"We thank you for your patronage!" the tavern mistress called out, her voice bright with genuine warmth and a satisfied tone.
She was a portly woman with hair as black as polished coal, bowing low as Basil and his retinue prepared to depart. For men who had spent the better part of the last few months sleeping on threadbare rugs or huddled under sodden canvas in the forests of the south, her hay-stuffed mattresses and hot pottage had been a mercy beyond words.
Fifty riders made up the escort for the heir of Yarzat. It had been two days since they left the safety of Turogontoli, striking north through the crisp morning air. After a half-day's ride, they had merged onto the Magna Strata's unfinished expansion, another ambitious Great Road Basil's father had commissioned to link the capital to the iron mines of Malshut.
