The journey through the human lands was uneventful. One of Paithan’s slaves escaped, but he’d planned for such an eventuality by bringing along extra hands, and he wasn’t overly concerned about many of the others. He’d deliberately chosen men with families left behind in Equilan. Apparently one slave thought more of his freedom than he did of his wife and children.
Under the influence of Gregor’s tales, Zifnab’s prophecy began to gnaw again at the elf’s mind. Paithan tried to discover all he could about the approaching giants and in every tavern, he found someone with something to say on the subject. But he gradually became convinced that it was rumor, nothing more. Outside of Gregor, he couldn’t find one other human who had actually talked directly to any of the refugees.
“My mother’s uncle ran across three of ’em and they told him and he told my mother that-”
“My second cousin’s boy was in Jendi last month when the ships was coming in and he told my cousin to tell his dad who told me that-”
“I heard it from a peddlar who’d been there-”
Paithan decided at length, with some relief, that Gregor’d been feeding him some candy. [18] The elf put Zifnab’s prophecy completely, finally, irrevocably out of his mind.
Paithan crossed the border of Marcinia into Temcia without a border guard so much as glancing into his baskets. They gave his bill of lading-signed by the Varsport official-a bored glance and waved him on. The elf was enjoying his journey, and he took his time. The weather was particularly fine. The humans, for the most part, were friendly and well mannered. Of course, he did encounter the occasional remark about “woman stealers” or “filthy slavers” but Paithan, not one to be hotheaded, either ignored these epithets or passed them off with a laugh and an offer to buy the next round.
Paithan was as fond of human women as the next elf, but- having traveled extensively in human lands-he knew nothing could get your ears (and perhaps other portions of one’s anatomy) cut off sooner than dallying with human females. He was able to curb his appetite, therefore, contenting himself with admiring stares or snatching a quick kiss in an extremely dark corner. If the innkeeper’s daughter came to his door in the dead of night, wanting to test the legendary erotic skill of elven men, Paithan was always careful to bundle her out in the mistymorne, before anyone else was up and stirring.
The elf reached his destination-the small and unsavory town of Griffith-a few weeks past his scheduled arrival. He thought that pretty good, considering how chancy travel was through the constantly warring Thillian states. Arriving at the Jungleflower Tavern, he saw his slaves and the tyros settled in the stable, found a place for his overseer in the loft, and took a room in the inn for himself.
The Jungleflower was apparently not much in the custom of housing elves, for the proprietor looked a long time at Paithan’s money and rapped the coin on the table, wanting to make certain mat it had the sound of hardwood. Hearing it thump true, he became somewhat more polite.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Paithan Quindiniar.”
“Huh.” The man grunted. “Got two messages for you. One came by hand, the other by faultless.”
“Thanks very much,” said Paithan, handing over another coin.
The proprietor’s politeness increased markedly.
“You must be thirsty. Seat yourself in the common room, and I’ll be bringing you something to wet your throat.”
“No vingin,” said Paithan and sauntered off, the missives in his hand.
One he recognized as human in origin-a bit of cheap parchment that had been used before. Some attempt had been made to efface the original writing, but that hadn’t succeeded well. Untying a frayed and dirty ribbon, Paithan unrolled it and read the message with some difficulty around what apparently had once been a tax notice.
Quindiniar. You’re late. This’ll … … you. We’ve had
to make . . . trip , . . keep customer happy. Back. . . .
Paithan walked over to the window and held the parchment to the light. No, he couldn’t make out when they said they were returning. It was signed with a crude scrawl-Roland Redleaf. Fishing out the worn bill of lading, Paithan looked for the name of the customer. There it was, in Calandra’s precise, up-right hand. Roland Redleaf. Shrugging, Paithan tossed the scroll in the slop bucket and carefully wiped his hands after. No telling where it had been.