Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [20]
Shandril gave Narm a shove in the Harper's direction, and after two quick glances into the room of the warriors – where no one moved – and the passage – burning too merrily, now, to fear any arrivals that way – turned to face the wizards once more. One of them was just finishing a spell of hurled fists. Shandril gave him a cold smile and awaited it, spellfire racing up and down her widespread arms – and the wizard promptly fled.
Marlel leaned out the window almost lazily, flung a knife, and there was a short, strangled gurgling sound, followed by the heavy thud of a body ending its fall.
Shandril's body jerked under the first few blows of the mage's spell, and then her spellfire rose bright around her and she sighed almost in rapture as she drank in the magic.
The small fires on her body died away, and she smiled and strode to Marlel, who gave her his crooked smile, indicating the window with a flourish.
"Just a moment," Narm said, and cast his poisondetecting spell on the platters that still steamed on the table mode the shattered door.
The roast boar brought for them promptly glowed bright purple.
4: Other Lives, Other Dreams
An inn is like a very small and poorly lit realm: It holds arrogant nobles, those who think they rule or believe they're important, the downtrodden who do the real work, and the outlaws and dark-knives whose work is preying on others. The problem is the constant stream of arrivals and departures that robs ye of the time ye need to learn which guest belongs to which group. So ye end up having to be constantly wary of them all. Just as in larger realms.
Blorgar Hanthaver of Myratma
Doors Open To All: Forty Winters An Innkeeper
Year of the Striking Falcon
If The Sun Over Scornubel laid claim to the mantle of "a superior inn of service and distinction," The Stormy Tankard made no such pretensions. It was the sort of place where no one had ever cleaned anything since it was built, and rooms were small, dark bunk-holes boasting furnishings that were sparse, mismatched, and either battered or outright broken. This squalor was enlivened by the sounds of unclasped and uncloaked revelry from adjacent chambers – all such rental-quarters being situated up narrow, creaking stairs above a smoke-filled, evernoisy den of drink and brawling and harsh-voiced chatter. There was nothing unpopular about the Tankard's taproom – it was crowded with folk of half a dozen races, who by their looks and garb hailed from a score of lands or more.
Night was falling over Scornubel like a dark cloak spread across a red, starlit sky as Marlel led Narm and Shandril – still in their robes, but fat shepriestesses no longer – in through a side door of the Tankard.
"Wait your turn," a cold voice greeted them sourly, out of the darkness.
"Aye," another voice agreed. "Just stand still and keep shut an' wait."
"Fair evening to you, Tulasker," Marlel said merrily.
"As it happens, we're not in the market just now – make way, please, so I can get to Pharaulee and book a room."
"Ho, ho, the Dark Blade of Doom has chosen already, has he?" Shrewd eyes peered at Shandril and Narm in the gloom, and Tulasker added with an unlovely laugh, "Strange tastes for you, Marlel!"
"Not half so strange as what you'll be tasting if you don't roll aside, old blade," Marlel replied lightly.
"Ho ho! And what if I don't?"
"Then, Tulasker, I'm afraid you'll learn firsthand how I came by my rather grand professional title. It will be one of those sharp, painful, and rather final lessons, too."
"Aye, aye, impress us all," Tulasker muttered disparagingly, as he slowly shuffled aside.
At the far end of the gloomy room, a sharp-featured woman wearing rather too much face paint and rather too little of anything else ducked out from behind a curtain and snapped, "Next!"
"Fraea," the cold-voiced man said quickly.
"Four gold," the woman said promptly, holding out her hand.
"Four?"
"Dispute with me, Nalvor, and it'll be five," was the swift reply. "Four, or be off with