“Barkeep, three more!” called Roland, holding aloft his mug.
“We have cause to celebrate, my friend,” he said to the dwarf, who slowly took a seat.
“Ya?” grunted the dwarf, regarding the two with dark suspicion.
Roland, grinning, ignored his guest’s obvious animosity and handed over the message.
“I cannot read these words,” said the dwarf, tossing the quin scroll back across the table. The arrival of the barmaid with the kegrot interrupted them.
Mugs were distributed. The slovenly barmaid gave the table a quick, disinterested swipe with a greasy rag, glanced curiously at the dwarf, and slouched away.
“Sorry, I forgot you can’t read elvish. The shipment’s on its way, Blackbeard,” said Roland in a casual undertone. “It will be here within the Fallow.”
“My name is Drugar. And that is what this paper says?” The dwarf tapped it with a thick-fingered hand.
“Sure is, Blackbeard, my friend.”
“I am not your friend, human,” muttered the dwarf, but the words were in his language and spoken to his beard. His lips parted in what might almost have been a smile. “That is good news.” He sounded grudging.
“We’ll drink to it.” Roland raised his mug, nudging Rega, who had been eyeing the dwarf with a suspicion equal to that with which Blackbeard was eyeing them. “To business.”
“I will drink to this,” said the dwarf, after appearing to consider the matter. He raised his mug. “To business.”
Roland drained his noisily. Rega took a sip. She never drank to excess. One of them had to remain sober. Besides, the dwarf wasn’t drinking. He merely moistened his lips. Dwarves don’t care for kegrot, which is, admittedly, weak and flat tasting compared to their own rich brew.
“I was just wondering, partner,” said Roland, leaning forward, hunching over his drink, “just what you’re going to be using these weapons for?”
“Acquiring a conscience, human?”
Roland cast a wry glance at Rega, who-hearing her words repeated-shrugged and looked away, silently asking what other answer he might have expected to such a stupid question.
“You are being paid enough not to ask, but I will tell you anyway because my people are honorable.”
“So honorable you have to deal with smugglers, is that it, Blackbeard?” Roland grinned, paying the dwarf back.
The black brows came together alarmingly, the black eyes flared. “I would have dealt openly and legitimately, but the laws of your land prevent it. My people need these weapons. You have heard about the peril coming from the norinth?”
“The SeaKings?”
Roland gestured to the barmaid. Rega laid her hand on his, warning him to go slowly, but he shoved her away.
“Bah! No!” The dwarf gave a contemptuous snort. “I mean norinth of our lands. Far norinth, only not so far anymore.”
“No. Haven’t heard a thing, Blackbeard, old buddy. What is it?”
“Humans-the size of mountains. They are coming out of the norinth, destroying everything in their path.”
Roland choked on his drink and started to laugh. The dwarf appeared to literally swell with rage, and Rega dug her nails into her partner’s arm. Roland, with difficulty, stifled his mirth.
“Sorry, friend, sorry. But I heard that story from my dear old dad when he was in his cups. So the tytans are going to attack us. I suppose the Five Lost Lords of Thillia will come back at the same time.” Reaching across the table, Roland patted the angry dwarf on the shoulder. “Keep your secret, then, my friend. As long as we get our money, my wife and I don’t care what you do or who you kill.”
The dwarf glowered, jerked his arm away from the human’s touch.
“Don’t you have somewhere to go, Husband, dear?” said Rega pointedly.
Roland rose to his feet. He was tall and muscular, blond and handsome. The barmaid, who knew him well, brushed against him when he stood up.
” ‘Scuse me. Gotta pay a visit to a tree. Damn kegrot runs right through me.” He made his way through the common room that was rapidly growing more crowded and more noisy.
Rega put on her most winning smile and came around the table to seat herself beside the dwarf. The young woman was almost exactly opposite in appearance from Roland. Short and full-figured, she was dressed both for the heat and for conducting business, wearing a linen blouse that revealed more than it covered. Tied in a knot at her breasts, it left her midriff bare. Leather pants, cut off at the knees, fit her legs like a second skin. Her flesh was tanned a deep golden brown and, in the heat of the tavern, glistened with a fine sheen of sweat. Her brown hair was parted in the center of her head and hung straight and shining as rain-soaked tree bark down her back.