her myself.”
Having demonstrated why he wore the mailcoat, he closed the wooden winter door
against the cold, and with both hands swept back the thirty-one strands of
dangling colored rope that for most of the year were the inn’s only door. He was
right in assuming that no one in Sly’s Place was looking anywhere but at him.
Standing there on the one-step entry platform he had installed to make it easy
for comers-in to spot friends or empty tables, he gave them the full benefit of
his lungs.
“Now that is enough trouble for one night! Settle damn it down! Throde: one
round of Red Gold for everyone at True Brew prices. That includes you and me.”
To the sound of applause, Ahdio returned to the bar. His customers made plenty
of room. To Throde he spoke quietly: “Take care of our mysterious patron and her
escort for the rest of the night, Throde.”
The youth nodded. Anyone else might have said “You’re not going to thank her?”
but not Throde. Looking at the floor, he said, “I’m sorry, Ahdio. Thanks.”
“Going to have to get you a club to wear in your belt, or brass knuckles. But
forget the apology-I saw it all. Not your fault at all. Here. First one’s for
you. Next one’s for me. Going to be an edgy night, Throde. Who the blazes is
that woman?”
Throde had no answer. He served the veiled lady’s table. She had two glasses of
wine only, without ever showing her face; her companion put away several beers.
There was no further trouble. Nevertheless, Ahdio was right: it was an edgy
night. Avenestra, the teenaged girl in the skintight top and slit skirt, left