Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [57]
At about the same time, tumult wild and royal broke out with a roar inside the inn.
11
The Running of the Wolves
" 'A Good Inn,' eh?" Itharr murmured as they shouldered their way through dark, heavy windcurtains-old hides, by the look of them-into smoky, lamplit dimness beyond. "Well, mayhap it was, once."
"Long ago," Belkram agreed and made for a small table against a wall. The sizzling of bacon and the smell of buttered frybread was strong in the crowded, low-beamed common room.
A few old men and withered goodwives were huddled in silence at the smaller tables. Most of the room held hard-eyed, arrogant fighting men in a variety of ragged leathers. All sported black armbands, some edged in purple. Off-duty Wolves, no doubt.
The serving man was old, grizzled, and weary. He shuffled over to the two Harpers with a simple, "Dawn-fry? Drink? Right, what'll it be?"
"Reddarn wine" Itharr replied with an eager smile. The hot spiced drink was brought quickly. It was saltier and thicker than in better houses but went well down their thirsty throats. Dawnfry was even better, and the two Harpers fell on platter after platter like starving men.
Or, one might say, like Wolves. One of the armsmen strode to their table. His armband had a purple border denoting rank; he was probably a Sword. Belkram looked unconcernedly up at him over a handful of hot, crumbling frybread.
The burly man's thumbs were hooked under the guards of a dagger at his belt. He met Belkram's eyes with a gaze as cold and as hard as a stone wall, and stood over them silently, waiting for Itharr to notice him.
Itharr finished his reddarn and said, "More, please," without looking up. Belkram kept his face straight.
Itharr winked with the eye nearest the wall, so only Belkram could see, as he waved his flagon. "More red-darn," he explained, "when you can. I'm enjoying this excellent bacon."
"I'm not," the man said flatly, "a servant." Itharr turned his head, raised his eyes lazily from the man's belt to his face, and said, "Aye, I can see that. You a hiresword?"
The man frowned. "I'll ask questions and you'll answer, see?"
Belkram emptied his own flagon. "Get us more red-darn while you're asking, will you?"
A few chuckles came from the nearest tables of Wolves as the man turned cold eyes on him. "I serve the Lord of the High Dale," he said heavily, "and I don't recall any armed adventurers being allowed into the dale this last seven days or so. How long've you two been here?"
"Not long," Belkram told him. "We're wandering minstrels, come to pay a call on friends."
"You have friends in the dale?"
"Many-or at least, on our last visit there were many folk here we count our friends," Itharr said smoothly. "We haven't seen them this time around. Could something have happened in the High Dale these last two winters?" Silence fell. The armsman scowled at Itharr, leaned a little closer, and asked loudly, "What brings you here this time?"
"We're trying to find a friend who might have come here," Belkram told him truthfully.
"Elminster of Shadowdale," Itharr added helpfully. "Have you seen him?"
The Sword stiffened and swiftly drew back. The room fell so silent that faint sizzlings could be heard from the adjoining kitchen. The two Harpers looked calmly around to see hands on sword hilts all over the room. These men seemed to know Elminster's name.
"And what are your names?" their interrogator asked from a safe distance away. He stood now beside his seat, and his sheathed sword lay on it near his hand.
"Gondegal. The Older," Belkram replied merrily, using the name of the legendary Lost King of Cormyr, a vanished usurper. Itharr added brightly, "Gondegal the Younger."
The man showed his teeth. "Smart tongues and ragged clothes usually mean Harpers," he said, and turned to address the tables of armed men. "Take them!"
There was a general rush. Itharr snatched up the last of the frybread and Belkram snatched up the table. He flung it easily, as a child