Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [9]
"Revnir's half-blind, and not because he lost an eye thirty winters ago," Greyt said dismissively. "Couldn't win that lass he wanted before he grew a beard, so he tries to be a hero."
"Greyt, Revnir's not much older than you," Stonar countered.
"Do you see me pretending to be a ranger?"
Stonar conceded the point with a grunt.
"As for Meris, it wasn't much of a war party he encountered," Greyt continued. "Four orcs, lost and wandering the woods-he was just in the right place at the right time."
"Your boy does like wandering those woods," Stonar admitted. "Quite the ranger."
"Ah, Meris, my proud boy. My only joy," Greyt said flatly. In truth, he was proud his son had vanquished four orcs single-handedly, even if it had been through ambush, not heroism. He had to smile though-at least Meris wasn't that stupid.
"As for the rangers, what do we do to decrease the bickering, the competition for commissions?" Stonar asked. "Thank Torm no blood has been spilled yet, but this is getting out of-"
"Not every boy or wench who picks up a sword or bow in this town is cut out to be a ranger," Greyt replied, interrupting the lord. "You can, you know, see and speak. Encourage the strong, not the weak." His rhyme was mocking.
"Speak for yourself, Greyt!" Stonar rumbled. "And speak like a man, not all that poetry. You're the one they all look up to, you and your stories-your songs about heroes. Even the one about Drizzit, or whatever his name is! A dark elf ranger? Rubbish!"
"Drizzt Do'Urden, hero of Icewind Dale? Who fought an orc army by himself? Is that the name you're looking for?" Greyt had dropped the witty poetry; epic verse was wasted on men of Stonar's caliber.
Stonar looked as though he bit back a curse. The Singer shook his head. A mewling, uncouth dog changed little, even when he was dressed up.
"And couriers are disappearing!" Stonar continued. "Something has been stopping more than a few on the path to Silverymoon, and their horses return without riders. Who could be doing such a thing?"
The Lord Singer sighed. "Why bother me with all these things?" Greyt asked. "You're the Speaker. Call Unddreth if you want to keep things in order-that is, after all, the job of the watch. What do you want me to do? I'm a bard; I sing."
"You're the hero of Quaervarr," Stonar replied in an incredulous tone. "Dharan 'Quickwid'-er-'Quickfinger' Greyt, hero of the blade and yarting. All the young men want to be you, all the young women want to chase off Lyetha…"
Greyt smiled at the mention of Lyetha. The most beautiful woman in the town, she had been his wife for fifteen winters, much longer than any woman before her. No children, but he hadn't needed more. The last of the children he'd had from previous women, Meris, was the only one he needed-it was only too convenient the others had died early in life.
His smile faded remembering that Stonar had almost used his less-than-complimentary nickname "Quickwidower," playing on his foul luck with women before his marriage to Lyetha.
"You worry too much, Lord Speaker," Greyt said, flipping idly through the papers. The papers reiterated what Stonar had just told him but in a much longer, very wordy format. That was what happened when one turned a blacksmith into a lord-redundancy. Or gruffness. It was certainly not the elegance upon which Greyt prided himself. "Look on the lighter side. At least Jarthon haven't resurfaced, after those adventurers dealt with the Black Blood. There hasn't been a murder in six months, and none of the guards have reported sighting any of the Malarites. Maybe Jarthon finally got what he deserved."
"Maybe he ran afoul of the Ghostly Lady," agreed Stonar.
Greyt's face turned stony and annoyance flashed across his face before he gave Stonar a bemused smile. "Please, Ston-Lord Speaker. The Ghostly