“Quincejar?” said the human, thrusting out a hand. “I’m Roland. Roland Redleaf. Pleased to meet you.”
Paithan glanced at the chair, which had been knocked over and kicked halfway across the common room. Barbarians. Still, it didn’t do any good to get angry. Standing up, he stretched out his hand, clasping the human’s in the odd custom that both elves and dwarves found so ridiculous.
“The name’s Quindiniar. And please join me,” said Paithan, retrieving his chair. “What will you have to drink?”
“You speak our language pretty good, without that silly lisp you hear with most elves.” Roland yanked over another chair and sat down. “What are you drinking?” Grabbing Paithan’s almost full mug, he sniffed at it. “Stuff any good? Usually the ale around here tastes like monkey piss. Hey, bar keep! Bring us another round!
“Here’s to the toys,” Roland said, lifting his mug.
Paithan took a swallow. The human downed his at one gulp. Blinking, wiping his eyes, he said moistly, “Not bad. You going to finish yours? No? I’ll take care of it for you. Can’t let it go to waste.” He drained the other mugful, slamming it down upon the table when he was finished.
“What were we drinking to? Ah, I remember. The toys. ‘Bout time, as I said.” Roland leaned across the table, breathing beer fumes into Paithan’s face. ‘The children were getting impatient! It was all I could do to placate the little darlings … if you know what I mean?”
“I’m not certain that I do,” said Paithan mildly. “Will you have another?”
“Sure. Barkeep! Two more.”
“It’s on me,” said the elf, noting the proprietor’s frown.
Roland lowered his voice. “The children-the buyers, the dwarves. They’re getting real impatient. Old Blackbeard like to took my head off when I told him the shipment was going to be late.”
“You’re selling the … er … toys to dwarves?”
“Yeah, you got a problem with that, Quinpar?”
“Quindiniar. No, it’s just that now I understand how you were able to pay top price.”
“Between you and me, the bastards would’ve paid double that to get these. They’re all worked up over some kid’s fairy tale about giant humans. But you’ll see for yourself.” Roland took a long pull at the ale.
“Me?” said Paithan, smiling and shaking his head. “You must be mistaken. Once you’ve paid me the money, the ‘toys’ are yours. I’ve got to return home. This is a busy time for us, now.”
“And how are we supposed to transport these babies?” Roland brushed his arm across his mouth. “Carry them on our heads? I saw your tyros in the stables. Everything’s packed up neat. We’ll make the trip and be back in no time.”
“I’m sorry, Redleaf, but that wasn’t part of the deal. Pay me the money and-”
“But don’t you think you’d find the dwarven kingdom fascinating?”
The voice was a woman’s, and it came from behind Paithan.
“Quincetart,” said Roland, gesturing with his mug. “Meet my wife.”
The elf, rising politely to his feet, turned around to face a human female.
“My name’s Quindiniar.”
“Glad to meet you. I’m Rega.”
She was short, dark haired and dark eyed. Her well-muscled body was scantily clad, like Roland’s, in fringed leather, leaving little of her figure to the imagination. Her brown eyes, shadowed by long black lashes, seemed filled with mystery. Her full lips kept back untold secrets. She extended her hand. Paithan took it in his. Instead of shaking it, as the woman apparently expected, he carried the hand to his lips and kissed it.
The woman’s cheeks flushed. She allowed her hand to linger a moment in Paithan’s. “Look here. Husband. You never treat me like this!”
“You’re my wife,” said Roland, shrugging, as if that settled the matter. “Have a seat, Rega. What’ll you have to drink? The usual?”
“A glass of wine for the lady,” ordered Paithan. Crossing the common room, he brought a chair back to the table, holding it for Rega to sit down. She slid into it with animallike grace, her movements clean, quick, decisive.
“Wine. Yeah, why not?” Rega smiled at the elf, her head tilting slightly, her dark, shining hair falling over a bare shoulder.