His ears drew back in sharp points, and his eyes slanted
down at the corners. He walked with smooth, unconscious
grace.
“There’s elf blood in him,” Mistress Carin said
knowingly.
Across the street, a hulking figure loafed in an open
doorway. A shaggy mane of hair did little to conceal his
ugliness, and his lips could not hide the jagged teeth
protruding from his outthrust jaw.
“Half-orc,” said Carin.
Soren returned. “My lady,” he said. “The innkeeper has
a small private room for you and Master Sturm. Mistress
Carin may have a place by the kitchen hearth, and I a bench
in the beerhall. All this for four silver pieces.”
“Four! That’s outrageous!”
“I chaffered him down from seven.”
“Very well,” she said. “If it is the best we can do.” She
sniffed the moist, salty air. “I suppose there are ELVES and
things in there?”
“No, lady. In the cold season, such folk generally go to
warmer climes.”
“Let us be thankful for that, at least.” Lady Ilys took
four coins from her purse. Soren helped her down from the
cart and escorted her and Sturm into the inn.
The innkeeper was a fat, bald man who grinned through
rotten teeth. He bobbed his head and waved Lady Ilys to the
stairs. Before Sturm reached the steps, the innkeeper let out
a howl.
“Put that back, you two-legged rat! Don’t tell me you
found it; I know you stole it!” he cried. A diminutive
manlike creature, a head shorter than Sturm, silverware
poking out of his pockets, stood by a beer keg. When the
innkeeper yelled again, the little man put his fingers in his
ears and stuck out his tongue. Spoons, coins, and buttons
cascaded from his clothes onto the floor.
“I’ll swat you good, you roach!” the innkeeper bawled.
He reached for a stout broom. The tiny fellow – a kender,
according to Carin – stooped to retrieve his booty. The
broom’s first swipe was a miss, but the innkeeper caught the
kender by the seat of his pants and swept him out the door.
“My ‘pologies, ma’am,” the fat man said. “I never allow
them kender in here, but they slip in sometimes when I’m
not watchful.”
Lady Ilys gave the man a glacial look and dropped only
three silver coins in his palm. The man was too flustered to
protest. He bowed and backed away. Soren hoisted two
bags on his shoulders and went up the steps, chuckling.
The room was small, and the beds were stacked one
above the other. Sturm was delighted and climbed nimbly
up the ladder to the top bunk.
“We will need more money for the voyage,” Soren said.
“May I have my lady’s approval to sell the cart for what it
will bring?”
“Nuitari too?” asked Sturm, aghast. Soren nodded
curtly.
“See to it, Sergeant. We shall not stir till your return,”
said Lady Ilys.
It was long dark before Soren came back. He thumped
on the door. Mistress Carin admitted him. Soren bore a
wide trencher of food. He’d intercepted the innkeeper’s wife
on the stair and taken the heavy platter off her hands. Soren
set the trencher down on the lone table and announced, “We
have a ship.”
Sturm stabbed a slab of boiled mutton with his knife. A
stern look from his mother froze him at once.
“What ship? And where bound?” asked Lady Ilys.
“The good ship SKELTER is bound directly for
Abanasinia and the Hartshorn River,” said Soren. “From
there we can go upriver to Solace itself.”
“Who is master of this SKELTER?”
“One Graff, a mariner of many years’ experience on
these seas.”
“Very good, Sergeant. And when do we sail?”
“With the morning tide, my lady.”
WITH THE MORNING TIDE. Sturm repeated those
words over and over in his head. Since leaving the castle, he
had imagined their quick deliverance. He would hear a
sharp tattoo of hoofbeats behind, and Lord Bright-blade
would gallop over the hill at the head of a troop of
horsemen. “Come back! All is well!” he would shout. How
would his father ride to them across the sea? The answer
was clear, and Sturm did not like it.