pstairs, The Trod clamored with its usual din. A cacophonous cadence of conversation and drink. Chairs scraped and plates clattered, the noise of people at leisure. From the bowels of the cellar, it was little more than a dull incoherent roar. Wick, galdori, human—the voices and accents blurred in their rush to beat against the walls, washing like waves across the sands of a beach, ebbing and flowing with the tide of hot food and mediocre drink.
Tallis Cade hefted another log into the bowels of a cast iron stove that stood like a vat in the center of the cavernous room, anchored from the ceiling by a stout flue. Cellars were rarely built for warmth and the bricked walls and stone floors beneath the heart of the noisy Trod were no exception. A short table glowed orange in the light of the stove fire, flanked by a set of mismatched chairs. To any who cared to look, it would appear to be little more than a scant hideaway for smoking and griping, a retreat for the meagre inn-staff to slink away from the demands of their day. Casks of wine lined one wall, bins of coal lined another, all standard fare for a cellar under a bustling inn.
A door stood at the rear, wide enough to accommodate the weekly haul of meats and leaks and potatoes, ferried through the alley around back, so as not to disturb the business upstairs. Of course, it was neither meats nor leaks nor potatoes that had brought her to the cellar tonight. Tallis straightened, leaving the door of the stove open as she rose. Flames licked at the wood, cracking and popping, giving off more noise than heat. On a night like tonight—with snow spitting in the streets and a chill seeping in through brick and pane alike—it was hardly an ideal meeting location. But it was safer than dragging some well-connected pug through the heart of the Trod.
Tallis—Quill, she reminded herself—flicked another look toward the door, as if looking at it would somehow summon a knock from the other side. Icy fingers worked their way into the folds of the loose-knit shawl wrapped around her shoulders, knotting themselves in a nervous quest for warmth. It was the first time she had ever asked for anything from the Resistance. In the year following her father’s death, she had grown accustomed to taking orders. Opening her doors when she was told to open them, tucking away this and that until someone with a fake name and another set of orders came asking for that or this. She was a spoke in a wheel, doing her part to keep things spinning without ever knowing where it was the wheel was going.
Two years ago, she might have asked more questions.
Last week, she asked for help instead.