Ainsworth looked around. Honey was still busy with the bumbling group of travelers and hadn’t noticed anything amiss. Ruraidh was off cleaning the bedrooms, and Ashe was still distracted by the caterpillar-obsessed traveler.
Ainsworth hesitated; he was not the bartender’s favorite guest by any means, and he knew interfering with the discipline of his staff would not be well met. But when a tear streaked down Quiddle’s face…
“Quiddle? Let me take a look at that,” said Ainsworth as he walked over, careful not to look at Bren. A small slash between Quiddle’s thumb and forefinger was bleeding, but it looked shallow. “Let’s clean that up, all right? I have some linen in my trunk I can wrap this in, too,” he added. Quiddle sniffed appreciatively, and Bren scowled and turned away.
“Whatever has happened?” Honey asked, puffing her hair out of her face and looking at Quiddle’s hand. The bumbling party had finally left, then.
“Nothing to worry about,” Ainsworth said quickly. “Just a little accident.”
“It’s Bren, again. I hate working with him now, Honey, I hate it!” Quiddle moaned before giving a loud sniff.
Honey looked grave. “Oh, Quiddle. If you give me a moment, I just need to sort the accounts and I think someone from that adventuring party took one of the keys, so—”
“Not to worry, Honey—I’ve got him,” said Ainsworth, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Come, Quiddle. Let’s get this bandaged up, then we can talk.”
Honey gave a soft exhale, rubbing her eyes with her palms. “Thank you, Ainsworth. Just what would I do without you?”
“Oh well,” started Ainsworth, trying his best to ignore how her words made his heart feel aglow. “You’d have fewer clumsy guests taking keys, I suppose. Now go catch them before it’s too late!”
Ainsworth brought Quiddle to his room, now vacated by members of the previous traveling group. The beds were rumpled, and an empty tankard lay overturned in front of the hearth. Once Quiddle was seated on Ainsworth’s own meticulously made bed, Ainsworth rummaged in his trunk for his small accident pouch containing a fragrant salve and some linen strips with a pin to secure them. “I don’t think it’s that deep, but it’s in an awkward place and it might keep opening,” Ainsworth said, taking Quiddle’s hand and dabbing it with salve. Belatedly, as the boy hissed, he realized he should have cleaned it. He was not particularly practical at this sort of stuff. The salve had some honey in it, he knew, and he hoped it would suffice. “Let me check on it tomorrow, all right?”
“Of course.”
“Is everything okay, Quiddle? You seemed upset at more than just the cut.”
“It’s Bren,” the boy huffed. “He’s been a nightmare since the inn got busy. I think it’s dead exciting, meeting so many new people—and the tips! It’s not like Honey doesn’t pay us well or anything, it’s just…you know. But Bren!” He shook his head. “He curses under his breath that things are changing, and that if we’re not careful we’ll just fall into some ‘cycle so many of us worked to break.’ ”
At Ainsworth’s puzzled glance, he merely shrugged. “Dunno what he’s talking about, either. I don’t want to make any cycle, whatever that means. But I do know something. He blames you for this.”
Ainsworth balked. “Oh my.”
“Aye, so…” Quiddle said as he stood up, clutching his hand. “Thanks for this and all, but if you want to do more than just cover up the wound, you should fix the root cause. Talk to him. Please?”
Ainsworth nodded, and the boy skipped out of the room. The thought of meeting the grumpy bartender head-on was daunting, like having to face the head librarian after accidentally spilling ink or mishandling an artifact.
But do it he must.
Ainsworth had not spent much time at the bar by himself recently. He had seen guests perch on the stools in front of the dark, wooden counter and chat amicably while Bren and Quiddle got to work behind it, but he personally preferred the tables in the middle of the room, or by the large windows that lined the communal space.
He approached the bar apprehensively, but it seemed as though Bren was not there. After a quick lean over the counter, Ainsworth could see the dwarf had left his sketchbook on his stool. Behind the stool, the shelves reached to the ceiling and were lined with all manner of pristinely polished bottles in glass ranging from forest green to a rich, almost mahogany red. A sliding ladder, not unlike those attached to the bookshelves at the Skarrow Library, waited patiently for use.
At that moment, Bren entered through the small door behind the bar. Ainsworth had never used it, but he knew it linked to a small corridor within the walls that would take someone swiftly to the kitchen if they wished.
The barman hardly looked at him as he walked over to his stool and snatched his book from atop it. “Want something?”
“Yes, but not a drink. A chat, if you have the time to spare?”
Bren snorted. “Not much time these days, but since every other bumbling guest has left today, I suppose I do. You looking for an interview for that book of yours, then?”
Ainsworth thought carefully before responding. Bren had been here for such a long time, likely since before Honey was born. But this was more pressing. “Well, yes, but not right now. I just wanted to…see if everything was all right with you.”
Bren scowled. Gesturing Ainsworth to follow, he walked around the bar, into the middle of the room, and then out of the inn. Without a word, Ainsworth followed him outside—Ashe did not say anything as he passed her—and to the small hill opposite the inn: the one Ainsworth almost slid down on his way here. They reached the mighty tree that stood, stark and lonesome, atop it. Just to the left of where Ainsworth stood, and under its massive canopy, were the coordinates he wished to utilize for a Transportation Circle.
“Bren,” he said, slightly out of breath. “Why are we up here—?”
“Look,” said Bren. He pointed to the tree’s roots, which emerged periodically from the ground like a whale breaking the ocean’s surface. Scattered among the tendril-like roots lay an assortment of rubbish. Some remnants left by travelers who had, Ainsworth remembered, enjoyed a picnic here a few days ago. A couple of glass bottles remained, along with apple cores and one of the Misnich Inn’s mugs. “Oh, that’s not much, is it?” Ainsworth replied, stooping to pick themup.
“Perhaps not. But look up there,” said Bren. He pointed to one of the lower branches, still a few heads taller than Ainsworth. There dangled small, rounded globes of—he squinted—nuts…?
