Delioron had spent the rest of the morning in his room. He had laundered his cloak, orderly and methodically, until all the blood had been washed away. The red-tinted greywater he had poured out of the window to avoid suspicious questions from Barliman or the hobbit, Nob. Then he had sowed shut the small hole in the back of the cloak and draped it to dry from the mantel of the fireplace.
He pulled on his spare cloak and felt along the many secret pockets until he found what he was looking for. He produced a long dagger and sat down on the chair by the small desk to study the weapon in the gloomy light of the dirty window that had never been washed. The most direct, most violent of the tools of his trade; eight inches of solid steel blackened in fire so it wouldn’t reflect any light, attached to six inches of cross-guard, wooden hilt and steel pommel, fourteen inches in whole. A perfect weapon for combat in closed quarters, and murder. A thing both beautiful and ugly.
He stood up and slid the dagger onto his belt for easy reach. The game had become serious, and it was time to move into offensive. His gray eyes were emotionless and as cold and hard as steel. He pulled the hem of the cloak over the dagger and stepped out of his room.
In a minute he was in the common room of the Prancing Pony. It was empty and Barliman was standing behind the bar.
”I was supposed to meet a man here yesterday evening. Perhaps you know him? Goes by the name of Navelwort.”
Barliman frowned and stared at Delioron with suspicious eyes. Yes, Barliman knew who Navelwort was, and he was not a good character. One of Bill Ferny’s friends, if Barliman remembered rightly, a ruffian and a scoundrel. No, he hadn’t come in yesterday after he had left the inn a little while after Tandir (the false name Delioron had signed up in the inn with) had retreated for the night. The woman? The foreign woman in Tandir’s company two nights ago? Barliman had to check. The fat innkeeper turned around and looked carefully at a box labeled 202 for the key that wasn’t there. No, the woman wasn’t in. She hadn’t come at all last night, at least not to Barliman’s knowledge. He had gone to bed at midnight. Would Mr. Tandir want Barliman to wake up Nob, who had served as the night porter last night to ask if he had seen her?
”That’s not necessary”, Delioron said. ”But thank you anyway.”
”Do you know these people?” Barliman said sharply, suddenly frowning. ”I’m not in a habit of poking my nose into other people’s business, until they make it my business. The woman came here with another foreign gentleman and they have been living under my roof for many days so far. Not only did they want separate rooms, they wanted rooms in separate floors, and how queer is that? Anyway, this morning the door to the man’s – Delioron’s – room was locked and a ’do not disturb’ sign was hanging on the doorhandle, so I let him sleep until noon. When I came back and still could not wake him up, I opened the door with my own key. And you know what? He was not there, and the window was open. Fled without paying his bill, and now it turns out that the woman he came with also hasn’t been back all night. Are you with them? I hope you’re not considering to follow up on their act, Mr. Tandir. I am running a business here, and this sort of thing is frankly…”
Delioron lifted a hand and smiled reassuringly, suddenly glad he had used a false name signing up in the Pony. ”I don’t know them”, he said, digging into his pockets. ”I just met her two nights ago, and I didn’t know she came with someone else. She never mentioned him to me. Perhaps we have both been played a fool.” Delioron produced a pouch and poured some coins on the bar. ”Here’s from my stay so far, and another week in advance, alright? Just so you don’t have to worry about me leaving without paying. But please give Elwil the benefit of the the doubt, until tonight at least – she told me she would spend the night with a friend and come back today. That’s why I asked about her.”
It was a lie, but Delioron wanted to make sure that neither Nob nor Barliman would come to Elwil’s room today. Barliman grumbled, but looked somewhat soothed that at least this foreigner had paid what he owed as he swept the coins into the big front pocket of his dirty apron. Delioron nodded and returned to the back of the inn.
He walked the dark, musty corridor until he found the stairs and climbed them to the second floor. Door number 202 was, logically, the second door in the empty corridor. Delioron stood still and pressed his ear against the door. The silence was as heavy as the damp, cold air in the inn. He took out his lockpick and opened the door effortlessly, with a skill brought up by years of experience in opening locked doors. It was a neat and tidy room. The bed had been made, either by Elwil, Barliman or the hobbit servant. Delioron closed the door behind him and made sure it was still locked.
There was a traveling bag on the desk. Delioron opened it and found it empty. He felt along the seams and felt nothing. He took out his dagger and sliced the seams open. There was a secret compartment in the bottom of the bag, but it was empty too.
He went to the bed, picked up the mattress and slid it off it’s sturdy frame. There was nothing there. He knelt under the bed and felt through the bottom. Still nothing.
He opened the drawers of the desk and found a small painting of a little boy, maybe six years old. He put the painting on the desk. He examined the chair.
She had hung a hooded cloak on a nail next to the door. He examined the cloak, feeling through pockets and seams. There was something there. He cut the seam open with his dagger and took out a pouch containing sixteen brasslings. He pocketed the money.
There were two pairs of shoes on the floor beneath the cloak. He picked them up and cut the heels off with his dagger. Nothing. Solid leather. He threw the shoes back on the floor.
There was a wooden barrel and a washbasin on the corner. He tipped the barrel over and shook it. It was empty. There were some things in the washbasin. A brass cosmetic mirror, a vial of dark green glass, a piece of lye soap and a pouch. He smelled the shampoo. Smelled her, and nothing else. He threw it away. He opened the vial and poured the thick, green ointment in the basin. Smelled it. It smelled like forest, but nothing suspicious. Perhaps some kind of a herbal remedy.
He opened the pouch and dropped the contents in the basin. It was a ball of rags with something heavy inside. He opened the ball of rags, examining each piece thoroughly, until he found another vial inside. He opened it and poured the contents of the vial in the basin, but again couldn’t say what it was. Something more liquid. Probably nothing interesting. He smelled it and shook his head. Womanly things, nothing sinister.
He went over to the fireplace and brushed his fingers over the mantle. He scattered the dust. There was nothing there. He examined the firebox opening thoroughly, running his hands through the ashes in the bottom, the walls and the ceiling. Nothing.
He walked over to the pile of firewood in one corner and examined each log thoroughly before tossing them on the floor behind his back. Still nothing.
Finally he went to the window and examined the frames before he turned and looked into the gloomy room. He looked over the room slowly, taking note of every detail, trying to think of more places to hide things he still hadn’t checked. He hadn’t forgotten anything.
When he was satisfied that he had been thorough with his work he went to sit on the chair by the small desk. He put the dagger on the desk next to the painting and waited. The sun kept slowly sinking towards the western horizon.
