A skinny man with thinning red hair approached her. His fine vest and coat suggested he was either a merchant or an innkeeper. For some reason, Karigan always expected inn-keepers to be a bit more rotund.

“You wish a room?” he asked.

“Yes. A single.”

He raised his brow appraisingly at her trying to ascertain, she was sure, her ability to pay for a single room. His expression was doubtful, but he turned on his heel. “This way,” he said. He led her up a narrow stairway to the second floor.

The room he showed her was only slightly larger than the closet she had lived in at Selium, but it looked clean and comfortable. The mattress was feather rather than straw, and was covered with a thick quilt. An oil lamp, not lard or a candle, stood on a table next to the bed. She began to wonder what the expense of a night’s stay was going to add up to, and if she was going to end up in the scullery washing dishes, or in the stable mucking stalls. Better that than spending the night in one of those other raffish inns.

“The price,” the innkeeper said, “is four silvers.” He held his palm out expectantly.

Karigan’s mouth dropped open. Outrageous! Ordinarily, such an establishment would charge two silvers, and even that was considered somewhat steep. The innkeeper still stood there, hand outstretched, his expression growing more suspicious. Karigan pursed her lips and dug into her pocket. She dropped the precious silvers into the man’s hand. He bowed.

“This is robbery.” She hooked a lank strand of hair behind her ear. “Even the finest inns in Corsa don’t charge this much.”

“This is North,” the innkeeper said. “The extra expense covers security. You may have dinner when you are ready.” He glanced down his nose at her saber, and sniffed. “Arms are generally left in the guestrooms.” Karigan self-consciously hitched the slipping swordbelt into its proper place. The innkeeper removed a key from a ring on his belt. “If you are concerned about your . . . valuables, you may use this.” It was obvious he thought she didn’t possess much in the way of valuables.

You’d treat me just fine if you knew I was the heir of the wealthy Clan G’ladheon, wouldn’t you. “Thank you.” She wanted the key, took it, and shut the door in the innkeeper’s face.

She would go down to the common room for dinner in a moment, but first she was due for a cleaning in the washbowl. She splashed water on her face and contemplated the day’s events. First the “tree poachers” in Abram’s woods, then the strange horseman, followed by another dead Rider in a cart. Garl, the cart driver, had said she was asking about some girl. The stableboy mentioned that a Green Rider had asked after a horse. Why did the Rider search for a girl instead of F’ryan Coblebay?

Karigan’s head jolted up. Water dripped from her face and splashed into the washbowl. She couldn’t have been looking for me, could she? How would anyone know to look for her in connection to The Horse? That is, if she was the “girl” the Rider had been referring to. . . . Karigan blotted her face dry with the linen towel lying next to the bowl. No matter what the answer, she still had a message to deliver, and with the death of another Green Rider, it appeared she must be more cautious than ever.

She unwound the bandages from her wrists. The burns were healing surprisingly well, though there would be some scarring. It seemed ages since her encounter with the creature of Kanmorhan Vane. Would anyone believe her when she told that story? The burns could have come from anywhere, even a campfire as Torne had once suggested.

She gazed in a mirror to assess her appearance.The bruises on her face had faded some, but were still visible. There wasn’t anything she could do about that. The winged horse insignia was still hidden on her rolled sleeve. She unbuckled her swordbelt and left it with the rest of her gear. There was nothing about her that suggested she was connected to the Green Riders. Satisfied with her appearance, she locked the room behind her and trotted down the stairs to put some food into her empty stomach.

A few more patrons occupied the common room. Some were dressed well enough to be merchants. Others were in either dusty traveling clothes, or the plain garb of the locals. The minstrel strummed a cheerful tune about how a chicken changed the fortune of a farmer. It was a simple tune, perfectly suited for an inn. Karigan felt the minstrel’s eyes follow her as she walked across the room to a small empty table.

She dropped into a chair, only to discover that the table was an enormous tree stump coated with varnish. The number of growth rings convinced her that this tree was older than the tall white pine Abram had shown her.

“You wanting some food, missy?”

Startled, Karigan looked up at an aproned servant. “Yes. Anything that’s hot.”

“Thought so. You look like you haven’t seen real food in a while. Drink?”

“Wine, if you have it.”

“Old Ram Canoro makes blueberry wine which we sell. It’s a bit rough at first, but good enough when you get used to it.”

“That’s fine.”

The servant disappeared and Karigan settled into her chair to listen to the minstrel. Her eyes roamed the room. Most patrons were in deep discussion, a few played board games. The fortune-teller was alone now, and stared back at her unabashed. She was dressed garishly in red and blue, with colored glass beads dangling from her neck. Rings flashed on her fingers as she absently shuffled fortune cards. Without preamble, she left her table and walked over to Karigan’s. She sat without greeting or permission, and adjusted her skirts about her legs, the beads of her necklaces clinking together.