Murder in Cormyr - Chet Williamson [9]
Thus fortified, I relaxed and watched the rest of the world go by, at least that part of it that lived in or stumbled into our little piece of it. The talk that wasn't about the Merchants' Guild council meeting seemed to be about the ghost.
"Ah, it's just an illusion," said the tailor. "People seeing things."
"You mean a delusion, and it's not," said the chandler. "It's real, right enough. My Uncle Fendrake saw it once, years ago, and Uncle Fendrake never seen anything in his life that wasn't there."
"Dunno about that," returned the tailor. "He musta seen some beauty in your Aunt Magda…"
Most, like the chandler, held out for the ghost's authenticity. It's not like there's never been a supernatural manifestation in Faerikt before, and there was no good reason not to believe in its existence.
The hubbub died down for a moment when Barthelm Meadowbrock came in. Though he was probably the richest merchant in town, the hush wasn't so much for him as for his daughter, Mayella. She was one of the fairest flowers of Cormyr, and when you added in her daddy's money, she became an even greater prize.
Hair as golden as corn silk, eyes as blue as the Dragonmere in summer, lips as red as… well, you get the general picture. Not a man in the Bold Bard did not wish himself in the place of the little lap dog that Mayella tenderly caressed. And along with her looks, she had a marvelous personality as well, though she always seemed a bit shadowed by the presence of her father.
That was no cause for wonder, since nearly everyone seemed shadowed by the presence of her father. He was a mountainous man, peaked with a wavy mop of hair that once must have been red-orange, but that was now diluted by white-blond hairs to the shade of the Sheaf of Wheat's butter-tomato soup. None of that particular dish's sweetness sat on him outwardly, however, for he was a most demanding man. Money can do that to a person. Or so I'm told.
Barthelm required the best table, the best bottle of mead, the most delectable viands, and the most scrupulous service possible, or the proprietor and everyone else within earshot would hear about it. He owned the local grist mill (ox driven, due to the shortage of running water, so he would never be impoverished by drought), as well as a fleet of fast wagons to take the produce he bought from the local farmers to Suzail and Marsember before it spoiled. In those cities, his agents sold the edibles for up to ten times what he had paid for them, and the buyers were glad to get them at any price.
But today I could see that Barthelm had more on his mind than finding a suitable suitor for his lovely daughter, or worrying about how the drought was going to affect his bottom line. In three days the Grand Council of Cormyr's Merchants' Guild, of which Barthelm was the district representative, would be coming to little Ghars for their annual meeting.
This important group, comprising the wealthiest and most powerful merchants in the realm, always met in one of Cormyr's major cities-Suzail or Arabel or Marsember. Occasionally they would deign to gather in a smaller resort town like Gladehap, for the fine food, drink and accommodations. But for them to gather in such a little rattrap as Ghars, where the forgettable fare at the Sheaf of Wheat and the Silver Scythe are the best to be offered… well, it was unheard of, and was a great testament to Barthelm Meadowbrock's perseverance.
But once the die was cast, Barthelm was going to leave nothing to chance. This meeting was going to be the best ever. The council would be lodged in both the Sheaf and the Scythe, since neither inn had enough rooms to accommodate them all, and Barthelm had, out of his own pocket, given Garnet Pennorth, owner of the Silver Scythe, enough gold to add a large and impressive meeting room onto his inn.
The merchant had likewise overseen every detail of the provisioning