[piosenniel]

The road from the quay at Harlond had been a long one. And now she was thirsty and out of sorts from having been left behind. Her high boots of supple leather were caked with mud from the recent rain, and water dripped from her grey, travel-stained cloak as she stood on the landing of the Inn.

‘A new watering hole!’ she murmured to herself. ‘Perhaps they haven’t heard of me as yet.’ Her eyes gleamed from beneath the shadow of her hood as she savored the promise of anonymity.

Pio glanced again at the new carved sign to her right that swung crazily in the wind. ‘The Seventh Star.’ she read. ‘How interesting.’ She saw that only the lettering had been done. A large blank space still waited for the signifying image of the Inn, and she wondered if it would hold the image of The Burning Briar or a ship of Númenor, whose banner bore the six-pointed star of Elendil and his heirs. ‘Perhaps neither.’ she mused. ‘It may just be a singular, sibilant quirk of the owner.’

Someone was talking as she slipped in the door; all eyes in the room focused on the tall, slender man who held them in his sway. His bright, blue eyes glanced once her way and she quickly slipped into the shadows, making her way to a back booth.

She sat well out of view, her long legs stretched out in front of her on the booth’s seat. Catching the eye, of some grey clad serving man, she motioned him over with a nod of the head. He asked if he might take her cloak and arms, and she surrendered the two short knives visible in her belt, keeping the cloak wrapped round her. No need for him to know that she bore a slender blade strapped to each forearm, concealed by her long sleeved leather tunic, and a throwing knife hidden in the top of each boot, snugged safe against her soft leather leggings.

‘A pint,’ she said quietly to him, frowning when he looked at her blankly. ‘Of stout black – make sure it has the creamy head on it. And not served cold like those Westerners prefer it.’

She was enjoying her pint, savoring bitter brew as it flowed over her tongue in long draughts. ‘A three ring pint!’ she laughed, looking at the rings of foam left along the mug’s interior. ‘Another, if you please!’ she said, raising her mug to a passing server.

The drink had worked its way to her toes, warming them exquisitely. She sat back, resting her head against the pale wood of the booth, her eyes lightly closed. A familiar, rasping sound roused her from her daydreams.

‘Bye the One!’ she swore, pulling her hood further forward, her face completely now in shadow. ‘Bird!’ she muttered. ‘And that means the whole crew must be here . . .’