A Flight of Ravens by John Conroe (books to improve english .TXT) 📕

the mug and rinsing it with more water from the pitcher, I poured the rinse water into the potted forest fern on the stool by the window and headed out.

Chapter 2

Brin found me a half hour later, pushing open the office door without a knock, a tray in her sturdy arms.

“Oh, Savid,” she said, coming to an abrupt halt, the plate and real metal fork rattling.

“Up early, Brin,” I said, looking up from a report.  “Figured restless energy is best put to use.”

“Ah, it’s like that, is it?” she asked, giving me a side look as she set down the tray, which bore a new mug of caffe and a plate, which she uncovered, loaded with thick buttered toast and egg-potato hash.

“There’s lots of things going on,” I said, leaning back.

She picked up last night’s empty ale cup on her way out, looking back over her shoulder.  “We all miss them too.”  She pulled the door closed behind her, leaving me with coded letters, business reports, and deep thoughts.

An hour or so later, a knock came at the door.

“Come,” I said.

The door opened to reveal a smiling face as Corell peeked in, holding a small plate in her right hand.  Centered in the middle was a walnut-studded cinnamon bun, glazed with melted maple sugar.

“When?” I asked her, frowning at the treat.

“Literally two minutes ago,” she said, grinning.

“Right. Have Welton saddle Tipton please,” I said, immediately picking up the stacks of papers and putting them inside the desk drawer.

Corell moved over and grabbed my breakfast tray, setting the delicious confection down in the middle of the empty plate.

I locked my drawer and grabbed a thick cloak from the stand behind the desk.  Turning, I saw Corell still grinning at me.  “Yes, but at least split it with whoever else is working this morning,”

I said.

Her pretty smile turned to mock outrage.  “Of course I will,” she said.

“Hmmpf,” was my only reply, causing her to grin again.  It was standard practice to give away these freshly made, very expensive treats whenever they showed up, which was often, and it was a habit my staff knew well.  Just as they knew that the pastries were a summons.

I rode Tipton through the streets of Haven, the signs of a busy day beginning to show everywhere.  The city was waking up, flour and sugar being delivered to the baker who supplied much of the Knife and Needle’s needs beyond whatever Brin made from scratch, the sound of metal being hammered at the forge and bank one street over, and a wagon load of cabbage, broccoli, parsnips, and potatoes headed for the grocer’s two buildings down.

The air was cold and crisp, normal for early December in Montshire, and Tipton moved with steady purpose, the horse already knowing where we were headed and eager for another warm stall.

Early morning and the light foot traffic allowed us to get to our destination in a little over fifteen minutes.  The king’s castle loomed nearby, the main wall rising up behind the building we approached. A boy took Tipton’s reins and turned toward the livery stable, the horse almost leading the boy.

The stable manager gave me a nod but otherwise ignored me, instead yelling to a pair of men attempting to back a wagon of grain toward the barns.  I stepped around the delivery disagreement, heading deeper into the stables, following as Tipton entered his normal stall.  The establishment was fairly new, built on the remains of a candlemaker’s shop that had burned down.  The principal owner had bought the land and brought in several investors to fund the stable business, which rented stalls to Haven’s visitors, bought and sold horses, and repaired and sold tack.  Tipton had his own sometime stall because I was one of the investors, albeit a small one. The fact that no one else ever used this stall was ostensibly because of that.

I tipped Charlie, the lad who would see to Tipton’s second breakfast (greedy horse), and stepped aside so he could head to the grain bins.  As soon as the boy was gone, I patted my old horse and stepped to the end of the stall, the wall being the back of the stables closest to the castle wall.  My fingers tucked behind a post and jiggled a little latch, which unlocked a portion of the wall.  I swiveled it open and ducked through, closing the false wall behind me.  I was now in an alley behind the stables, the massive curtain wall of Havensheart rising four spans over my head.

Barely big enough to lead a horse down, the alley was officially an escape route to get expensive horses out of the stable should it catch fire.  Tipton’s stall wasn’t the only one with a less-than-obvious door, just the only one that was ever used.

The alley was perhaps unique of alleys in Haven in that it was clear of trash and debris, as well as empty of people, even Haven’s homeless knowing that it would be patrolled by castle guards.  The stable’s owner insisted on a clean, fire-hazard-free alley, as did the officers of the royal guards, some of whom weren’t excited to have even a one-story structure near the castle’s defensive curtain wall.  The building, itself, had some modifications to its engineering to mollify the royal guardians. In the event of invasion, pre-cut and pinned key structural supports would allow the entire thing to be collapsed almost flat.  A major concession to the castle’s security, but as the lead investor happened to be the crown princess, it made complete sense.

I stepped three spans to the right of Tipton’s stall door, finding myself at a narrow stone-braced archway that was built right into the curtain wall.  It wasn’t big, just a single man wide and when I stepped into it, I was actually under the wall itself.  Immediately a steel gate slid down behind me, hardly rattling in well-greased tracks. Another gate was in front of me, behind which was a massively