Abohorr heaved a big sigh. He nodded. “Figured that. The-the point is, Spellmaster … I don’t want to carpenter no more. Tired of it. I mean I was even afore this happent to m’thumb, I swear by Anen’s beard I was. I know you have a lot of contacts and a real name for helping people, and so . . .”
The formerly fat Maze-dweller waved that maimed hand while he looked sadly yet hopefully at the very big man behind the desk draped in rich blue. The man who had already made such a change in Sanctuary and its troubled, surely damned people. A foreigner with an odd accent, come here from up north somewhere!
“My abilities don’t extend to-to . . . hmm. I’m not sure what it is you want of me, Abohorr.” Strick’s pronunciation of “want” rhymed with “font” or his extreme shortening of the o in “lost.”
His visitor rose swiftly. Even standing, he maintained his deferential aspect, so that he didn’t seem to be looking down upon the seated man in his plain blue tunic.
“I’d do anything for you, Spellmaster. I’ll pay you for yer time, too, ‘f I’m wasting it. Just-well, just let me know if you hear of anything; a job I might fill. I’m big, and strong, and a damned good worker, Spellmaster. I’m used to a lot of work. You’ve got a lot of contacts and everybody’s talkin’ about all the people you’ve helped, Spellmaster- If you hear of anything . . . well, Wints-yer helper Wintsenay, I mean-knows where to find me.”
Strick nodded. “Wintsenay suggested that you come?” “I don’t want to get him in no trouble ner nothing, Spellmaster. We was talking, an’ he sort of did, just sort of.”