Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [11]
"Eh?" his companion, a hulking man in plate, replied. His voice was a growl.
"The watch at the gate," the slender man said. "They let us through unchallenged. What if we'd been monsters in disguise, or brigands, or Malarites, or Zhents, or lycanthropes, or, worse, Sembians?" He shuddered. "They could be allowing truly dangerous men freely into their town. You'd better hide that voice, or you'll be mistaken for a werebear for sure."
"Derst," the burly knight rumbled. Two light, flanged maces hung from his saddle, and his hand rested on one. "You're going to have to watch your tongue. No right-minded citizen of the Silver Marches would mistake you for a werebear, but your shape is right for a wererat."
"What does that have to do with my speech, pray tell, Sir Hartwine?" Derst asked.
"You're being quite flippant, Sir Goldtook, and only a fool would be flippant, and a wererat would be a fool to wander into Quaervarr, disguised as a Knight in Silver," Bars said. "Since you are being flippant, you are definitely a fool, ergo, you might be a wererat."
"Ah, but could I not be a thief disguised as a Knight in Silver?" Derst asked. "As you often remind me, brother paladin, I am quite the rogue. Besides, you used a lot of words there that you probably shouldn't-dangerous 'logic,' too. After all, what if some suspicious citizen overheard and questioned you, or reported you to the watch for 'thinking?' I would have a difficult time explaining all that back hair you seem to cultivate-"
"When did we lose the right to be logical?" Bars asked. He glared at Derst. "And leave the hair alone."
Derst grinned behind his silver faceplate. "More to the point, when did we lose the right to be flippant?" he asked. "My life would be a complete waste of air if I found myself without that right. I mean, I wouldn't be able to speak at all-"
"Bless the Morning Lord," the burly knight bellowed. "Were it ever so!"
Derst glowered at him for a moment, but perked up when they entered Quaervarr's main plaza. "Ah, the Whistling Stag," he said as they approached the inn. "At least, so I would assume, by yon hanging, which bears a striking resemblance to Quaervarr's pennant."
The Whistling Stag was a plain but sturdy building of fir and pine, a great hunting lodge that had become a gathering place for travelers and locals alike. The knights heard laughter, jesting, and the clacking of tankards through the windows. Clearly, they had come to the right place for merry-making.
They dismounted and Bars turned to address the third member of their party. "Sir Venkyr, if you would be so good as to go in with me and reserve rooms, Sir Goldtook will take our noble steeds to the stables."
"The horses?" Derst interjected with a look of disgust. "Why me?"
"Less chance of you swindling the innkeeper that way," Bars explained.
Derst started a retort, stopped, then nodded.
The stout knight turned to their silent companion. "Please, allow me to do the negotiations. You must be tired from our long journey. Pray, get some rest. One of your distincti-"
The knight laughed, a high, musical sound, and reached up to loosen the helmet's straps. "Excuse me?" came the melodious voice. "Being a noble, Bars, does not make me helpless." The helmet came off, and the knight shook out a long mane of dark auburn hair. Gray eyes sparkled above her smile and sunlight danced across her smooth, lightly tanned face. Arya Venkyr was a songbird clad in steel feathers. More than a few passersby caught their breath. "Nor does being a noble lady."
"Of course not, lass-I mean, Lady Sir Arya," Bars stammered. "I said nothing of the sort."
"Were you going to say one of those things, perhaps?" She put her hands on her hips and raised one crimson-dashed eyebrow. There was that fiery passion-the defiance well known in Everlund and the reason she was here, in a knight's armor, rather than at home in a study hall, garden, or drawing room.
Cursing the demands of chivalry, Bars felt his face becoming a