Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [13]
"Well, I wanted adventure. Let's get behind yon rocks, out of sight of the road, and do it. Collect their knives and purses – oh, and their belts. These damned boots won't stay up now that my legs are their proper size again. I'll start picking wildflowers."
Narm rolled his eyes. "Don't you trust my taste in colors?" he replied mockingly.
"You," Shandril told him severely, holding together the remnants of her homespun Chauntean robe as it fell off her shoulders once more, "spent far too much time in the company of one Torm. A clever tongue is not the prize feature you seem to think it is."
Narm grinned, opened his mouth to replay – then flushed at whatever thought had leaped into his mind. Closing his mouth again hastily, he turned to the bodies of the brigands, where flies were already buzzing.
"That's better," Shandril told him, trudging for cover in boots that were already wadding shapelessly down around her ankles. "That's much better."
3: The Sun Over Scornubel
Lawless places all have a particular smell. 'Tis the mingled scents of blood and everything else that can be made to flow, spew, or spill out of a man, plus the stench of rotting corpses and long-moldering bones – and the stink of fear.
Unpleasant, but familiar soon enough, and I've come to appreciate the honesty of this "lawless smell."
After all, 'tis no more nor less than the aroma of life.
Rathrol of Scornubel Merchant Lord of Sebben
Wheels That Groan, Purses of Gold
Year of the Weeping Moon
"Pinch my nose," Shandril hissed. "Pinch it, or I'll sneeze!"
Thaerla of Chauntea promptly reached stubby fingers to the hooded face thrust toward her, found Shan's nose through the fabric, and covered the sneeze that promptly followed anyway with the severe comment, "You know the rule, sister." A solid application of the switch across the shoulders of the Sister of the Soil followed.
Thaerla found the tall, greasy-haired ferryman grinning at them and gave him a cold stare. "Seek not to misunderstand this sacred matter," she told him ponderously, and resumed her stare across the dirty waters of the Chionthar at the ramshackle buildings of Scornubel.
"Of course," the ferryman said in tones of mock humility, and spat into the river. As if this had been a signal, his rowers leaned into their oars, and amid many creakings and thunkings the boat swiftly closed the distance to the docks.
With a regal nod to the ferryman – who grinned again – Thaerla stepped up the worn stone steps, tugging on the length of cord that kept her hooded companion stumbling along at her heels.
Shandril almost fell twice on the stairs, and Narm hauled her up the last few by the harness of ropes he'd tied around her. Glancing back and seeing the ferryman's eyes still upon them, Narm led his captive a good four paces away from the docks, stopped with hands on hips to glare around at the colorful sights and generally disagreeable sounds of nigh-lawless Scornubel, and sniffed.
"This is a most unholy place," Thaerla of Chauntea intoned. "Unwelcoming to Chauntea."
Shandril rolled her eyes, strode past the fat priestess of Chauntea, and gave "her" a most unladylike tug at the ample hill of flesh where the homespun robe curled around one hip. "Come on," Shan ordered, from beneath her hood. "We'll have plenty of opportunities to be unwelcome just a few paces from here. In among all the buildings, where I don't feel quite so watched."
*******
Tessaril stretched, sighed – gods, what a magnificent man, even after all these years! – and tied the sash at her waist with a flourish. If she knew Azoun, his "just going down to fetch a map and a bottle" would bring him back with a Highknight or two in tow, and food. He always seemed to work up a hunger in this room, somehow…
She smiled wryly at that and kicked one of her boots out of sight, under the bed. The Beldragon lamp would cast the best light onto any map unfurled on the big table. She fetched it, reached a wooden skewer into the fire to light it with, positioned the lit lamp just so, and scooped