Berridge House

Start with an upscale three-story inn upon Ladybridge Avenue in the city of Trosk, a generational, sprawling lot called The Berridge House.  The streetlevel floor offers a block-stone facing; the floor above a mixture of broken stone and mortar.  The top floor, made of solid wood, hangs out into the street over our heads, shading our shoulders from the sun.  From here, we climb the inn's porch and poke our heads inside.

Though an upscale guesthouse, this is no 21st century hotel.  Instead of a palatial foyer, we find ourselves in a cramped, narrow passage ending in an iron grate.  This passage is as long as the walls are thick.  The floor is cold, paved stone.   Behind us, the inn's entrance door, though open now, is ready to be barred shut ... and all around is gloom lit by an oil lamp sitting on the ledge of a small window by the grate.  From long experience with these places, the fellow in our party who keeps the purse will be at the fore.

Behind the window is a tiny office, where sits a bored clerk on a stool, scratching out the day's accounts.  He looks up, sees his new guests and out of habit begins to prate out the costs of rooms and services in the inn.  Here they are, for the benefit of the reader.

We agree to two private rooms, cramped though they may certainly be — we don't expect to stay long.  Quietly our bargainer slips four gold coins into the clerk's hands, our down payment for the night, and the clerk pulls a twine that starts a dim, clashing chime.  Moments later, a guard with keys appears, and the clerk tells him that we're to be led to our two private rooms.  The guard grunts assent, opens the iron grate and permits us passage into the bowels of the inn.

Now, with an inn that's been improved by a dozen generations, suffering fires, town sieges, peasant uprisings and plagues, its natural that within these walls there are rooms ... and there are rooms.  Our bargainer gains the attention of the guard at the stairs that will lead us upwards and puts a silver piece into his hand — to ensure we get a room that's 8x7 and not 8x6; or a room nearer the front of the building and further from the stable; or a room that's on the second floor and not the third, if that's our taste.  The guard contemplates us, measures our apparent worth in his eyes, and tromps up the stairs.  We follow.

The Berridge is the epitome of a crooked house, with crooked halls and crooked walls, which we clamber through like rats, rubbing our shoulders on either side of the stairwell and corridors above.  The guard shows us a room, which does well enough for two of our party.  We're told there's only one other room in the inn of this size that's not taken, and it's on the third floor.  Two of us remain, shuffling into our room, while the guard mutters some directions on where we can obtain services, and describes the route we'll need to follow to find the tavern and kitchen.  Then he leads our friends upstairs.

First we notice the room's windows: there are two, eighteen inches apart.  Each is six inches wide and nine inches high, with brown glass that lets in enough light to see the room ... and not much more.  Surely too small for even a halfling thief to crawl through; but thankfully, the windows are hinged so we can open them and look out.

The wooden pallet — little more than a shelf — is a comfortable 42 inches wide and nearly six feet long.  This includes a canvas mat, three inches thick and nearly conforming to the dimensions of the bed; this mat is stuffed with wool, feathers and gawd knows what else, but as we press down on the padding, it's surely more comfortable than the ground under a camp tent.  We decide if we should sleep together, or if one should take the mat on the floor while the other sleeps on the pallet.

Since we intend to remain in Trosk for some time, and commit to meeting and greeting persons here, we admit we'll need a bath.  This requires that one of us — me, I suppose — return downstairs the way we've come, turning left, going down another half-flight of stairs and informing the laundress that we wish to take a bath.  She informs me that there's hot water ready for two, so I ask her to prepare two baths and send a messenger up the stairs to my room.  Through habit, and there being no door numbers, I tell her its the second door on the left, beyond the first turn to the right, on the second floor.  The laundress sends a girl and I bend down to remove my shoes.

Some minutes later my friend and I are freshly lathered in hot water, in separate tubs, while our two remaining companions fume beyond a hanging, waiting for us to finish and for new water to boil.  This is not so long.  My tub-mate decides on a massage while I get dressed, as it's my intention to speak with the innkeeper.  This takes some time.  I try the front clerk, who suggests the kitchen, which I find by chance after trying several passages ... mostly by following my nose.  The tables in the kitchen are empty, for there's no food to be served for two hours I'm told.  Fresh bread is baking in an unseen oven and I'm directed further on to the tavern, to find the innkeeper.  Here I'm disappointed again, for I learn that he's purchased two sides of hog that haven't been delivered and he's gone to see why.  So I stand at the bar and pay for a pint.

... and here we must stop, for the description of the tavern must wait for another day.