came into the room and Miralissa introduced him as the late Master Pito’s nephew.
“What a terrible disaster, Tresh Miralissa! May the gods punish the accursed murderers!” the heir wailed, wringing his hands despairingly.
“They will, Master Quidd, you may be certain of it,” said Miralissa, patting the new owner of the inn on the shoulder to raise his spirits. “I shall make certain that the villain responsible for all this does not go unpunished.”
“Thank you,” said Quidd, nodding gratefully to the elfess.
“Does the guard know what has happened?”
“No, and they won’t find out,” the innkeeper replied. “Those spongers are only good for collecting taxes and taking bribes. But when something like this happens, they’re never anywhere to be found.”
“Then you better have the bodies removed from the hall before someone happens to look into the inn.”
“Yes,” Quidd said with a mournful nod. “Yes indeed, I’ll see to it. I’ll go and fetch my assistants, Tresh Miralissa, we’ll take the dead men to my house and then the women can do what must be done. Prepare them for burial…,” Quidd said in the same sorrowful voice. “But with your permission, I’ll have the two enemies buried at the back of the inn, beside the cattle yard.”
“Just as you wish, Master Quidd.”
Uncle finished his beer and came across to us.
“How’s the shoulder?” Arnkh asked him in a rather guilty voice.
“It’ll heal in no time at all. Thanks to the elfess—she used her shamanism on it. In a week it’ll be as good as new.”
“I feel sorry for Loudmouth,” Kli-Kli sighed.
“Don’t be in such a hurry to bury him, greenface! Maybe he’s still alive,” Marmot told the jester. “The Nameless One’s men wouldn’t have hauled away a dead body, they took him alive, I can feel it in my heart.”
Maybe they did … and maybe they didn’t.… The absence of Loudmouth’s constant nagging and grousing had left a gap in our little band.
* * *
The minutes crept by and the drops of time dripped onto the red-hot coals of anticipation, but none of the gods even tried to make them fall faster, to turn the drops into rain and quench the heat of the fire.
Quidd came back with his assistants, loaded the bodies onto stretchers, and carried them out of the inn.
Hallas looked in twice. The first time he reported that all was in order and the second time he took two mugs of beer. When Uncle asked what Deler and he were going to do with booze on watch, the guileless dwarf replied laconically: “Drink it.” The sergeant frowned, but decided not to argue.
Meanwhile Alistan ran a whetstone along the edge of his sword with an imperturbability that persons of the royal blood might have envied. Apparently he wanted to make it the sharpest sword in the universe.
The count’s example proved infectious. Eel took out one of his two blades and set to work. In my opinion, sharpening a Garrakian sword is an unnecessary waste of time. The narrow, elegant “brother” can slice through elfin drokr without the slightest effort, never mind plain ordinary silk.
I asked Uncle where my beloved crossbow and knife were. The sergeant jabbed one finger toward the farthest table, where all our weapons were heaped up.
What’s to be done if I don’t know how to use those yard-long lumps of metal they call swords, poleaxes, and all the rest? A crossbow, now, that’s a different matter altogether—with my miniature friend I could easily hit the target at seventy paces. In any case, the art of using all those sharp things for stabbing and slicing is no business for a decent thief. Where would I go waving a sword about, I ask you? In a fight with the guards? Much better to run for it than wait for some beer-soaked guard to stick a piece of metal in your belly. I wasn’t made for fencing and dueling, although thanks to For and his “secret battles” I have a pretty good understanding of all that.
Marmot was
“What a terrible disaster, Tresh Miralissa! May the gods punish the accursed murderers!” the heir wailed, wringing his hands despairingly.
“They will, Master Quidd, you may be certain of it,” said Miralissa, patting the new owner of the inn on the shoulder to raise his spirits. “I shall make certain that the villain responsible for all this does not go unpunished.”
“Thank you,” said Quidd, nodding gratefully to the elfess.
“Does the guard know what has happened?”
“No, and they won’t find out,” the innkeeper replied. “Those spongers are only good for collecting taxes and taking bribes. But when something like this happens, they’re never anywhere to be found.”
“Then you better have the bodies removed from the hall before someone happens to look into the inn.”
“Yes,” Quidd said with a mournful nod. “Yes indeed, I’ll see to it. I’ll go and fetch my assistants, Tresh Miralissa, we’ll take the dead men to my house and then the women can do what must be done. Prepare them for burial…,” Quidd said in the same sorrowful voice. “But with your permission, I’ll have the two enemies buried at the back of the inn, beside the cattle yard.”
“Just as you wish, Master Quidd.”
Uncle finished his beer and came across to us.
“How’s the shoulder?” Arnkh asked him in a rather guilty voice.
“It’ll heal in no time at all. Thanks to the elfess—she used her shamanism on it. In a week it’ll be as good as new.”
“I feel sorry for Loudmouth,” Kli-Kli sighed.
“Don’t be in such a hurry to bury him, greenface! Maybe he’s still alive,” Marmot told the jester. “The Nameless One’s men wouldn’t have hauled away a dead body, they took him alive, I can feel it in my heart.”
Maybe they did … and maybe they didn’t.… The absence of Loudmouth’s constant nagging and grousing had left a gap in our little band.
* * *
The minutes crept by and the drops of time dripped onto the red-hot coals of anticipation, but none of the gods even tried to make them fall faster, to turn the drops into rain and quench the heat of the fire.
Quidd came back with his assistants, loaded the bodies onto stretchers, and carried them out of the inn.
Hallas looked in twice. The first time he reported that all was in order and the second time he took two mugs of beer. When Uncle asked what Deler and he were going to do with booze on watch, the guileless dwarf replied laconically: “Drink it.” The sergeant frowned, but decided not to argue.
Meanwhile Alistan ran a whetstone along the edge of his sword with an imperturbability that persons of the royal blood might have envied. Apparently he wanted to make it the sharpest sword in the universe.
The count’s example proved infectious. Eel took out one of his two blades and set to work. In my opinion, sharpening a Garrakian sword is an unnecessary waste of time. The narrow, elegant “brother” can slice through elfin drokr without the slightest effort, never mind plain ordinary silk.
I asked Uncle where my beloved crossbow and knife were. The sergeant jabbed one finger toward the farthest table, where all our weapons were heaped up.
What’s to be done if I don’t know how to use those yard-long lumps of metal they call swords, poleaxes, and all the rest? A crossbow, now, that’s a different matter altogether—with my miniature friend I could easily hit the target at seventy paces. In any case, the art of using all those sharp things for stabbing and slicing is no business for a decent thief. Where would I go waving a sword about, I ask you? In a fight with the guards? Much better to run for it than wait for some beer-soaked guard to stick a piece of metal in your belly. I wasn’t made for fencing and dueling, although thanks to For and his “secret battles” I have a pretty good understanding of all that.
Marmot was
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