asked sharply.
The warrior chuckled appreciatively at this, and it
seemed as if even the mage responded, for the hooded head
moved slightly as he sipped his steaming, foul-smelling
drink.
Somewhat at a loss for words, Slegart was fumbling
about in his mind, trying to think of another way to
determine his mysterious guest’s identity, when the guest
turned from him and headed for a table located in a
shadowed comer as far from the fire as possible. “Meat and
drink.” It tossed the words over its shoulder in an imperious
tone.
“What would your . . . your lordship like?” Slegart
asked, hurrying after the guest, an ear cocked attentively.
Though the guest spoke Common, the accent was strange,
and the innkeeper still couldn’t tell if his guest was male or
female.
“Anything,” the guest said wearily, turning its back upon
Slegart as it walked over to the shadowy booth. On its way,
it cast a glance at the table where the warrior, Caramon, and
his brother sat. “That. Whatever they’re having.” The guest
gestured to where the barmaid was heaping a wooden bowl
full of some gray, coagulating mass and rubbing her body
up against Caramon’s at the same time.
Now, perhaps it was the way the mysterious guest
walked or perhaps it was the way the person gestured or
even perhaps the subtle sneer in the guest’s voice when it
noticed Caramon’s hand reaching around to pat the barmaid
on a rounded portion of her anatomy, but Slegart guessed
instantly that the muffled guest was female.
It was dangerous journeying through Ansalon in those
days some five years before the war. There were few who
traveled alone, and it was unusual for women to travel at all.
Those women who did were either mercenaries – skilled
with sword and shield – or wealthy women with a horde of
escorts, armed to the teeth. This woman – if such she was –
carried no weapon that Slegart could see and if she had
escorts, they must enjoy sleeping in the open in what boded
to be one of the worst blizzards ever to hit this part of the
country.
Slegart wasn’t particularly bright or observant, and he
arrived at the conclusion that his guest was a lone,
unprotected female about two minutes after everyone else in
the place. This was apparent from the warrior’s slightly
darkening face and the questioning glance he cast at his
brother, who shook his head. This was also apparent from
the sudden silence that fell over the “hunting” party
gathered near the bar and the quick whispers and muffled
snickers that followed.
Hearing this, Caramon scowled and glanced around
behind him. But a touch on the hand and a softly spoken
word from the mage made the big warrior sigh and stolidly
resume eating the food in his bowl, though he kept his eyes
on the guest, to the disappointment of the barmaid.
Slegart made his way back of the bar again and began
wiping out mugs with a filthy rag, his back halfturned but
his sharp eyes watching everything. One of the ruffians rose
slowly to his feet, stretched, and called for another pint of
ale. Taking it from the barmaid, he sauntered slowly over to
the guest’s table.
“Mind if I sit down?” he said, suiting his action to his
words.
“Yes,” said the guest sharply.
“Aw, c’mon,” the ruffian said, grinning and settling
himself comfortably in the booth across from the guest, who
sat eating the gray gunk in her bowl. “It’s a custom in this
part of the country for innfellows to make merry on a night
like this. Join our little party . . .” – The guest ignored him,
steadily eating her food. Caramon shifted slightly in his
seat, but, after a pleading glance at his brother, which was
answered with an abrupt shake of the hooded head, the
warrior continued eating with a sigh.
The ruffian leaned forward, reaching out his hand to
touch the scarf the guest had wound tightly about her face.
“You must be awful hot – ” the man began.
He didn’t complete his sentence, finding it difficult to
speak through the bowl of hot stew dripping down his face.