Full of questions, Widlast mused, looking from the elder to the lass. They were interested, sure, but it seemed innocent enough to be curious of a stranger. Fingering a hole in the lining of his coat, he allowed himself a wry smile. He had not done so well in going unnoticed as he thought, and not for the reasons he thought, either. Yet they were not mistrustful of him. A puzzling people, these holbytlan.
"You ask a great many questions, Mother Pestemon," he said slowly. Off her look, he added, "Cry your pardon, but there's not many folk of the road who do. But I shall answer all as best I can. The apple is not from this region, but was picked outside of the mannish town to the north. Bree, I think." She nodded, and he flicked his eyes down to the mug and the warm liquid quivering at the surface. "I thank you for the offer, but I've no coin for the jam or the tay or the toast. And my coat?" He patted the old leather resting against his thigh and a little dust rose off it. "I found in the lands to the south, beyond the mountains and near to the sea."
Stripped it off a dead pirate is the tale's mark, he thought, hooking his thumb back into the hole, but that tale would not keep in the company of such woman. "There are some fine hive-masters there, too, if I remember aright, though I never much cared for the fare that they honeyed. And your name, mistress?" Widlast turned to the girl. He'd done his part, let them now talk together for a while.
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