The Last Resting Inn II

Morning found Beathag standing in the kitchen with a broom in one hand and a dead mouse in the other.

She looked at the mouse.

The mouse offered no explanation.

Crick leaned against the doorway with a mug of something hot and unpleasant.

“That one owe rent?”

“Apparently.”

Gribble was on his knees beneath the table, pulling old sacks from a cabinet. Dust covered his hair, his shoulders, and most of his face.

“There are more.”

“How many?”

Gribble looked into the dark space beneath the cabinet.

“Enough to form a council.”

Beathag dropped the dead mouse into a bucket.

“Good. We can charge them taxes.”

Crick took a drink.

“You are adapting well to property ownership.”

Beathag gave him the broom.

“You sweep.”

Crick immediately stopped smiling.

The manor looked worse in daylight.

The previous evening had allowed darkness to hide some of its problems. Morning had no such kindness. Water stains covered several ceilings. Plaster had cracked away from walls. One section of the western hall leaned enough that Beathag did not trust anyone heavier than Gribble to walk through it.

There were also rats.

Many rats.

Beathag had noticed the droppings before breakfast.

She had also noticed missing bread from the pack they had left on the kitchen table.

That was unforgivable.

By midday, she had found six old traps in a storage cupboard and repaired three of them.

Gribble watched from across the kitchen.

“You know how to fix those?”

“I know how springs work.”

“You know how to fix everything?”

“No.”

“What can’t you fix?”

Beathag adjusted the trigger on the first trap.

“People.”

Gribble thought about that.

“Fair.”

She baited the traps with cheese, placed one beneath the pantry shelf, another behind the flour bins, and a third along the wall beside the stove.

Crick watched her from the doorway.

“You think that will solve it?”

“No.”

“Then why bother?”

“Because I want to know how many we have.”

“That seems sensible.”

“It also makes me feel better.”

“That seems less sensible.”

Beathag straightened.

Something struck the ceiling above them.

All three looked up.

Nothing followed.

Crick sighed.

“And whatever is throwing furniture?”

Beathag looked at the ceiling.

“That can wait.”

“Why?”

“Because it hasn’t eaten my bread.”

Crick nodded.

“Priorities.”

The rest of the day passed in dust and labor.

They pulled rotten rugs from the common room. They dragged broken chairs into the courtyard. Beathag opened windows that had not been opened in years. Gribble found an old iron kettle and spent half an hour cleaning it as though he had discovered treasure.

Crick found a cabinet containing twelve bottles of wine.

Beathag confiscated them immediately.

“For safety,” she said.

Crick stared at her.

“Whose?”

“Mine.”

By sunset, the kitchen looked almost usable.

Almost.

Beathag stood in the center of it with her hands on her hips.

The floor had been swept.

The table had been scrubbed.

The hearth had been cleared.

There were still holes in the ceiling and something dead inside one wall, but progress was progress.

Gribble brought in an armload of wood.

“We lighting this?”

Beathag nodded.

“Carefully.”

“Why carefully?”

“The chimney might be blocked.”

Crick looked up.

“With what?”

Beathag shrugged.

“Birds. Soot. Bodies.”

Gribble put the wood down.

“You always make the third option worse.”

“It prepares you.”

They lit the fire.

For several minutes, nothing happened.

Then smoke poured into the room.

Crick coughed.

Gribble waved both arms.

Beathag grabbed a bucket and dumped water over the fire.

The kitchen filled with steam and profanity.

A few minutes later, all three stood outside coughing.

Crick wiped his eyes.

“Bodies?”

“Probably birds.”

“That disappoints me.”

Beathag looked toward the chimney.

“We clean it tomorrow.”

Something moved near the barn.

Beathag turned.

A black shape slipped between the open doors.

She narrowed her eyes.

“Did you see that?”

Crick nodded.

“Dog?”

“Too quiet.”

“Wolf?”

“Too small.”

Gribble squinted.

“Cat.”

Beathag walked toward the barn.

The goblins followed.

The barn was in better condition than the manor. One wall leaned slightly, but the roof looked sound. Old stalls lined the interior. Hay covered the floor. Several empty feed barrels sat near the back.

Beathag stepped inside.

The air smelled of straw, dust, and animal.

She heard movement above.

She looked toward the loft.

Two violet eyes stared down at her.

The cat was large.

Not enormous.

Not some ridiculous monster capable of carrying a horse.

Just larger than a normal house cat.

Long black fur covered a lean body. Its ears were slightly pointed. Its tail moved slowly across the edge of the loft.

Crick whispered, “That is not normal.”

The cat vanished.

Not jumped.

Not moved.

Vanished.

Gribble took one step backward.

“I agree.”

A moment later, the cat appeared behind Beathag.

Beathag turned.

The animal sat calmly and stared up at her.

Beathag stared back.

The cat blinked once.

“You live here?”

The cat said nothing.

Crick looked at Beathag.

“You ask animals questions now?”

“I asked you plenty during the war.”

Gribble covered a laugh.

The cat walked past Beathag and rubbed once against a support post.

Then it looked toward the manor.

Its tail flicked.

Beathag crouched.

“You belong to someone?”

Nothing.

“Hungry?”

The cat’s ears moved.

“That got your attention.”

Beathag reached into her belt pouch and found a strip of dried meat.

She held it out.

The cat approached.

Then disappeared again.

The meat vanished from Beathag’s hand.

Crick swore.

The cat reappeared several feet away chewing.

Beathag stood.

“Well.”

Gribble pointed.

“It phases.”

“I noticed.”

Crick folded his arms.

“We should leave it alone.”

Beathag nodded.

“Agreed.”

The cat looked at them as though this had already been decided.

They returned to the manor.

The first trap snapped shortly after midnight.

Beathag woke instantly.

Years of sleeping in military camps had trained her body to respond to small sounds with unreasonable violence.

She sat up, hand already gripping the knife beneath her pillow.

Another sound followed.

Not squeaking.

Swearing.

Beathag froze.

“You miserable, oversized, incompetent butcher!”

She stared toward the door.

“Release me immediately!”

Beathag got out of bed.

The voice came from downstairs.

Crick appeared in the hallway carrying his sword.

“You hear that?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds angry.”

“Yes.”

“Human?”

“No.”

They descended together.

Gribble emerged from another room and followed them.

The kitchen was dark except for moonlight coming through the window.

The trap beside the pantry had been sprung.

Something gray struggled inside it.

“Careful!” the voice shouted. “Do not touch the mechanism until you understand the pressure!”

Beathag crouched.

A rat glared up at her.

His fur was gray. One ear had a small tear. His eyes were dark and far too intelligent.

Beathag looked at Crick.

Crick looked at Gribble.

Gribble looked at the rat.

The rat sighed.

“Yes, I speak.”

Beathag looked back down.

“Good.”

The rat blinked.

“Good?”

“Saves time.”

“Release me.”

“You ate my bread.”

“I ate some bread.”

“How much?”

“That is hardly relevant.”

“How much?”

The rat hesitated.

“Most of it.”

Beathag sat back on her heels.

Crick folded his arms.

“Hang him.”

The rat’s eyes widened.

“You will do no such thing.”

Gribble leaned closer.

“He talks like an officer.”

“I was a wizard.”

Crick nodded.

“Worse.”

The rat pulled at the trap again.

“My name is Merys.”

Beathag reached for the latch.

Merys immediately stopped moving.

“Slowly.”

“I know how traps work.”

“You built this?”

“No.”

“Then you do not know how this trap works.”

Beathag opened it.

Merys scrambled out and backed against the wall.

He rubbed one foreleg.

Beathag studied him.

“You said you were a wizard.”

“I still am.”

“You are a rat.”

“I am aware.”

“How?”

Merys looked offended.

“Magic.”

“That narrows it down.”

“I cursed myself.”

Crick laughed.

Merys glared at him.

“I was attempting a transformation spell during a storm.”

“You turned yourself into a rat.”

“Yes.”

“On purpose?”

“No.”

Gribble scratched his chin.

“Were you trying to become something impressive?”

Merys looked away.

“A hawk.”

Crick laughed harder.

Beathag raised a hand.

“That is enough.”

Merys looked up at her.

“I came here years ago during the storm. The manor was empty. It was dry enough. I stayed.”

“You’ve lived here ever since?”

“Yes.”

“Eating other people’s bread?”

“There were no other people.”

“There are now.”

Merys glanced toward the pantry.

“I noticed.”

Beathag folded her arms.

“You can stay.”

Crick stopped laughing.

“What?”

Merys blinked.

“I can?”

“You know the manor.”

“Better than anyone alive.”

“That is not much competition.”

“Still.”

Beathag pointed toward the pantry.

“You steal food again and I put the traps back.”

Merys straightened.

“I accept.”

Gribble looked toward the window.

A dark shape sat outside on the sill.

Two violet eyes stared in.

Merys saw them.

He went completely still.

Beathag noticed.

“You know the cat?”

Merys slowly backed away from the window.

“Yes.”

Crick smiled.

“Friend?”

“No.”

The cat lifted one paw and placed it against the glass.

Merys disappeared beneath the table.

Beathag looked down.

“You are a wizard.”

“Yes.”

“And you are hiding from a cat.”

“I am also a rat.”

The cat remained outside.

Watching.

Beathag looked around the kitchen.

Two goblins.

One cursed wizard.

One impossible cat.

Something upstairs still throwing furniture.

She rubbed her face.

Retirement was not going according to plan.

She found that she did not mind.