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“Wistala, come back. I think there’s one more bit of business, and I want you for this.”
She nosed open the passageway. “Gracious dwarves.”
Rainfall locked his chest with a tiny key, which he returned to a small bag he kept about his neck. “You can’t always trust appearances with dwarves. They mask more than their faces. But the Chartered Company will keep its bargain. Now all there is to do is hope there’s still friendship, or at least honor, at the Imperial Library.”
“What do you wish me to do?”
“Sit and be amused, dragon-daughter. Yeo Lessup, send in your uncle.”
This time the youth bowed properly. Jessup came in, apologizing for the muddiness of his boots and carrying an oilskin-wrapped object the size of one of Mossbell’s larger windows.
“How goes the inn, Jessup?” Rainfall said as he set down his burden in front of him.
“Well enough, sir, but I’ll beg you to help me with my figures again. I thought running an inn meant tapping kegs and keeping the bedding aired, but I never dreamt of all the counting!” Jessup was looking at Wistala again in that funny way of his.
Rainfall said: “I admire a full-grown man who is so attentive to lessons. Is it done?”
“Just about,” Jessup said. “You were right about the paints at Sack Harbor. Such colors! Who knew there were so many.”
“Then let us see.”
He untied a string around the oilskins and removed them.
Wistala blinked and looked at the wooden panel again. There were eyebolts in the top and fretwork to let the air pass through. Was it some kind of miniature door? Wait, it had a design on it, a painted figure. She recognized a long figure, depicted in profile, mostly upright, green and black-clawed.
“It’s you, Wistala,” Rainfall said as the meaning dawned on her.
“I’m calling the inn The Green Dragon,” Jessup said. “And a good inn needs a good sign that travelers remember.”
“If you’ve got no objection,” Rainfall said. “He does this as a form of compliment.”
Wistala understood, but understanding didn’t bring a surcease of confusion. “But the troll, my plan, your brother died . . .”
“All the land round Mossbell and the twin hills honors his bravery and is happier for it,” Jessup said. “I can’t blame you for the troll’s doing.”
“So, do we have your agreement?” Rainfall asked.
“Why do you need it? The man may name his inn as he wishes.”
“I’d be happier to have you touch the sign,” Jessup said.
Wistala didn’t answer, but stepped up to the sign. She extended her sharpest sii claw and dug a chunk of wood out at the eye. “You made the eyeblack round, like a hominid’s eye or a tailvent. Dragons have eyes like a cat.”
“Another story,” Jessup said. “The dragon herself marked the south-side eye, to look in the direction of the fight with the troll. A good story to tell over honey-mead.”
“When do you open?”
Jessup swiped his nose with a sii—fingertip, Wistala corrected herself. “All is in place. I’ve been brewing all summer since I bought out Old Golpramp’s entire supply of clover-honey. You have advised me on wine. My wife is ready to do the baking, and my son the butchery. There is still much sewing needing to be done, but I can make do. I was going to hang the sign tomorrow.”
“Delay another week or two. My old friend Ragwrist leads his troupe south even now, and this is his year to go the north roads. He should stop any day. The presence of his circus would make for a grand door-opening.”
“As my landlord wishes,” Jessup said.
Lada kept to her room. The only time Wistala saw her speak to her grandfather was when a messenger arrived. Forstrel took the letter to his master despite the outcry from Lada.
So great was the fracas that Wistala couldn’t help but attend her host. She found two of the Lessup girls listening outside his library door, whispering to each other.
“What has happened?” Wistala asked.
