[Envinyatar]

Derufin took his cue from Andwise. There was a great deal of work to be done on the old cottage tomorrow . . . best he go to his quarters and get his rest. Gathering up his mug and dishes he made his way to the kitchen and deposited them on the drainboard. It was as he scraped what few bits he’d left on his plate into the slops bucket that he realized his mind was far too preoccupied with a problem . . . no, not a problem, a want it was . . . that had been niggling at the back of his mind all day. Sleep, he was sure, would allude him. ‘A walk will do,’ he thought to himself. ‘Set my thoughts in some order.’

He glanced about at the patrons left in the common room as he crossed from the kitchen to the main door. Only a few were still finishing up the last dribbles and drabbles of dessert. And they were being eyed by the servers, wanting only to clear away the plates and cups and hurry them to the kitchen to be washed. From their stances he could tell they were tired, wanting only the end of their work day and the comfort of a snug, warm bed. He winked at Buttercup as they passed each other, her tray piled high with empty platters and bowls heading to the kitchen.

The verandah was empty for the most part as he stepped out through the Inn door. A single Hobbit could be seen a way to his left, tapping out the last of his old pipeweed against the pillar of the overhanging porch, his foot sweeping it from the porch boards and into the flower beds below. Derufin nodded at him as he made his way down the steps.

It was a pleasant night with only the occasional cloud to hide the stars from view. Small breezes brought news of his whereabouts as he walked round the Inn toward the stable. The light perfume of the rock daphne planted about the foundation of the building mingled in interesting contrast with the scent of the midden heap near the kitchen. The deep scents of well turned earth from the garden crossed the sharp odor of the chicken coops. Aah . . . and now the familiar and welcoming scent of the stables . . . and the sounds . . . sweet hay in the loft, the heavy scents of horses, their hooves clopping as they moved in their stalls; their knickers and whinnies greeting him as he passed.

He drew near Falmar’s stall on his way to retrieve his cloak from his quarters. Her head was arched over the gate and she eyed him, motioning him closer with a toss of her head. As he approached she whickered softly, snorting loudly at the new horse next to her as the black usurper snaked his neck forth wanting some recognition of his presence. ‘Well, who’s this, my lady,’ Derufin asked. Falmar’s nose butted against the man’s neck in welcome, Derufin’s hand coming up in a familiar gesture to scratch her between the ears.

The new horse stretched forth his neck again, nostrils flaring as he chuffed at the man, taking in his scent. His shiny, black muzzle pushed firmly against Derufin’s shoulder, then, wanting some attention of his own. Derufin’s hand had barely come up to scratch the black’s forehead, when Falmar stamped her foot hard against the packed dirt of the stall. Quick as a striking snake her head darted toward the ‘intruder’, her great teeth giving him a painful nip on his ear. The black shied back in outrage and screamed a challenging rebuke at her. Falmar, for her part, flattened her ears and eyed him, daring the trespasser to make a move.

Derufin spoke low to both the horses, drawing their attention to him. Falmar he placed on a leather lead and took her from the stable, letting her run about in the nearby pen. ‘I’ll come for you in just a bit,’ he told her. ‘Let me see to the poor fellow’s ear. The owner will not be happy to have his horse roughed up and bleeding.’ Falmar snorted at this, stamping her hoof in irritation as Derufin returned to the stable. The black was wary of him and it took some time to be able to see to the ear. A small tear only. It would heal with a ragged scar, Derufin thought. But the hair would cover it. He cleaned it, applying a bit of pressure to the wound afterwards to stop the bleeding. Once done he stepped back to admire the animal. Seventeen or eighteen hands, he thought in quick estimation. Well muscled, though not bulkily so as a draft horse; sleek, rather. Intelligent demeanor, he noted, watching the slanted eyes of the stallion making their own assessment of the man. ‘I wonder who your owner is,’ Derufin thought as he stepped out of the stall, latching it securely behind him. He tossed an apple from the nearby basket to the horse and made his way back to Falmar. She shook her head at him, smelling the black’s scent on his hands as he reached for her. Speaking gently he drew her in, close enough to get his hands in her mane and mount up.

‘Come, my lady,’ he urged her, his heels tapping lightly against her flanks. She cleared the fence with ease and took off down the path to the main road.

‘Let’s clear both our heads with a ride,’ he said to her, leaning low over her neck as she sped away. ‘Things will look better when we’re both too tired to think about them.’