‘Why do you assume I have a mission?’ asked Gorath.
‘Why else would you travel in the human world?’ Malcolm asked rhetorically. ‘I have never known the moredhel to travel for pleasure.’
Gorath grunted, forgoing comment.
Malcolm was quickly done and said, ‘You should have come second; this wound was more severe than your friend’s. But you’ll live.’ He washed his hands and dried them with a towel. ‘It is my mission to aid and serve, but it is custom that those served donate.’
Gorath indicated Locklear, who was now sitting upright at the table upon which he had lain. Locklear said, ‘Brother, I fear I may only give you a scant token of our debt, but should you come to Krondor any time soon, visit me and I will repay you tenfold.’
Locklear dug into his purse and judged how much he would need for a room that night, and other costs, then drew out a golden sovereign and two silver royals. ‘It is all we can spare.’
‘It will do,’ said the priest. ‘In Krondor, where might I find you?’
‘At the palace. I am one of the Prince’s men. I am Squire Locklear.’
‘Then I shall call upon you when next I’m in Krondor, young squire, and you can settle accounts with me then.’ Glancing at Locklear’s freshly-bound wounds, he said, ‘Go easy on those cuts for another day. By tomorrow you’ll feel better. If you avoid being stabbed again any time soon, you’ll feel like your old self by week’s end. Now, I must go rest. This is more healing in one afternoon than I usually experience in a week.’
The priest left and Locklear slowly rose to cross to the bar and found the innkeeper cleaning up. The portly man said, ‘Welcome to The Dusty Dwarf, my friends. What may I do for you?’
‘Food and a room,’ said Locklear.
They returned to a table and the innkeeper followed soon after, putting down a large platter of cold meats, breads baked earlier that morning, cheese and fruits. ‘I’ve got some hot food cooking for later this evening, but this early in the day, cold fare is all I have.’
Owyn and Gorath were already stuffing food into their mouths as Locklear was saying, ‘That will be fine. Some ale, please.’
‘Right away.’
The man was back with the ale in a moment, and Owyn asked, ‘Sir, what is the story behind the name of this place?’
‘The Dusty Dwarf?’ said the man.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, truth to tell, it’s not much of a story. Man named Struble owned this place. Called it The Merry Dwarf. Don’t know why. But it had a bright sign. He never had the sign repainted in all the years he owned the place, so by the time I bought it from him, the sign was badly faded. All the locals called it The Dusty Dwarf by then, so I just went along. Saves me the cost of getting the sign painted, too.’
Owyn smiled at the story, as the barkeep hurried off to meet the demands of another customer. Locklear looked nearly asleep as he said, ‘All right. We have two choices. We can take the main road down to Questor’s View, or the back way through Eggly and Tannerus and lose a few days.’
Owyn said, ‘I’m only guessing, but from what Gorath has said, this Nago or Narab is keeping in contact with their agents by mind speech. As I said before, I know only a little about this speech, but what I do know is it can be very taxing. The magician Pug’s daughter is known to be among the most gifted in the world at this and can speak across vast distances, but she is rare, even unique. For lesser magicians, it requires much rest.’
Gorath looked on impassively, but Locklear said, ‘Come to the point, if you don’t mind. I’m having trouble staying awake.’
‘The point is whoever this magician is, he’s lying low in one place, probably guarded, and probably has one or two key agents in a given area. The rest of his orders are being run by messengers, I’m thinking. So they know where we’ve been, and may have even guessed where we are today, but they don’t know which way we’ll be going.’
Locklear said, ‘Fine, but what does that mean about our choice of route?’
Gorath said, ‘It means he must spread his men equally between the two routes, so the best solution is to take the route where we will be best able to defend ourselves or travel with a larger band, such as a trading caravan.’
Locklear motioned to the innkeeper, who came and gave him a key, indicating the room at the top of the stairs. As they mounted the stairs, Locklear observed, ‘If we were trying to come back from Kesh, a caravan might be a good cover, but as the King’s Highway is usually well patrolled, most traders feel comfortable travelling with a few mercenary guards or none at all. Most commerce along the coast is by ship.’
As they reached the room, Owyn said, ‘Could we make for Questor’s View and hire a ship?’
‘With what?’ asked Locklear. ‘Captain Belford’s letter of introduction isn’t exactly the King’s writ. If a fleet ship is at anchor, I know I could talk our way aboard and get it bound for Krondor, but I’m not anxious to sit around waiting for one to show up. I’m not anxious for anything but a good night’s sleep, finding Isaac and getting this riddle of a special ruby solved, and then figuring out how to get to Krondor as fast as we can.’
Owyn said, ‘I can’t argue about that night’s sleep.’
Gorath said nothing.
An hour after dawn they left the inn and Locklear felt remarkably recovered. Where searing agony had accompanied his every movement the day before, he now only felt slightly stiff and weak.
He indicated a journey toward the north end of the town as he said, ‘If I know Isaac, he’s probably staying at the house of his cousin, a certain young gentleman named Austin Delacroix.’
‘From Bas-Tyra?’ asked Owyn as they started up the busy street. Windows were opening as vendors put out their wares for display, or housewives opened up their homes to the morning air and sun.
‘Originally,’ said Locklear. ‘A family of marginal nobility, descended from a one time hero of some forgotten war when Bas-Tyra was a city-state; their house rank is all based upon that.’
‘Your human issues of rank and status are … difficult to understand,’ observed Gorath.
‘Why?’ asked Owyn. ‘Don’t you have chieftains?’
‘We do,’ said Gorath. ‘But it is a rank earned by deeds, not one conferred by birth. Delekhan rose by betrayal and bloodshed, yet he was sheltered by his early service to Murmandamus and Murad.’ He almost spat the last two names. ‘If his son Moraeulf gains his ambition to inherit from his father, it will be over the bodies of many such as I. In better times, he would be a valued sword against our people’s enemy, but these are not better times.’
‘This is the house, I think,’ said Locklear, pointing to a once-prosperous dwelling fallen on hard times. The house, like those on either side, was a small but well-built structure of wood and stone, with a sturdy door and shuttered windows. But while the others were clean and recently painted, this was faded and dirty.
Locklear knocked loudly and after a few minutes a sleepy voice from the other side of the door said, ‘What?’
‘Isaac?’ shouted Locklear, and the door opened.
A young man with light brown hair stuck his head out the door and said, ‘Locky?’ The door opened wide and the young man bid them enter. He wore only a rumpled tunic and trousers, obviously having slept in them. ‘I was just getting up,’ he said.
‘Right,’ said Locklear, as if humouring him.
The room was dark, with the shutters and sashes still closed, and the air was stale. Old food odours and sweat mixed with the sour aroma of spilled ale. The furniture was simple, one wooden table with four chairs, a single shelf behind the table, and another small table upon which a lamp rested. Stairs led to a sleeping loft above. A faded tapestry, once residing in surroundings far finer than those in which they hung now, was the sole item of any note. It hung behind Isaac, framing him with a tableau of a meeting between princes who were exchanging gifts while notables of that day looked on from all sides.
‘Locklear,’ said Isaac, as if savouring the name. ‘What a pleasure. You’re wearing your years well. I like the moustache. You always could manage the flamboyant.’ He turned away and moved with a visible limp. ‘Sit down. I would offer you tea or coffee, but my cousin is temporarily visiting other relatives in Bas-Tyra, and I have just arrived last night, so we are not well provisioned.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Locklear. ‘How long’s it been? Since Arutha’s wedding?’
Isaac sat in a small wooden chair, and crossed his legs so that he kept his weight on his good leg. ‘The very day. You should have heard the fit old Master of Ceremonies deLacy threw when he found out I wasn’t the Baron of Dorgin’s son.’
‘That’s because there is no Baron of Dorgin,’ supplied Locklear. ‘If you’d done your research, you would have avoided that gaffe.’
‘How was I supposed to know the lands outside the dwarven enclave are the province of the Duke of the Southern Marches?’
‘Study?’ suggested Locklear.
‘Never my strong suit,’ said Isaac with a wave of his hand.
‘Well, at least deLacy was too busy with the wedding to toss you out until the next day,’ said Locklear. ‘We had a good time that night. What have you been doing since?’
