Page 11 of Stealing Tink

When he raises his brow at me and says, “You want a room or not?” I nod my head.

“Single or communal?”

I raise one finger. Huffing, he reaches under the counter for a key.

“And the name?” asks the innkeeper, his thick brows rising almost in a challenge. I grit my teeth. “I need a name for the room.”

Next to me three men, all of whom boast a rather foul stench, are perched on barstools much too small for them. They cackle as the one closest to me—the one in a red shirt whose buttons at the top of his chest would be better off utilized—says, “Cat got your tongue?”

Clever.

I ignore them and again motion with my hands, asking for a quill and paper.

“Don’t have any parchment,” says the innkeeper.

I find that hard to believe. This is a business establishment, meaning someone keeps up with the finances, which typically requires parchment and ink, unless this man has a pristine memory. Which I very much doubt. But I am in no place to argue, nor do I have the ability.

“No name, no room,” he says.

To my mortification, my cheeks heat, which, unfortunately, the men next to me misinterpret.

“Oh, poor thing. Embarrassed she can’t talk?” says the one whose chest hair is poking out of his lazily buttoned shirt.

No, not embarrassed. Furious that this imbecile is too lazy to walk ten paces to the back to get me a sheet of paper and a quill.

I decide this likely isn’t the innkeeper. Probably a hired hand. Otherwise, he wouldn’t turn down my business. At least, not before he realizes I have no money.

In the rush of anger, I shove my hand into my pocket and fish out a wooden tile.

“TINK.” It’s one of the first tiles John made for me.

My heart aches at the thought of my lost friend. Rather than placing it on the counter, I hold out the tile so that the man can read it.

“Strange name,” he says.

I probably shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be giving this man my name. But as far as I know, the only person who’s put a bounty on my head is the Nomad, and he just let me walk off his ship with no repercussions. I’ve been checking to make sure no one followed me here, but no one even got off the ship at port.

“Tink,” says the man on the stool next to me, “like the noise you make when you ring a bell.”

Ah, the first man ever to make that connection.

“Well then, Tink,” says the man behind the counter before giving me the price of the room. Now for the fun part.

I fish through my tiles until I find the five I’m looking for, then place them on the counter in a line.

“NO COIN BUT WILL WORK.”

The man behind the counter scoffs. “Should have known. Your type’s always looking for charity.”

Who even knows what he means by “your type.”

The tips of my ears heat, and I jab the “WORK” tile.

The man behind the counter laughs, then turns his back on me before taking up polishing a wine goblet.

I’m debating between throwing one of the dirty goblets on the counter at him to get his attention and simply finding somewhere else to take shelter, when the man with too few buttons fastened leans over, ale heavy on his breath.

“If you’re looking for work, I have something in mind.” His gaze drops to my chest, and he smacks his lips.