Summoner: Book 1: The Novice by Taran Matharu Page A

her waiting fingers.
    ‘No tip? With all that silver?’ she screeched, then strode off, drawing looks from other patrons in the tavern. Three hard-looking men paid particular attention. Their clothes were dirty, and their hair hung in greasy locks around their heads. Fletcher grimaced and stowed his purse.
    They had never needed pennies up in the mountains. Everything was priced in shillings; pennies complicated things. It was one hundred copper pence to a silver shilling and five shillings to a gold sovereign in the big cities of Hominum, but Fletcher’s purse contained only silver. He would ask for change when he paid for his room, so that this didn’t happen again. It was frustrating to make such an obvious mistake, but he couldn’t exactly tip her with the same cost as his meal now, could he?
    Another man seated behind the three vagrants was still staring at Fletcher. He was handsome but fearsome looking, his chiselled face marred by a scar that extended from the centre of his right eyebrow down to the corner of his mouth, leaving a blind, milky eye in its wake. He had a pencil-thin moustache and curling black hair that was tied in a knot at the nape of his neck. The uniform he wore marked him as an officer of some kind; a long blue coat bordered with red lapels and gold buttons. Fletcher could see a black tricorn hat laid on the bar in front of him.
    Fletcher sunk into the shadows and pulled his hood further over his head. The demon shifted and grumbled in his ear, unhappy at being kept in the dark for so long. The hood did a good job of hiding it, especially when he raised the collar of his shirt, but the way the officer stared at him was disconcerting.
    He gulped down the last of his broth and stuffed the bread that came with it into his pocket to give to his demon later. Perhaps another tavern would be a better place to stay, away from everyone who had seen the weight of his purse.
    He ducked into the cobbled street and hurried away, looking over his shoulder. Nobody seemed to be following him. After a few more paces, he turned his jog into a stroll, but kept in mind the need to find another inn. It would be dusk soon and he didn’t like the idea of sleeping in a doorway that night.
    Already he was marvelling at the tall buildings, some over four storeys high. Almost every one had a shop on the ground floor, selling a multitude of goods that had Fletcher itching to get his purse out once more.
    There were red-faced butchers with strings of sausages decorating their store, bloodied to the elbows as they portioned heavy haunches of meat. A carpenter put the finishing touches to a chair leg with magnificent carvings, like a tree entwined with ivy. The alluring scent of cologne wafted from a perfumery, the glass shelves on display filled with delicate, coloured bottles.
    He stumbled to the side as a horse-drawn carriage pulled up, exited by a pair of girls, their hair ringleted in pretty curls and their lips painted like red rose petals. They were gone into the perfumery with a swish of their petticoats, leaving Fletcher open mouthed. He grinned and shook his head.
    ‘Not for the likes of you, Fletcher,’ he murmured, continuing on his way.
    His eye was caught by the shine of metal. A weapon store bristled with pikes, swords and axes, but that was not what drew him. It was the firearms, gleaming in velvet-lined cases on a stall in front of the shop. The stocks were carved and dyed red, with each of the barrels engraved with stampeding horses.
    ‘How much?’ he asked the vendor, his eyes fixed on a gorgeous pair of duelling pistols.
    ‘Too much for you, laddie; these weapons are for officers. Beautiful, aren’t they, though?’ said a deep voice above him.
    He looked up and blinked in surprise. It was a dwarf, of that Fletcher was certain. He stood on a long bench so that his head was level with Fletcher’s, but without it he would have only reached Fletcher’s midriff.
    ‘Of course, I should have known.