They found an inn down one of the side streets. No lanterns were lit, but the sound of music and boisterous conversation drew them in. The place was fairly full considering the current crisis that enveloped the kingdom. A fire burned in the hearth, tinging the air with the sharp smoky incense of too-green wood. Another smell, roasting pig, made Aramis’s mouth water. Both scents were more pleasing than the others that wafted through the air: mercenary sweat and spilled food and drink that had been left for who knew how long.
“Ugh,” Mel muttered beneath his breath. “It’s too hot for a fire, especially with all these people. The heat is unbearable.”
Aramis noticed that almost everyone looked like a mercenary. No wonder the place is packed, he thought. They have no reason to be fleeing. Ther
