6: Assassins From Shanaar - Part Eleven
The room quieted down as everyone turned to Feld sitting in the corner. He was a middle-aged man, dressed in work clothes. He turned to the innkeeper and responded, “I don’t make much of it, that’s what I say. It doesn’t add up.”
“Aye, Feld, that’s what I’ve been thinking. Something’s fishy here, and that’s no joke. Here we have two men traveling from Riverton, or so they say. Yet where are their horses? The stable boy hasn’t seen a horse, and I’ve asked. Did these men walk from Riverton?”
The locals turned back to the two men who looked a bit uncomfortable under the glare of the suspicious innkeeper and the locals. The tall man was about to explain their lack of horses when Feld spoke up again from the corner, drawing attention to himself again.
“It’s not the lack of horses that’s been bothering me. It’s the lack of voices, if you catch my meaning. I know Riverton accents and them’s not it. I’ll tell you what kind of accent they do have, though. It’s western, and no mistake.”
Everyone in the room wheeled back to glare again at the strangers, their suspicions having been suddenly confirmed. The young man by the fire stood up and shouted, “Spies! I knew it all along. Westerner spies and no mistake.” His face was flushed from the fire and the beer, and his voice quivered with emotion.
It wasn’t often that a Westerner would make his way to eastern lands, but any who did so traveled a great distance and with great effort. They either crossed the Elven Plain and lived, which would make them desperate enough, or they sailed around Dragon Island and Elaria, and that was a great distance. If these two men were Westerners, there was no good reason for their presence here. Those who were not suspicious before now became so. Those who had been suspicious from the start now turned hostile.