“No thanks to you!” Rega muttered. The woman drew the raztar [10] from its round scabbard she wore on her thigh and made a show of sharpening all seven blades, glancing meaningfully at those in the inn who were taking just a bit too much interest in their affairs. “I pulled your fat out of the fire. Blackbeard would’ve walked out, if it hadn’t been for me.”
“Ah, I could’ve cut his beard off and he wouldn’t have dared take offense. He can’t afford to.”
“You know,” added Rega in an unusually somber and reflective mood, “he was really, truly frightened.”
“So he was frightened? All the better for business. Sis,” said Roland briskly.
Rega glanced around sharply, then leaned forward. “Don’t call me ‘Sis’! Soon we’ll be traveling with that elf, and one little slip like that will ruin everything!”
“Sorry, ‘Wifey, dear.’ ” Roland finished off the kegrot, and shook his head regretfully when the barmaid glanced his way. Carrying this much money, he needed to remain relatively alert. “So the dwarves are planning an attack on some human settlement. Probably the SeaKings. I wonder if we couldn’t sell our next shipment to them.”
“You don’t think the dwarves will attack Thillia?”
“Now who’s getting a conscience? What’s it matter to us? If the dwarves don’t attack Thillia, the SeaKings will. And if the SeaKings don’t attack Thillia, Thillia will attack itself. Whatever happens, as I said, it’s good for business.”
Depositing a couple of wooden lord’s crowns on the table, the two left the tavern. Roland walked in front, his hand on the hilt of his bladewood sword. Rega followed a pace or two behind him to guard his back as was their custom. They were a formidable-looking pair and had lived long enough in Griffith to establish the reputation of being tough, quick, and not much given to mercy. Several people eyed them, but no one troubled them. The two and their money arrived safely at the shack they called home.
Rega pulled shut the heavy wooden door and bolted it carefully from the inside. Peering outdoors, she drew dosed the rags that she’d hung over the windows and gave Roland a nod. He lifted a three-legged wooden table and set it against the door. Kicking aside a rag rug lying on the floor, he revealed a trapdoor in the floor and, beneath it, a hole that had been dug in the moss. Roland tossed the money belt into the hole, shut the trapdoor, and arranged the rug and the table over it.
Rega put out a hunk of stale bread and a round of moldy cheese. “Speaking of business, what do you know about this elf, this Paithan Quindiniar?”
Roland tore off a piece of bread with strong teeth, forked a bite of cheese into his mouth. “Nothing,” he mumbled, chewing steadily. “He’s an elf, which means he’ll be a wilting lily, except where it comes to you, my charming sister.”
“I’m your charming wife. Don’t forget that.” Rega playfully poked her brother in the hand with one of the wooden blades of her raztar. She hacked off another slice of cheese. “Do you really think it will work?”
“Sure. The guy who told me about it says the scam never fails. You know elves are mad about human women. We introduce ourselves as husband and wife, but our marriage isn’t exactly a passionate one. You’re starved for affection. You flirt with the elf and lead him on and when he lays a hand on your quivering breast, you suddenly remember that you’re a respectable married lady and you scream like a banshee.
“I come to the rescue, threaten to cut off the elf’s pointed . . . um . . . ears. He buys his life by giving us the goods for half price. We sell them to the dwarves at full price, plus a little extra for our ‘trouble’ and we’re set up for the next few seasons.”
“But after that, we’ll need to deal with the Quindiniar family again-”
“And we will. I’ve heard that this female elf who runs the business and the family is a pickle-faced old prude. Baby brother won’t dare tell his sister he tried to break up our ‘happy home.’ And we can make certain he gets us an extra-good price the next time.”