Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [80]
The crowd was generally in a good humor, despite the fact that they were having to wait. That good humor suddenly deteriorated.
“Perhaps you didn’t hear me the first time, gentlemen,” a man stated, his voice rising. “You have no right to cut in front of me.”
Rhys looked over his shoulder, as did everyone around him.
“Did you hear something, Gregor?” asked one of the men to whom this statement had been addressed.
“No, Tak,” said his friend, “but I sure do smell something.” He laid heavy emphasis on the word. “Must be driving a herd of swine through town today.”
“Ah, you’re mistaken, Gregor,” said his friend in mock serious tones. “It’s not swine they’ve let into town this day. Swine are sweet-smelling, clean, and wholesome beasts compared to this lot. They must’ve let in an elf!”
Both men laughed uproariously. By their leather aprons and brawny arms and shoulders and soot-blackened hands and faces, they were metal-workers of some kind, ironmongers or blacksmiths. The man who was the butt of their joke wore the green garb of a forester. He had his cowl pulled up over his head so that no one could see his face, but there was no mistaking the lithe body and graceful movements and the soft and melodic tones of his voice.
The elf said nothing in reply. Stepping out of line, he walked around the two humans, and stepped back into line, in front of them.
“You damn grass-eater, get the hell outta my way!” The man called Gregor seized the elf by the shoulder and spun him around.
Steel flashed, and Gregor sprang backward.
The elf held a knife in his hand.
The two humans glanced at each other; then, doubling their huge fists, they came surging forward.
The elf was ready to lunge, when he suddenly found his way blocked, as Rhys stepped between the combatants. Rhys did not raise his staff, nor did he raise his voice.
“You may have my place in line, gentlemen,” he said.
The men—all three—stared at him, mouths agape.
“I am near the front, at the foot of the stairs,” Rhys continued pleasantly. “There, where the kender and the dog are waiting. We are next to go up. Take my place and welcome, all three of you.”
Behind Rhys, the elf said vehemently, “I do not need your help, monk. I can handle these two myself.”
“By spilling their blood?” Rhys asked, glancing around. “What will that accomplish?”
“Monk?” repeated one of the humans, eyeing Rhys uncertainly.
“By his weapon, he is a monk of the Mantis,” said the elf. “Or Majere, as you humans know it. Though I never saw one wearing sea green robes,” he added scornfully.
“Take my place, sirs,” Rhys repeated, gesturing toward the stairs. “A mug of cool ale to quench a hot temper, eh?”
The two humans eyed each other. They eyed Rhys and they eyed his staff. There was no good way out of this. If they’d had the support of the crowd, they might have continued the fight. As it was, Rhys’s offer had clearly captured the crowd’s fancy. Perhaps these two were well-known bullies, for people were grinning at their discomfiture.
The two men lowered their fists.
“C’mon, Tak, I’m not hungry anymore,” one said scathingly, turning on his heel. “The stench has killed my appetite.”
“Yeah, you can drink with their kind if you want, monk,” sneered the other. “I’d sooner suck down swamp water.”
The elf glowered at Rhys. “That was my battle. You had no right to interfere.”
He, too, walked off, heading in the opposite direction.
Rhys returned to his place in line. Several in the crowd applauded and an old woman reached out to touch his shabby, travel-stained robes “for luck.” He wondered what she would think if she knew he was not truly a monk of Majere but a sworn follower of Zeboim. He realized, with an inward sigh, that it probably wouldn’t make any difference. He had pleased her, pleased the crowd, as they would have been pleased by a Punch and Judy puppet show.
Rhys took his place in line, next to Nightshade, who was all agog with admiration and excitement. The