Drinks and Sinkholes

S. Usher Evans

Pensacola, FL

Version Date: 5/1/24

© 2023 S. Usher Evans

ISBN: 978-1945438585

All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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The Weary Dragon Inn Series

Ale and Amnesia (Novella)

Drinks and Sinkholes

Fiends and Festivals

Secrets and Snowflakes

Beasts and Baking

Magic and Molemen

Veils and Villains

Zealots and Zeniths

Campaigns and Curses

Perils and Potions

Royals and Ruses

Chapter One

"That is a sinkhole."

Bev stared down into the black abyss, her words echoing in the cavernous space. She'd been on her way back from the twice-weekly farmers' market with a wagon full of produce to serve guests at her beloved Weary Dragon Inn when she'd heard a loud rumbling. Then the ground began to shake, rustling the trees and making the pebbles dance along the road. Bev's old mule Sin (short for Sinister; she'd had quite a reputation once) had brayed unhappily, backing up a few steps before Bev hopped off the carriage to soothe her. Once the shaking stopped, Bev had continued down the road to investigate when the road itself had…disappeared.

That's definitely a sinkhole, Bev.

Grant Klose had been behind Bev in his own carriage, returning to his farm after selling all his produce at the market. When Bev had come to an abrupt stop, he'd jumped off his carriage to see what the problem was.

What'dya reckon? he asked, peering down next to her.

No idea. Bev rubbed the back of her neck where her short, dark hair reached her shirt. Couldn't have picked a worse spot, though.

Could've been in the middle of Pigsend.

Could've been, Bev admitted with a nod. But this is a well-traveled road, y'know? Someone not paying attention would go head-first.

Grant nodded. We should put up a barrier, yeah? I got an axe in the barn. Let's cut down a tree.

It took some time, but between the two of them, Bev and Grant cut down a young sapling near the hole so it fell right in front of it, serving as a very obvious deterrent to anyone coming down the road.

That'll at least slow them down, Grant said, dusting off his hands. Do you want to pop over for a glass of lemonade?

Wish I could, Bev said, walking to where Sin was eating nearby grass. Got some new guests coming into town today. Queen's soldiers.

You don't say. Grant whistled. Suppose that Queen Meanie likes to get her claws into every inch of her kingdom. Wouldn't be surprised if they were coming to harass the locals before moving on.

Queen Meanie. Bev chuckled. That's a good one.

Queen Meandra had come into power some years ago through a violent and bloody war against the previous king. From what Bev had heard, it was quite a spectacle, with thousands of soldiers marching against each other, wizards casting magic, and perhaps even a dragon or two. But the stories had come from the old wine merchants who came back and forth, and they liked to exaggerate, so who actually knew the truth?

Not Bev, that was for sure.

I'll let the mayor and sheriff know about this. Bev nodded. We'll see about getting some folks out here to fill this in. Have a good day, Grant.

And to you, Bev.

~

The rest of the ride was uneventful, and Bev almost forgot about the sinkhole, except for the new blisters on her hand from swinging the axe. The road into Pigsend wound over hills and by lush fields, still green from the late summer growing season, though there'd been a bit of a drought, so things were on the dry side. In a few weeks, everything would be brown as the weather turned colder, and before Bev knew it, the world would be covered in a soft blanket of snow. But for today, the sun was warm even if the breeze was cool.

Hey, Bev! Bathilda Wormwood was barely visible from behind her fence. She only came up to Bev's stomach, with white hair, rosy cheeks, and a smile that could brighten any day. With a huff, she hopped over the fence and waddled over so Bev slowed her mule.

What can I do for you, Bathilda? Bev asked.

When are you going to be baking that magnificent rosemary bread again? the old woman asked.

Bev blew air between her lips. I don't know. Wasn't planning on it until the weather turned a bit colder. Best for stews, you know.

I'd kill for that recipe. She leaned on the wheel with a smile that could've softened even the hardest heart. Why don't you give it to me?

Sorry, dear, Bev said, patting the old woman on the head. Not for sale. Even for homicide.

The woman huffed and marched away, and Bev just smiled. Nearly every time Bev ventured to the farmers' market, Bathilda asked about the rosemary bread. The legendary bread had been baked at the Weary Dragon Inn for years, the recipe passed down from innkeeper to innkeeper. When Bev had inherited the inn from Wim McKee, the secret recipe had come with it. And Bev wasn't about to break decades of tradition.

She kept on, glancing behind her to where Bathilda was tending her rutabagas and shaking her head. There was something a bit off about her, though Bev wasn't sure exactly what. But it wasn't her business to question people's private lives, so she left it at that.

It wasn't long until Pigsend village came into view. Thatched roofs and stone chimneys reached toward the blue sky, separated by a dirt road lined with sprouts of green grass and plants with white flowers. Perhaps a hundred or so folks lived in the town limits, working all manner of trades that helped sustain the economy. Bev knew pretty much all of them—and the farmers who lived in the fields just beyond—she could say she got along with mostly everyone.

She waved to Bernard Rickshaw as he stood outside the apothecary, feeding his infamous chickens as they clucked about. They weren't as bad as Rosie Kelooke's, who escaped regularly and attacked whoever dared cross their path, but they were numerous and loud. Bernard was good at his trade, but there were always a few feathers in the draughts when ordering from him.

Allen Mackey, the local baker, was skulking down the street, his hands stuffed into his pockets. His thin shoulders were hunched over his tall frame, the curtain of black hair hiding most of his face. He wasn't yet twenty-five and had inherited the bakery from his dear mother two years ago. He hadn't quite gotten her talent with yeast and sugar, or perhaps the young man just didn't care about the legacy of delicacies his mother had left behind. Bev hoped he would get serious about baking one day. But for now, he seemed content to squander the money away.

He glowered at her as she rode by, but Bev just smiled and waved.

Got any rolls baked today? she asked. I got waylaid out on the road and won't have time to bake before dinner. I'll pay you a gold coin for them.

He softened at the promise of money. When do you want them?

Whenever you can deliver them, Bev said. I'll pay you an extra silver for your trouble, too.

His eyes lit up even more. Well, absolutely, then. What's the hurry? Got special visitors at the inn tonight?

Queen's soldiers, Bev said. Going to make them a nice roasted chicken and some root vegetables. Market was plentiful today.

He nodded. I'll have them packed up and sent over within the hour.