His friend snorted ale through his nose, "Ha! Aye right, an' she'd faint dead away soon as she smelled yer boots. You guardin' the princess? Only thing you've ever protected's yer food plate!"
The table burst into laughter with mugs thudding and shoulders shaking as the boastful man turned red to the tips of his ears.
"Not a clever pack if he's the only one what got lived." A young man pointed out.
"He looked young, too. Barely more'n a boy. Quiet sort."
"Quiet or not, he's still a scum. Look at that smile on the smug. Touch royalty, an' you're dead by dawn. No questions, no mercy."
Darcye stirred his fork slowly not looking at any of them. The heat of the fire prickled against his face but he felt colder the longer they talked. His jaw tightened.
Just then the owner walked by Dracye and he lifted his mug up slightly signaling a refill "An'ther," he said.
The man nodded and brought over a pitcher and poured Dracye a drink while a faint clink of coin sounded as something slid across the table.
The man started to leave when he saw, Dracye lifting the mug up and draining it in one long pull then set it down with a solid thud.
"More!"
The innkeeper chuckled as he refilled the mug, "Well now, look at ye; a heavy drinker for such a young lad, ain't ye now?"
"Busy crowd," Dracye remarked twirling the mug's content idly in his hand. "City must be lively, eh? Even the far inns packed t' the brim."
"Aye," The owner was all belly and grin wiping his hands on an apron that had long given up on bein' clean. "Festivities don't let the guards sleep, nor the folk rest. Whole capital's buzzin' like a hive; new faces are everywhere. You then, lad...new 'ere, or comin' back again?"
"Just stoppin' for a meal," he said dropping a syllable as if he'd always spoken that way.
"Riiight," the man said, ploppin' himself down across from Darcye like they were old mates. "That's what the last fella said 'fore he downed three drinks, proposed to my cook, and fell asleep under the fireplace. What d'they call you, stranger?"
Dracye took a slow sip of the drink and replied, "Varric."
Dracye's sparrows had already sung to him about the man across him. Once he was a city guard, now an innkeeper, he still had family in the watch and still had that fondness for talk that made fools useful.
The owner squinted at him, "Ye sure? That name came out like it tripped o'er somethin'. Don't tell me ye're spinnin' lies already; I ain't even asked ye anythin' rude yet."
Darcye gave a light shrug. "If I were lyin', old man, ye'd not catch me at it so easy. Varric, a merchant, textiles an' linens. I sell dull things in big heaps, cheaper by the wagonload. Ain't had much luck sellin' here though."
"Well then, Varric-the-merchant," the man said with a broad grin extending a pudgy hand that jiggled like half-baked dough. "Me name's Jorren, proud owner o' The Crooked Ladle. So then, are ye travelin' alone, or got company trailin' after ye?"
"I noticed, owner," Dracye muttered eyeing the offered hand and taking it. "My lads're in the other city o' y'urs, tendin' business while I see t' mine."
"So where you headin', eh? Not much call for textiles out this way unless you're tradin' for goats or sins."
Darcye leaned back and picked up his jug. "Just passin' through. Figured I'd get the lay o' the land, maybe also check the roads. Hear what folks're sayin', useful things, gossip."
He took a slow sip of drink, then added, "Heard from a ways off that there's festivities goin' on up this way; royal sorts, parties, whatnot. Thought I'd check my luck and see if there's coin to be made."
Jorren gave a knowing grunt. "Ahh, well. You ain't wrong. There's somethin' brewin' in the air, all right. Celebrations, sure. But my guts tellin', strange winds too if you ask me."
Darcye tilted his head slightly. "Strange winds, ya say? Mean that poor fella what's got his mug plastered all over the back alleys like some tragic theatre poster?"
"Ah! Him!" Jorren slapped the table making Darcye's fork jump. "Aye, that one! Gonna go soon, wretch lad. Not in the 'off to greener pastures' sort o' way, if you catch me." He winked. "Tomorrow, hangin' like laundry on the gallows."
Dracye picked up the fork to eat. "An' where's that happenin', then? Ain't seen anyone swingin' yet, just curiosity knockin'. Where they keepin' him till then, eh?"
Hearing this Jorren's eyes narrowed considerably at him.
Jorren raised both brows and leaned in, "Now now, Varric the Merchant," he said folding his arms on the table, "we got decorum 'round here. You don't just ask a man 'bout stew recipes or where strangers get kept up, y'know? Next you'll be askin' where we keep the king's crown."
Darcye gave a dry chuckle and leaned in before spearing a bit of meat with his fork.
"Right you are. Never can be too careful, eh? Never know who's a spy these days, sneakin' in under moonlight tryin' t' snatch the kingdom's jewels right off its princess." Then he paused and looked around feigning admiration, "You oughta guard tighter, Jorren the owner." he said mimicking the tone of Jorren, "Fine business like yours, could be a prime target!"
Jorren puffed up with pride. "Hah! Ain't no fella alive what can touch me. If there's danger about, it's got more to fear from me than I've got from it. I don't dodge arrows, lad, I chew on 'em like breadsticks." he did the action of breaking a breadstick with his hand and mouth.
Darcye let out a low whistle, "Duly noted. Seein' the valor writ clear on yer face, I'd have wagered ye were one o' the high-rankin' guards yerself."
"Aye, lad, that I did," Jorren said puffing like a rooster at dawn. "Served fifteen good years down at Blackbridge Hold, keepin' the worst o' scum behind bars. All thought they could outwit old Jorren but none slipped past my watch."
Dracye's tone stayed lazy though a flicker of sharpness hid behind his half-smile.
"So… speakin' o' roads and such, which way'd a humble merchant head if he were wantin' to find that place o' yours… what d'ye called it… ah, Blackbridge--what--Hold, was it?" He feigned a squint, as though the name were hard to recall, but inside, that was the word he'd been waiting to hear.
It was a name everyone knew yet no one could place. Some swore it lay within the castle, others said it clung to the far cliffs beyond the woods. No map marked it, no traveler had seen its walls. Only the prisoner lists proved it existed at all. Even Dracye's sparrows, masters of whispers, had found nothing, yet. And now, with only a single day left before the hanging, Dracye was out himself hunting the ghost of Blackridge Hold.
Jorren narrowed his eyes in caution, but he was quick to bounce back to being jolly and asked him, "And why'd you wanna know that, eh?"
Dracye raised both palms up from the dish, his fork still caught between his fingers, as though, to quiet the man's brewing suspicion.
"Ain't tryin' to stir your stewpot, friend." he drawled, laying a touch too much emphasis on friend. "Just heard tell that folk from Waymere pass close by there, now an' again. Figured I might sell a bolt or two, clean linens an' such. Business's slow here, so best keep movin'. Folk always need fresh cloth, don't they?"
Jorren huffed and laughed, "Pffft. Waymere, huh? Ye've been misinformed, friend. That pass don't go nowhere near that Hold." He jabbed a finger toward the crooked window. "That way's the merchant path. Ye're thinkin' of Ashridge Wold, maybe. Someone's made a fool o' ye."
Dracye feigned a spark of realization by widening his eyes just enough to look the part.
"Oh, might be ye're right," he said, nodding with an easy grin. "Shows what I know, eh? Ye seem a man o' the world; wise an' well-walked. Maybe ye could spare a word or two for a poor merchant, tell me o' them grand places ye've seen, an' the roads that lead to 'em? Would help a great deal, that would."
Jorren grinned, half from pride, half from the ale he drank up the first thing in morning.
"Aye, I can tell ye a fair bit o' the land, lad," he said, setting down his rag and pointing with a thick finger toward the crooked window.
"Redmere Hold-" he jabbed northward, "-lies past them low hills yonder. Hot wind, sharper than a taxman's quill. Ye'll find nothin' but rock an' rook there, all stone walls an' bitter tempers."
"Oho! Best be prepared then, eh?" Dracye acted along.
Then, angling his thumb southeast, he added, "Grimhollow Barracks...that's in the swamp cut. Roads sink halfway to yer knees."
Dracye nodded, listening with the easy patience of a man who had all the time in the world.