Captain Pont decided to delay at least a day, and the barn filled with drying clothes. Everyone felt stiff and grumpy at first, but by noon they were all awake enough to be restless. Paks even welcomed a walk through the rain to the inn for food. A caravan bound for Verella had come in; great wagons blocked the streets, and the inn was full of wet and disgruntled merchants. "Camped!" she heard one exclaim to the landlord, as she led her file toward the kitchen. "By Simyits, we weren't camped. We were stuck — flat stuck! Gods blast your count or whatever you've got down here! I pay toll on this passage every year, and he hasn't set stone on the road since my father died." Paks glanced at the speaker, a tall, powerful man in mud—stained leather with a gold chain around his neck and a ring in each ear. The landlord, shorter and plumper, had a fixed smile on his face. "You can tell him for me," the big man went on, "that the Guild League can find another way north, if it comes to that." Then Paks was in the kitchen, dodging a squad of agitated cooks to the table where their food was laid ready.
