[Rimbaud]

And the season turned into another one, and he healed slowly. The Inn took much of his time as he was prevented from thought of adventure by mundane details. Yet still he conversed with his allies, still they kept watch.

He strengthened his eyes and ears in the City gradually, and certain people who may have forgotten his touch became aware again that games were afoot.

The Innkeeper was restless, yet his friends bade him steady. Estelyn allowed him some brief practise with the sword, yet they were of too high a skill to spar for long, and he abhorred the use of the thing in any case. He busied himself cleaning out the stables and pestering Olaf.

Still, when the summer came, a glint in the Innkeepers eye told his closest that business would soon have to be attended.

**************

Stories unfolded and flowered in the Inn, and Rimbaud was pleased that his convalescence allowed him some time to listen to the tales. But the call had gone out, and he had only to wait for the allies to come, before action would take place.