Chương 352: A Helping Hand

Ch. 352 - A Helping Hand Simon spent weeks doing the big fixes, and months more doing the small ones before the Wayfarer started to look like a proper inn. On quiet days, he split rails to mend the worst sections of the decaying fence, and on busier ones, he cleaned the kitchens or polished one of the lanterns that lit the common rooms at night. From the leaning chimney to the squeaky steps or the rats in the basement, there was always something to do. The guests didn't exactly notice the change; how could they?

Most of them, he only ever saw the one time they passed through on their way to or from somewhere far away. A few coppers weren't much, but it was more than most people had. Still, even if his guests didn't notice changes in the inn, it was fair to say that he noticed a change in his guests. Slowly, the harried and the desperate were replaced with a more affluent and well-mannered slice of the population.

Simon supposed that meant he could start to raise his prices, but he wasn't really in this for the money, so he didn't bother. At this point, any profit he made was just invested into supplies to finish one of his many projects or start a small wine cellar. He didn't need to save for a printing press in this life, but that didn't mean that he should waste time. How much better will one of these bottles be in a hundred years? He wondered as he shelved a few more of the bottles every couple of weeks.

He had no idea, but he was looking forward to finding out. He'd chosen a small nook for this project, and whenever it was done, he'd take some bricks and mortar and wall it off so that in some future lifetime he could come back to it. Kind of like the gold in the level two dungeon, only this time I'll actually know where to find it again, he said silently to himself as he beat himself up for still not knowing exactly where that horde was.

Sealing that level off before he'd figured out what it was for was a mistake that continued to haunt him. Things proceeded smoothly through the summer and into the fall, but his progress started to slow. It was hard to see day by day, or even week by week, but when Simon looked at what he'd planned to do in a month versus what he'd actually gotten done, well, the list spoke for itself. By the end of that time, his progress had ground to a halt, though.

Not because there wasn't more to do, but because he ran out of time to do it. The place had customers most days now, not just when big caravans came by or when the weather swept through. On those days, the rooms were very often full, and the common room was so packed he couldn't keep up with the demand for roasts and stews. This was hardly meditation, but it was certainly meditative, and Simon learned to enjoy the busy times almost as much as the quiet times.

Twice a bard had even come through and played songs for all to enjoy for a small donation of food and drink. Simon got no closer to understanding the spiritual connections of the world in those months, as winter advanced steadily closer. He did grow to appreciate the social bonds that much more, though, and listening to the triumphs and others had an interesting sort of rhythm that wasn't so different from the weaving he'd done the previous winter.

Except for the farmers he bought his supplies from, he almost never saw the same person twice, but he saw the same kind of person over and over, and eventually, after enough arrivals, he could just tell who was going to be who. It wasn't quite reading their auras, but it was a close thing. Trouble was the easiest to spot; anyone who was in that category looked at Simon like he was a mark. They also usually drank quite heavily.

They were the ones that Simon kept his eyes on the most, but a few stories about the goblins he'd slain in his youth usually kept them from doing anything too hasty. If they were really rowdy, he found an excuse to tell everyone the story of how he'd come to own the Wayfarer and slain the bandits who lived here single-handedly. While that wasn't quite true, enough people still spoke about the bodies that had been left hanging there for months that it felt true.

Still, even then, Simon had never been forced to kill someone in this inn, and he aimed to keep it that way. It was good for his soul. The other types were easier to figure out. There was the bearer of urgent business; no guessing was required for this one. He'd tell you about it himself, at least broadly speaking. Many were the men who would loudly tell you just how important the secret they dared not share was. They were just one face among many.

There were also the grifters, the retired soldiers, the men who just wanted to be home with their families, and the young idealists. Women were a minority on the road. He'd see them occasionally, but usually in the company of one or more men. Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings. Simon had a harder time reading them, though that was as much because of their scarcity as anything.

No matter how much he might try to see the threads connecting all these people to each other and their destinies, those glimpses eluded him. Still, he kept at it, abstaining from magic, murder, and any of the negative emotions that weighed him down so much in previous lives. That much was easy, outside of the occasional problem guest. There was a joy to be found in serving others, and his cooking became immeasurably better as the number of his guests increased.

More than weaving, drawing, or joinery, he felt this was likely to be the art form he specialized in most during this life. If anything what he missed were the damn colored robes. That was one thing he never would have expected. In the oracle's cult his life had been random drudgery as well, that wasn't so different from this one, but now, he had no signposts to show him that he was improving, and as flimsy as those gray robes were, he found that he missed them now that they were gone.

Still, he liked to imagine that the shades were getting lighter, slowly but surely, and while not nearly as pale as the snow that piled up on the ground that winter, they would be in time. White robes would certainly be preferable to a White Cloak, he reflected, but it wasn't as if the two offered him the same opportunities. If he returned to the Oracle, she might cryptically speak about the real danger of witchcraft, but she wouldn't offer him any practical tips for fighting it.

Her practical tips would end somewhere around, 'sit this one out.' Even as the winter passed in what felt like the blink of an eye, Simon was no closer to finding his clarity. He'd made a home and developed a rewarding routine, but it was too easy for him to imagine spending a whole life being trapped by it. Even the building is stuck in a rut, he noticed one morning when fetching supplies. No, there was no doubt about it, he decided as he looked around the courtyard after things started to thaw.

The snows may have hidden it for a while, but things had started to stagnate, and if he didn't put the work in, he could see the whole place going to shit.

"My being a trader would have been easier," Simon whispered to himself as he fetched the water that morning. Aranna changed all of that. She came in one day wearing a gray cloak that hid the better part of her beauty. At first, Simon thought she'd come for a room, or to meet someone else, but when he asked her about that, she smiled tightly and introduced herself before saying, "I was told that you were looking for help with this place."

"Absolutely," Simon said before he started to explain the situation.

"It pays five—" Beggars couldn't be choosers, so he wasn't about to give her a full interview or anything. Worst case, he could always fire her if she didn't work out, but she was certainly pretty enough to be a barmaid and would almost certainly bring in more business.

"I'll do it," she said, agreeing before he could explain anything.

"I'm sure the pay is fine. I just… this would be a good place for me. All I ask is that you don't ask me about my, uhmmm… circumstances." Simon answered, nodding at that as he wondered what that meant and tried to read between the lines. She seemed too young to be a runaway, and too sweet to be real trouble, so he didn't have an immediate answer to her strange behavior, so he was hardly going to turn her away.

Even though whoever might still be out looking for him for how he'd gutted Varten never found him, Simon still had enough of a past across most of his lifetimes that he could respect the desire for privacy. While it did raise questions, he left them alone for now; he could always ask later if something came of it. Instead of worrying about who she was, he focused on what she could do, which was plenty.

Aranna couldn't cook, but other than that, she seemed reasonably well-rounded and didn't balk at drinking or serving. She even handled rowdy customers well enough that he didn't need to get involved, deepening the mystery. What kind of life has she led to develop these particular skills? Simon wondered often as not as he tried and failed to remain disinterested. She was a real help to him, so he tried not to pry, but still, he couldn't escape from the thought completely.

It shadowed her in even the simplest acts, like churning butter and sweeping. Simon thought far more about what dark secrets she might have than the way she filled out her dress. More than either of those things, though, he was actually able to start getting real work done around his inn. With her there to man the counter, answer questions, and fetch drinks, he had all the time in the world to work on failing masonry and broken furniture.

Even if he looked past his barmaid's beauty, the same could not be true for everyone. His patrons certainly noticed, and she quickly became as much a draw as the location. Within her first month there, he'd had to break one man's nose and toss him out on his ear to go sleep in the barn when the drunk wouldn't shut up about "the things I'd do to her." Simon was hardly a white knight, but his equanimity could only go so far. Aranna didn't like that, of course.

Her dusky eyes lit up with anger whenever she caught him defending her.

"You've been more than fair to me, Simon," she said, "But I can take care of myself." While he didn't doubt that, it made him more interested in her than anything. That contradiction was almost enough to make him lust after her, though he resisted that urge, too. While he didn't need to get involved in whatever troubles she'd run away from, he certainly didn't need to get involved with a woman, and certainly not one who was as beautiful as his barmaid was. That would only lead to trouble.