The Rusty Pickaxe
“Subilan san, ansa.” Andltor greeted as I emerged from the stairs.
“Ansa.” Rinaiba and Rimcot greeted almost in unison.
“Morning everyone.” I returned, “you shouldn’t be starting this early.”
“We’re just getting the easy things started, Jo-, ansa.” Besien replied, still adjusting to the arrangement. “Sa, Andltor! How many times do we have to tell you? Dough’s stickin’ to the table!”
“I’m on it, I’m on it! Came here to cook, you know. Not bake.”
“Ah, but they’re the same thing,” Rinaiba, the cook butted in, “except it’s more, uh, what’s the word? Careful?”
“It’s like when you take a girl you’re courting out for the first time,” Rimcot piped in, “always on your toes. But he wouldn’t know anything about that would, I wager.”
“Delicate! That’s the word. Baking is more delicate. Like this one here says, it’s like when you’re still courting. That’s what baking is. The rest is like when you’re married, all rough and quick and efficient!”
Rinaiba and Rimcot laughed, leaving Andltor, the youngest of the bunch, of my employees I should say, shaking his head. I cast a quick glance towards Besien, gauging her reaction to the exchange and caught her scratching a brow with her floury hand, face scrunched up in a half smile, half frown expression.
One day at a time.
“Ansa.” The three men acknowledged as Hanni appeared from door leading out to the stoves.
She held a steaming mug in each hand. Hanni nodded to them and approached where I stood. I could not help but note, perhaps for the hundredth time, how naturally she acted being acknowledged as a superior. I still was somewhat not used to being called boss, but Hanni was comfortable with the designation since the first time.
“Sleep well?” She asked, handing me a mug.
I shrugged and walked towards the shelf, the aroma of the hot drink she handed me wafting in the air. Norbas it was called. A beverage made by boiling the dried leaves of the plant with the same name, native to the grasslands of Khevernak. By all accounts, it was tea. Except it was strong - espresso strong, and just as bitter.
I set the mug on one shelf as I opened a small wooden chest and fished inside for a packet. A paper packet. I poured its contents on the mug and set the packet aside, to be reused if ever the need for it arises.
I didn’t bother to offer one to Hanni. She didn’t like her norbas sweet. I walked to the chair against the wall towards the closest opening. My tavern guards, Ommeri and Lanman were still asleep on their folding beds beside the counter.
“Think we’d be starting by midafternoon?” I asked, addressing no one in particular.
“There’s bound to be one or two by then, if the last few Zan-Kigrol is any indication.” Rinaiba answered.
“Always, they come early. Always, they leave late.” Andltor commented.
“You complaining now boy?” Besien asked, as if challenging the freckled youth.
“Lam, lam, oba. Relax, oba!” Andltor responded with a mischievous grin. “I meant that as observation. This place is becoming is popular now. We’ve been at full for shifts in a row! We’ll be the envy of other inns soon, I’m sure of this.”
“Weh alrede are. Sens thre shefts ago, ef am not mestaken.” A male voice from upstairs quipped as he made his way down the stairs. “Gretnes, morneng.”
“Anwan.” I replied to the man who had difficulty being firm with his diction, regardless if Silaronian or Khevernaki. He immediately proceeded to the back of the tavern to pour or make himself a mug of norbas, no doubt. After relieving himself in our very own outhouse, that is.
“Expect we’d be full by dusk then. But, if it were to be like previous Zan-kigrol’s, it should also end early.” Rimcot declared, tossing his dough up and letting it fall flat on the table. “Say, ansa. Does that mean we’re close?”
“It means we’re actually doing great, playing the good tavern crew. If ever we’re close, there will be signs and we, here, will be the first to know.” I answered.
They each nodded and conversed amongst themselves. Hanni headed for the front-house towards one of the tables and sat with her legs propped up. I was left to my own thoughts.
It hasn’t been long since we’ve established the tavern in Kapith but I’d be lying if I say I haven’t taken to this life. Owner to the town’s most popular tavern, Zamatul Thaoion, The Rusty Pickaxe has a nice ring to it. A very nice ring.
Despite my fears and the reasons that we have come to settle here in this mining town in the Khevernaki kingdom, everything seemed to work out just fine. I’ve never worked harder, however, but I now had shorter hours. Less of the manual stuff and more on the managerial side. I do my rounds, checking on each table, engaging in idle gossip, handing out freebies, a joke here, a song there.
I also make sure the customers are fond of us, treating them with free drinks and food from time to time. We have even taken to cooking for them in exchange for just the labor or cooking. Most of all, I make sure the town lord and I have good relations by means of timely payment of taxes, plus extra bribes, and a doing some errands for him when he needed goods from Silaron.
It is a good life. But it is not meant to be lived for long.
In addition to my title as proprietor of Zamatul Thaoion, I am now, also, His Greatness Jorj, chief architect of all things innovation, honorary and high ranking member of the Guild of Nights, Silaronian spy extraordinaire, and, in some respect, the ‘behind the curtain’ king of the Kingdom of Silaron.
Desperate times call for desperate measures they say, and I have been made most desperate of all. My dreams and hopes of a laid back and simple life shattered that night. That blasted night we stormed Riverhold.