I smiled at how easily Kian talked his way into a comfortable spot at the inn. I knew that the people only half believed in his ‘daemon’ but I also knew that life in a small town was monotonus. Daemon or n daemon, the chance for something exciting and entertaining was worth the price of a meal. For my own part I had other priorities, days spent climbing over mountains and dodging greenskins had left me feeling less than civilized. Fortunately the best inn in Zinoca ran to a simple bath in the form of a large iron bound half drum which I guessed had been used to ship wine or ale in bulk before the locals got more creative with it. The serving maid was a little scandalized when I asked not only fresh water, but hot fresh water to fill it, but for a silver coin I was able to overcome her initial reluctance to do more than make doe eyes at Kian.
 
During the bath I asked her what the gate guard had meant about Bradolf.
 
“It’s a town up the river, uppity farmers and timber men for he most part,” she confided in surprisingly nasal Tilean. I think she meant it to show that she was as sophisticated as I was, but I much preferred her bastardized Riekspiel to the hash she made of the Mother Tongue. Bradolf had, she claimed, once been a hamlet under the control of Zinoca but wealth from its mahogany groves had lead to its growth until it rivaled the parent city. Predictably friction between the old families and the new money was acute.
 
“We even had a few battles, mostly just the men shaking their spears at each other,” the serving woman explained as she scrubbed my back rather harder than seemed strictly necessary.
 
“Everyone was saying it was going to be war before the orcs showed up this spring.”
 
“And you have been fighting the orcs since?” I asked. She made a dismissive sound by blowing air through her lips.

 “The orcs don’t come down out of the mountains much, except at night, it hasn’t stopped the men from squabblin’ only made them a bit more cautious about it.”