Dragons of the Valley - Donita K. Paul [4]
The small print under the name of the establishment said, “Eggs and such for breakfast. All things poultry for noonmeal. No dinner served.”
Maxon ducked down an alley and headed to the back of the bustling business. He spoke over his shoulder. “You’d like the work done at the mill, real art in cloth. Meals here at Cheap Cheep are included as part of the artisans’ wages.”
“I’m familiar with the quality of Ragar Textile.” Bealomondore followed Maxon through the back door. He glanced down at his inappropriate attire and sighed deeply.
A marione wearing an apron over his plain clothes waved a ladle at them in greeting. “Maxon, you have kimens waiting for you,” he said. “They’re in the back room.”
“Wait here,” the kimen ordered Bealomondore and disappeared through a rough-hewn door.
The tumanhofer twisted his lower lip in displeasure.
“Hungry?” asked the cook.
“Starving.”
The marione gestured toward a table. “Have a seat, and I’ll bring you today’s special.”
In only a moment, he placed a steaming bowl of krupant and thick slices of bread in front of Bealomondore.
“Bring it in here,” Maxon called from the doorway. “My friends want to meet you.”
Bealomondore picked up the plate and spoon and ducked through the wooden door. He saw no lighting in the room other than the shine of the kimens’ apparel. He counted five besides Maxon and nodded as he was introduced. They sat with empty plates before them, obviously having already enjoyed a hearty meal.
Maxon pointed to a chair made for a larger person, and Bealomondore joined them. He placed his food before him and considered taking his satchel holding the hollow bag off his shoulder. Between his feet below the table might be safe, but he decided to keep it on his person. The Verrin Schope statue would receive his wholehearted protection.
“I’m Winkel. We’ll be taking you to our village,” said the kimen sitting at the head of the table. She poured liquid from a large pitcher into a tankard and pushed it across the table.
“Thank you.” Bealomondore took a swig and found the substance unfamiliar to him but very soothing to his dry throat. He dug into his meal with gusto as the little people talked among themselves.
The more he ate, the more content he felt. Winkel refilled his drink as soon as Bealomondore drained it.
Kimens were known to be courteous, friendly people, but it niggled at his brain that the depth of his comfort among them seemed unnatural. He was ordinarily cautious and observant, necessary skills in navigating the waters of high society, where friend could become foe with the turn of a phrase. In unfamiliar circumstances, he paid attention to detail and unobtrusively gathered information about strangers. But as the tension eased out of his shoulders, he let go of all worries, and the high voices around him became a tune of good cheer.
He ate and drank and mellowed to the point of drowsiness. When he found he had to work to keep his eyes open, he caught Maxon watching him with an expectant expression.
An alarming thought rose to the top of his muddled mind as he sagged toward the empty plate before him. The kind kimens had drugged him.
2
Two Taken
Tipper Schope tiptoed through the wet, nasty tunnel. She stepped in a cold puddle and gasped. For a moment her eyes flashed from the little light dancing ahead of her to the uneven floor. She clutched to her chest a sack that looked empty but held one of her father’s most interesting statues.
She hugged the limp cloth tighter, wishing she had a shawl or coat to wrap around her shoulders. She wiggled her toes. Her face scrunched in reaction to the repulsive squishy feeling of wet stockings in the heavy boots. Closing her eyes, she sighed and summoned courage. Her father had said to trust him, to follow his instructions precisely, and all would be well.
He’d told her to wear britches, boots, and a warm shirt and tunic. Perhaps she wasn’t so much chilled as terrified.
The air stirred. She