The man picked up his mug of ale that Barliman had just served him and took a long sip, he swallowed and let out a sigh of joy. He gently bowed his head to Barliman to show his approval of the drink and then walked away from the counter and towards the back of the counter. Several mugs were raised in his direction and he raised his in reply on his way sending his beaming smile left and right towards the acquaintances who were scattered in different tables. He dodged an arm that shot up by someone and kept his drink in tact, he’d done it many times and today it was no different, there’s always the one whose limbs move more than his lips while talking. He turned right and took in the image in front of him.
A man was seated on the chair with his back to the wall. The first thing that Peyton’s senses perceived was smoke, then the image of the man that was surrounded by the smoke. A tall and muscular man with long black hair and a long black beard. He didn’t look like a Breelander from a first glance, he was tall and muscular from years of exercise with weapons. His skin under the beard was tanned from long hours under the sun and a long sword was hanging from his hip on the right side while a shield was resting against the wall behind and to his left within arms reach. For a moment Peyton hesitated, he knew that Fiontann was a Breelander, but this man that sat across him didn’t look the part, in the end his smile returned and he approached the table.
“Are you Fiontann?”
“I am, are you Peyton?”
“I sure am,” the young man chuckled and sat at the chair across the other man and offered his right hand. “Peyton Peargloss.”
Fiontann took his hand and shook it firmly. “Fiontann of Bree,” he said and then released the man’s hand in order to grasp his mug. He look at the man taking in his features, a young man with new clothes that didn’t even have a spec of dust on them, clean shaven with a purple vest over a navy blue shirt and a pair of black trousers. The only dirty piece of clothing was the soles of his boots, but even that seemed not enough, as if the man was actively trying to avoid walking anywhere but the cobblestone paths of the town.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, mister Fiontann.”
“Likewise,” Fiontann said and put the cup down. “You’re looking for protection, then?”
“Straight to business, Wileric wasn’t exaggerating, I’m glad.”
Fiontann nodded and waited for the man to talk. He took a moment not quite certain if he should or not, then he smiled warmly and started.
“Right then. I have three wagons of goods. Pears, apples, strawberries and a number of jars of honey that I want to send to the Trader’s Wharf. I have the employees for the transportation and the wagons, I have a small boat waiting to take them away and I have my contact waiting for them. What I don’t have are men trained to defend the goods and my employees if need be.”
Fiontann nodded. “That’s on me, then.”
“It is,” said Peyton and scratched above the left corner of his lips in contemplation. “What would you charge for it?”
“Three wagons of goods in the Wildwood. Well, that area in relatively safe. There might be trouble on the way there and there might be some unexpected trouble in there until the caravan reaches its destination. I wouldn’t send great numbers for it, five or six folk the most, the bandits that infest the land can barely hold their weapons. But, it’s a trip of a good two days to get there and two more to get back. I would say…” and Fiontann stroke his beard in thought. “It should be relatively safe, so I’ll drop the price to two silver per day for each one that I sent. If there is a fight it will be four silvers per kill. For any injuries inflicted you will pay the price for the medicine and the days they will be bedridden. In the extreme case of someone’s death we’ll discuss it.”
Peyton thought about it.
“And how many are you willing to send?”
“Ideally, two per wagon.”
“I would be happy with one per wagon, you said it’s safe and the bandits aren’t that good at fighting.”
Fiontann smirked at that.
“As you wish, I just wouldn’t want to have a shortage of blades in case something major happens.”
The man narrowed his eyes for a moment weighing the possibilities and then shook his head. “I think that’s unlikely.”
“It might be,” agreed Fiontann and look a sip of his ale.
“Then, let’s keep it under six folk.”
“Something between three and five?”
“Yes.”
“Done,” said Fiontann and got up and extended a right hand.
Peyton imitated his and the men shook the agreement.
“When are you planning to go?”
“We’re picking the last of the fruits now. Let’s say in three days. If something changes I’ll let you know.”
“I’ll send my folk when it’s time then,” said Fiontann and got up. “Stay safe.”
