Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [79]
Every type of occupation was represented in Solace as well. Three wizards, two wearing red robes and one wearing black, bumped into Rhys. They were so absorbed in their argument that they never noticed him or begged his pardon. A group of actors, who referred to themselves as Gilean’s Traveling Troupe, came dancing down the street, beating a drum and banging tambours, adding to the noise level. Everyone either had something to sell or was looking for something to buy, and they all were shouting about it at the top of their lungs.
While all this was happening on the streets below. Rhys looked up to see more people traveling along the swaying plank and rope bridges running from one vallenwood tree to the next, like the silken filaments of a gigantic spider web. Access to the tree levels was limited, it seemed, for he noted guards posted at various points, questioning and halting those who could not convince them that they had business up above.
As he slogged through the mud churned up by an unending stream of traffic, Rhys marveled at the changes that had come to Ansalon while he’d been hidden away in the never-changing world of the monastery. From what he’d seen, he hadn’t missed much. The noise, the sights, the smells—ranging from rotting garbage to unwashed gully dwarf, from day-old fish to the scent of meat being roasted over hot coals and bread coming fresh from the baker’s oven—left Rhys longing for the solitude and tranquility of the hills, the simplicity of his former life.
Atta, by her demeanor, was in agreement. She often looked up at him, her brown eyes moist with confusion, yet trusting him to guide them through it. Rhys petted her, reassuring her, if he could not reassure himself. He might be daunted by the size of Solace, by the numbers of people, but that did not change his resolve to continue to search for his brother. At least, he now knew where to look. Lleu had rarely missed stopping at a single inn or tavern along with the way.
Rhys had one other option, or so he hoped. The idea came to him when he saw a small group of black-robed clerics walking openly down the street. A city the size and disposition of Solace might well have a temple dedicated to Chemosh.
Rhys turned his steps toward the famous Inn of the Last Home, thinking that he would start by asking for information there. He had to stop once on the way to extricate Nightshade from a group of kender, who latched onto him as though he were a long-lost cousin (which, in fact, two of them claimed to be).
The famous inn where, according to legend, the Heroes of the Lance had been accustomed to meet, was filled to capacity. People stood in line, waiting to enter. As customers departed, a certain number were admitted. The line began at the foot of the long flight of stairs and extended down the street. Rhys and Nightshade took their places at the end, waiting patiently. Rhys kept watch on all those traipsing up and down the stairs, hoping one of them might be Lleu.
“Look at all these people!” exclaimed Nightshade with enthusiasm. “I’m certain to raise a few coppers here. That roasted goat meat smells wonderful, doesn’t it, Atta?”
The dog sat at Rhys’s side, her gaze divided between her master and Nightshade. The kender thought happily that Atta had developed a true affection for him, for she never let him out of her sight. Rhys did not disabuse his companion of this notion. Atta took to “kender-herding” quite as well as she took to herding sheep.
As he watched those leaving the Inn, Rhys listened to the chatter around him, picking up various bits of local gossip, hoping he might hear something that would lead him to Lleu. Nightshade was busy advertising his services, telling those ahead of him in line that he could put them in contact with any relative who had shuffled off this mortal coil for the bargain price of a single steel, payable upon delivery of the said relative. The watchful dog, meanwhile, kept the kender from accidentally “borrowing” any