Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [88]
“I was thinking the same thing,” Nightshade returned.
“Nor do I think this would be a good time for you to borrow anything from anyone.”
“There never does seem to be a good time,” Nightshade said cheerfully. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep my hands in my pockets.”
“And,” Rhys added, “if my brother is here, let me do the talking.”
“I’m to be seen and not heard,” said Nightshade. He looked a little daunted. “I miss Atta.”
“So do I,” said Rhys. He opened the door.
A fire burning sullenly in a fire pit at the back of the tavern was the only source of light, and it was smoking so much that it wasn’t doing a very good job of that. Rhys peered through the murky interior of the tavern. The song fell silent in midnote when he and the kender entered, except for one drunk who was not singing the same song anyway and who droned on without pause.
Rhys saw Lleu immediately. His brother sat at a table by himself in the middle of the tavern. He was in the act of taking a swig from an earthenware jug when Rhys entered. Wiping his mouth, Lleu set the jug back on the table. He glanced at the new visitor, then glanced away, not interested.
Rhys crossed the room to the table where his brother sat. He was afraid that his brother might try to run, once he recognized him, so he spoke to him first.
“Lleu,” said Rhys calmly, “do not be alarmed. I’ve come to talk with you. Nothing more.”
Lleu looked up. “Fine with me, friend,” he said with a smile that was meant to be genial but which had a strained quality to it. “Sit down and talk away.”
Rhys was disconcerted. This was not the reaction he had expected. Rhys stared at Lleu, who stared right back, and Rhys realized that his brother did not recognize him. Given the shadowy, smoky atmosphere of the tavern and the fact that he was no longer wearing orange robes, this was perhaps understandable. Rhys sat down at the table with his brother. Nightshade plunked down beside him. The kender regarded Lleu with a round-eyed gaze, then glanced at Rhys and seemed about to say something. Rhys shook his head and Nightshade remembered that he was supposed to keep quiet.
“Lleu,” said Rhys, “it’s me, Rhys. Your brother.”
Lleu cast him a bored glance, went back to his jug. “If you say so.”
“Don’t you recognize me, Lleu?” Rhys pressed. “You should. You tried to kill me.”
“Obviously I failed,” Lleu grunted. He lifted the jug, took a long pull at the liquor and set it back down again. “So you’ve got nothing to complain about, that I can see. Have a drink?”
Lleu held out the jug to his brother. On Rhys’s refusal, Lleu offered it to the kender. “How about you, little fella?”
“Yes, thank … uh, no, that’s all right,” said Nightshade, catching Rhys’s eye.
“Just as well,” Lleu continued, shoving the jug away in disgust. “Damn spirits must be more than half water. This is my second jug and I can still see just one of you, monk, and just one of your little friend there. Usually after three tips, I’m seeing six of everything and pink goblins to boot.”
He turned his head, yelled over his shoulder, “Hey, where’s my supper?”
“You ate already,” said a voice from the vicinity of the bar, that was lost in a gloom of smoky haze.
“I don’t remember eating,” Lleu said angrily.
“Well, you did,” said the voice dourly. “Yer empty plate’s sittin’ in front of you.”
Lleu frowned down at the table to see a battered pewter plate and a bent knife.
“Then I’m hungry again. Bring me some more of whatever that slop was.”
“Not ’til you pay for the last meal you ate. And them two jugs of spirits.”
“I’m good for it,” Lleu snarled. “I’m a cleric of Kiri-Jolith, for gods’ sake.”
A snort came from out of the smoke.
“I have part of a meat pie I couldn’t finish,” said Nightshade, and he brought out the pie wrapped in a grease-spotted handkerchief.
Lleu snatched up the pie and devoured it hungrily, as if he’d not eaten in days. “Any more where that came from?”
“Sorry,” said the kender.