Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [24]
Shandril returned his wave – then he was gone into the shadows. She traded looks with Narm. They sighed in soundless unison, gave each other rueful grins, got up, and went boldly down the stair.
Orthil Voldovan sat facing their stair in the corner seat of a booth with his back to one of the stout pillars that held up the taproom ceiling. Even seated, he was tall and straight-backed, as broad as many a door at his shoulders, and with forearms like hairy tree trunks, massive, gnarled, and seemingly more solid than the stout, weathered tavern table they rested on. His eyes were like two dark daggers beneath the largest shaggy white eyebrows Shandril had ever seen, and his square-jawed face was fringed all around with a short but ragged tufting of white beard. He was not young but looked as if he could assume mighty displeasure in a moment with anyone who dared to delve into his age, and speculate on its effects. He also seemed the sort of a man for whom "mighty displeasure" might mean something on a hastily founded battlefield or something far less formal in the nearest alley.
With Voldovan sat half a dozen men in worn, stained leather armor hung about with daggers and swords and throwing axes – caravan guards, battlefield veterans, or outlawed warriors, perhaps all three. There were two eyepatches among those six men and perhaps thrice that number of visible teeth. Scars could be seen – half-hidden among bristles and tattoos – everywhere. Many coldly calculating eyes were raised from a forest of empty and half-empty tankards as Narm and Shandril approached, and out of habit hands dropped to the hilts of favorite weapons.
"Well, well," Voldovan remarked, looking Shandril up and down with a frank eye that made her – despite inner raging to the contrary – blush crimson, "they're letting children out after dark in Scornubel, now. Or are ye for hire as a pair, hey?"
"Orthil Voldovan?" she asked crisply. "I'd like to hire you – or rather, your protective professional company to Waterdeep, on the caravan you're leading thither on the morrow. Tessaril Winter recommended you."
Mention of the Lady Lord's name made those bushy brows shoot right up to crown Voldovan's hard face, and several of the guards stopped glaring at Narm and Shandrils' every breath and exchanged swift, dark looks.
"Well, now," the caravan master said slowly, leaning forward to look narrowly but thoroughly at the young couple. "Well, now. How is Tess, anyway?"
Shandril kept silent. "Well enough when last we saw her," Narm hastily filled the silence. "With King Azoun riding hard up to her door."
"Aye, her back door, I'll be bound," Orthil said meaningfully. "As if all his kingdom doesn't know what he's up to. Bah – kings! Overfed rogues, the lot of them!"
"So you eat rather more lightly?" Shandril asked silkily. "What, then, is your fare to Waterdeep?"
"Ten gold pieces," the caravan master said gruffly.
"Full coins, mind, like lions or highcrowns – not trade-tokens or those little gilded copper shards they use suth'rds."
Southwards, Shandril interpreted mentally.
"Payable in full before we leave, not 'half now and half there.' I'm not pretty, but I'm worth it. My caravans get where they're going."
"Well, that's a good start," Shandril said calmly.
"Seven gold, did you say?"
Orthil gave her a sharp look, and one of his guards laughed. "Eleven, I said," he told her with a grin.
"Ye should listen better, dearie."
"Evidently so," Shandril said, perching herself on the table in front of him and shoving his most recent tankard aside. "I could have sworn I heard you say four gold for the pair of us."
Orthil regarded her coldly, and she leaned forward to stare with great interest right back into his gaze. Two tiny flames kindled in her eyes. From behind her, knowing what must be happening, Narm sighed and murmured, "Try not