as he grit them together. Turning, he lifted his chin.

"What?"

The sergeant's expression darkened.

"Where are you going?"

"Out." Baethen forced a smile onto his lips. "The Wintersmeet starts tomorrow. This is the best chance I have to look around Halcaston. Or would that be considered unseemly of a varlet?"

Einion's expression contorted as he struggled with the question, his beard bobbing when his lips peeled back. A growl rumbled in the back of his throat. "Damn it all, boy. Fine, go, but know I'm trusting you. Don't you stomp all over that and muddy your new name."

Baethen had readied several more retorts, an entire speech if needed. He blinked at the man. This seemed very much out of character.

"Thank you," he said, trying to hide his hesitance.

He nodded once and turned, heading out of the inn before the sergeant could change his mind. He was sure it was some kind of ploy. Maybe a way to entrap him, make him lose face in front of the tutelar himself. Baethen chuckled. As if that would change the man's opinion of him.

Taking the stairs to the ground floor quickly, he peered into the common room, pulling the dangling cloth back just far enough to scan the interior. He'd left Ahn alone in front of the fire after lunch. The table they'd occupied now sat empty. Perhaps she'd headed to her own room. She had rather overindulged during the meal.

One of the innstaff sat at a booth near the main entrance, absently polishing boots that had been left at the door. Baethen straightened his sword belt, tucking the sheath under the cloak as he approached. The girl, maybe four or so summers older than he, looked up and nodded at him.

"Sir," came her mumbled greeting before her chin dropped again, intent on the mucky leather in her lap.

He eyed her, taking in a petite figure beneath the red and green gown. It was a conservative uniform, the hem brushing her ankles, the neckline barely revealing any collarbone. She seemed completely unperturbed under his scrutiny and his interest soon dwindled.

He reached for the door handle. The ironwork inlaid into the wood curled and weaved its way around the perimeter. In the centre, below the small window, a depiction of some kind of animal greeted visitors.

Halcaston's timber framed homes and shops served as useful shelter against the winds that had carried them through the tutelary's countryside. Baethen felt barely a breeze against his cheek as he turned onto The Wark and headed uphill, away from the main gate. He wasn't entirely sure where he was heading, but it was a safe bet to assume the life of the town would be further in.