December 26th – 29th, 973
Breakfast at the Copper Kettle
For the next few days and nights, the party rested, recovered, and carried out what passed for light investigative work in Hollowmere.
About halfway through, however, yet another mystery came to visit them. And, as was traditional for this sort of mystery, the party first heard about it over breakfast.
The Copper Kettle’s namesake kettle hung above the hearth, steaming industriously as though it personally considered feeding travelers a sacred duty. The smell of fresh bread, porridge, bacon, and strong tea filled the common room. Outside, Hollowmere’s morning fog pressed against the windows with all the enthusiasm of a mildly interested ghost.
The party settled around a large table near the back of the room and, for several blessed minutes, nothing violent, political, supernatural, foul-smelling, or any combination thereof occurred.
Then Ant cleared her throat.
Wolfgang looked up from his eggs, “Ah.”
Ant frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means you’ve got the expression.”
“What expression?”
“The expression you get right before you tell us something that will make breakfast significantly more complicated.”
Merrythought pointed with her fork.
“The prophecy face.”
“I do not have a prophecy face.”
“You absolutely have a prophecy face.”
Ant sighed. “I’ve been spending the past few nights hanging around my mirror with a lit candle before bedtime and last night my patron finally responded.”
Cassyndra’s notebook appeared as if summoned.
“Ah. Your boyfriend returns. For a time, I was worried perhaps he’d ghosted you. Spill all the details, if you would, and don’t spare any of the juicy bits.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Still keeping things casual then? Good idea. Especially given his commitment issues.”
Ant rolled her eyes. “This visit was strange.”
Hunkle raised an eyebrow. “Whereas the previous visits were not?”
“Well, alright. Stranger than before.”
That focused everyone’s attention even further.
Ant took a sip of tea. “He seemed distracted. Usually, I look into the mirror and he’s just… there. The hood. The cloak. The dramatic refusal to show his face. Nothing else behind him. It’s like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.”
“A penchant for the mysterious, common amongst patrons, as I understand it,” said Merrythought.
Ant nodded. “Before, that’s all I could see. Just the hooded figure where my reflection should be. This time, though, the light behind him was brighter and I could actually see past him.”
“What did you see?” asked Calder.
“It looked like he was in some kind of shelter. Not a home. Not even a camp. The sort of place someone builds because they have nowhere else left to go. The sort of place someone being hunted might build simply to stay alive.”
Nobody interrupted.
“There were broken crates being used as furniture. The walls looked like patched canvas stretched over scavenged frames. Everything about it felt temporary. Fragile. As though a strong enough storm might simply carry the whole thing away.”
“And outside?” asked Gareth.
Ant hesitated. “I only heard the empty wind howling outside. And one of the crates inside had been turned into a desk. It was covered in maps.”
“What sort of maps?” asked Gareth.
“Campaign maps. Army movements. Supply routes. Battle plans. All involving Cambria”
“A recent campaign?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What do you mean?”
Ant spread her hands. “No two maps were the same. They all showed different armies, different borders, different roads, different battles. But they were all of Cambria. And then when he saw me looking, he turned the maps upside down and told me about Varnes.”
“Go on,” said Cassyndra.
“He said we would meet Varnes soon. And he said not to attack him immediately. Because that doesn’t work.”
The table stared at her.
“‘That doesn’t work?’” repeated Wolfgang.
“Those exact words.”
“Not ‘I think it’s a bad idea’?”
“No.”
“Not ‘it’s wrong’?”
“No.”
“Not ‘he’s innocent’?”
“No.”
Ant shook her head.
“Just. Don’t attack Varnes immediately. That doesn’t work. That’s it.”
“No prophecy? No explanation? No hinge metaphors?”
“No.”
Merrythought looked genuinely disappointed. “A shame. I was beginning to think your boyfriend might secretly be a carpenter.”
Nobody smiled.
Cassyndra closed her notebook. “Before he told us that we were the hinge of history. Then he told us to go to Hollowmere. Now that we’re here, we see Varnes. And then he tells us not to attack him. For now, at least. Whatever’s going on around here, it seems Varnes is neck deep in it.”
Nobody seemed especially comforted by that possibility and, outside, the fog continued drifting through Hollowmere’s streets.
Inside, the Copper Kettle remained warm, crowded, and stubbornly ordinary.
For the moment, that was enough.