Happy Holidays, unovis_lj
Title: A Rewalian Winter or The Devil's Disciple
Author: That Dog Who Pulls the Grinch's sleigh aka calime33
Written for:unovis_lj
Characters/Pairings: Amanda/OFC
Rating:PG-13
Word count:appr. 5800
Warnings:Um, references to obscure-ish chapters of history and an OFC?
Author's Notes: Thank you ***** and ***** for beta, all that sucketh still is a blame to be laid at my door. Thank you, amand_r for running this challenge, and for the patience you had for my lateness, and for making me write after a long dry spell. And thank you unovis_lj for all your stories that have given me countless hours of enjoyment, I know I'm a sucky feedbacker, but I do adore and appreciate them. A lot. And last but not least - thank you, the Highlander fandom, for, you know, being out there, still going, still immortal.
Summary: Amanda finds a - perhaps not really conventional - student.
A Rewalian Winter or The Devil's Disciple
September, 1524, Rewal
In hindsight, the decision - made somewhat in haste - to board the "Lisette" probably ranked among the top hundred of if not the stupidest, then certainly the most nauseating ones Amanda had made during the last hundred years, or maybe ever. Given that the alternative was being detained (very likely with also nauseating effects) by a number of guardsmen of the good city of Lübeck, who were showing unhealthy interest in a sweet piece of horseflesh with unfortunately distinct shoes, and consequently her rider, the idea might have also been the only thing that saved her from a lot of grief, including but not limited to a painful parting from a comfortingly heavy weight of pretty gold coins presently bolstering her waistline.
Of course, one could try to approach the question with cool logic, listing the pros - a captain greedy enough for coin to take a last-minute passenger and at least pretend to believe that the nobleman barely out of boyhood, yet in an unseemly hurry to see the world was not running from anything worse than perhaps a silly gambling debt or a father's disapproval; the only vessel about to sail in a few hours - to where, she did not know, and at that moment, did not care, as long as it was away, far away; and, oh, the not-getting-caught part - against the cons - the cramped below-decks of the old cog; the all-permeating smell of salted herring; the promise of the lasting dull ache of her breasts flattened by the tight binding - and reaching a conclusion.
Most of the three weeks' journey northwards across an early autumn Ostsee, though, left her unable to engage in any notable exercise of mind, the little of her energy left over from retching dedicated to making sure that the crew remained ignorant of her two most important secrets - the gold she was carrying, and the fact that her outer appearance was not in accordance with the way she pissed. She felt more than a little relieved when the cries of the crewmen alerted her to the appearance of the sharp-edged silhouettes of town fortifications that soon resolved into dull grey of stone walls and red roofs made brighter by the contrast.
Amanda's original plans had involved ultimately making her way over to Sweden, where the latest news spoke of the rise of the new king Gustav, and the throwing off of the Danish rule - one could always find opportunities for advancement and diversion in such times -, or maybe even continuing the journey southwards to return to the recently acquired little alehouse in Heidelberg. Let no-one say that Amanda was a spendthrift, who never thought of sensible investments. If anything was a true constant in this world, it was that people always needed a drink.
Frankly, Amanda had no intention of throwing in with any group of travelling entertainers for at least another half a century. Maintaining the appearance of a nobly born youngster - while allowing her to carry a sword without causing any problems - took a lot of effort and one had to beware of anyone getting too close. And finally, playing an adoring wife or a sweet concubine to any influential sack of money with a dick attached was something that she had to admit never sat well with her stomach for an extended length of time, making her soon desperate to fake her death or just take off in the night. Sure, relieving stupid (or for an even better thrill, not-so stupid) people of their valuables was always fun, but one should also get to enjoy the fruits of one's hard labours once in a while. Running a nice drinking establishment, with some judiciously supplied gambling opportunities on the side might be just the thing.
She had, however, failed to take into account the extent of loathing for a sea-travel a couple of autumn squalls combined with the eau de herring and fourteen unwashed men could induce in her. This was what led to what looked like a young sword-for-hire or perhaps a younger son of a noble family, bedraggled and down on his luck, staggering through the Great Coastal Gate into the good Hanseatic city of Rewal, currently under the rule of the Livonian Order, its everyday life shaken up a bit by the recent bout of plague (not an uncommon event in its history) and the ever-spreading waves emanating across Europe from the hammer-blows of a certain apostate friar on the doors of the All Saints' Church in Wittenberg. The threat or promise of the reformation of the faith, unlike the plague, was a new development and consequently commanded a lot more attention, especially with the added entertainment value of the catfight between the Lutheran preachers and the Black Friars of the Dominicans.
Amanda had other things in mind - she dragged herself to the nearest alehouse, secured the luxury of a private chamber with a bed for a price that was probably extortionate, and slept for a day and a night. On the second day, she ordered a bath and the best available dish that had absolutely no connection to anything fishy and slept some more.
On the third day she emerged reluctantly into a cool, grey, drizzly September morning, rather like a careful snail poking her eyestalks out of the striped shell, shivering slightly in her silk doublet and jerkin, adjusting her barett to a jauntier angle and idly picking her way through the muddy street towards the centre of the town.
By the time she had explored most of the lower town sprawling at the foot of the castle hill, the light rain had ceased and given way to a slowly-growing dusk under a sullen sky. Amanda glanced up at the heavy grey clouds that almost seemed to bulge down to touch the equally grey walls on the sides of the narrow street and felt suddenly tired and hungry. A chunk of bread and cheese from a stall in the market and a goblet of delicious claret from the apothecary across the square took care of the second part. Still, time to head back, she thought, standing on the steps of the apothecary, when suddenly the shivery, buzzing sensation of another Immortal nearby wormed itself under her skin.
Amanda scanned the surroundings anxiously. The few people hurrying across the now almost-deserted market seemed to pay no mind to her, but the buzz kept hovering at the edge of her perception, making her heart speed up and her shoulders tense. She had no desire to be challenged, so a fast retreat was probably the best option. With another worried glance around she slipped around the corner into the narrow archway lined by bakeries, and stopped. Maybe it was not a good idea to lead whoever it was back to her current lodgings.
She turned on her heel, barely dodging an indignant monk, trying frantically to recall what she had learned of the town's layout and dashed across the square, through the twisting streets, uphill where the spire of a church peeked over the surrounding clutter of narrow-faced, sharp-gabled houses. The buzz seemed to follow for a moment, and then she could not distinguish it from the pounding of blood in her ears any more.
Fortunately, the heavy church door was unlocked. Amanda paused for a moment, looking around, feeling for the trace of immortal presence. There was no buzz to prickle her skin, so maybe she had dodged whoever it was. Sensible though to wait in the safety of holy ground for a while, before attempting to head back, she decided.
Idly, she peeked into the main nave - almost empty of people, except for two women in black mourning kneeling in front of one of the side altars - then made her way to a door that probably led to a side chapel. She stepped across the threshold and looked straight into the empty eye-sockets of a skeleton, merrily playing the bagpipes. She took an involuntary, startled step backwards, even as a reasonable part of her mind concluded that it was likely to be one of the often-depicted les danses macabres, not Death himself, bumped into something and whirled around, managing to land - and not too gently - on her arse on the process.
A young woman, maybe in her late twenties by the looks of her, wearing a grey dress and a white linen cap, looked down on her, half-amused, half-disparaging smile on her face.
"A fine young man like you should not be so afraid of death that he faints from a mere painting of him," she said.
Amanda had to laugh at that. "Oh, fair lady, but it was not death, but your shining beauty that made my knees give out." She gave her best imitation of a leer.
The woman tut-tutted disapprovingly, though the corners of her mouth still twitched upwards. "What a cad you are, sir, flirting so blatantly, and in the House of God, no less."
She turned and walked away, but - Amanda squinted - yes, she put a distinct shimmy in her hips. Amanda chuckled quietly and got up. She was still smiling when she stepped out of the church and walked jauntily down the darkening street, whistling.
Her good mood lasted for about two minutes. As she turned the corner, she ran smack dab into a pair of men who by the looks of them were well acquainted with the seedier side of town, and life, for that matter.
"Look-ee, what 'ave we 'ere," grinned one of them, grabbing Amanda's arm. "A pretty boy, all dressed up and on his lonesome, with no-one to keep him company."
Amanda cursed inwardly, letting herself go half-limp, trying to look petrified with fear.
The first man winked at his companion, who was grinning an anticipatory, toothless grin. "Maybe he's lost. Maybe we oughta help him, polite-like. Who knows, maybe he'd like to help us with a few gold coins, poor men as we are and he looking like he has some to spare."
He pulled Amanda roughly towards him. This was when she kneed him hard in the groin, twisted free of the slackened grip and ran back up the street, feet slipping on the cobbles. She heard shouts and the sound of pounding feet behind her and ran blindly on. Reaching a crossroads, she skidded around the corner and had one clear, horrifying moment of seeing a two-horse wagon bearing down on her, and then there was a dull crack, a wash of brilliant pain and darkness.
Amanda regained consciousness abruptly like bursting out of the cold water, lungs burning for air, skin drawn too tight over shivery limbs - a sure sign that she had died, and revived, remarked a tiny part of her brain. She took a gasping breath and opened her eyes, every fibre of her body drawn tight, ready to bolt.
The first thing to register was the blessed absence of any immortal presence. The second was the realisation that she was no longer in the street, but lying on a bed. A young woman in a dark grey dress, with a honey-coloured braid was regarding her with a little frown from across the room. The air smelled faintly of something sweet, like barm.
Amanda swallowed over the dryness of her throat and managed a croak with an interrogative lilt. Dying was another thing she hated; reviving usually felt like the worst kind of hangover.
"You'd better lie still," suggested the woman. She poured something into a mug from a pitcher. She handed the mug to Amanda, "Wine, to give you strength," she answered to the unspoken question in Amanda's eyes.
"I do not know who - or what - you are," Amanda froze at that, as the woman continued, "but you were mauled pretty hard by that cart, blood all over you, your right arm broken - or at least it was hanging from an angle no arm should - and for a moment back there, I was almost sure you stopped breathing, so I'd wager you could use a good drink of wine."
This is not good at all, a part of Amanda's mind remarked with a strange detached clarity, while another part added, hey, isn't she that wench that flirted with me in the church? She slid a hand to her side, but encountered only the cool linen of a shift. Her dagger, her clothes, gold, sword, all gone. No, definitely not good.
The woman looked at her like she knew what she was thinking, lifting one corner of her mouth in a half-smile that might have been sympathy or mockery or both. Amanda noticed that her eyes were grey, with little brown flecks in them, and that she had a few tiny freckles scattered over her cheekbones.
"Seeing as you now barely have a scratch on you - well, that is enough a mystery. But you seem to be like an onion, layer upon layer. The lining of your jerkin is definitely unusual, unless they commonly use gold for keeping warm where you come from, and the contents of your codpiece are not what one would expect to find. My mother used to speak of the Others, the fairy folk, but why would a daughter of the Grass Mother put on the clothes of a mortal man, or an Underground One come to show their gold to mortals, less it be at Midsummer's Eve to lure people to their halls?"
The woman cocked her head. "I could call the priest, and the city guard, and tell them that I have the minion of the Devil, or the Devil himself in my house." Amanda blinked over the visions of fire and hot iron and cold water and hoped her fear did not show on her face.
"Or you could tell me who you are, and maybe we could reach to an agreement," the woman continued.
Amanda swallowed. "I am Amanda, and I am one who cannot die," she said. "I am neither an angel nor a devil, just a woman trying to survive in a world by my wits only, just one who is ... harder to kill, and longer-lived than most. And I can give you gold, if you let me go and promise not to speak of me to anyone."
The woman seemed to consider this. "I do not want your gold. I do, however, want something from you. I believe that we could achieve a ... mutually beneficial agreement." She paused. "I'd much rather have your secrets, in exchange for keeping them, and you, safe. Knowledge is more precious than gold. Can you teach me how to heal like you do, how not to die?"
Amanda gave a short, humourless bark of laughter. Another one; they are all alike. "No, that cannot be taught. I was born this way, and you ... were not."
The woman pursed her lips and nodded. "I suspected as much," she said.
Amanda blinked. She had not expected to be taken at her word so easily. The woman must have noticed her surprise, as she continued, "Well, if it was something that could be learned, there would surely be a lot more people like you. A knowledge once revealed cannot be so easily put out like a candle. And I've never heard of or met anyone like you. A pity that, but I'm sure you must have other secrets you can ... trade."
Amanda was suddenly tired of that game. "Nothing that you would want to learn," she spat. "I'm a thief, and a good one at that, and I know countless ways to dissemble and cheat the eye, and how to fight someone bigger and stronger and to come out as a winner, I know how to wield a sword and kill..." she paused menacingly, "and do not think that I will hesitate to kill you, if you do not let me go!"
The other remained unmoved by the threat, if anything, she seemed ... intrigued? amused? excited?
"Like I said, I believe that we could achieve an agreement." She paused for a heartbeat. "I want to be apprenticed to you.
"In exchange for saving you, and keeping your secrets - which I'm sure is important to you - I only ask that you teach me some of them. I want to learn how a woman can make herself look like a man and deceive others' eyes - back at the church I figured you for a young man." She shook her head in rueful admiration. "Your speech is that of a foreigner - I wager you have travelled far, and I want to hear about foreign lands. I want you to teach me how a woman can travel with impunity, alone, disguised, the way you seem to. I want you to teach me the ways to steal, and get away - surely, even the immortal thieves have, if not guilds, then at least students? I want you to teach me the ways of the world so that I might go and see for myself all that does not exist here between those grey walls. Do you know the art of letters?"
The apparent non sequitur took Amanda by a surprise so that she found herself nodding without a thought.
"Good. Then you can teach me that too. If you promise to do that, I, Ingel, daughter of Körtsi Joan and Peetri Marri, widow of Johann the brewer, will solemnly vow to keep all your secrets faithfully. I will also promise to serve you and be loyal to you, like any apprentice to the master, until my term is done."
Amanda lifted a mocking eyebrow. "So, you want me to teach you my ... dark arts. A sweet, little, meek thing like you should beware of such things, for all you know; you might be making a deal with the Devil."
The woman smiled again. This was not the little twist of earlier, but a full-on, sweet, radiant smile. Amanda found herself liking the smile in spite of its owner. "Well, do not the old tales say that if you trap the Devil, or do a favour to one of the Other Folk, that then they are in your debt and you can demand that they fulfil your wish?"
The smile faded and she added quietly, "And if God puts in me fire equal to any other in this world, yet demands that I smother it because of the body He's chosen to house it, then maybe it is better to become the Devil's disciple."
She was silent for a moment, looking down. Then she raised her head, and looked straight at Amanda.
"You have seen the magnificent Dance of Death that the great master Notke has painted for our church, to remind each and every soul that Death is the fate of us all, and what is of the world does not last; to put our trust in God and live a pious life, so that we could find reward in His grace, as Death could take us tomorrow, and it would make no difference whether you are a bishop or a maid, a soldier or a babe in arms?
"I do not think I have sinned more or less than most, nor prayed less or more diligently. I have seen my mother dunked for a witch and jubilantly declared innocent when she drowned. I have seen my father take to drink and fade away, and the plague carry my husband and child to the common grave in St. Barbara cemetery.
"And I think that maybe there is no God or Devil, or at least they do not care about us. That there is only Death, who holds our hands and urges us to dance while we can. And thus I have sworn that I will not dance to the tune of God, or the tune of the Devil, or set my steps by what the others say, so that when Death comes for me, at least I can say: it was me, dancing my life the way I chose."
A thought came unbidden to Amanda. Rebecca would have taken her in, like she took me, and taught her, and cared for her, and let her go. For a moment she felt a fierce longing that made her choke.
Nevertheless, it was not a good idea to trust anyone who demanded anything of you under duress, even if you perhaps might feel a tiny smidgen of kinship towards them.
"If I agreed to your little proposal, what makes you think I will not kill you, or just disappear the first chance I get? And what guarantee do I have that you keep your side of the bargain?"
That got Amanda the smile again. "I could swear on my mother's love, and you could do the same."
"My mother sold me to warm the bed of a disease-ridden fat bastard who threw me out on the street when he grew tired of me, so I do not think that is a brand of love particularly suited for a binding oath," said Amanda dryly.
Ingel gave her a long look. "I am sad to hear that. However, I'm sure there is someone whose love you cherish, or-" her smile turned impish, "we could simply gamble to trust each other. And if you are truly one of the Devil's creatures, then surely you can snatch my soul to torment if I betray you - and who knows, maybe I too am not entirely unschooled in the arts of ensnaring a soul.
"And I would certainly provide you with a warm bed and good meals, and no questions asked again that you refuse to answer once, for the term of a year and a day."
"A year and a day is too long," said Amanda, automatically falling into a bargaining mode.
Ingel only smiled. "It is a customary term of apprenticeship. But then we could shorten it to last until St.George's day. Though then perhaps some of your gold, to pay for the lodgings, would not go amiss."
"You're a proper vixen already, without any schooling," said Amanda, yet she knew already that she'd agree to that bizarre bargain - out of curiosity, out of the sense of mischief, from the penchant for fun she'd never lacked. After all, it was a kind of honour to be considered the envoy of the Devil himself.
So it came to be that a young, dark-haired man who was said to be a distant relative of some sort moved in to lodge with the brewer Johann's widow Ingel, in the house near the St.Nicholas' church. The neighbours wagged their heads and could not seem to agree whether it was no doubt indicative of carnal sins, perpetrated under the very nose of the priest himself, too, and no surprise there if you remembered the widow's mother, you know what I'm talking about, or whether it was just that the widow had at last decided to remarry, of course she ought to, her being so young and all, and definitely able to bear children, though her first one had died, the poor thing, and it is good sense to keep the inheritance in the family. But all of them were smart enough to keep their whispers very quiet, so that they would not reach into the ears of the parish priest or, God forbid, Ingel herself, because, well, they very sensibly appreciated a good brew.
Amanda found the arrangement surprisingly to her liking. Having a student was apparently not at all bad, especially if one did not need to fear that student being after your Quickening. A welcoming home, a good meal, a quick-witted partner in crime who took to Amanda's teachings like a duck to the water and begged her for stories of the places she'd been and things she'd seen made her feel surprisingly good. Sometimes it felt a bit like her early days with Rebecca were somehow come again, only perhaps with the roles reversed.
So it was perhaps not quite an unpremeditated impulse that made Amanda one day (thank god that she'd been wearing a dress at that time) lean in and kiss the impish smile that a certain young, fair-haired squire with flushed cheeks had turned toward her, right in the middle of the wintry market. Somebody whistled behind them, and Ingel's smile grew even brighter.
"Is this where you steal my soul," she asked, "to have your wicked way with it?"
Amanda threaded an arm through hers. "Yes," she said with all the mock-seriousness she could muster. "Also, I believe there is much that I have not taught you yet and we should not lose more time."
Autumn-winter, 1524/1525, Rewal
Even if the good people of St.Nicholas' parish were restrained in discussing the scandalous situation in the brewer's household, it did not mean that their tongues were idle. Despite the near-famine in the countryside, the town's granaries were well-stocked and a full belly and long dark winter evenings made for comfortable gossip.
And there was more than enough fodder for the wagging tongues - whether the Town Council will burn in hell to the last member for banishing the good Dominican Friars from their cloister and the town, or whether it was a just come-uppance for the greediness of the monks. In whispers people speculated whether the long-time Master of the Livonian Order, Wolter von Plettenberg was perhaps friendlier towards the new followers of Martin Luther than his position allowed, or even secretly receiving a traitor's gold from the east, the land of Russia. Some of them even wondered whether it might be right and true to infer from the words of the new preachers that everyone, even the peasants, was created equal in the eyes of God, but others very sensibly pointed out that this was blatantly untrue, because if it were so, who would then be left doing their work in the fields?
And if during the winter an evening that began with winning a few easy coins from a blushing and bumbling milk-and-honey youngster or a dark-haired wench sitting in one's lap and giggling ended for more than the average share of gamblers (and perhaps even a few hitherto thought to be honest citizens) with waking up in a side street with a headache and no coins at all, and oftentimes less a pair of boots or a coat, too, then it was the sign of the times getting worse and no wonder.
The people were universally agreed upon that it must have been the work of the devil itself, when the silver goblet adorned with amethysts, gifted to the ratsherr Pepersack by the Danish king Christian II, disappeared from the locked chest under his very bed.
They were divided on whether the hand that poured molten lead into the keyholes of the church of St.Nicholas, so that the looters - as some called them - or the purifiers of the faith, as others said - breezing through the other churches like a destructive wave fuelled by the winds of reformation, or more likely, by the ever-simmering discontent of the powerless with those in power and too much ale - had to sullenly dissipate in front of the immovable doors, leaving the church untouched, belonged to God, the Devil or a man (and incidentally, all were wrong), but after a while, the majority of opinion came down in favour of the parish elder, who after a few months of praise began to believe it himself. In the first flush of glee over St.Nicholas' being the only church in town that was spared, the disappearance of all of the parish's gold in coinage from the vestry was not discovered until a good month later.
Late April, 1525, Rewal
The snow had long gone, down to the last dirty pile in a shady corner of a back yard, transforming into mud and more sunlight Amanda had strictly a taste for - she had never been an early riser unless forced by circumstances (and sadly, those kinds of circumstances were all too common) and she had always found that most of her plans worked better the less ... illuminated the world was.
St. George's day had come and gone without either of them openly recalling the terms of their contract. Sometimes, in the early hours of morning, when Ingel had left to rouse the servants and see to the daily chores being done, Amanda thought about it, curled up in the warmth of the bed that still smelled of her. It was unexpectedly tempting to dally with a thought of staying longer. It had been so long since she'd had something like that, a warm body at her side, without the need to worry that she'd slip up and betray herself, no need to lie - well, not much, at least, with no demands that she be someone else than she was.
Yet, she knew she had to leave soon. People, be they mortal or immortal, always either died or betrayed you, or tried to kill you, or simply left - or the worst, threw you out. If Amanda's long life had taught her anything, it was that it was best to be the one doing the leaving.
May, 1525, Rewal
Amanda was not fond of long goodbyes and considered slipping away in the wee dark hours of morning to be something eminently recommendable, both for avoiding said farewells and from the sensible standpoint that if nobody saw you leave, it would be so much harder to find out where you were going.
This was apparently difficult to do in a country which totally seemed to lack the dark part come spring, and was inhabited by lightly-sleeping, too smart for their own good women.
"I've packed you some bread and cheese, and don't forget to take the leather bottle with small beer," said Ingel, looking up from where she was kneeling in front of the fireplace, when Amanda slipped into the kitchen.
Amanda froze mid-step. "So you figured out that I was leaving."
Ingel smiled. "You have taught your apprentice well."
Amanda did not apologise for who she was, so she simply said, "Seems so, and now it is the time for the teacher to be on her way, as the apprentice is ready to practice on her own. Though, if I were you, I would take up the way of a journeyman, as my experience has taught me that staying too long in one place is inadvisable, if you intend to make use of what I have taught you."
Ingel stood up and kissed her lightly on the lips, once, a brisk farewell.
"Your advice has merit and might be that I'll follow it, sooner or later. I hope you found as much enjoyment in our little agreement as I did. Fare thee well, Amanda. And who knows, perhaps we might meet once again, in my lifetime."
Amanda was not sure whether it was the kiss, or the way Ingel's calm voice wavered the tiniest bit over the last words, but she heard herself say, "You have undoubtedly heard about the town called Heidelberg, famous for its university, where they make wise men out of fools, or perhaps, the other way around. If you're so inclined, you can look for me there, in an inn by the name of Red Ox, in five years' time."
Then she turned, and walked out of the door into the early May morning, filled with the song of nightingales and the heavy scent of hagberry blossoms almost smothering the underlying smell of a city freed from the winter and did not look back.
May, 1530, Heidelberg
The warm midday sun and an occasional bout of laughter rising up from the street below were in a rather sharp contrast to the scowl on Amanda's face. Investments were supposed to bring returns, not headaches. What did she know - or care to know - of the declining quality of hops, or the difficulties with the purveyors of barley, or the unreliability of the servants? She had supplied the capital, it should have been the business of the innkeeper to know what to do to turn profit. The man had had seven years to do it, for God's sake. Amanda gritted her teeth and bent over the next ledger.
A knock on the door followed by an abjectly scurrying and bowing innkeeper did nothing to improve her temper. She snarled at the wretched man, who paled, as she noticed with some satisfaction, yet still mustered enough courage to open his mouth.
"My apologies, mistress, a thousand apologies for interrupting you, but there is a young man downstairs, claiming he has to see you. A travelling scribe, or an apostate monk, by the looks of him, and proud and impertinent to boot, though I'd warrant he's never even needed a shave yet. I wanted to see him off, seeing as mistress is busy, but he was most rudely insistent that I tell you that he is here. Says I'm to tell you he brings tidings of ale and angels, whatever that means. Shall I let Hans beat him and throw him out, or ..."
"Shut up, and get out of my sight, before I let Hans beat you," Amanda interrupted. "Send the boy up. Oh, and if you're a wise man - which I doubt, looking at the state of your account books - you will get out of my sight, and stay away."
The innkeeper opened his mouth, took a look at Amanda and wisely closed it again. A moment later he could be heard stomping down the stairs, muttering under his breath about something that sounded suspiciously like 'uppity witch'.
Amanda leaned back in her chair and shook her head. The man had to go, if she wanted to get this place in order. Fortunately, if she was right about guessing who the visitor was, and if she played her cards right, she might have a solution.
She looked up at the sound of the door opening.
"The swill you serve here is atrocious, and your innkeeper is as dumb as a brick, yet not as polite by far," said the entrant by the way of greeting.
Amanda laughed.
"I am glad to see that you are well, Ingel. As to the quality of the ale, and the service, well, perhaps you would care to help me on that account."
Ingel gave her a familiar calculating look. "That might be, provided we reach an agreement that is profitable and to my liking."
Amanda smiled. "I'm sure it will be, and if not, let's see if we can sweeten the deal with some additional ... inducements."
END
Author: That Dog Who Pulls the Grinch's sleigh aka calime33
Written for:unovis_lj
Characters/Pairings: Amanda/OFC
Rating:PG-13
Word count:appr. 5800
Warnings:Um, references to obscure-ish chapters of history and an OFC?
Author's Notes: Thank you ***** and ***** for beta, all that sucketh still is a blame to be laid at my door. Thank you, amand_r for running this challenge, and for the patience you had for my lateness, and for making me write after a long dry spell. And thank you unovis_lj for all your stories that have given me countless hours of enjoyment, I know I'm a sucky feedbacker, but I do adore and appreciate them. A lot. And last but not least - thank you, the Highlander fandom, for, you know, being out there, still going, still immortal.
Summary: Amanda finds a - perhaps not really conventional - student.
A Rewalian Winter or The Devil's Disciple
September, 1524, Rewal
In hindsight, the decision - made somewhat in haste - to board the "Lisette" probably ranked among the top hundred of if not the stupidest, then certainly the most nauseating ones Amanda had made during the last hundred years, or maybe ever. Given that the alternative was being detained (very likely with also nauseating effects) by a number of guardsmen of the good city of Lübeck, who were showing unhealthy interest in a sweet piece of horseflesh with unfortunately distinct shoes, and consequently her rider, the idea might have also been the only thing that saved her from a lot of grief, including but not limited to a painful parting from a comfortingly heavy weight of pretty gold coins presently bolstering her waistline.
Of course, one could try to approach the question with cool logic, listing the pros - a captain greedy enough for coin to take a last-minute passenger and at least pretend to believe that the nobleman barely out of boyhood, yet in an unseemly hurry to see the world was not running from anything worse than perhaps a silly gambling debt or a father's disapproval; the only vessel about to sail in a few hours - to where, she did not know, and at that moment, did not care, as long as it was away, far away; and, oh, the not-getting-caught part - against the cons - the cramped below-decks of the old cog; the all-permeating smell of salted herring; the promise of the lasting dull ache of her breasts flattened by the tight binding - and reaching a conclusion.
Most of the three weeks' journey northwards across an early autumn Ostsee, though, left her unable to engage in any notable exercise of mind, the little of her energy left over from retching dedicated to making sure that the crew remained ignorant of her two most important secrets - the gold she was carrying, and the fact that her outer appearance was not in accordance with the way she pissed. She felt more than a little relieved when the cries of the crewmen alerted her to the appearance of the sharp-edged silhouettes of town fortifications that soon resolved into dull grey of stone walls and red roofs made brighter by the contrast.
Amanda's original plans had involved ultimately making her way over to Sweden, where the latest news spoke of the rise of the new king Gustav, and the throwing off of the Danish rule - one could always find opportunities for advancement and diversion in such times -, or maybe even continuing the journey southwards to return to the recently acquired little alehouse in Heidelberg. Let no-one say that Amanda was a spendthrift, who never thought of sensible investments. If anything was a true constant in this world, it was that people always needed a drink.
Frankly, Amanda had no intention of throwing in with any group of travelling entertainers for at least another half a century. Maintaining the appearance of a nobly born youngster - while allowing her to carry a sword without causing any problems - took a lot of effort and one had to beware of anyone getting too close. And finally, playing an adoring wife or a sweet concubine to any influential sack of money with a dick attached was something that she had to admit never sat well with her stomach for an extended length of time, making her soon desperate to fake her death or just take off in the night. Sure, relieving stupid (or for an even better thrill, not-so stupid) people of their valuables was always fun, but one should also get to enjoy the fruits of one's hard labours once in a while. Running a nice drinking establishment, with some judiciously supplied gambling opportunities on the side might be just the thing.
She had, however, failed to take into account the extent of loathing for a sea-travel a couple of autumn squalls combined with the eau de herring and fourteen unwashed men could induce in her. This was what led to what looked like a young sword-for-hire or perhaps a younger son of a noble family, bedraggled and down on his luck, staggering through the Great Coastal Gate into the good Hanseatic city of Rewal, currently under the rule of the Livonian Order, its everyday life shaken up a bit by the recent bout of plague (not an uncommon event in its history) and the ever-spreading waves emanating across Europe from the hammer-blows of a certain apostate friar on the doors of the All Saints' Church in Wittenberg. The threat or promise of the reformation of the faith, unlike the plague, was a new development and consequently commanded a lot more attention, especially with the added entertainment value of the catfight between the Lutheran preachers and the Black Friars of the Dominicans.
Amanda had other things in mind - she dragged herself to the nearest alehouse, secured the luxury of a private chamber with a bed for a price that was probably extortionate, and slept for a day and a night. On the second day, she ordered a bath and the best available dish that had absolutely no connection to anything fishy and slept some more.
On the third day she emerged reluctantly into a cool, grey, drizzly September morning, rather like a careful snail poking her eyestalks out of the striped shell, shivering slightly in her silk doublet and jerkin, adjusting her barett to a jauntier angle and idly picking her way through the muddy street towards the centre of the town.
By the time she had explored most of the lower town sprawling at the foot of the castle hill, the light rain had ceased and given way to a slowly-growing dusk under a sullen sky. Amanda glanced up at the heavy grey clouds that almost seemed to bulge down to touch the equally grey walls on the sides of the narrow street and felt suddenly tired and hungry. A chunk of bread and cheese from a stall in the market and a goblet of delicious claret from the apothecary across the square took care of the second part. Still, time to head back, she thought, standing on the steps of the apothecary, when suddenly the shivery, buzzing sensation of another Immortal nearby wormed itself under her skin.
Amanda scanned the surroundings anxiously. The few people hurrying across the now almost-deserted market seemed to pay no mind to her, but the buzz kept hovering at the edge of her perception, making her heart speed up and her shoulders tense. She had no desire to be challenged, so a fast retreat was probably the best option. With another worried glance around she slipped around the corner into the narrow archway lined by bakeries, and stopped. Maybe it was not a good idea to lead whoever it was back to her current lodgings.
She turned on her heel, barely dodging an indignant monk, trying frantically to recall what she had learned of the town's layout and dashed across the square, through the twisting streets, uphill where the spire of a church peeked over the surrounding clutter of narrow-faced, sharp-gabled houses. The buzz seemed to follow for a moment, and then she could not distinguish it from the pounding of blood in her ears any more.
Fortunately, the heavy church door was unlocked. Amanda paused for a moment, looking around, feeling for the trace of immortal presence. There was no buzz to prickle her skin, so maybe she had dodged whoever it was. Sensible though to wait in the safety of holy ground for a while, before attempting to head back, she decided.
Idly, she peeked into the main nave - almost empty of people, except for two women in black mourning kneeling in front of one of the side altars - then made her way to a door that probably led to a side chapel. She stepped across the threshold and looked straight into the empty eye-sockets of a skeleton, merrily playing the bagpipes. She took an involuntary, startled step backwards, even as a reasonable part of her mind concluded that it was likely to be one of the often-depicted les danses macabres, not Death himself, bumped into something and whirled around, managing to land - and not too gently - on her arse on the process.
A young woman, maybe in her late twenties by the looks of her, wearing a grey dress and a white linen cap, looked down on her, half-amused, half-disparaging smile on her face.
"A fine young man like you should not be so afraid of death that he faints from a mere painting of him," she said.
Amanda had to laugh at that. "Oh, fair lady, but it was not death, but your shining beauty that made my knees give out." She gave her best imitation of a leer.
The woman tut-tutted disapprovingly, though the corners of her mouth still twitched upwards. "What a cad you are, sir, flirting so blatantly, and in the House of God, no less."
She turned and walked away, but - Amanda squinted - yes, she put a distinct shimmy in her hips. Amanda chuckled quietly and got up. She was still smiling when she stepped out of the church and walked jauntily down the darkening street, whistling.
Her good mood lasted for about two minutes. As she turned the corner, she ran smack dab into a pair of men who by the looks of them were well acquainted with the seedier side of town, and life, for that matter.
"Look-ee, what 'ave we 'ere," grinned one of them, grabbing Amanda's arm. "A pretty boy, all dressed up and on his lonesome, with no-one to keep him company."
Amanda cursed inwardly, letting herself go half-limp, trying to look petrified with fear.
The first man winked at his companion, who was grinning an anticipatory, toothless grin. "Maybe he's lost. Maybe we oughta help him, polite-like. Who knows, maybe he'd like to help us with a few gold coins, poor men as we are and he looking like he has some to spare."
He pulled Amanda roughly towards him. This was when she kneed him hard in the groin, twisted free of the slackened grip and ran back up the street, feet slipping on the cobbles. She heard shouts and the sound of pounding feet behind her and ran blindly on. Reaching a crossroads, she skidded around the corner and had one clear, horrifying moment of seeing a two-horse wagon bearing down on her, and then there was a dull crack, a wash of brilliant pain and darkness.
Amanda regained consciousness abruptly like bursting out of the cold water, lungs burning for air, skin drawn too tight over shivery limbs - a sure sign that she had died, and revived, remarked a tiny part of her brain. She took a gasping breath and opened her eyes, every fibre of her body drawn tight, ready to bolt.
The first thing to register was the blessed absence of any immortal presence. The second was the realisation that she was no longer in the street, but lying on a bed. A young woman in a dark grey dress, with a honey-coloured braid was regarding her with a little frown from across the room. The air smelled faintly of something sweet, like barm.
Amanda swallowed over the dryness of her throat and managed a croak with an interrogative lilt. Dying was another thing she hated; reviving usually felt like the worst kind of hangover.
"You'd better lie still," suggested the woman. She poured something into a mug from a pitcher. She handed the mug to Amanda, "Wine, to give you strength," she answered to the unspoken question in Amanda's eyes.
"I do not know who - or what - you are," Amanda froze at that, as the woman continued, "but you were mauled pretty hard by that cart, blood all over you, your right arm broken - or at least it was hanging from an angle no arm should - and for a moment back there, I was almost sure you stopped breathing, so I'd wager you could use a good drink of wine."
This is not good at all, a part of Amanda's mind remarked with a strange detached clarity, while another part added, hey, isn't she that wench that flirted with me in the church? She slid a hand to her side, but encountered only the cool linen of a shift. Her dagger, her clothes, gold, sword, all gone. No, definitely not good.
The woman looked at her like she knew what she was thinking, lifting one corner of her mouth in a half-smile that might have been sympathy or mockery or both. Amanda noticed that her eyes were grey, with little brown flecks in them, and that she had a few tiny freckles scattered over her cheekbones.
"Seeing as you now barely have a scratch on you - well, that is enough a mystery. But you seem to be like an onion, layer upon layer. The lining of your jerkin is definitely unusual, unless they commonly use gold for keeping warm where you come from, and the contents of your codpiece are not what one would expect to find. My mother used to speak of the Others, the fairy folk, but why would a daughter of the Grass Mother put on the clothes of a mortal man, or an Underground One come to show their gold to mortals, less it be at Midsummer's Eve to lure people to their halls?"
The woman cocked her head. "I could call the priest, and the city guard, and tell them that I have the minion of the Devil, or the Devil himself in my house." Amanda blinked over the visions of fire and hot iron and cold water and hoped her fear did not show on her face.
"Or you could tell me who you are, and maybe we could reach to an agreement," the woman continued.
Amanda swallowed. "I am Amanda, and I am one who cannot die," she said. "I am neither an angel nor a devil, just a woman trying to survive in a world by my wits only, just one who is ... harder to kill, and longer-lived than most. And I can give you gold, if you let me go and promise not to speak of me to anyone."
The woman seemed to consider this. "I do not want your gold. I do, however, want something from you. I believe that we could achieve a ... mutually beneficial agreement." She paused. "I'd much rather have your secrets, in exchange for keeping them, and you, safe. Knowledge is more precious than gold. Can you teach me how to heal like you do, how not to die?"
Amanda gave a short, humourless bark of laughter. Another one; they are all alike. "No, that cannot be taught. I was born this way, and you ... were not."
The woman pursed her lips and nodded. "I suspected as much," she said.
Amanda blinked. She had not expected to be taken at her word so easily. The woman must have noticed her surprise, as she continued, "Well, if it was something that could be learned, there would surely be a lot more people like you. A knowledge once revealed cannot be so easily put out like a candle. And I've never heard of or met anyone like you. A pity that, but I'm sure you must have other secrets you can ... trade."
Amanda was suddenly tired of that game. "Nothing that you would want to learn," she spat. "I'm a thief, and a good one at that, and I know countless ways to dissemble and cheat the eye, and how to fight someone bigger and stronger and to come out as a winner, I know how to wield a sword and kill..." she paused menacingly, "and do not think that I will hesitate to kill you, if you do not let me go!"
The other remained unmoved by the threat, if anything, she seemed ... intrigued? amused? excited?
"Like I said, I believe that we could achieve an agreement." She paused for a heartbeat. "I want to be apprenticed to you.
"In exchange for saving you, and keeping your secrets - which I'm sure is important to you - I only ask that you teach me some of them. I want to learn how a woman can make herself look like a man and deceive others' eyes - back at the church I figured you for a young man." She shook her head in rueful admiration. "Your speech is that of a foreigner - I wager you have travelled far, and I want to hear about foreign lands. I want you to teach me how a woman can travel with impunity, alone, disguised, the way you seem to. I want you to teach me the ways to steal, and get away - surely, even the immortal thieves have, if not guilds, then at least students? I want you to teach me the ways of the world so that I might go and see for myself all that does not exist here between those grey walls. Do you know the art of letters?"
The apparent non sequitur took Amanda by a surprise so that she found herself nodding without a thought.
"Good. Then you can teach me that too. If you promise to do that, I, Ingel, daughter of Körtsi Joan and Peetri Marri, widow of Johann the brewer, will solemnly vow to keep all your secrets faithfully. I will also promise to serve you and be loyal to you, like any apprentice to the master, until my term is done."
Amanda lifted a mocking eyebrow. "So, you want me to teach you my ... dark arts. A sweet, little, meek thing like you should beware of such things, for all you know; you might be making a deal with the Devil."
The woman smiled again. This was not the little twist of earlier, but a full-on, sweet, radiant smile. Amanda found herself liking the smile in spite of its owner. "Well, do not the old tales say that if you trap the Devil, or do a favour to one of the Other Folk, that then they are in your debt and you can demand that they fulfil your wish?"
The smile faded and she added quietly, "And if God puts in me fire equal to any other in this world, yet demands that I smother it because of the body He's chosen to house it, then maybe it is better to become the Devil's disciple."
She was silent for a moment, looking down. Then she raised her head, and looked straight at Amanda.
"You have seen the magnificent Dance of Death that the great master Notke has painted for our church, to remind each and every soul that Death is the fate of us all, and what is of the world does not last; to put our trust in God and live a pious life, so that we could find reward in His grace, as Death could take us tomorrow, and it would make no difference whether you are a bishop or a maid, a soldier or a babe in arms?
"I do not think I have sinned more or less than most, nor prayed less or more diligently. I have seen my mother dunked for a witch and jubilantly declared innocent when she drowned. I have seen my father take to drink and fade away, and the plague carry my husband and child to the common grave in St. Barbara cemetery.
"And I think that maybe there is no God or Devil, or at least they do not care about us. That there is only Death, who holds our hands and urges us to dance while we can. And thus I have sworn that I will not dance to the tune of God, or the tune of the Devil, or set my steps by what the others say, so that when Death comes for me, at least I can say: it was me, dancing my life the way I chose."
A thought came unbidden to Amanda. Rebecca would have taken her in, like she took me, and taught her, and cared for her, and let her go. For a moment she felt a fierce longing that made her choke.
Nevertheless, it was not a good idea to trust anyone who demanded anything of you under duress, even if you perhaps might feel a tiny smidgen of kinship towards them.
"If I agreed to your little proposal, what makes you think I will not kill you, or just disappear the first chance I get? And what guarantee do I have that you keep your side of the bargain?"
That got Amanda the smile again. "I could swear on my mother's love, and you could do the same."
"My mother sold me to warm the bed of a disease-ridden fat bastard who threw me out on the street when he grew tired of me, so I do not think that is a brand of love particularly suited for a binding oath," said Amanda dryly.
Ingel gave her a long look. "I am sad to hear that. However, I'm sure there is someone whose love you cherish, or-" her smile turned impish, "we could simply gamble to trust each other. And if you are truly one of the Devil's creatures, then surely you can snatch my soul to torment if I betray you - and who knows, maybe I too am not entirely unschooled in the arts of ensnaring a soul.
"And I would certainly provide you with a warm bed and good meals, and no questions asked again that you refuse to answer once, for the term of a year and a day."
"A year and a day is too long," said Amanda, automatically falling into a bargaining mode.
Ingel only smiled. "It is a customary term of apprenticeship. But then we could shorten it to last until St.George's day. Though then perhaps some of your gold, to pay for the lodgings, would not go amiss."
"You're a proper vixen already, without any schooling," said Amanda, yet she knew already that she'd agree to that bizarre bargain - out of curiosity, out of the sense of mischief, from the penchant for fun she'd never lacked. After all, it was a kind of honour to be considered the envoy of the Devil himself.
So it came to be that a young, dark-haired man who was said to be a distant relative of some sort moved in to lodge with the brewer Johann's widow Ingel, in the house near the St.Nicholas' church. The neighbours wagged their heads and could not seem to agree whether it was no doubt indicative of carnal sins, perpetrated under the very nose of the priest himself, too, and no surprise there if you remembered the widow's mother, you know what I'm talking about, or whether it was just that the widow had at last decided to remarry, of course she ought to, her being so young and all, and definitely able to bear children, though her first one had died, the poor thing, and it is good sense to keep the inheritance in the family. But all of them were smart enough to keep their whispers very quiet, so that they would not reach into the ears of the parish priest or, God forbid, Ingel herself, because, well, they very sensibly appreciated a good brew.
Amanda found the arrangement surprisingly to her liking. Having a student was apparently not at all bad, especially if one did not need to fear that student being after your Quickening. A welcoming home, a good meal, a quick-witted partner in crime who took to Amanda's teachings like a duck to the water and begged her for stories of the places she'd been and things she'd seen made her feel surprisingly good. Sometimes it felt a bit like her early days with Rebecca were somehow come again, only perhaps with the roles reversed.
So it was perhaps not quite an unpremeditated impulse that made Amanda one day (thank god that she'd been wearing a dress at that time) lean in and kiss the impish smile that a certain young, fair-haired squire with flushed cheeks had turned toward her, right in the middle of the wintry market. Somebody whistled behind them, and Ingel's smile grew even brighter.
"Is this where you steal my soul," she asked, "to have your wicked way with it?"
Amanda threaded an arm through hers. "Yes," she said with all the mock-seriousness she could muster. "Also, I believe there is much that I have not taught you yet and we should not lose more time."
Autumn-winter, 1524/1525, Rewal
Even if the good people of St.Nicholas' parish were restrained in discussing the scandalous situation in the brewer's household, it did not mean that their tongues were idle. Despite the near-famine in the countryside, the town's granaries were well-stocked and a full belly and long dark winter evenings made for comfortable gossip.
And there was more than enough fodder for the wagging tongues - whether the Town Council will burn in hell to the last member for banishing the good Dominican Friars from their cloister and the town, or whether it was a just come-uppance for the greediness of the monks. In whispers people speculated whether the long-time Master of the Livonian Order, Wolter von Plettenberg was perhaps friendlier towards the new followers of Martin Luther than his position allowed, or even secretly receiving a traitor's gold from the east, the land of Russia. Some of them even wondered whether it might be right and true to infer from the words of the new preachers that everyone, even the peasants, was created equal in the eyes of God, but others very sensibly pointed out that this was blatantly untrue, because if it were so, who would then be left doing their work in the fields?
And if during the winter an evening that began with winning a few easy coins from a blushing and bumbling milk-and-honey youngster or a dark-haired wench sitting in one's lap and giggling ended for more than the average share of gamblers (and perhaps even a few hitherto thought to be honest citizens) with waking up in a side street with a headache and no coins at all, and oftentimes less a pair of boots or a coat, too, then it was the sign of the times getting worse and no wonder.
The people were universally agreed upon that it must have been the work of the devil itself, when the silver goblet adorned with amethysts, gifted to the ratsherr Pepersack by the Danish king Christian II, disappeared from the locked chest under his very bed.
They were divided on whether the hand that poured molten lead into the keyholes of the church of St.Nicholas, so that the looters - as some called them - or the purifiers of the faith, as others said - breezing through the other churches like a destructive wave fuelled by the winds of reformation, or more likely, by the ever-simmering discontent of the powerless with those in power and too much ale - had to sullenly dissipate in front of the immovable doors, leaving the church untouched, belonged to God, the Devil or a man (and incidentally, all were wrong), but after a while, the majority of opinion came down in favour of the parish elder, who after a few months of praise began to believe it himself. In the first flush of glee over St.Nicholas' being the only church in town that was spared, the disappearance of all of the parish's gold in coinage from the vestry was not discovered until a good month later.
Late April, 1525, Rewal
The snow had long gone, down to the last dirty pile in a shady corner of a back yard, transforming into mud and more sunlight Amanda had strictly a taste for - she had never been an early riser unless forced by circumstances (and sadly, those kinds of circumstances were all too common) and she had always found that most of her plans worked better the less ... illuminated the world was.
St. George's day had come and gone without either of them openly recalling the terms of their contract. Sometimes, in the early hours of morning, when Ingel had left to rouse the servants and see to the daily chores being done, Amanda thought about it, curled up in the warmth of the bed that still smelled of her. It was unexpectedly tempting to dally with a thought of staying longer. It had been so long since she'd had something like that, a warm body at her side, without the need to worry that she'd slip up and betray herself, no need to lie - well, not much, at least, with no demands that she be someone else than she was.
Yet, she knew she had to leave soon. People, be they mortal or immortal, always either died or betrayed you, or tried to kill you, or simply left - or the worst, threw you out. If Amanda's long life had taught her anything, it was that it was best to be the one doing the leaving.
May, 1525, Rewal
Amanda was not fond of long goodbyes and considered slipping away in the wee dark hours of morning to be something eminently recommendable, both for avoiding said farewells and from the sensible standpoint that if nobody saw you leave, it would be so much harder to find out where you were going.
This was apparently difficult to do in a country which totally seemed to lack the dark part come spring, and was inhabited by lightly-sleeping, too smart for their own good women.
"I've packed you some bread and cheese, and don't forget to take the leather bottle with small beer," said Ingel, looking up from where she was kneeling in front of the fireplace, when Amanda slipped into the kitchen.
Amanda froze mid-step. "So you figured out that I was leaving."
Ingel smiled. "You have taught your apprentice well."
Amanda did not apologise for who she was, so she simply said, "Seems so, and now it is the time for the teacher to be on her way, as the apprentice is ready to practice on her own. Though, if I were you, I would take up the way of a journeyman, as my experience has taught me that staying too long in one place is inadvisable, if you intend to make use of what I have taught you."
Ingel stood up and kissed her lightly on the lips, once, a brisk farewell.
"Your advice has merit and might be that I'll follow it, sooner or later. I hope you found as much enjoyment in our little agreement as I did. Fare thee well, Amanda. And who knows, perhaps we might meet once again, in my lifetime."
Amanda was not sure whether it was the kiss, or the way Ingel's calm voice wavered the tiniest bit over the last words, but she heard herself say, "You have undoubtedly heard about the town called Heidelberg, famous for its university, where they make wise men out of fools, or perhaps, the other way around. If you're so inclined, you can look for me there, in an inn by the name of Red Ox, in five years' time."
Then she turned, and walked out of the door into the early May morning, filled with the song of nightingales and the heavy scent of hagberry blossoms almost smothering the underlying smell of a city freed from the winter and did not look back.
May, 1530, Heidelberg
The warm midday sun and an occasional bout of laughter rising up from the street below were in a rather sharp contrast to the scowl on Amanda's face. Investments were supposed to bring returns, not headaches. What did she know - or care to know - of the declining quality of hops, or the difficulties with the purveyors of barley, or the unreliability of the servants? She had supplied the capital, it should have been the business of the innkeeper to know what to do to turn profit. The man had had seven years to do it, for God's sake. Amanda gritted her teeth and bent over the next ledger.
A knock on the door followed by an abjectly scurrying and bowing innkeeper did nothing to improve her temper. She snarled at the wretched man, who paled, as she noticed with some satisfaction, yet still mustered enough courage to open his mouth.
"My apologies, mistress, a thousand apologies for interrupting you, but there is a young man downstairs, claiming he has to see you. A travelling scribe, or an apostate monk, by the looks of him, and proud and impertinent to boot, though I'd warrant he's never even needed a shave yet. I wanted to see him off, seeing as mistress is busy, but he was most rudely insistent that I tell you that he is here. Says I'm to tell you he brings tidings of ale and angels, whatever that means. Shall I let Hans beat him and throw him out, or ..."
"Shut up, and get out of my sight, before I let Hans beat you," Amanda interrupted. "Send the boy up. Oh, and if you're a wise man - which I doubt, looking at the state of your account books - you will get out of my sight, and stay away."
The innkeeper opened his mouth, took a look at Amanda and wisely closed it again. A moment later he could be heard stomping down the stairs, muttering under his breath about something that sounded suspiciously like 'uppity witch'.
Amanda leaned back in her chair and shook her head. The man had to go, if she wanted to get this place in order. Fortunately, if she was right about guessing who the visitor was, and if she played her cards right, she might have a solution.
She looked up at the sound of the door opening.
"The swill you serve here is atrocious, and your innkeeper is as dumb as a brick, yet not as polite by far," said the entrant by the way of greeting.
Amanda laughed.
"I am glad to see that you are well, Ingel. As to the quality of the ale, and the service, well, perhaps you would care to help me on that account."
Ingel gave her a familiar calculating look. "That might be, provided we reach an agreement that is profitable and to my liking."
Amanda smiled. "I'm sure it will be, and if not, let's see if we can sweeten the deal with some additional ... inducements."
END