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You choose a seat near the corner: one that is laid for dinner and offers a clear view of the hall. A serving girl soon appears carrying a platter laden with roasted meat, and she proceeds to stack a generous helping on your plate.
‘Two Gold Crowns, if you please, sir,’ she says, presenting an open hand bloodied by the food.
You pay (remember to deduct the Crowns from your Action Chart) and settle down to your feast. While you are eating, you are approached by the innkeeper. He is a fat, oily individual with small, piggish eyes.
‘My lad tells me that he’s tended to your mare—she’s in good ’ands ’ere—the best stables in all o’ Quarlen.’ The man shifts nervously from one foot to the other, as if he is uncomfortable in your presence. ‘You’ll be wantin’ a room, I take it?’
You finish a mouthful of food before nodding your reply. ‘You’re in luck, my friend,’ he answers, obviously relieved that you have turned out to be a paying guest. ‘We ’ave one room left—Room 17.’
He produces a plain iron key from his apron pocket and sets it down beside your plate. ‘That’ll be 3 Gold Crowns, sir—in advance.’ You pay the innkeeper and slip the key into your pocket.
