Flight of the Earls by Michael K. Reynolds

abandoned, Clare also experienced a strange flash of exhilaration.

Chapter 7
    The Wayfarer’s Inn

    Clare found a ledge under a three-story mud-and-brick building where there was refuge from the downpour. How pathetic she must appear. Soaked in her clothing, her long black hair matted against her face, carrying a drenched bag that contained all of her possessions.
    What had she done? Clare had never seen so many people gathered in one place, yet she knew none of them. How obvious was it that she was alone and vulnerable with no place to go?
    People passed by, shapeless, faceless, bumping into her, voices shouting, running to get out of the rain. Yet what made her most uncomfortable was how many souls went by without acknowledging her existence. Clare was used to greeting everyone she locked gazes with in her small town, but doing so here seemed both discouraged and dangerous.
    Across the street, somewhat obscured by the pounding of the rain, two men leaned against a brick wall, feasting on her with their glares.
    She felt a tug on her arm and Clare swung around. A boy of about twelve years stood dry beneath an umbrella. His face was ruddy and he was adorned in a tattered dress suit and top hat, which in its glory days might have been worn by a governor’s son.
    â€œLodging, miss?”
    She nodded mutely.
    His face brightened. “Knew so. Always spot ’em miles away. He has a nose on him they say. Master Redmond is me name. But you can call me Pence. All my friends do. You know why it ’tis? They say he’ll do anything for a pence. Well. Look at me being ungentlemanly.”
    The boy handed Clare the umbrella and grabbed the pack from her arms. First stumbling when the burden transferred to him, he gave it a lunge, and though bent over, he steadied it firmly.
    â€œFollow me, miss. Keep your eyes on Pence as he wouldn’t want to lose you in the crowd and the rain.” He started to walk and waved her to follow. “Come now. Finest lodging for guests you’ll find. Did you come from far?”
    Clare started to answer but didn’t get a chance.
    â€œFirst time to Cork? That’s certain. The farmies like yourself, miss. You all stand out like flies swimming in a pitcher of milk, you do. Not meaning any offense. Just pointing it out to you. The farmies only used to come for market, they did. But now it’s off to the harbor to the big ships and far places. Best harbor in the world in Cork right here. At least they tell me so. Someday Pence will go. Who knows where?”
    Surprised at how difficult it was to keep up with him, despite the fact he was carrying the bag, Clare focused on the task. Ever more amazing was his ability to turn his head and hold a conversation while leading them at a swift pace.
    They weaved through streets and alleys that grew darker and more run-down as they pressed forward. As he took her deeper into the bowels of the city, she grew worried, especially as faces peering through doorways and windows seemed more sinister and discontent.
    When she would ask him how close they were, his response was always the same. “Just around the corner, miss. Keep lively.”
    And then he would burrow farther through alleyways, rattling on at a shout about the history of the city, favorite places to eat, marketplaces to negotiate the best bargains, and he even described the architecture of certain buildings, explaining in some cases how he would have designed them much differently. Neither the burden of the bag he was carrying or the pounding of the rain dampened his step or mood.
    Just when she was about to dig in her heels and insist she wouldn’t go a step farther, Clare’s young guide turned to her. “Here we are, miss. Told you it’s a beauty.”
    Down the alleyway where it curved to darkness, a sign that read Wayfarer’s Inn flapped in the wind and rain. They arrived at the entranceway to the building, its outside walls blackened in