Murder in Cormyr - Chet Williamson [12]
Dovo bellied up to the bar, ordered a mug of North Brew, and fell into conversation with a few other town rowdies. I noticed, however, that he was not immune to Mayella's charms, and kept glancing at her as he weaved for his chums some tale of amorous conquest or bullyish retribution. At one point he showed them some small pictures, and from the salacious snickers I assumed they were not miniatures of his kiddies.
After the barmaid, Sunfirth, brought bread and cheese to Barthelm's table, the old man got up and went to use the necessary room. Dovo didn't waste a moment. He whirled around and plunked himself down right across from a startled Mayella, whose little dog was so scared by Dovo's sudden appearance that he hopped up and lay shivering in the girl's lap.
"Ah," breathed Dovo, "there's a lucky little dog. So how are you this evening, milady? Waitin' for Dovo here to look your way?"
"No sir, I was not."
"Come on now, a course you were!" And so the conversation went for a minute, until the door opened again, letting in a cool autumn breeze and three roofers, hot and tired after a long day's work. At their stern was Rolf, who was in the midst of saying, "Ghost my britches! It's just some boyo having fun, making fools out of everybody. Why, I've half a mind to go out to the Vast Swamp myself and-"
But he stopped when he saw the less than encouraging spectacle before him. Rolf had set his cap for Mayella ever since they were children, and as far as I knew, she had returned his affection, though old Dad had his sights set a mite higher for his daughter.
Rolf was a fairly touchy lad to start with, and when he saw Dovo, the local married lecher, seated across from his beloved, he started shaking as though he wanted to leap on Dovo and rend him limb from limb. But instead he went up behind the smith and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.
Dovo slowly looked at the hand, then up at the face of its owner. "Well well," he said. "Look who 'tis-Mister Out-In-The-Sun-So-His-Brains-Fry. Go away, little boy. I nearly got this lass talked into a little love walk, and you're liable to queer my play."
That was all it took. With a groan of fury, Rolf yanked his rival backward, tipping his chair over so that it fell with a crash. Dovo's foot caught the table and pulled that on top of him as well, and Rolf followed with a heedless dive into the whole mess.
Bread, cheese, ale, dishes, mugs, and flesh merged together on the floor as the two men, locked in a ferocious struggle, rolled back and forth, knocking the legs out from under Shortshanks's patrons, and tumbling many to the ground. The dwarf came from behind the bar with his twenty-pound oak mallet, a toy with which he had settled many a tavern altercation. But just as he raised it to strike whichever of the two brawlers first came into range, the roar of a single voice froze everyone, including the horizontal combatants.
"STOP!" the voice cried, and when I looked away from the battlers, I saw that Barthelm, who had fathomed everything at a glance, had returned. His was a voice that commanded attention, and Rolf and Dovo looked up for all the world like two mischievous acolytes caught squabbling by their priest. Neither one had a bloody face, though both were coated with ale and bits of cheese and bread.
"Mayella!" Barthelm growled. "Come with me, girl!" She scooted to her father's side, holding the terrified dog under one arm. He took his daughter's hand and led her outside, sharply pulling the door shut behind him as if to seal in the scum.
In the silence, all of us scum bits looked at each other uncomfortably until Shortshanks broke the silence. "Who started it, then? Come on, who was it?" he