Kaida
The common room of the Crossed Keys was not improved by closer acquaintance.
The innkeeper had seated us at a corner table. He had sagging jowls and bushy sideburns and sullen eyes that lingered a little too long on my breasts. He set two mugs of ale on the table before he retreated behind his bar.
His wife moved between the tables with a damp, dirty, sour smelling cloth that was making things worse rather than better. Her face seemed permanently flushed and her small eyes seemed to take in everything and everyone with an attention that felt less like professional diligence and more like inventory. I hugged the carpet bag close to my chest.
I didn’t like either of them.
The ale Jace had ordered sat on the table between us, thin and flat and suspiciously pale, with an oily film
