3 The Mischievous Hare

Night was falling fast. Dark purple clouds filled the sky and glimmered with the telltale signs of flashing lightning. Rumbling thunder followed, echoing through the valley and filling its inhabitants' hearts with dread as they hoped that the oncoming storm would pass them over and leave them unscathed. In the distance, invisible from such a long way away, a bell tolled signalling the end of the day as it gave way to the dark and inexpugnable night.

The quaint little city of Groamburk stood alone at the heart of a valley, bordering a tamed river, and cut in half by a commercial road known as Groam pass. Its sixty or so square miles was laden with houses that were simple, fabricated using a mixture of stones taken from the near mountain base and trees harvested from the edge of the forest. Not prone to ostentatious displays of architecture, the inhabitants much preferred an utility-based approach. Their constructions were sturdy, and the city itself was surrounded by tall walls able to withstand the strong winds and protect them from the rare beast that would dare approach their settlement; much unlike the grand cities further East where extravagant decorations were greatly coveted.

Amongst the central line of the Groam pass stood out a building that didn't follow the style of the rest of the city. This construction was three stories high and as wide as two of the other houses. Its porch was supported by beautifully engraved oak columns, each window was made of colourful panelled glass, and the doorframes were ornamented with streaks of silver. On the side of the building hung a big sign reading: The Wishful Hare. A truly flamboyant construction.

The Inn, for that's what the building functioned as, was the heart of Groamburk, even more so than its sorry excuse for a city hall (which just translated to mean the mayor's guest quarters at his rather inhospitable home). Groamburk was a city of passage, its position square centre of the only usable route crossing the Groamek mountain ranges made the city an imperative stop for would be travellers and adventurers. There lay the secret for the Wishful Hare being so richly decorated: it exploited its monopoly as the only viable place where a weary traveller could find accommodation.

It's not like they had any other choice, really. Everyone knew the fate of those who dared venture out at night.

That evening started off like any other. At the sound of the evening bell, those still working in the quarry at the base of the mountain hurriedly picked up their tools and trotted towards the safety of the city walls. The quarry master cut negotiations with a group of envoys of the fiefdom short and instructed his apprentices to guide the men to the Wishful Hare. The mayor of Groamburk, an old man who spent most of his days rocking in a wooden chair that had belonged to his grandfather, jumped to his feet and rubbed his hands together as he made his way to the Hare.

Half the men of the city would go to mingle with the visitors. Young Groamburk males would patrol the tavern in search for a foreign beauty they could make fools of themselves to; the older men having the benefit of experience would simply spend more coin than was advisable on intoxicating beverages, knowing full well that they held the risk of indebting themselves beyond what they could afford. Joy and merriment were a guarantee under the patronage of Ichabod Hare.

The last few remaining stragglers on the streets were quickly making their way to their homes or the Inn when a group of unruly mercenaries first appeared through the twon gate after having marched down the Eastern side of the Groam pass. There were seven of them, all wearing matching leather hooded cloaks that covered their entire body. Swords dangled from their waist and a few of them carried crossbows strapped to their backs. Leading the procession was a man who also had a jewelled knife right beside his falchion.

Naliam Leyes, the man with the jewelled knife, turned to inspect his men. Although he carried himself with the aura of a martial artist, the rest of the mercenaries looked uneasy. They had been traveling at an intense pace since sunrise and were eager to reach the Hare in search for warm beds and cold beer. Naliam couldn't blame them, really. He, too, was looking forward to enjoying the pleasures available at Ichabod's famous establishment.

That night presented itself to be particularly memorable. Shielded from the cold winds and the ice-like drizzle, a soft melodious voice sang and braved the proprietary boundaries of the Hare. Naliam signalled his men to wait as he looked through one of the windows and examined the atmosphere present at the Inn. Inside, the Hare was packed. Usually that would mean loud shouting to the point that one couldn't make out his or her own words in the commotion. Yet it wasn't often that a minstrel made their way to Groamburk. As such, the entirety of the guests spectated in absolute silence as a hooded woman standing in front of the entire crowd continued with her captivating song.

From the outside it was hard to make out the words, but Naliam imagined it was a melancholic tune describing the precarious situation of human society and the difficulties of living far from the cover of the walls surrounding the imperial cities of the East. A crowd favourite that was rarely heard because it could very easily enrage representatives of the Church; entailing severely dire consequences for the authors of such works if caught.

Turning once more to his companions, Naliam held his index and thumb fingers in a circular gesture of approval. Not wasting a moment, they all followed him towards the main entrance. A sign was plastered on the side of the door detailing the rules of the establishment. Of course violence was completely forbidden, and so was accosting the waitresses, but Naliam was surprised to see that Ichabod had added conducting business on the premises to the list. Things had changed since his last visit.

Unperturbed, he knocked on the door. Instantly, a large burly man answered the call. He was muscular and impressively tall; his head was as large as two grown men's and completely bald, but his face held the scars and aftereffects of many beatings. The man in charge of security looked over Naliam and his group and instructed them to wait a moment before he shut the door and disappeared into the Hare. After a few minutes in which Naliam's men started complaining due to having to stand in the cold, the boulder of a man returned.

Behind him followed, using rapid and energetic steps, a middle-aged gentleman that just couldn't pass unnoticed. It was Ichabod.

Ichabod Hare was immediately recognisable due to his extravagant appearance. He was short and had a belly that protruded at least a foot from his torso; his hair was dark, long and plated, and his beard hung down to his shoulders and braided with several shiny golden rings. Ichabod dressed in a pale-yellow tunic that fitted him loosely and overall made him look a bit like a gigantic sock. Naliam knew that the attire was perfectly calculated to fool visitors into believing he was a mere country bumpkin failing to emulate the city style, and not the genius he actually was.

"Oh my." He said after taking a close look at Naliam. "Well, if it isn't young mister Leyes coming to visit us. Your last visit was just under two summers ago, if I recall correctly." Ichabod crossed his arms in a way that somehow managed to push his enormous gut even further out. "You know the rules, mister Leyes, I'm afraid we're not of the disposition to let you in after what happened last time."

Cries of outrage were made by those accompanying Naliam. The leader of the mercenary band had hoped that Ichabod would've forgotten about that particularly embarrassing encounter they'd had in the past. However, Ichabod was renowned for having a near perfect memory; Naliam could see now that the rumours hadn't been exaggerating in the slightest.

"Not to worry fine patrons. It is only mister Leyes here that has his access barred from our services. The rest of you may, if you so desire, enter and enjoy a bowl of our distinguished boar and mushroom soup. Truly a delicacy that will warm both your body and soul. And, as per our hospitable nature, you will all be given a full horn of our finest mead that has been brewed specifically to accompany the soup with palatable perfection. If that does not strike your fancy, we have a vast selection of both local and imported cured meats that have been marinated sublimely and are cooked following tried and proven recipes; or simply indulge in our myriad of fine beers and liqueurs. At 'The Wishful Hare' you will never lack delicious victuals nor splendid drinks." At Ichabod's words, Naliam could have sworn he could hear his men salivating and exchanging guilty glances. "Mister Leyes, however, will have to find alternative lodgings. I'm certain that someone here at Groamburk will be happy to provide you with a mattress and a blanket."

Naliam cursed silently. Ichabod had expertly managed to turn his men against him. He held no doubt that, if forced to choose, they would leave him outside to rot. Furthermore, he had no intention of spending the night on a straw bed, sharing a blanket with fleas and other unmentionable maggots. He still had an ace up his sleeve, however, but he hesitated to use it.

Weighing up his options, Naliam concluded that he couldn't force his way through. It hadn't escaped his experienced eyes that the big man standing beside Ichabod had a hefty mace strapped to his waist. One hit from that weapon would be devastating, even for a fully armoured soldier. Nor did he think he could use his charisma to convince Ichabod to let him in. The innkeeper just didn't seem like the sort of man who would simply forgive and forget.

Just then, right as Naliam's team of mercenaries started moving past him in order to accept Ichabod's more than tempting offer, the old cleric which had been closing their march and had kept silent up until that point spoke up.

"Good sir, you cannot bar this man passage." He said.

"And pray tell, why can't we?"

"Because this man and, as a matter of fact, everyone else standing before you, are acting under explicit orders of the Church of Divines and the duke." He explained as he pulled down his hood to reveal his face. The old cleric had his hair trimmed in the characteristic style of the representatives of the Church: a line of close-cut hair, no wider than three inches, which went from his forehead to the nape of his neck. His beard was long and as grey as both his hair and eyes, unkempt and unwashed. "My name is Alastor and I speak with the authority of the Church."

Naliam had to stop himself from digging his precious dagger hilt-deep in the cleric's throat. He had given explicit orders that the nature of their mission not be revealed to any of the inhabitants of Groamburk under any circumstances. He knew that in such a small city in the countryside news tended to travel at an alarming rate. It wouldn't be long before the next village found out about them, and the village after that. They urgently needed to keep from bringing attention to themselves. Alastor had just thrown their week-long efforts of discreet progress to the wind.

"If what you say is true," Guardedly said Ichabod, carefully choosing each word that came out of his mouth. "Then you must carry on your persona an official decree. Understand, master Alastor, that we get many a crook claiming to appear before us under the authority of the Church -may the Divines guide our every step- only to seek to take advantage of our kind disposition towards its agents. If you show us your decree we will be more than honoured to provide all of you with our services free of charge. You do have one, do you not?"

"We do. It's in the hands of mister Leyes." Pointed the old cleric proudly to Naliam. In response, Ichabod looked quizzically at the mercenary leader.

The light coming from the inside of the Hare covered Ichabod's face with a brooding shadow that hid his eyes from view. Naliam didn't like that, because it precluded him from guessing what might be going through the innkeeper's mind. Aware that he had been pushed into a tight space, and knowing full well of what the rumours said of those who tried to trick Ichabod Hare with such devious machinations, he pulled out the signed and stamped paper which identified him as an agent of both the Church and Duke.

Ichabod gently grabbed the paper and read the contents of it from top to bottom. His expression didn't change as he did so, which was strange given that the decree ordered any citizens of the region to provide whatever the agents carrying it asked (something most shop and innkeepers furrowed their noses at) and further granted impunity to Naliam and his group from any crimes committed as long as they remained in service to the fiefdom. Finally, he lifted up his gaze and smiled warmly at Naliam.

"It seems everything is as you say. Please accept my humblest apologies for my behaviour earlier. As a token of forgiveness please come to my office and share with me a glass of finest sweet herbs procured from the lands to the South."

"We kindly accept your generous donation." Said Alastor, not noticing that the offer had been directed only to Naliam.

Beckoning a maid that appeared from out of nowhere, Ichabod politely requested that they hand in their cloaks. The band of mercenaries and cleric were all too eager to comply. Taking off clothes heavy with rainwater and other filth has a way of appeasing one's spirit. Naliam was the last to dehood himself; revealing a young man nearing his thirty years of life, a good deal of which had been spent either assaulting caravans or murdering rich pricks that had crossed the wrong, wealthier, man. His hair was dark brown and hung loosely over his forehead to cover pox marks. An ugly scar adorned his left cheek almost as high as his eye; a souvenir from a tragedy he tried as hard as he could to forget, only to remember each time he saw his reflection.

Ichabod nodded cordially, acting as if he didn't notice the injury, and gestured for the duo to follow him. Before they set off, he instructed his guard to escort the remaining mercenaries into the tavern and find them a comfortable spot for them. The men seemed overjoyed at this and quickly strutted behind the massive boulder of a man as he led them through a door that went into the main hall.

Once they disappeared Ichabod, Alastor, and Naliam all went down the hallway. The inside of the Hare was as beautifully decorated as Naliam remembered, perhaps even more so. Paintings depicting exotic landscapes hung at different intervals. Festooned flowerpots of all shapes and sizes had been placed delicately on every corner. The light of the chandeliers in the ceiling basked the whole inn with a gorgeous yellow glow that truly captivated the heart. Naliam was impressed at Ichabod's quality interior design and had to remind himself that they were dealing with a genius of intellectual affairs.

At the end of the hallway was a wide staircase that lead down into the cellar and up into the higher decks of the inn. It was in the latter direction that Ichabod led them. The ground floor was meant to provide services to customers and the first one had a series of pristine quality rooms for travellers that could afford the price. Up at the very top floor was only a heavy door that gave way into Ichabod's office which opened and closed with a loud clanging of invisible bolts. Inside, bookshelves lined up either side of this massive chamber.

Naliam was astonished, books were a rare and expensive commodity that one couldn't usually hope to see so far away from the cities. A grandiose desk, suspiciously well organised, sat in front of a window that overlooked the entirety of Groamburk.

What is it with rich people and wanting to have a view of what they own? Thought Naliam. He didn't voice his question and simply smirked charmingly as Ichabod approached his desk and proceeded to grab a strange-looking flask from inside one of the desk's drawers. As his back was turned to his guests, neither of the two were able to spot the cunning smile that briefly adorned the innkeeper's lips as his mind formulated a devious plan to deal with the troublesome Naliam and Alastor. After all, there was another pseudonym that his enemies liked to call him by: The Mischievous Hare.