Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [82]
“Atta, nice dog,” said Nightshade, patting her head distractedly. “I’ll play with you some other time. I have to work now, you see—”
He tried to circle around the dog, tried to step over her. Atta dodged and wove, and all the while continued to force the kender backward until she had him wedged neatly into a corner, with a table and chairs hemming him in on two sides and the patient dog in front.
Atta dropped down on her belly. If Nightshade moved a muscle, she was back on her feet. She did not growl, was not menacing. She just made certain the kender stayed put.
As the patrons of the Inn watched this in awe, a barmaid hastened over, offering to guide Rhys to a table.
“Thank you, no,” he said. “I came for information, that is all. I am looking for someone—”
The barmaid interrupted him. “I know that the monks of Majere take vows of poverty. It’s all right. You’re a guest of the Inn this day. There’s food and drink for you and mats in the common room for you and your friend.”
She cast a glance in the direction of Atta and Nightshade, but whether by “friend” she meant the dog or the kender was left open.
“I thank you, mistress, but I cannot accept your offer, which is kind, but does not apply in my case. I am not a monk of Majere. As I said, I am searching for someone and I thought perhaps he had been here. His name is Lleu—”
“Is there a problem, Marta?”
A large man with a shock of straw-colored hair and a face that might have been called ugly, but for its strength of character and a genial smile, came up to where Rhys and the barmaid were talking. The man was clad in a leather vest. He wore a sword at his hip and a gold chain around his neck, all of the finest quality.
“The monk here has refused our hospitality, Sheriff,” said the barmaid.
“I cannot accept her charity, my lord,” said Rhys. “It would be given under false pretenses. I am not a monk of Majere.”
The man held out his hand.
“Gerard, Sheriff of Solace,” he said, smiling. He cast an admiring glance at the dog and the penned-up kender. “I don’t suppose you’re looking for work, Brother, but if you are, I’d be glad to take you on. I saw the way you handled yourself out there in the line this morning, and that kender-herding dog of yours is worth its weight in steel.”
“My name is Rhys Mason. Thank you for the offer, but I must decline.” Rhys paused, then said mildly, “If you were watching what was happening between those men and the elf, my lord Sheriff, why did not you intervene?”
Gerard grinned ruefully. “If I rushed around trying to stop every knife fight that took place in Solace, Brother, I’d never do anything else. I spend my time on more important matters, such as trying to keep the town from being raided, looted, and burned to the ground. Gregor and Tak are the local bullies. If things had gotten out of hand, I would have come down to settle those boys. You had the situation under control, or so it looked from my end. Therefore, Brother, you, the dog, and the kender will be my guests for supper. It’s the least I can do for you, seeing as how you did my work for me this day.”
Rhys felt he could accept this offer and he did so. “That’ll do, Atta,” he called, and the dog jumped up and returned to his side.
Nightshade was on his way over to join Rhys when the kender was accosted by a plump, middle-aged woman, wearing a black shawl over her head, who said she wanted to talk to him. The two sat down and were soon deep in conversation; the kender looking extremely sympathetic, the woman dabbing her eyes with the hem of her shawl.
“She’s a recent widow,” said Gerard, frowning at the kender. “I wouldn’t want anyone to take advantage of her grief, Brother.”
“The kender is what is called a ‘nightstalker’, my lord,” Rhys explained. “He can actually do what he says he can do—speak to the dead.”
Gerard was skeptical. “Truly? I’ve heard of his sort before. Didn’t know they actually existed. Figured it was just another tale the little buggers made up to make nuisances of themselves.”
“I can vouch for Nightshade, my lord Sheriff,